two crumblies and a cat

Analysis

2011-08-14T01:53:00.000-07:00

Bet you though I was going to start rambling about blood tests, didn't you?

No. Well, everyone else in the chattering classes, the mumbling and slurring classes and, of course, the hang'em, shoot 'em and flog 'em brigade has had a go at last week's riots. So here's mine. The fact that I am completely unable to get my head round it all is summed up by the fact that I've had to split it up into manageable bits.

The Police

The spark that ignited the whole firestorm was struck from the hobnailed boots of some idiotic Plod who refused to respond to the pleas of a grieving family for information on the death of their son. Why? Had the police already realised that the situation in which the man had been killed was not quite as simple as it appeared, and they hadn't had chance to come up with a good cover story? Did they not realise that those people had not only been bereaved but also had now been treated as if their feelings mattered nothing? No wonder a few people (and it only started with a few) got angry.

And then there's the Red Route problem in Tottenham (I was a local till we decamped for foreign parts, you know). You may have heard people talking about two unmarked police cars parked ouside the police station which acted like a red rug to a bull and wondered what they were talking about. Well, there has been a long rumbling annoyance from the residents because of the police's cavalier attitude to parking on the red route. Result - two torched police cars. And from little acorns ......

I did feel a bit sorry for them that first night when they stood there on the back foot looking gobsmacked at what happened. The second night they regained their role as temporary heroes by bringing in the exact number of extra boots on the ground as our wonderful coalition wishes to cut the force by.

The Politicians

Do I have to? Still, it's an enlightening experience watching the handbagging that's going on at the moment, isn't it. "I did it". "No, I did it". Oh, please.

The Media

I have to mention Mark Duggan here, the bloke whose death was at the heart of the original protest. Did anyone else notice the change in choice of images which occurred when it became obvious that he wasn't quite as guilty as the Press wished him to be? Please see above and draw your own conclusions. I know he may not be quite as much an angel as his family thought, but he's still entitled to fair treatment from all sections of the Establishment. Isn't that what's supposed to make us a civilised society?

The Rioters

I am making a distinction between rioters and protesters here. After the protesters had done their thing, there must have been a defining moment when some of the ready made gangs prevalent in London suddenly realised that this was a situation which could be capitalised upon. These people are already supplied with the most modern means of communication available. Result - instant mob. God, I'd love a Blackberry; can't afford one.

And did you notice the numbers who appeared to have just come along for the ride? You see, nobody's mentioned the fact that rule-breaking and chaos is FUN. This is probably why I do Carnival each year. Take over the streets, make noise, get a bit drunk ..... familiar? I was also involved in the Poll Tax Demo, but I ran away with my drum. Wuss.

Mind you, I'm no apologist. And this is why. I was a professional youth worker and I am fully aware of the depth of awfulness exhibited by some young people. I was also a single mother and managed to raise two great kids, one with a good degree, the other a successful jobbing actor. I also bought my house and paid taxes all my life. I didn't chose single motherhood. One dissolved away in alcohol and the other swapped me for a younger model. And I didn't fall into criminality. I just gritted my teeth and got on with it.

Conclusions

So I honestly don't understand what has happened to what seems to be a large chunk of our society. Does it all stem from the "greed is good" and "there is no such thing as society" attitudes of the 80s? By the way, have you noticed the progress from the "no such thing" to "Big" in relation to Tory policy? That's interesting, isn't it?

I seriously think we have not yet recovered from Thatcherism. There is a lingering feeling that possessions are everything and that being greedy, hard and go-getting is somehow admirable. And hard translates easily into other areas of life, like mugging that poor Malaysian boy while he was down, or kicking to death a pensioner trying to stamp out your pet fire. And if you're caught, you can play the disadvantaged card. Dear God.

PS. Neither do I believe that human beings can't recognise the difference between right and wrong. Hardness enables you to just ignore it.

2011-08-04T00:02:00.000-07:00

Sorry about the delays between my posts these days. A mixture of feeling like hell on wheels, trying to maintain pecker height and keep the new hubby up the mark in the housewife stakes at the same time has been proving a bit of a trial.

Yes, I am finally admitting that I have been feeling a bit bad for a while. I know I shouldn’t do that in the light of the Positive Thinking crusade which puts you in charge of your own cure and leaves you feeling a bit of a failure if you don’t manage to do it, but I’ve now instated the “Oh, bugger it” crusade instead. This allows you to feel what the hell you want to feel because you can’t be bothered wasting time on what other folks think you ought to be doing. I’m thinking of a logo of one raised middle finger, anointed with pureed asparagus – it’s a dead cert cure, you know – and surrounded by the motto “Leave Me Alone”

However, I must say that since my recent visit to my local hospital and new oncologist, I am feeling somewhat better. They didn’t bother with Positive Thinking, but instead dished out a nice new array of drugs (steroids and painkillers – amazing how much more positive you can be when it doesn’t hurt). The response was almost immediate and I found myself back in the kitchen, making soup; one of my “feeling better” pointers. And some Banana Bread; well, the fruit flies were getting a bit much, even for new hubby.

So Essex is proving good for me. Harwich itself is a little gem, only slightly marred by some really poor town planning over the years. Well, at least it ensures that you’re not living in Whimsey-on-Why, and leaves the place with a little edge. It has always had a somewhat salty reputation; at one time it was famous, if not notorious, for having more pubs per square inch than anywhere else in the universe. These days, there are still quite a few (roll of honour headed by the New Bell – CAMRA Pub of the Year, and the Alma, now a gastro pub with great dining rooms. And My Son the Actor sometimes sings there, too. And lives in a converted pub). However, these days it has the Harwich Society, which has slapped a plaque on anything standing still long enough and seems to have stymied the planners. Did you know that the Captain of the Mayflower lived here? And his house still stands? There you go, interesting and entertaining.

The photo is the view from one of my windows, and it constantly changes with the weather, the light and the human activity. We particularly like one of the fishing boats which goes out crabbing at dawn, adorned with enough multi-coloured floats to make it look as if it is going to take off using balloon power alone. Plus two Anarchist flags and half a Jamaican one bearing the face of Bob Marley. The fisherman? White, middle-aged and, I am reliably informed, known as “Scum”.

And, boy, do we have festivals. Being where we are, on the Quayside, most of them take place under out window, as well. So you glance out and suddenly see a complete helicopter rescue show from the RNLI, or the Town Band followed by a crappy rock group, or dancing fireboats. Nice one last weekend up at the Redoubt Fort – we have one of those as well, but it’s not under our window. It’s got a plaque though. Like any town trying to gentrify itself, we have a micro-brewery (it’ll be a cheese shop next. Or an artisan baker) and he was showcasing his new real ales against sun-warmed Georgian bricks with three local folkies noodling shanties in the background. And there were sausages. Nice.

Visit Essex. It’s so bracing.

Saga

2011-07-07T08:26:00.000-07:00

Thanks to the conjunction of my recent shotgun wedding and a gang of lovely friends I have a nice new laptop. Never been a better timed gift as the old one had started snarling at me every time I approached it. It has only taken Significant Other two days to load the new one with all the stuff he deemed necessary; I am trying to quieten the unworthy suspicion that doing that was a damn sight better than the ongoing slog of forcing the quart of our large flat in Soller into the pint pot of our little flat in Harwich. Well, the big stuff is in, but we are struggling with the finishing touches; you know, hang the pictures, mop the floor, clear the last cardboard box before I start foaming at the mouth and screaming.

I can't really blame him; moving country, house and getting married in the space of a month is not something I would recommend for someone who has waved goodbye to the peak of physical fitness and is just about to reach the foothills of middle age. Ahem. I wouldn't recommend it to Sir Chris Hoy, actually, and he's got thighs and everything.

We had decided that I should fly back alone to establish a beach-head, and SO would drive back across Spain and France a couple of days later so we could have our familiar old banger. We only ever have bangers. Aaah. We also decided to bring our furniture back. Believe me, that was much less stressful than making SO walk round Ikea again. He insists there must be shortcuts, you see, and ends up walking purposefully against the direction of the arrows. And the oncoming blank-eyed hordes.

Anyway, the flying alone thing went as well as could be expected, given the comfort of the average budget airline, until I reached the carousel at Stansted, when I realised that 20

kilograms was beyond me, and the case dragged me along the belt like a piece of lost sushi until I was rescued by a little old man. Oh, lord, the mortification. I collapsed, sobbing, into the arms of the Fabulous Ms H who took me home for TLC. Thank heavens for mates.

Thus started the complex task of proving residence (Have you ever tried to prove anything in the UK without a utility bill?)to the satisfaction of the Register Office. Staying with the Fabulous Ms H, we had to do it in Lambeth. To get married in Canterbury. One bright spark of our acquaintance wondered if we were on an Archbishop hunt, or something. We did manage it eventually,

but the paperwork only arrived at Canterbury on the Friday before the Monday we were due to wed, which was a bit close to the wire for my liking.

My Son, the Actor, caused another complication. We decided to move into his town so he could be a comfort to his poor old mum. He promptly got a job, touring Germany. I am giving him the benefit of the doubt. We did, however want him

at the wedding; he does a good turn. Well, there's got to be some perks to parenthood. So we had our reception in Daughter Dear's garden the day before the ceremony and he flew in the following day so he could be there to witness the deed and, of course,

sing. Pity, really, he missed a damn good do, organised and managed by Daughter Dear, Son-in-Law and his brother, otherwise known as the Dream Team. We had a marquee in the garden

(get me!) and fish and chips and mushy peas and lots of creamy puds and a cupcake wedding cake all made by Daughter Dear. And a guest appearance by some of the vintage members of the London School of Samba. And it was the

hottest day for six years. Perfect.

The wedding itself was really nice, considering. I knocked together an outfit from the back of the wardrobe (SO, as usual, outshone me in the kilt) and a friend who is a milliner made me a beautiful hat. Although another nice friend had offered to buy the flowers, I couldn't bear to present her with the astronomical prices charged by florists for wedding bouquets. So I whipped down to Tesco in the morning, spent the grand total of £17, and managed to make a fan shaped bouquet for me, a nosegay for youngest grand-daughter and buttonholes for the men. Ta-daah!

The ceremony was good, except for that bit where they ask the assembled if they

know of any reason and I saw it forming on the lips of a couple of them. Then My Son, the Actor, sang, and several grown men cried. In fact, there wasn't a dry eye in the house.

Then we went down the pub.

I'm back

2011-06-25T00:37:00.000-07:00

You have to imagine this being spoken in an extremely apologetic tone of voice. I haven't died yet, honest. It's just that moving country, moving into an unfurnished flat and planning a wedding took all my available brainspace.

This is just going to be a short post to announce my return to the blogosphere, but just let me tell you - my new flat is lovely - I watch cruise liners and car ferries going past all my windows. It does suffer a bit on the storage front, however, and we have had to buy an enormo-wardrobe. We are seriously considering moving into it.

I'm getting married the day after tomorrow. It's been a bit tense as I needed to make an honest man out of Significant Other so he can have my pension when I'm gone. So we needed to beat the Great Reaper to the draw. Well, ner nerner ner ner - done it! You'll have to wait for descriptions of how fabulous I looked. Daughter Dear has been indescribably wonderful and done virtually everything for us; she now looks like a wet rag, but a bit of fake tan and makeup will soon cure that. I hope. Don't want her spoiling the photos.

Speak soon,

Look at me, I'm a model

2011-05-09T03:42:00.000-07:00

Well, that’s another ticked off the list of “things to do before you die”. Wasn’t expecting it to be quite so literal, but still – I was a glamour model for a day for a cancer charity calendar. Yes, it’s amazing what can be done with a bald 65-year-old, given enough time and sympathetic makeup. And kind lighting and a nice photographer who understands about chicken neck. This I an unrepentant puff for Samantha Hemsley, the aforesaid nice photographer.

It was a lovely day. Significant Other and I drove to Samantha’s romantic old house up a hill in the country and he was settled in the man-creche with beer and a book. I was then made up for several hours by Barbara from Salon B. Well, it felt like several hours, but then I need an anaesthetic to go to the hairdressers. She applied INDIVIDUAL EYELASHES. And gave me back my disappearing eyebrows. Thank heavens I don’t have to look gorgeous all the time; there aren’t enough hours in the day. I must say though, I looked bloody great when she had finished. Another puff there.

We then chose clothes in various shades of black, which had been lent to me by my friend Estelle, the most glamourous lady of a certain age I am ever likely to meet. I have to mention one dress here which has a loose blouson top trimmed with leather and a very slinky lycra skirt bit; told you she was glamourous. The only problem was that the lycra bit was so clingy if I tried to pull it down to cover my knees, my knickers came down with it. Good old Significant Other had to be enlisted to hold up my knickers down the back of the dress whilst I attempted to adjust the skirt bit. I will leave you with that mental picture, and assure you he managed to do it without giving me a wedgie. I swear that dress has a mind of its own though; every time I attempted to walk in it, it either crawled up my legs or slithered down them. I’m not made for elegance, obviously.

The photos here are for publicity; I don’t know which, if any, is going to be used in the calendar. But I’m incredibly chuffed with them.

Thanks, girls. It was a lovely day and has been added to my memory store.

Copyright Samantha Hemsley Photography

Isn't cancer ENOUGH?

2011-05-01T08:00:00.000-07:00

I hope you didn’t think I’d already gone without saying goodbye; it’s just that I’ve been so busy trying to organise the next few months I haven’t had time. I had to hit the ground running. Places to go, things to do. For instance, have you ever tried to free up investments in a hurry? From another country? Well, don’t. There is a conspiracy to stop you getting hold of your own money.

How about this for tactless. I emailed one particular company telling them I was on my last legs, and asking them to close the account and let me have the documentation so I could get my hands on the hard-earned. I then waited for a week or so and received two, yes two, identical standard letters referring to my decision to “review my investment”. And, of course, no documentation so I could close the account or access MY money. Look, I’m reduced to using capitals.

I wonder which part of “terminally ill” they didn’t understand. The bit where it comes to money, obviously. And the bit about decent human behaviour. I wonder if they have ever considered how hurtful it is to tell strangers you are on the way out. They apparently perceived it to be the perfect time for me to give them more money, or perhaps move it around a bit. NOOOOooo. Want to spend it on getting home to my kids, you unthinking bastards. Never mind, had a very cathartic rant at some poor child over the phone, and strangely enough the documentation arrived by email within five minutes. That was lucky because I was considering turning up on the steps of their office, clutching my throat and going “It was… it was… aargh” just like they do in the movies, because you obviously have to cry for this company before they descend to the use of modern communication methods; if you’re calm they make you do everything by snailmail. Clever. It means that they can extend their hold on your money, and therefore their cut till the last possible moment. Even cleverer, when you’ve jumped through all the hoops and completed all the paperwork (by post, obviously), they then say “we wait four days before we free your money to your bank account”. Erm, why?

And then there’s trying to organise a flat in the UK. My kids are on the job, and so far it looks like we will be aiming for Harwich, on the Essex coast and quite cheap (heavens, I hope they don’t mind a short let) near my son, who (Sod’s Law) will be off on tour around Northern Europe within the next month. He’s in the Rocky Horror Show, but not in the basque, unfortunately. Boy, the embarrassment potential of the photos.

And the wedding. We have to establish residence in the country then wait for fifteen days before we can tie the knot and guarantee Significant Other’s pension. Lord, don’t they realise I’m in a hurry? Of course, I’m arriving home in wedding high season, so the only places available for hire will probably be Westminster Abbey or Dirty Dick’s Line Dance Bar and Grill. You see, horrible bankers? That’s why I need my money QUICK. More capitals.

Then there’s clearing this flat and getting some of our stuff back to the UK (more money, Mr Banker) and my preparations to be a Calendar Girl – that’s a teaser for my next post. I will be back, honestly.

The thing about dying is, it does concentrate the mind wonderfully.

Love Song

2011-04-11T05:23:00.000-07:00

My kids are great. They turned up, unannounced, on my doorstep on Saturday last (a not inconsiderable feat given that they live in the UK and I’m in Mallorca) so we could spend Mother’s Day together. Daughter Dear had organised it and subbed My Son, the (Skint/ Resting) Actor, so he could come too. What a sweetheart. We had the nicest time and showed them places they didn’t know existed and the sun shone. Perfect. And it struck me that although I have used the poor sods unmercifully for blog material, I’ve never actually introduced you all. So here they are. My Son, the Actor He was my firstborn, and despite falling desperately in love with him at first sight, he was really, really ugly. He had definitely fallen out of an ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. Thin as a rail, bald as an egg and covered in infantile exzema doesn’t win Beautiful Baby competitions. He also had enormous eyes and a wide mouth which gave him an unfortunate resemblance to a pink frog. His forceps delivery had given him an elongated skull and a rakish red pirate scar. God, he was gorgeous. You will be pleased to know that eighteen months cured it. He turned into the most angelic toddler you have ever seen, with blond curls and blue eyes. The complete Mabel Lucy Attwell child. And he had the sweetest nature; a complete stoic, he dealt uncomplainingly with the exzema and the later asthma and seldom cried. He didn’t walk till he was sixteen months, choosing rather to tittup around en pointe. I should have known he was headed to ballet class then, shouldn’t I? He didn’t talk properly till he was two and a half, when he suddenly burst into full and grammatically correct sentences. Funny little thing. He grew up in the era of black and white Fred Astaire films on the telly on Sunday afternoons and aged about four used to tap dance just like Fred on the lino in the corner. Career sorted. We gave up with the local dance class when he was eleven, bit on the bullet and used the family allowance to send him to a Theatre School in Liverpool. As a lifelong socialist, it nearly killed me, but that’s mother love for you. And the rest is history. He is the least likely male dancer you have ever seen, barrel chested and husky just like his dad. Going into Liverpool for classes on match days, he really wanted to be stopped by the cops as a suspicious football fan so he could open his sports bag with a flourish and waggle his ballet pumps at them. He acts, plays guitar, keyboards and drums, and if someone said “You can have this role but you need to play the euphonium and juggle”, he’d say “Cool” and go off and learn. He has the most amazing rock voice and why he isn’t a superstar is beyond me. And whilst he was here last week, he fixed the toilet. Daughter Dear Being an idiot, I expected another angel when Daughter Dear arrived eighteen months later. Big mistake. She was a spiky, sleepless, screaming little harridan. She was prettier than her brother though, despite being born with a pale grey crew cut that continued right down over her face. I was so relieved when it wore off, even if she did look rather like a cute little marmoset. But, boy, she was a screamer. I remember one day (end of tether long since reached, passed, thrown on the floor and stamped upon) holding her who was (as usual) screaming, at arms length and sobbing “What do you WANT?” She was a clever little devil though. Walked at eleven months, talked from about the same time and could count by eighteen months. The minute she realised, aged about one, that the evening bottle was making her sleepy, she refused it. Sleep was anathaema to her. Looking back, I think she may have found being a baby boring, and the older she got, and the more stuff she could do, the nicer she got. See, time cures most things. By the time she went to school, she was a quiet little sweetheart. I did feel sorry for her though; deeply intelligent, she followed her talented and popular acting, tapdancing, athletic brother up the school to a chorus of “Oh, you’re Sean’s sister”. And nobody applauds you for being brilliant at Maths. So I determined that she would have the same chances as he did to fulfill any latent talent, but she was not driven like her sibling, and I stopped the piano lessons the minute she said that her cheeks were aching from trying to keep smiling at the teacher. Bless. She always had a marvellous way with words, inventing the description “fooligan” when exasperated to tears by her brother one day. She once asked me what a penis was, and biting on the bullet (trying to be a Modern Parent), I told her. She responded in a bemused fashion “That’s funny. I thought it was someone who played the piano”. She has turned into a beautiful, generous and loving woman who creates warmth round everyone she touches. I thought I has better say this now because I’d like them to know how much I love them both. My doctor, bless her – God, what a job – told me last time I was there that I might as well stop the chemo because another round would not prolong my life by a nanosecond. I have a limited amount of time left, so Significant Other and I are going back to the UK to be near the pair of them and the grandchildren. We are going to get married when we’re there so he can have a pension (told you he was a ne’er-do-well) and so we can have a bloody good party. Any excuse.

Some of my Best Friends are cyclists

2011-03-27T08:31:00.000-07:00

Right. I have lived on this island for five years now and have so far managed to avoid too much comment on the cyclists. Did you know we live in cycle heaven? Mallorca, according to the wheeled thousands, is a great big cycle track with brilliant mountains to show off on, and local people who can be treated as irrelevant in the Great Scheme of Things Bike. So cyclists are allowed to ride four abreast down narrow country lanes, oblivious to the motorists trying to get to work behind them, and while they are at it, toss their plastic water bottles to the side of the wonderful mountain roads. Well, I suppose stuffing your litter down your Lycra suit might ruin your streamlining, and we don’t want that, do we?. Apparently, however, cyclists are essential to the wellbeing of the local economy, so for the general good, I have tried to keep a lid on a growing head of steam. That, and the fact that some of my best friends actually are cyclists. Even My Son, the (Resting) Actor, has been known to pedal down to Lidls for something cheap and tasty. But they don’t wax their legs, which is the important difference. Actually, in an attempt to let off some of the steam and stop my head exploding, in the past I may have ventured the odd opinion on the wisdom of Lycra. Or more specifically, those chamois leather patches they have on their bums which do make them look like baboons in full mating gear. Not a good look.

When I lived in London and drove from Walthamstow to Kensington each day, I did quite appreciate pulling up alongside the odd iron-thighed cycle courier; a pleasant moment of reflection in a dreadful commute. But they generally did not ride in packs. And they did sometimes pull up at the traffic lights so I could have a look. Not always, I must admit. Mind you, and whilst I am on the subject of thighs, have you ever wondered about Sir Chris Hoy’s? How the hell does that man walk? He’s virtually disabled. And the chafing doesn’t bear thinking of, does it?

I digress. It’s all this talk of thighs. The reason I am in rant mode is the fact that we have suffered two unforgiveable bike-related incidents during the past week.

Number One

We were on our way to the quiz with a carful of me and two 90-year olds. Significant Other had driven most of the way round a large roundabout and was just about to exit when a group of about 15 cyclists appeared at top speed from our right. And didn’t stop. The first rider just about slid past in front of us. And the rest of the muppets followed him without a sideways glance, and we found ourselves screeching to a halt still on the roundabout but in the middle of a clattering nightmare of wheels and idiots. Tell me, is there some rule about riding in groups that says the rider at the front is responsible for making decisions and that lets the rest of them off thinking? We lost the quiz by two points and I will blame those cyclists as long as I live. Who, by the way, all rode off without a backward glance.

Number Two

Which is a good title, given the subject matter. We were showing two visiting friends some of the beautiful places that people who don’t live here seldom discover, and we were driving through the vineyards which proliferate a few miles from here. And there by the side of the road was a matched pair. He was doing the man thing of peeing anywhere he pleased. But so was she. Now, I don’t know about you, ladies, but when taken short, I have been known to walk cross-legged for half a mile looking for a large enough rock or thick enough undergrowth before, erm, divesting. Not this lass. She had dropped ‘em and squatted without benefit of leafage or rockage, bare bum directly facing our car. It was like driving towards the Mersey Tunnel; she could have sold advertising space.

So, sorry Mags, and Greg and Tim and all the rest of you. I know you have the high moral ground and teeny-weeny little carbon footprints.

And I don’t care.

Cushion, please!

2011-03-07T00:55:00.000-08:00

My Son, the Actor, bought me a “Big Foot in the Sky” keyring as part of my Christmas present hoard. Now, for new readers (you are there, aren’t you?) the “Big Foot” is the nearest I get to religion. Or even spirituality. The Big Foot was part of the opening credits for Monty Python’s Flying Circus back in the day, and I immediately related to the downward squish, accompanied by a large raspberry, which sum up my life.

So now I have it incarnated in plastic, and even more wonderful, it plays selected snatches from the shows. It does, however, have an unfortunate habit of setting itself off automatically whilst lying at the bottomless pit which is my handbag. It recently managed to shrilly inform the startled inhabitants of the day hospital waiting room that “This is an Ex-Parrot!” Judging by the response, I think Monty Python never hit Mallorca.

Anyway, I only mention this because the Big Foot has yet again proved its existence and relevance in my life. Readers of a delicate disposition may look away now, but I swore to de-mystify the whole cancer/chemo thing and I cannot blush modestly and ignore the less interesting but more itchy bits. I’ve got the trots and it’s given me piles. I don’t know if that means anything to my American readers, but it’s the condition for which you buy Preparation H. Bless it. Wish I could get it over here.

I sent Significant Other down to the chemist to try and get me something for it. Well, I couldn’t go, could I? I might have had to mime piles and lose all my remaining dignity. SO’s got none anyway. He managed to identify the right stuff (you can tell. The tube has a special applicator. Long and pointy with strategically placed outlets. I say no more, and I did warn you delicate ones). It’s pretty useless, actually, as the thought of using it as it is meant to be used brings tears to my eyes.

Wouldn’t you think that having cancer and the bloomin’ awful chemo was enough? Why can’t I just have something that allows me to lie around looking pale and interesting like La Dame au Camellias? No, I have to get the condition that everybody thinks is really funny, and forces me to take emergency cushions to nice restaurants. On top of all this, the bowel cancer charity proudly sports a brown ribbon. Mmm. Nice.

I have to go now, as I have just passed the sitting down tolerance mark. Aaargh.

Fame at last?

2011-02-23T06:11:00.000-08:00

I have found out that my blog has been picked up by what appears to be a fairly influential Elders website in the USA. Go to http://www.timegoesby.net/ if you don’t believe me. Gosh. I checked around the site a bit and found the criteria to which I had to abide to stay on the admittedly enormous list of Bloggers of Age ( just made that title up). Have to be 50 or older. Check. Have to post once a week. Hmm, debateable. Have found that chemotherapy affects the brain somewhat. And sometimes I just can’t be arsed. Oops, strong language frowned upon a bit. Now have an irresistable urge to say pee, poo, belly, bum, drawers. Oops. I’ll work on it, honest. Don’t throw me off the list, please.

And then there’s “Well written, and obeying the rules of syntax, spelling and grammar”. Well, check, obviously. But will an American site allow “honour” and “humour”, because I will fight to the death for the English, and therefore correct, spelling. On the whole, I quite like the nice and rather proper rules and the fact that the woman who runs the site doesn’t allow right wing ranting either. And I’m hugely flattered. Especially as I have just proved that I am definitely an Elder by being completely incapable of downloading their badge. Do I get brownie points for trying?

At the same time I have been followed on Twitter (I’m a social networking tart as you can probably gather) by a UK based site for the chronologically challenged to which I am not going to give any airspace, because whilst their screen is cluttered with adverts for “Sweet Mia” and “Lady Nice” who are improbably pretty and innocent and young, they announce that articles for their magazine can be on almost anything except negative articles on illness. Oh, only happy ones, then? Now, I’m quite a specialist in finding gallows humour in my predicament, but I heartily object to the gagging of poor souls who want to tell it like it is for them. Lord, what’s t’interweb for? Adverts for Lady Nice, obviously.

Anyway, talking about the predicament, it was chemo day yesterday. And today I am still in my dressing gown feeling pathetic; see, the aforementioned site wouldn’t have liked that, would they? But I will be better tomorrow because it’s quiz day when I can practice my newfound glamorous scarf-tying skills for my adoring public (see photo), and we and the nonagenarians can continue our attempt for a grand slam. Two up and two to play.

Well, we’ve seriously got to do it before one of us pops our clogs.

Debateable

2011-02-12T08:19:00.000-08:00

I was asked to be a member of a panel of judges this week. This was not a career choice, as it seems to have become for many celebrities wishing to prove how rude or bitchy they can be in exchange for a bit of airtime. Off at a tangent I go, but how have we ended up in a society which glories bullying dressed up in designer gear on the telly, whilst bemoaning the amount of poor kids harrassed to within an inch of their lives at school? Is no-one making the link here? I digress.

Anyway, my moment of fame was to help with the Debating Competition which is happening at the moment between the International Schools in Mallorca. I have no particular qualifications for this job apart from knowing the person who was to get a panel together. I think she was a bit desperate. I did actually jump at the chance to help, because in my dim and distant past I was a youth worker, and am one of the few adults of my acquaintance who actually likes teenagers. Great, lolloping lumps of potential with attitude and spots. Mind you, the well-mannered and charming youngsters of the International Schools here are a little different from the “challenging” individuals with whom I dealt in the wastelands of North Kensington. It’s not all Notting Hill, yuppies and trustafarians inna de area, believe me. I think I’ve mentioned this incident before, but it will stand a re-telling. We had asked St John’s Ambulance to send us a trainer in First Aid, and a very straight, white middle-class chap turned up to deal with our teenage disUnited Nations. After an hour or so, he reeled out to tell us that amongst other things, when he asked the kids what they would do if they found a person lying unconscious in the road, the class comedian had offered, in purest Patois, “Teef de rings?” Teef. Thieve. Gettit?

Nothing so disreputable happened at the Bellver School, you will be glad to hear, and the two debates so far have been impressive. It is really difficult being a judge, however, as you have to listen to the arguments, make judgements and concurrently mark style and content. It’s like patting your belly and rubbing your head at the same time. And the compilers have not pussyfooted around with the motions for debate. So far we have had “This house believes in peace at any cost” and yesterday “This house believes that euthanasia is a human right”. They are probably going for the Meaning of Life next.

The euthanasia one was a classic. I sat centre table with my hat pulled over my bald pate, not quite brave enough to come out in public yet. Well, especially in front of teenagers who wouldn’t have known whether to guffaw or be polite, but who would definitely have stared. And I listened to masses of statistics and statements about cancer and chemo and dying in discomfort and my right to pop my own clogs. I do hope none of the debaters realised that they were talking about me. Poor kids. That would have stopped the flow, wouldn’t it?

You will be glad to hear that I resisted the desperate urge to leave the room cabaret-style, tap-dancing and singing “There’s no business like show business” whilst whipping the hat on and off.

Smile, please

2011-02-04T08:22:00.000-08:00

Right, the evil deed is done. I could no longer bear the slow, daily destruction of my crowning glory; well, I say crowning glory. It was always a bit thin and boring and I’m not the sort of woman who can be bothered primping, so I kept it very short anyway. But when it started to come out in handsful it was just a niggling reminder that I’m supposedly ill. You will notice I said “supposedly”; I am a mistress of denial, and of the sticking fingers in ears and going “lala lala la” in the face of common sense. You can tell I’m a grownup, can’t you?

Anyway, the blooming stuff was getting everywhere, and I don’t like grownup housework either. So I decided that Significant Other should become my hairdresser. Now, I have nothing against the lovely Viqi, who is my landlord’s almost-daughter-in- law. That’s the sort of place Soller is. She’s a great cutter. But even I rebelled at paying 15€ to sit in full view of the passing populace through her plate glass picture window, looking at myself in a mirror going bald UNDER FLUORESCENT LIGHT. Dear Lord, there are limits.

Poor Significant Other. He was more upset about it than I was, so with mouth set in a grim line and matching teary eyes, he picked up the scissors manfully and off it came. And I must say, I like it. It’s hardly fetching but it has attitude so I have decided that I should be Sigourney Weaver in Aliens and kill monsters wearing a very attractive metal exoskeleton to go with the hairdo. Or maybe Demi Moore in GI Jane. Something tough, anyway. Then I’ll at least be able to look like I am doing the Positive Thinking thing everybody says I must. Still don’t know how to do it, so I just smile and nod and try not to grind my teeth when it is recommended. That, and the pureed asparagus.

I have a small selection of hats for when I go out. Well, I don’t want to scare the horses with my Sigourney face. And more are arriving by visitor at the end of the month. I have nice women in the UK (thanks Ms H, Daughter Dear and Sister of Ms H), who recognise the importance of keeping Di respectable, and are scouring the charity shops

for suitable headgear.

Can’t wait. I’m going to have a hat-fest.

Bald is Beautiful?

2011-01-31T08:27:00.000-08:00

OK, it’s finally happening. My hair is leaving the building, which is a bit of a blow because I have responded to everything to do with cancer so far by refusing to believe it. Now I have to. The evidence is wafting all over the flat and blocking the plugholes. But I’d much rather have a nice bit of self-delusion any day over the unpleasant truth. Infinitely more comfortable. And I don’t want the unpleasant truth, thanks; life’s tough enough without having to stiffen my upper lip and face facts. Who needs it?

It started when I woke up the other day going “Pff. Ptt. Meh. Ptt. Pff. Ptui”, which is what you say when you get up with a mouth full of hair. And it wasn’t as a result of a good hangover. No, my pillow was liberally spread with my ex-crowning glory. It was like finding myself in a yeti nest. Falling back onto my usual delusional techniques, I almost managed to convince myself it was just a minor aberration (I could ignore the obvious for England), but then I had a shower. Mistake. This time, I had to deal with wet hair in clumps which stuck tenaciously to my face; and when removed, slid down the drain. Lord, all this and now I have to do naked, shower-based plumbing. There’s a picture that will lodge in your brain for a couple of days, eh?

I have had a couple of quiet sobs about the situation – vanity, thy name is woman – and have tried to remedy things by attempting to do artistic things with scarves. Unfortunately, it didn’t work. I, despite being, shall we say, robustly built, have a pin head. Wrapping a scarf round my scalp just makes me look like a decorated neck. Even Significant Other had a go (he nearly suffocated me and then got cross because I dared to protest a little. He loves me, really) and had to admit I looked rubbish. I won’t wear wigs. Good grief, I live in Mallorca. Can you imagine it in the height of summer? I might as well wear a fur hat. Anyway, I know me. I would get an itch under it and have to insert a finger or two for a good scratch. And then it would get lopsided and I would be walking around all day looking like a bag lady. And I would have to keep taking it to the hairdressers for a shampoo and set. Didn’t even do that with my own hair when I had it. No. No wigs.

So I’m going to shave off the straggly remains (Daughter Dear suggested I might try a combover, pointing out that men have been getting away with it for years. She loves me, really). I just need a bit of time to build up to it. And then I shall wear hats, and look like a woman of mystery.

Or a bag lady in a hat.

Corduroy days

2011-01-24T05:58:00.000-08:00

Winter has arrived. You can tell; we have snow on the mountain opposite. Well, I say snow; it’s only for decoration. You can’t actually do much with it, although I was impressed with the young couple who drew up, tooting the horn, outside the café in which we were eating lunch the other day. They had obviously been up in the mountains and had managed to drive down again complete with small but perfectly formed snowman on the bonnet. Leaning against the windscreen. I think I may have mentioned Mallorcan driving styles before.

Another sign is that all the village old boys have changed into their winter outfits. Suddenly the ancient and baggy corduroys have appeared and the streets are blocked by what appears to be a herd of pantomime elephants, back legs only. Poor old devils need the warmth though; the Spanish anti-smoking laws have kicked in along with the Siberian air-flow and you have to run a gauntlet of glowering smokers to get into the nice warm interior of every caff, where all the smug people are.

My winter outfit is a slanket . I’m afraid I had classed them alongside shopping trolleys and elastic waisted trousers as granny accessories. Guess what, all the aforementioned have suddenly become really appealing. The Slanket was a present from My Son, the Actor, who is more in touch with reality than me. He doesn’t believe that I am only 27. However, he did buy me a red one and it makes me look like a transvestite Cardinal. And I don’t care. Gosh, it’s cuddly. And warm. Nearly said “cosy” there. That’s another Granny-signal.

Can you tell that I am not enjoying this winter? Honestly, you’d think they would give cancer patients a chitty to allow them to miss it, and just pop forward to spring, wouldn’t you? There are no bloody perks in this situation. Mind you, I’m on the scary new chemo, and I don’t seem to be losing too many of my already thin locks yet. I was sort of expecting to wake up the morning after in the middle of a pile of hair, like an egg in the middle of a small, grey nest. So far, just the odd, worrying strand.

I know, I know, keep my pecker up. I just wish someone would tell me how you do it.

Quickie update on the Chemo Files

2011-01-12T00:41:00.000-08:00

I had the first gallon of my new regime yesterday. Usual routine - get into chair, bear bit of breast, nurse hovers over the portacath site (it's very obvious, sticks out like a sore thumb) and I deep-breathe it onto the needle. Wait till she's gone, say "Ow". I'm such a hero.

They then fit me up to the rats-nest of tubes with all their fascinating little plastic stop/start gadgets, which I have to stop Significant Other from playing with, and then I just lie there like a human sponge and sop it all up. The best thing was that I have stopped having to take the chemical I was sensitive to, so it was all over before night fell. And I didn't stop breathing or have self operating thumbs. And no sparklymouth. Wow, treat upon treat.

However, have been warned by lovely oncologist that this one starts gently and increases in strength as time goes on. And that my hair will fall out and I'll throw up and have diaorrhea. But they have given me some anti-emetics to stop the nausea, and so far, so good. Don't really feel too much like eating this morning, but not too bad. Perhaps I should start rubbing dung into my scalp to try and delay the inevitable. Or perhaps time would be better spent in practicing tying scarves in an artistic fashion. Previous attempts have proven how crap I am. God, failed at womanly skills, again.

And guess what. I have put on 5 kilos. Bloody hell, I could put weight on in a famine.

Last chance to see?

2011-01-06T08:51:00.000-08:00

Before I start, all the photos were taken at Harwich over Christmas.

Have you ever noticed when you ask someone how their Christmas was, they always say “Quiet”, in a vaguely disappointed fashion? I often wonder what they were expecting. A Dionysian orgy, maybe? Or in the immortal words of Basil Fawlty, “herds of wildebeest sweeping majestically across the Plain?” I had a wonderful Christmas, thanks. And it wasn’t quiet; well it wasn’t exactly loud, either. It was just right.

For various reasons, it has been 12 years since we all sat down as a family for Christmas dinner. But this year, we did it. My Son, the Actor, cooked Christmas dinner for the first time in his life (“God, Mother, isn’t Chrismas expensive?”) and it was a major triumph. He had lists of timings and everything, so all the things I usually forget or serve cold, or burnt, or both, were done properly. The grand-daughters were ravishing. Even the oldest who is threatening to segue from China Shepherdess into the Goth Teenager from Hell, smiled and didn’t complain too much about being separated from her mates, who are apparently the only things that make her life worth living. The littlest one decided that her Uncle, My Son, the Actor/Chef, was to be her victim for the weekend (she doesn’t see him a lot) and cornered him with long chats about life, the Universe and everything, and games of Stackers. There weren’t any presents met with incomprehension and that false smile you have to do; all were very suitable and in the best possible taste. And we slept in a fairytale house with history seeping out of its pores and knotholes.

I wish you could have seen this place. Son lives next door to a second hand book shop which is in a late Medieval house, and the neighbours offered us their attic room with the en-suite; well, small hours visits to the loo and so on. We looked up from our bed to the most wonderful old beams with enormous hand made nails protruding from them. This place even has listed, and very rude, Medieval grafitti. Every floorboard creaked. And we were surrounded by piles of books – paradise.

Son is giving his villain, Fleshcreep, in Pantomime in Ipswich at the moment; avoiding the temptation to do thug, which he is good at, his performance instead has something of the Tim Curry as Frank’nfurter about it. Sort of thrillingly camp. He earnt many Brownie points from the grand-daughters for getting their names called out by the Dame from the stage, although for some reason Eldest did try to slide down the seat and hide.

My birthday (yes, I know. All the year’s celebrations in one week) was held at Daughter Dear’s house. Again, perfect presents. And a Chinese meal. She understands that I am still suffering from takeaway withdrawal symptoms. I’m fine now; I’ve had my monosodium glutamate fix. Mmmm. Monosodium glutamate.

And then it was New Year’s Eve, which I normally hate; good grief, how am I supposed to enjoy an evening worrying about what the hell’s going to happen next? It was good, this year, though. Son was performing at the local gastro-pub, and took part of his fee as a meal for Significant Other and me. So we ate splendidly (lobster Thermidore, would you believe?) and then watched son rock the joint. Then walked down to the Quay for a splendid fireworks display. Brilliant.

There was one fly in the ointment. Just before Christmas I was told by my oncologist that my treatment was not working and that I am actually very ill. I now have to go on to the chemo that makes you throw up and lose your hair. It starts on the 11th January. I didn’t tell the Offspring because I didn’t want to be the corpse at the wake and have people looking at me hard, in case it was their last chance to see, like Douglas Adams and the Yangtze River Dolphin or the Kakapo. Or being sad. I wanted fairyland, and I got it.

Keep your fingers crossed for me.

A Happy Christmas to all my Readers

2010-12-23T23:24:00.000-08:00

Off to the UK this morning. Significant Other is still packing and winding up the tension, as is his wont. We're expecting to miss our coach connection at Stansted Airport, but I've got to that stage when I just don't care. So everything is as normal, which is sort of comforting.

I'll report on the jollities when I get back. I wish you all a happy and healthy New Year. And me.

Reasons to be cheerful

2010-12-14T03:27:00.000-08:00

Recently, things have been a bit less than wonderful. Now, don’t start worrying, all those of you that think it’s being so cheerful as keeps me going. I am still trying to wring humour out of any situation, although occasionally it does veer towards the gallows variety. Also, I daren’t admit to feeling really miserable or a posse of positive thinkers will ambush me and accuse me of pecker lowering, therefore putting my recovery at risk and being responsible for my own demise. Honestly, cancer must be the only illness where the victim gets the blame because he wasn’t a happy bunny.

It’s just that my last chemo session included me throwing up robustly several times and in various locations (including one basin meant for hand washing only. I managed to block that one) which meant I had to go back for a second session the next day to see if I could take the rest of the treatment without repeating the trick. I could.

I got through all that by looking forward to the visit of two of my very best friends, Ms. H and Stabs (he’s a haematologist, before you ask). I like having visitors; it means that we can do fun things and go out for meals and take long country drives and gossip for hours. And guess what? They were caught up in the Spanish Air Traffic Controllers walk out. They had driven across London to Gatwick Airport in the snow and checked in before they were told they may not fly. Now, I am the last person to deny a person’s right to strike, but this wasn’t a strike. They all just phoned in sick at once. And the lack of notice left people stranded all over Europe with no choice but to sit it out at airports. And people like yours truly sitting at home trying to disguise a trembly lip in case the bloody Positive Thinkers got me.

Still, she said, being a brave little soldier, life goes on and there were enough things to do to help haul me out of the slough of despond. Well, it wasn’t really a slough; more of a miniature mud puddle (I’ve just checked the actual meaning of “slough” and it’s a swamp or a wetland. God, I love the Internet)

Luckily enough, Ms H and Stabs are the official Weather Pixies. Whatever time of year they arrive (and it’s always in the colder months) the weather is fabulous. I’ve known them stay for a beautiful sunny week in February and on the day they left, it snowed. And it seems to work even if they don’t arrive. We have had a lovely week of warm sunshine (sorry, chaps reading this in the UK. If it makes you feel any better, we’re due rain tomorrow and snow the day after, according to Significant Other).

Anyway, the weather brought out the Landscape Gardener in SO. Which is a shame, because we only have a balcony. But what we have on it must be perfect (SO has exacting standards, God help me), and we had a Snail Vine and a Stephanotis to re-pot. The Bougainvillea seems comfortable so he didn’t torment it any more. We knew the exact pots we need; they are tall and narrow and square so you can push them together and reduce the amount of lost floor space. So we hit every garden centre in the island, only to find that nobody had the pots we needed; except one who was using two perfect pots as outdoor table legs. She eventually cracked and sold them to us after several visits. But it took all of SO’s powers of persuasion; or perhaps she just couldn’t think of another way to get rid of him. She has my sympathy.

Amazingly enough, we also got a close up view of a Mediterranean Black Vulture on the way to Pollensa through the mountains. It just sort of drifted up over a wall like a big piece of burnt paper. I hope it hadn't heard I was a bit duff and come to check me out, just in case.

And on Sunday we went to the Matances Fiesta in Sineu. The Matances is a tradition dating back to pre-refrigeration times, when the family would slaughter their pig, make sausages and sobrassada and divide the interesting leftovers between friends and relations. And the next week another family would do the same, thus ensuring a good supply of meat for all at the same time as the bad weather set in.

Sineu is located precisely in the centre of the island and has a really fun market each Wednesday that not only has fluorescent knickers and cheap pans, but also baskets of quails and beautiful black pigs and scared-looking dogs in pens. It appears to be populated by short, square little old men with caps. I have included this photo of a café terrace which holds a poignant memory for me. When Princess Diana died, we were on holiday in Mallorca, and the day we flew home was the day of her funeral. We stopped on the way to the airport for a coffee at this café, and the funeral was on the telly. And sitting in front of it, sobbing, was a huddled group of the little old men. I had to leave.

Vegetarians can stop reading now. Typically for Mallorca, there was a display of real slaughtered pig at the Fiesta. Please do not feel you have to look too closely at this photo of a doll-like girl dealing with the grimbly bits. There were also giants, including, of course, a giant pig and xirimiers (pipers) and all the other stuff necessary for a good fiesta.

And I bought a great hat. So life wasn't so bad, really.

But I was a bit off the sausages.

Fifa Fo Fum

2010-12-03T03:24:00.000-08:00

Now I know I’m a female and therefore my default settings are for shoes and chocolate, but Scouseness also allows, nay, insists that I should hold forth on football. It’s part of the job description, along with talking the hind leg off a donkey, stealing hubcaps, and saying “caahm down, caahm down.”

Actually, I’m not that great a fan of the Beautiful Game (there, that’s got me banned from my home town forever.) It’s because I grew up there in the 60s when Liverpool FC (and everything else Scouse, come to think of it) was at its zenith and I had a series of boyfriends whose idea of a Saturday night out was to go down the pub and discuss in detail the finer points of the match they had just watched. I was bored out of town.

So I really don’t have the right to comment on the recent World Cup palaver, but I’m going to anyway.

Am I the only person in the world to wonder why a piece of good investigative journalism (the Panorama piece on corruption in FIFA) should have been blamed for our lack of success in the bidding process? Are FIFA so fragile that they cannot be robustly examined in case they break? So opaque that no-one is quite sure how the voting process works? Do we actually want the World Cup to be delivered under the auspices of an organisation with the stench of corruption hanging round its processes and staff?

I don’t know which has maddened me more; the sight of our bid team with its attendant Royal, Superhero and PM grovelling to an organisation which is after all, only a commercial business, or the chorus of disapproval - “Couldn’t they have waited till after the bid?”- around an honest piece of journalism. Good grief, that would have made it all OK, right? We could have had the World Cup, no matter what it cost in shame. Has football completely robbed us of our sense of proportion? And pride?

I can’t wait for the Qatar World Cup. Boy, I bet the FIFA officials are looking forward to a few expensive jollies there.

Body and Soul

2010-11-15T05:04:00.000-08:00

Body
I had the usual three-weekly chemo last Thursday at the hospital del dia. As Christmas is approaching, they have obviously removed The Best of Enya’s Christmas Dirges from the playlist and replaced it with the Mozart “Lachrimosa”, a piece I have already pencilled in for my funeral (only the going in bit. I’m having red-hot samba for the going out bit). I mean, beautiful piece, but suitable for miserable cancer patients? Not sure. I’m thinking of offering my services as Purveyor of Decent Background Music. I could put together a playlist garnered from lifts round the world, and it would be an improvement.

I have plenty of time to consider these things, you understand. Since I nearly collapsed in the loo at the hospital still listening to Enya keening (good grief, what a thing to go out on), my dosage has been altered. I still have the same amount of stuff but they give it to me over five hours. And then there’s the stuff that goes in before and the cleaning fluid (Flash?) that goes in after. The net result is that I am the last person to leave. We creep out apologising to the last two nurses for keeping them from hearth and home, and exit down the echoing and shadowed corridors to freedom.

After that, all the side-effects set in. Some are quite fun – the sparklymouth, fingers and most recently, feet for instance. However, I am now getting the most spectacular trots. Suffice it to say I will never again be able to eat that squeezy mustard. The internal sound effects are pretty remarkable too. It’s like the 1812 Overture in there; you know, the bit with the cannon fire. And I have a distended tum, which is making me appear about five months gone; not a good look on a 64 year old. I can’t even wear the Big Knickers in case they make my head explode. Still, can’t complain. Much.

Soul
When much of your existence centres around the more basic facets of being a human, and much of your time is spent examining the tiles on the bathroon wall, I think it is important to fill whatever gaps are left in your brain and your day with subjects as far removed from the lavatorial as possible. My brain seems to have decreed that I become an Earth Mother (maybe they don’t get the trots. Far too saintly) and I have been baking and pickling like a madwoman. So far, as well as my Christmas cake (see last post) I have made piccallili, mincemeat, pickled beetroot and candied peel to put in the mincemeat.

The candied peel was made in a desperate effort to avoid driving yet again to the English food shop. I could have got candied peel there all right, but I would also have returned with a pork pie, three packets of ginger biscuits, a guilt complex and half a dozen pikelets. Actually, I could have bought the mincemeat there too, but buying it doesn’t fit in with my new EarthMotheriness.

Now I’ve got leftover candied peel and I am seriously considering using it to make hand-dipped chocolate orange strips. When I was a solvent person I used to buy them from Heals as a special stocking filler for Daughter Dear and they cost £6 a box. Good grief, I can do that; oh dear, the Earth Mother kicked in for a second there. Sorry, I’m trying hard to keep her under control.

The piccallili was a bit of a saga. It is delicious, even though I do say so myself. Just like the real thing bought from a shop. So delicious that Significant Other demanded I make another batch just in case it ran out (he doesn’t seem to understand that eating it straight from the jar will only encourage its early demise). Or maybe he’s thinking that if I do pop my clogs, at least there will be piccallili.

I agreed to a further batch, but only if he did some of the kichen porter duties. Mistake. I should never have allowed him near the measuring of the spices bit. The sauce he produced was utterly disgusting. He’s a very confident person and much prefers to trust his eye than allow that the scales might be a tad more reliable than he. So the sauce had to be remade the next day. By me and the scales. Then I made him fill the jars. Mistake Mark 2. He filled them right up to the rims so when they were opened, I was faced with smeared lids and an ugly squish. I think he does it on purpose.

I’ve never thought of piccallili as Soul Food before.

Cake

2010-10-28T06:13:00.000-07:00

My longstanding readers (bless you, my children) will possibly remember that I am, despite being a card-carrying atheist, a sucker for Christmas. I love a good Carol concert and have to be restrained from joining in with the Christmas musak whilst walking round Tesco. Unless it’s Enya.

I make a ruinously expensive Creole Christmas cake which I am about to inflict on you. Once eaten, forever hooked. Not for those with an alcohol problem. I have an alcohol problem; I’m not allowed to drink as it doesn’t go with my chemo. However, I am still going to eat this, because as everbody knows, booze is cancelled out by dried fruit.

Creole Christmas Cake
Ingredients

3 fluid ounces each of rum, brandy, port and cherry brandy (you were warned)
2 tsp Angostura bitters
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1 tsp grated nutmeg
1 tsp ground cloves
1 tsp salt
1 tbsp vanilla extract (yes, the expensive stuff. Not the essence. That’s for wusses)
4 tsps molasses sugar
1 and a half pounds raisins
12 oz currants
6 oz stoned prunes, chopped
3 oz glace cherries, chopped
6 oz mixed peel
3 oz mixed chopped nuts
12 oz softened butter, plus extra for greasing
1 pound Demarara sugar
8 eggs, beaten
12 oz sifted self-raising flour

Method
A week before you intend to bake the cake, pour the rum, brandy, port, cherry brandy, the bitters and 3 fl oz of water into a large saucepan. Add the spices, salt, vanilla, molasses sugar, dried fruit, peel and nuts. Stir well, bring the mixture to the boil and simmer for 15 minutes. Leave to cool, then store in a sealed container for a week.

Heat oven to 140C/275F/gas 1. Cream the butter and demarara sugar together till pale and fluffy. Add the eggs a little at a time, beating well after each addition. Stir in the flour, and mix well. Combine with the fruit mixture, mixing well. Your elbows are supposed to ache.

Grease and line a 25cm square or 28cm diameter round cake tin. Spoon in the mixture and level the top. Cover with two layers of greasproof paper. Bake for 3 and a half hours. It may take a little longer, but the cake is supposed to be very moist (well, it should be with that much booze in it), so don’t let it dry out (waste of alcohol). Leave to cool in the tin.

Decorate to taste. I don’t usually bother with a traditional royal icing, as this is so rich. Artistically arranged nuts will suffice. I know you can arrange your nuts artistically.

My particular cake will be heading home to the UK in my suitcase. I did wonder about putting a harness on it and letting it stagger through security, growling, but thought better of it. It has to be safely at my son’s house for the Big Day.

By the way, Son and I have managed to deal very well with that moment where we admitted to each other that we were damn well going to enjoy this Christmas, just in case ….

Love your Oncologist

2010-10-18T08:02:00.000-07:00

I think there should be a “Love your Oncologist” Day. I really, really like mine.

She is about 30, has a mop of curly hair, and actually appears to be a human being. Last month, she demanded I bring photos of my daughter’s wedding in to show her; and unbelieveably, when I walked into her office this time, a month later, she asked to see them. How about that for a memory and an understanding of what is important in life? Blow all that medical stuff. Let’s see the frock.

However, we had to get past the shock of the kilts first. I showed her this photo of Significant Other, My Son, the Actor, and me and she went into a complete fit of hysterics. Like many another Mallorcan, I think she knew about kilts in a theoretical fashion. But she had certainly never seen one in its full glory on the fine calf of a Scot. It took quite a while to get back down to the business of the day, which was to give me the result of my latest scan. And guess what? It was good news. Things are starting to respond. Which was quite a relief given that this week the actor Simon MacCorkindale died, aged 58, of precisely the same problem as me (bowel cancer which spread to the liver). Poor chap was in all the papers.

I do wish cancer wasn’t quite so newsworthy; I’m getting a bit tired of the constant reporting on people dying of what I’ve got. It’s scary. And the cliched way they talk about it. Nobody just dies. They die after a long battle. I wish I knew how to battle cancer; I just do as I’m told, take the drugs and hope for the best. Nobody’s supplied me with the little soldiers and tanks as yet. I try to be brave, because people constantly tell me I’m strong and I’ll get through it with positive thinking. Pah! Does that mean if I pop my clogs, I was too much of a wuss to survive? Rubbish.

Anyway, I asked if it would be OK for me to go home for Christmas, and it is. We are having a family do at my son’s lovely little house on the Essex coast and going to watch him being Baron Fleshcreep in Panto in Ipswich.

Oh no you’re not. Oh, yes we are!

PS. Here are some more utterly gratuitous pictures of my lovely daughter's wedding day. That's what keeps you alive.

Wedding of the Year

2010-10-11T05:55:00.000-07:00

Well, I’m back from the Wedding of the Year, and have recovered from the autosobbing which overtook me both before, during and after the ceremony. I have obviously needed a bloody good cry for a while now and finally I had the excuse to do it. I wasn’t the only one; it was such a lovely wedding that there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. Including Significant Other’s. And there’s not much space for a hanky in a sporran when you’ve already got your spare change, your mobile, two pairs of specs and a pair of clean knickers in there. Although I suppose he could have used the clean knickers….

Daughter Dear and the Grand-daughters looked absolutely ravishing. Please see photographs and don’t dare to contradict. Son-in-Law (he used to be Son-out-Law. I’ll have to rename him) looked absolutely gobsmacked when he saw the vision of loveliness come bopping down the aisle towards him on her brother’s arm. Yes, she bopped; it was that sort of wedding. There was much laughter alongside the tears. I have to mention My Son, the Actor, at this juncture. He had volunteered his nice car for the Bride’s transport and dressed it up (much to the mortification of Eldest Grand-daughter who is a teenager. God) with strings of those plastic flashing chilli lights instead of ribbons. He relished the role of be-kilted Brother of the Bride/MC/Resident Character, and set the tone for the day after singing Billy Joel’s “More than a Woman” during the signing of the register. When he had finished singing he informed the guests that his phone had gone off on silent during the song and he had managed the rest of the performance with a vibrating sporran. He admitted to me later that he was quite glad it had happened, as he had just caught sight of me turning into a complete sodden blob on the front row and his lip was starting to tremble!

Daughter Dear did the wedding on a relative shoestring. All the table decorations were home-made “grotters”(the Whitstable equivalent of a sandcastle; there is no sand on Whitstable beach, but there are millions and millions of oyster shells and the children build little castles out of them). With a candle inside and scattered pearls on the tablecloths, they looked wonderful. Daughter Dear and friends had been out for weeks collecting the shells, and gluing them together. That’s motivation. Son-in Law did a booze cruise and brought back so much wine that 150 people got very, very merry. The food came courtesy of the local catering college, the seafood starter – an enormous tableful of oysters and prawns and mussels all beautifully arranged on ice - was a present from friends and they even had hot sausages for the die-hards who hung on till the end. They had a cheese wedding cake, which, apart from being half the price of a traditional cake, was eaten on the spot, along with all the tracklements and trimmings that went with it. Including the quince paste and fig bread I had brought from Mallorca in my suitcase, praying it wouldn’t decant over my wedding finery.

Oh Lord, it was lovely. And then I came home and the next day had to go for a scan complete with enema. Talk about coming down to earth with a splat.

Isn’t life great?

Wheee!

2010-09-29T22:05:00.000-07:00

Flying home in an hour or so for Daughter Dear's wedding. Will be back in a week if I have managed to stop sobbing - Son is singing at the wedding and it will start then - and I will have the virtual version of the slide show in the parlour for you. Be warned.

Three sleeps

2010-09-27T03:51:00.000-07:00

You may have realised over the past few months that I haven’t been too well. However, I am refusing to be defined by cancer, and instead have chosen to go with the role of Mother of the Bride (Long Distance). Yes, Daughter Dear is finally tying the knot with Son-out-Law, who will now have to be renamed. It’s taken them long enough; they’ve got daughters of 12 and 7. Needless to say, the girls are utterly ecstatic about the prospect of being bridesmaids, and suitably gorgeous and non-matching dresses have been purchased. Hey, you don’t think a too-cool-for-school almost teen is going to match the evil nuisance younger sister, do you? I hasten to add, she is not an evil nuisance; in fact she's a sweetie, as can be seen from the photo. But when viewed from the dizzy heights of adolescence she might just look that way. A bit.

I don’t know how I’d have coped with the upcoming nuptials if I had still been within striking distance. I think I would probably have turned into a complete monster, and ripped the arrangements from Daughter Dear’s hands safe in the knowledge that I could do it MUCH better. I’m a really good organiser, you see. Well, I did organise over a hundred raging exhibitionists in full costume onto the road for the Notting Hill Carnival each year for 20 years; I must have a bit of form in the Attila the Hun department. However, and luckily for Daughter Dear, I am not within striking distance.

So I have had to satisfy myself by concentrating on my outfit, stuff for the reception, and trying to get all the Christmas presents organised to take home at the same time. See, I told you I was an organiser. This has led to a shopping frenzy. Now, I quite like shopping (except changing rooms. I always feel like that poor woman in the Victoria Wood sketch who was banned from the changing room by the skinny assistant in case she sweated on the wall), but I have to have my minder (Significant Other) with me and he’s a nightmare. He gets angry in crowds, all the while insisting through gritted teeth that he’s JUST FINE, OK? So our shopping outings do have to be carefully planned and orchestrated in case he explodes. I find if we just make a quick sortie and buy one thing, he can cope. Especially if he’s allowed a medicinal beer in the middle.

I did very well with my outfit, managing to find designer skirt and silk top in the sales for a ridiculously small amount of money. The jacket I already had. It’s vintage; well I have had it for longer than Significant Other and I bought it in a charity shop in the first place. So it’s not old, right? It’s vintage. Unfortunately, I have two hats, as SO took against the first one so a second had to be purchased. I don’t think he’s too sure about the second, either. I think I just need a new face. You will be glad to know my hair didn’t all fall out; it’s a bit thin, and I’ve had it cropped. The hat, a cloche, hides the resulting grey fluff quite well. The shoes I found in Soller which is the bling shoe capital of the universe. They do, in my opinion, fall into the category of “f*** me” shoes as defined by the immortal Marilyn Monroe. Well, I think they are sexy anyway. Are you allowed to feel sexy, aged 64 with a fairly threatening condition, I wonder?

And then there was the pan de higo (fig bread) and membrillo (quince paste) that Daughter Dear has deemed essential to serve with her cheese wedding cake. The fig bread was not too much of a problem; we found some which is ready-wrapped and in portions. The quince paste has been a bit of a problem; well, it’s artisan-made and lacking in any colourants or nasty preservatives, but it looks like two blocks of wobbly semtex. SO has come up trumps, however and discovered that our portions fit nicely into two video cases which will go into the hold luggage. He’s one of nature’s great lateral thinkers, you know.

I’m quite sad the shopping is now complete and the Christmas presents are not only bought, but wrapped and in the case.

And I still have three more sleeps to go, dammit. I think I’ll ring my daughter and suggest some improvements. I’m sure she would be grateful.

Lard

2010-09-15T06:24:00.000-07:00

In an attempt to escape the galloping dumbing down of English TV (I have told Significant Other to kill me if he should ever find me watching “101 ways to leave a Quiz Show”) I often find myself in the outer reaches of freesat searching for something a little more intellectually nourishing. And so it was that I became addicted to “The Great British Bakeoff”. It’s on BBC2, so not very far out, and whilst it is a sort of reality TV (my son’s an actor. Don’t get him started), I am completely hooked on this very English programme. It started with a dozen talented amateur bakers and the obligatory stern judges, along with Mel and Sue to do nice little bits of historical baking facts, all set in a different, picturesque location round Britain each week. Perfect. Scenery. With cakes.

As I write, the three survivors of all the heats are awaiting the Grand Finale. God, they are wonderful. Miranda, the shy but stereotypical home-counties mummy, with green wellies at the core of her soul, who makes biscuits so beautiful they could be worn as jewellery. Edd, blinking nervously behind his glasses at his wonderful bread; the perfect Mr Mole and the only chap left, bless him. And Ruth, very beautiful with wonderful eyelashes, who is baking her way out of an inferiority complex because she didn’t go to University and get a degree like all her mates (been there, done that). She does everything perfectly and sits there waiting for everyone else to finish.

The problem with the programme is that I immediately want to hit the kitchen and start baking. That, and it makes me hungry for pastry products; I have indecent yearnings for a sausage roll. They did Cornish pasties the other night and I had to be prevented from licking the screen. This is a problem with ex-pattery. I know I should be living on ensaimadas and empanadas and sobrasada and butifarron and we do try. But I can’t rid my palate of sixty-four years of British taste. So just occasionally we have to go to the English shop down the other end of the Island and spend ridiculous amounts of money on what back home would be day-to-day items, but, by the time they reach here, are luxuries. I think I may have mentioned in a previous post that I thought the stuff must be imported in a refrigerated stretch limo. Still, I don’t resent it. Much.

We went yesterday, ostensibly for lard (there isn’t such a thing as Spanish lard. I have tried the pig fat they use here instead, but it does make your pastry taste, well, like pig), to make me a baker like Ruth, but really to stock up with all those things the average Brit can’t do without. A couple of jars of Thai curry pastes because I’m still suffering takeaway withdrawal, and I’ve found a recipe for Thai-flavoured burgers which will enable me to use the ubiquitous pork mince you get over here. Sandwich spread, just because, OK? Pikelets. Banana Nesquik because this is the land of chocolate milk and I like banana. And vintage cheddar cheese. It costs an absolute fortune, but I’m worth it. Golden syrup; well, the porridge season will be upon us soon. And I could make parkin. Then there were several types of sugar in varying shades of brown because Christmas is coming and I will almost certainly make mincemeat and a ruinously expensive Creole Christmas Cake.

Actually, I’m not that great a baker. My mum was wonderful and made pastry as light as an angel’s fart without weighing anything or resting it or apparently doing anything one should. And she let me know it. I was dismissed with the damning verdict “Hot hands”. But I continue to strive; I will prove her wrong one day.

I will make rough puff.

Side Effects

2010-09-10T03:28:00.000-07:00

Bit of a dull week this week, the highlight of which was my 3-weekly chemo session. Told you it was dull. You will be glad to hear that they were still playing Enya’s Christmas Album in the Day Hospital and I resisted tucking my frock in my knickers and running out screaming. Also managed not to do the collapso in lavatory trick this time; they gave me all the same stuff, but much, much slower. So that was fun. Not. We were there from 8.30am till 6.30am, and Significant Other was beginning to gibber.

Thought you might like to know about the side effects. (I did warn you I have been having a dull week).

Sparklymouth

This is a good one. I come home from the hospital parched and wishing only to stand by the fridge and swig a pint of apple juice straight out of the carton. And every time I forget about the sparklymouth. I can’t eat or drink anything hot or cold or my mouth reacts in a very peculiar fashion. I can only describe it as a gobful of broken mirror. And that’s hard to swallow. I get the same reaction in my hands, so I’m stuffed if I need to get anything out of the freezer. I forget about this as well, and end up frozen mince juggling, whilst accompanying myself with a little song that goes “Oof! Ouch! Ow! Ow! Ow!”

Trots

They have reduced my tablet intake in an attempt to stop my many daily sprints to the loo. Hurrah. Hope it works.

This also may halt my weight loss. (Four kilos in the past two months. Hey, if I was on a diet, they’d be congratulating me on being sensible. Get cancer and they tut at you). Now, this is awful but I’m sort of enjoying being slimmer. I’m not skeletal or anything but being a 14-16 again is nice. Not that I’d recommend my particular regime to anyone, and I can’t help worrying about my preoccupation with matters of vanity. I’m 64, for heaven’s sake, and I wonder how living through 40 years of media preoccupation with female thinness, together with the woman’s movement, has actually affected me. Bit mixed up, I think.

Lying down a lot

I like this one, and Significant Other actively encourages it. I think it keeps me out of his way, and makes him feel big and strong and protective. I do have patches of energy, usually used up in strolling down the square for a café con leche (NEVER ask for a cappuchino in Soller; you get this thing with masses of that squeezy whipped cream on the top, and you have to run off and be sick before you reach the bottom of the glass) or doing a spot of ironing. Guess which usually wins.

It also gives me a lot of time to organise Significant Other; well I can’t organise myself to work hard, can I? I have to say that his time management skills are negligible; for example, we always leave for the airport on a screaming row, because he has left things like finding his ticket and passport till 5 minutes before leaving. At present, and bearing in mind my daughters wedding is on the 2nd October this year, he is painting her wedding present. We are still at the blocking in in strange undercolours stage. He has been resisting painting it for months. What he actually likes about being an artist is the thinking bit, and buying canvases and new paints and taking the photos from which he works and putting them on a grid. I have had to do some serious nagging backed up with some emotional blackmail to get him to sit down and BLOODY DO IT. Don’t worry, Daughter Dear, it will arrive. Along with the pan de higo and quince jelly for your cheese wedding cake. Yes, it’s going to be a very modern wedding. Can’t wait. And they’ve let me off the tablet taking and chemo for a week so I’ll be at my best for the big day. I just hope that the weightloss doesn’t overtake the wedding skirt and cause embarrassing wardrobe malfunctions.

Losing my voice and bunged up ears

I’m at a loss to explain this one, but any effort (and that includes the stroll up to the square) and I lose my voice and go deaf. Pardon?

Hair today ......

2010-08-27T03:52:00.000-07:00

I don’t know if you caught the debate about Avastin on the telly this last week. It’s one of those drugs that NICE (the National Institute for Health and Clinical Excellence. Pah) has decided, in its wisdom, is too expensive for British bowel cancer sufferers. After all, in some cases it only prolongs life for a couple of months; it also prolongs life for years in others. And it costs £20,000 per year per patient. Deary me. There are duck houses and moats that cost more than that. Of course, I am not in the UK and I am trying not to rant here, but I feel like I’m worth £20,000 per year having worked since I was 16 and brought up two great kids without benefit of benefits or even father most of the time. And this is the first time I’ve ever been bloody ill.

However, I am in Mallorca, and guess what? Every time I go for my chemo session they give me an armful of Avastin. Naturally I am deeply chuffed about that, but the odd thing is this – the Mallorcan Health Service treats me, and then sends the bill to the British National Health Service. I do hope they don’t notice; I wouldn’t want an accountant wearing a purple-lined black satin cloak and fanged dentures being sent over here to drain the precious stuff out of me because I’ve cost them too much.

The other headline news is that I have bowed to the inevitable and had my remaining hair cropped off to within a couple of centimetres of my scalp. Well, I was starting to look like Bobby Charlton in the days when he had that flappy combover. And the house is full of floating grey hair that I can’t blame on the cat, who is ginger. I’m struggling to do artistic things with scarves but I don’t know whether it’s worth it; after five minutes incarceration my scalp starts to sweat and demand freedom. Which is why, even if I go billiard ball, I will not succumb to a wig. I’ve tried them; they itch. And they always end up skewiff. No, I will learn to love looking like a flocked egg. I will enjoy watching people trying not to talk to my bald pate. I will glory in my bumpy little skull, and the bad case of hots I have for Yul Brynner will get even worse.

I have, however, got a great hat for Daughter Dear’s upcoming wedding. It’s a soft little cotton cloche which I can bend to my will. And it has a bronze rose on the side which matches my outfit. So I’m nearly set for the style competition which, as every woman knows, lurks behind any decent do.

Go, Baldy!

The Revenge of the Chemo or One Old Lady Shocked in the Lavatory

2010-08-17T07:57:00.000-07:00

I knew it had all been too easy last time I had chemo at the hospital. But I hadn’t prepared myself for being tied down and forced to listen to Enya for an entire day. Of which more later.

They do get me into the day hospital at a ridiculously early hour, given the amount of waiting round I have to do. As you can tell, I am not noted for my patience. So, first off I had to wait around for the nurse to come and re-acquaint herself with my portacath (built-in access to my veins. Ain’t science wonderful?). Now, I can’t speak much Spanish, but after a few minutes fiddling, her face spoke volumes. In any language. A second, and third nurse were summoned and much frowning and incredulous foreign was spoken. It transpires that the entire bloody thing had flipped over. Under my skin. How the hell that had happened is beyond me. SO suggested I should give up the shot put. That’s a joke, by the way. I don’t do exercise at the best of times. Anyway, after much fiddling they either managed an upside-down entry or finagled it back the right way up. Then we were sent away to wait. More Enya.

A couple of decades later we found ourselves in another waiting room, waiting to see an unknown doctor as my lovely woman doctor is on holiday. This is always a bit daunting in case the newbie has as much English as we have Spanish and I have to start miming cancer symptoms (in my case, none that I can see. It’s a good job somebody told me, really). Luckily enough, he was charming and spoke English well enough for us to get along. He did that thing that all the oncologists seem to do, however, and looked vaguely taken aback when we told him we had no questions to ask. No, I’m not going to ask if I will live or die. Daft question. We all die. Or how long I’ve got. I’ve got now, today, this minute, just like you all have, and I’m happy today. So why spoil it with questions about a future which can only ever be uncertain. There’s only ever more nows. Then we were sent away for another wait (this time we rebelled against the Enya and went and got a coffee)

Back in the room and after another short wait I was conducted to my nice padded recliner and attached to the rats nest of tubes which introduce the hopefully lifesaving poisons into my veins. And all went well, (apart from me misunderstanding some Spanish and ending up with a pear and some yoghurt for my lunch instead of the donkey between two breadvans I could have managed) until I foolishly decided to got to the loo in the absence of SO. He is permitted the odd walk to get the blood back into his nether regions. However, going to the loo unaided and attached to a drip stand is a nightmare at the best of times. I lost count of the number of times I didn’t make it whilst I was in hospital after the op because I was wobbly and dragging the medical version of a hatstand behind me. Anyway, got there in time this time; couldn’t shut the lavatory door, of course, because the drip stand didn’t fit in the cubicle (small design fault there, chaps). Got the knickers down, sat down, and suddenly realised I couldn’t breathe. Now, picture the situation, if you can bear it. What should I do? Well, I certainly wasn’t going to pop my clogs on a bathroom floor with my knickers round my ankles, was I? So I gathered the bloody drip stand and the knickers and sort of fell out of the loo into the corridor making monster noises. I managed to quieten an entire roomful of Mallorcans, which, if you know Mallorcans, the noisiest people in the world, is quite a feat. The nursing staff looked at me like a bunch of stunned mullets for a nanosecond, and then all hell broke loose. It was fab.

They got me to a chair, stuck something relaxing under my tongue, whipped another sachet into the rats nest (a palliative, apparently) and gave me the blessed oxygen mask. In half an hour, everything was more or less back to normal. And I had retained my dignity, which is definitely situated in my knickers.

Apparently I had succumbed to one of the recognised side effects of the chemo, and they will be discussing giving me the palliative before it happens in future. So all was well, and you are not to worry.

And for all you Enya fans out there (I am not, as you can probably tell. Electronic noodling recorded in a cave. Here she is looking typically pale and fey. Ugh) they have her on an endless loop in the chemo department which I think is supposed to keep us chilled. It had the opposite effect on me; I wanted to kill.

Especially as it was the Christmas album.

Stocktake

2010-08-10T08:31:00.000-07:00

In the interest of distracting myself from the elephant in the room (see previous posts), last week we went to see a concert of Fado (the throbbingly melancholic music of the bars and backstreets of Lisbon. Portuguese Soul, really) at Raixa, a lovely and recently restored “senyoral” (a large, country estate with a house which in its heyday would have accommodated the owner and family, plus the servants and agricultural labourers. And probably some sheep). It’s a conference centre now, but then, isn’t everything? It has the most beautiful gardens and lake to make up for it. I got myself thoroughly overexcited by the romance of the occasion and the chance to get dolled up in a nice new fluttery silk thing bought for a song at the sales. However, I should have been warned by the well dressed and cologne-scented scrum waiting in front of the gate and pawing the ground when we arrived (early) that this was not going to be as easy an evening as I had visualised. Not being of a pushy nature, we did the Brit thing , graciously letting large chunks of the crowd go ahead of us, then wandered in, remarking on the still visible archaeology and the lovely old vines, only to find the seating arrangements in the cobbled courtyard were the dry land equivalent of a feeding frenzy. Despite trying to look old, grey-haired and helpless (not too difficult) Prince Charming did not turn up with a couple of recliners. Or even a couple of white plastic chairs. The cologne scented mob pretended we weren’t there. So we had to sit on the cobbles.

Now, I don’t want to whine about my bony bum after years of whining about it being fat, but boy, a bit of padding has its compensations. We lasted for precisely four songs before I had to be dragged to my feet and removed, whimpering, to the car. You will be glad to hear that the dents were only temporary.

Anyway, the experience set me to checking out the rest of my equipment which has changed radically since my bit of bother. You won’t believe this, but my feet have lost weight. Good grief, I had fat feet. Now none of my shoes fits properly any more. And I LOVE my shoes, every one of them and I’m not going to tell you how many that is.

Moving up the way, I have to say that my abdominal area looks like a badly ploughed field. I wish, as a dressmaker, I could have advised my surgeon on the placement of a few discreet darts rather than the large tacked seam up my middle which appears to have left me with a forward facing arse. I’ve got frontal builders bum. In fact my whole thorax looks like Winston Churchill in a paddy. And the portacath inserted under my collarbone is not doing my once remarkable décolletage any favours at all.

Further up still, the face looks pretty good, as bones previously hidden come to the surface. However, my hair is disappearing. Now this wouldn’t be so bad if I wasn’t going to my daughter’s wedding in early October, and as mother of the bride, I think I should be wearing a fierce hat. Well, a fascinator’s out; I’d have to nail it to my head. And I don’t want a scratchy straw. I’m considering a beautifully tied scarf with a big corsage pinned to the side, but I’m no good at the scarf thing. It involves far too much looking in a mirror. Ugh.

Oh Lord, I wish I wasn’t vain.

Correct etiquette for addressing cancer patients

2010-08-02T03:30:00.000-07:00

Thought you might enjoy this.

I have just met somebody on the Square who commented on my changed (or svelte, as I like to call it) appearance , and in the interest of de-mystifying cancer, told her that that was what I had. "Oh", she said "I've just lost a friend through that. Started on the bowel (Bullseye!) and spread to her lungs. She was gone within a fortnight".

After a slightly stunned silence, I managed to smile and assure her I didn't intend to die. Significant Other is considering a kneecapping.

Elephant Removal Techniques

2010-07-28T00:08:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I had the first chemo session, which I had been dreading. So we decided to take my mind off it all by filling life with interesting stuff. And my daughter and her family came to add to the mix, doing a manful job of not looking at me with worried faces, so all-in-all it wasn’t too bad. In fact I forgot about the Elephant in the Room for large chunks of time.

We started by attending a concert (free, of course. Unfortunately the Karma fairy hasn’t been round and made up for the Elephant by leaving us a bag of gold yet) which was given in a marvellous Talaiot (Bronze Age edifice) in Montuiri.

Talaiots (en.wikipedia.org.wiki.talaiot/) are a recent discovery in Mallorca. Well, obviously they were discovered ages ago, but up until now they have been regarded as rather a good stash of wonderful stones with which to build walls round your land. Finally, they are being treated as what they are – great monuments to the strength and motivation of human beings. You should see the size of some of the dressed blocks of stone at Montuiri; they are about as big as a Mini. The mind boggles as to how they managed such finesse with bronze saws and sheer muscle. Anyway, Montuiri has really gone to town on its lovely talaiot and given it some dramatic lighting. We sat in the deepening dusk listening to Vivaldi and Boccherini played by musicians no older than 16 as the bats dived for mosquitos and the stars began to twinkle, and the talaiot glowed. Enough to bring a tear to a glass eye.

Talking of which, no sobbing was necessary during the chemo. Attaching my portacath to the drip didn’t hurt a bit – just a pinch – and the only problem was boredom. Lord, what a long day. I was there from 8.30am till after 5.00pm. Luckily enough, I had the nice padded recliner and lunch; poor old SO had the obligatory plastic chair and I had to feed him my scraps, for which he was immeasurably grateful. We’ll know to take him a picnic next time. There is a canteen in the hospital, but it serves hospital food.

My only side effects so far – Ants. A lovely nurse did explain as well as she could that I might have some sensitivity to heat and cold and this was how it was described. I thought maybe pins and needles, but she was right. I had a swig of orange juice from the fridge when I got home and my mouth was attacked by biting ants. And I can’t touch frozen food. I did try and get some chicken out of the freezer for dinner and I had to dance round the kitchen, cursing. Brilliant; the opportunities for housework get less and less, and I can still throw some moves.

And talking of dance, last week Soller held its’ annual Mostra (international folk dance festival). It is a lovely week, with the town full of exotic foreigners, and free entertainment at some time on most days. I was thrilled to see Brazilian drummers and dancers (for those of you who don’t know, I drummed in a Brazilian band in London, and still miss it desperately) and had a nostalgic little Samba on the square.

We also took Daughter Dear, Son-out-Law (soon to be Son-in-Law), and grand-daughters to a restaurant we know which has a dramatic terrace over an almost secret cove. Yes, I know, travel guide stuff. But this place is gorgeous and the first time I saw it I said “Daughter Dear would love this”. I was right.

Daughter Dear and Son-out-Law are finally tying the knot in October. As you can imagine, the Elephant has been a bit of a problem. Well, you don’t factor one in to your wedding plans, do you? Buggers the seating plan. But we found out that I can actually fly with a portacath (I thought I’d be setting all the security alarms off and have to have my chest frisked) so that’s OK. I should have completed my first round of chemo by then, too (I have to start taking pills which might make me nauseous. Nice), so all should be well.

It’s going to have to be, actually. I’ve already bought important bits of my outfit (fabulous bargain at the summer sales. Nearly 300€’s worth of designer gear for 19€. I know. Unbelieveable) and I’m damned if it’s going to be wasted.

PS. If there are longeurs between posts, don’t panic. I’ll be in the loo and may have to send in a sick note.

Fill her up

2010-07-15T03:28:00.000-07:00

I went to hospital yesterday and came back with a filler cap in my chest. If you want to know why, I’m afraid you are going to have to read the last few posts. I’m fed up talking about cancer.

Naively, I thought the Portacath mentioned by my doctor would be something like the things I woke up festooned with after the recent bandit raids on my intestines. You know, dinky little plastic jobbies with primary coloured taps – white wine in here, blood out there, and a third in case of goop. Wrong. I have the de luxe, heavy-duty version which is implanted under the skin of my upper chest. I also have a plastic card implanted in my wallet to inform the public in case of accident (I always thought clean underwear was enough) that I am the proud possessor of an Angiodynamics Access Device.

So, as you can imagine, the operation to implant it came as a bit of a surprise. Well, shock, actually, given that it was done sans anaesthetic. Or even a bit of valium. It’s a Spanish thing, I think. I used the gritted teeth method instead. It does help to stop you running away and hiding in the sluice room.

I arrived in the operating theatre ante-room at roughly the same time as the inevitable mad person; I used to attract them on the Underground as well. Luckily he went in first, and the period of ranting was quite short.

My surgeon (good grief, I have a surgeon. I can’t get used to this, particularly as I feel fine at the moment) shook my hand and whilst I was momentarily distracted, stuck what felt like translucent adhesive carpet underlay over my face, and painted my bosom brown. Then he did the deed, all the while yelling instructions and directions to his attached student. Mallorcans are even noisy in an operating theatre. I wanted a respectful hush, thank you. Mind you, it did give me a chance to let out the occasional “oof”. I don’t make noise because of the tiny mother in my brain. Making a fuss was banned in our house. She would have told me to go and put a bit of Germolene on it.

It did eventually end, and I was trundled back to the waiting Significant Other where I finally allowed myself a bit of sobbing. It didn’t really hurt, honestly, but I felt as if my chest had just been ram-raided, and it was all a bit scary. Still, I can now go for chemotherapy and get filled up just like the car.

Now, there is some good news and some bad news. The good news is, I have to lie around like a lady of leisure for a few days being looked after by a responsible adult.

The bad news – I’ve only got Significant Other.

PS for Jon and Jan and Lec and everyone else who has left me messages of love and encouragement – I am eternally grateful. Thanks, thanks, thanks. xx

Big C

2010-07-08T00:12:00.000-07:00

Coming, as I do, from a household where cancer was discussed only in Les Dawson terms (you know, arms folded over be-pinnied ample bosom and the word itself not spoken, but gurned dramatically to an invisible audience. Honestly, my mum was Les Dawson) I have had to work up to telling the world about my cancer. Which explains why there has been a bit of a hiatus in my usual obsessive weekly posting routine. I have had to get over the fact that it has happened to me; I’m immortal, for Heaven’s sake. Then I had to tell the offspring. That was challenging, as they both think I’m immortal, too.

It’s a bit of a bummer, because everything else has proceeded swimmingly. I’ve put on a bit of weight, my lungs are fine, the blood tests were good. Oh, but, by the way, what we removed from you was malignant and it’s already started to spread. So this week I am on a starvation diet preparatory for a colonoscopy (liquids only today, god help me) complete with nasty medicine (apparently it illuminates your insides. I’m expecting fairy lights and a bloody big spotlight when they withdraw the camera). I’m just hoping for no zoom lens or tripod. Or clapper board. Chemotherapy starts Monday. I’m considering a wardrobe of beautiful scarves in case my hair drops out. I have visions of looking like a tragic heroine. With cheekbones.

It has been hard telling people; they never know what to say, and who can blame them. So I’ve resorted to making Significant Other do it. He’s managed one, so far. However, in other areas, you will be glad to hear that he is coming up trumps. Not very good when the lip starts trembling, but excellent at the practical stuff like getting me to my numerous appointments on time with a cushion for the inevitable plastic chair (otherwise known to anyone with a sore bum as “instrument of torture”).

Please send good vibes and keep your fingers crossed for me.

Wanna see my scar? Part 2

2010-06-20T07:17:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately, the high tension drama of being in intensive care did eventually have to end. I was quite sad, actually, because I was quite enjoying being a tragic heroine for a change. Such a difference from my usual “good ol’ Di” persona. Good ol’ Di never whinges, tackles everything with a cheery smile (it disguises the gritted teeth) and makes sure everyone is comfortable and fed. I think I read too many women’s magazines in the 60s, and despite discovering feminism around the same time I still have a shameful spot in my psyche that wants to be the perfect housewife/mother. Boy, it was nice to give up on the resultant struggle and have a nice, indulgent wallow in self pity. I think I probably turned into a complete monster. It was great.

But I did eventually have to pack up my nappies and transfer to an ordinary ward. Firstly, what you have to understand is that Mallorcan hospital care is VERY DIFFERENT to what you might expect to find, alongside MRSA, in a British hospital. There are some similarities, of course; the cleaners move with that dream-like slowness and the patients are woken at midnight to be asked if they want a sleeping tablet. But the most obvious difference is that your family does a good deal of the nursing. Now, the only family I have here is Significant Other and at this stage I do have to pay a small tribute to him; it has to be small, or he will become unbearable. After his initial shock (“Diane can’t be ill. She’s bombproof”) and the fact that he lost me in the hospital (he had to phone Daughter Dear in England so she could phone Reception to make enquiries in Spanish as to my whereabouts. He couldn’t speak because of his trembly lip), he metamorphosed into a lovely nurse. I particularly enjoyed the assisted showers. And he bought me a tube of nappy cream. I was never more grateful for anything in my life; well, I spent so much time flat on my back that I developed a bum like one of those horrible baboons.

My offspring flew out to see me too. Playing to their strengths, My Son, the Actor, told me unsuitable jokes and threatened the stitches, and Daughter Dear did the ironing, managed the house and Significant Other, and cooked me delicious tit-bits as I was in danger of starvation on the hospital food, which was dire. Both of them turned green and ran away if anything medical reared its ugly head in their presence, but I can forgive them that. After all, they paid good money to come and see me.

The main problem with the system of family nursing is that you can find yourself sharing a two bedded room not only with another sickly soul, but also with their enormous brood. Twelve was the highest number I counted, and that was at 10 o’clock at night. None of them was actually doing anything; in fact, they were just having a jolly get-together over the prone figure of their materfamilias. And they all had their mobiles – ring tones ranging from Rondo a la Turk to the Ride of the Valkyries – on maximum volume. But mostly they were very sweet to the foreign senora, apart from one hatchet faced old biddy who, finding out I was English, said “No mi gusto” (I don’t like them!). Didn’t like her much, either.

There were standard issue nurses as well, of course; girls wearing those white tunics which do not flatter a broad derriere, with the matching brawny forearms necessary for hauling you up in bed. And in my case for the choreographed pummelling of the abdomen apparently recommended for the better drainage of my wound. I had to keep reminding myself it was good for me.

So now I’m home. I now have to go to the local Health Centre each day and be pummelled by the lovely Phillipe whose mission in life is to get me healed before I have to go back to the hospital to see my surgeon (who is a dead ringer for the original Master in Doctor Who. Hey, I was operated on by a Time Lord. Fame at last.)

I am still a bit wobbly and weary and have an enormous scar which looks like an aeriel view of a maroon stick insect. Nice. I am thinking of designing an equally enormous tattoo to disguise the bloody thing. What do you think? Hunting scene? Sunset over the Highlands? Hawaian hula dancer?

Suggestions on a postcard, please.

Wanna see my scar? Part 1

2010-06-12T00:41:00.000-07:00

Well, that was interesting.

Before I try and sum up the last month or so, let me just say that alongside several yards of wriggly innards, and a couple of stones (YAAY!) I also seem to have left a good deal of my brain behind in hospital. So expect non sequiturs and spelling mistakes, and possible errors in syntax. Or the whole post petering out in the middle of a sentence because I have had to go away for a nana-nap or a quiet weep. Well, I thought I was immortal.

It wasn’t an upset stomach. It was adhesions on the small intestine. They looked at me with horror when I finally arrived in A&E and I found myself having the first operation that very evening. They had to soften me up a bit first, though, so started with the dreaded nasal drain. God, have you ever had one of those? You have to swallow the bloody thing down your nose and against every one of your instincts yelling “Wrong! Wrong!” and your gag reflex going “Glurp. Glaah. Aghh.” And then they took me off for a scan and whilst I was trapped in the machine, they gave me an enema. Very apologetically, but still. Maybe they thought I would be distracted by the nasal drain. I wasn’t.

I woke up with tubes dangling from every orifice, but feeling surprisingly chipper until I tried to hoist myself up in the bed when something went “sproing”. I did try to tell them all was not well, but the young (male) doctor just tutted soothingly and gave me some tranquilisers. One day, when I have achieved my fighting weight, I will be searching him out and kneecapping him.

However, by that evening, it had penetrated that I wasn’t a hysterical old biddy and there was a very satisfying rush of medicos with worried faces who yet again made me swallow a nice fresh nasal drain and have another enema. I found out later that I had started to develop peritonitis, which, scarily enough, is what my father died of, aged only 56. So in they went again. This time I woke up in intensive care; well, I say “woke up”. My memory of the next few days is faulty, to say the least. I had a bad case of post-operative paranoia, during which I accused the staff of trying to blacken my name using facebook, got cross with an innocent Spanish family sharing my ward because I thought they were the parents of a friend – and they wouldn’t talk to me! And accused poor old Significant Other of deserting me to take part in an amateur dramatics production. Which I duly panned as being of little theatrical merit. See, even in extremis, I do appreciate a decent stage production. Especially when it’s in my head.

By the way, did I tell you I was wearing an enormous nappy whilst fulfilling my obvious destiny as Theatre Critic?

More next week.

Are you still there?

2010-05-26T03:30:00.000-07:00

This is being written whilst Significant Other and I pretend we're not really impatient for the arrival of the Keys to the Outside World - yes, the going-home paperwork is being hand-illuminated as I sit here, fretting. Spanish admin - dontcha just love it?

I will be up to speed soon, honestly, with tales of Di's Innards for your delectation.

Small Fanfare

2010-05-18T09:47:00.000-07:00

Hello all. This is me, not The Lad.

I am home, having left lots of my innards at the hospital. Never mind, they seem to have replaced them with what looks like a purple cornish pasty tastefully displayed across my middle. I haven't got the mental energy to give you the full gory details just yet; and I must admit that the chair I use for typing is doing nothing for the rather tender derriere.

It was lovely to know you were all waiting with bated breath; please breathe now.

Love Di

Di Foden is getting better (slowy)

2010-05-02T14:05:00.000-07:00

Han enfermos sin dignidad en cualquier idioma, sino que se desarrolla su sentido del humor.

Di is on the mend & her “Hospital Spanish” is improving as well. The critical period has passed successfully, now begins the hard work of nutrition and physiotherapy.

Next week she should be able to do her own posts.

Thank you all for your good wishes & comments.

Significant Other

Di Foden is unwell

2010-04-27T08:02:00.001-07:00

Di has been unwell for a few weeks – including the projectile vomiting she described in her previous post. Initially, her doctor thought this was a reaction to two of her prescriptive drugs but, after two weeks more of the symptoms getting worse, she was admitted to hospital last Thursday. She underwent an immediate operation on an adhesion where the small intestine joins the large.

By Saturday she was showing signs of improvement and some of the various tubes had been removed. On Sunday they re-operated as one of the stitches had torn & she had developed an infection in the abdominal cavity.

For now, she is in Intensive Care as they monitor the infection. Her condition is stable & improving.

Di has given me access to her blog to keep you all informed – under the condition that I do not tell any jokes.

Significant Other.

Stop press: -

Update 27/04/10 p.m.

Di is improving & may be out of intensive care by Thursday. Fingers crossed; touch wood, spit, pray or whatever.

Report from the sickbed

2010-04-10T02:09:00.000-07:00

I’ve got some lovely followers and mates who have been sending me nice messages about my gastric problems, so I thought I’d give you all an update on my stomach. Gosh, this is just like the Queen putting up a bulletin on the gates of Buck House. Well, perhaps not.

If you have not been following the saga of my intestines, I have been feeling really rough for about a month now, but in my usual stubborn way have been ignoring it in the hopes that it would disappear. And, of course, it didn’t. So eventually I made the appointment to see my lovely English-speaking doctor. It took me two aborted visits to realise that he had blooming well retired and been replaced with a non-English speaking doctor, and the receptionists at the Centre hadn’t managed to inform me. Can’t blame them; they speak about as much English as I do Catalan.

So eventually I braved an appointment with the non-English speaking doctor. I had with me two essential items. One, Significant Other, whose faith in his own linguistic abilities knows no bounds (and, oddly, that amount of confidence transcends any little grammatical or vocabulary errors. And he managed to tell the doctor I needed analgesics), and two, an invaluable little booklet issued by the English Speaking Residents Association called “Tengo Dolor” (I have a pain). A little judicial underlining in the section “You and your nasty wriggly bits”, and some hectic mime, and I was able to tell the very sweet and apologetic doctor (don’t apologise, mate, it’s me that’s the numpty) what the problem was. Funnily enough, he seems to think that my insides have rebelled against the drugs I am taking for high blood pressure, cholesterol and underactive thyroid. He has told me to stop taking everything but the thyroid drug, so I’m expecting my head to explode any minute.

By the way, do you remember me saying a couple of weeks ago that I always make it to the bathroom in times of upchuck? Forget it. I have discovered the delights of projectile vomiting (boy, I bet there aren’t any other blogposts in the world on projectile vomiting) and have so far managed to miss the rug (thank the Lord) but then hit the living room door from a distance of about a yard. And then round it off with such a heave in the bathroom that it rebounded up the walls. If it wasn’t so disgusting, I’d be really proud.

I now have some drugs which I think have started to kick in, one to inhibit the production of bile and the other an anti-spasmodic. I have blood tests on Tuesday for every known illness under the Mallorcan sun and eventually (it usually takes ten days) I will know what the matter is. I’m just wondering if I can last that long on my recent diet of two tubs of yoghurt and a quarter of a bowl of chicken noodle soup per day. Yes, it’s a miracle I manage to throw up at all, isn’t it? Mind you the doctor has also told me I must eat no salt, no coffee, no spices and nothing fried. Add that to the stuff I shouldn’t be eating because of high blood sugar (nothing made of flour, no pasta, no sugar) and you can imagine I’m struggling to think what’s left.

However, I’m looking, if not waif-like, at least pale and interesting.

Apologies

2010-04-04T21:58:00.000-07:00

This is a feeble little message. No proper post this week, as a. we have a house guest and b. I'm still ill. I have finally capitulated and am going to see the lovely Dr. Paris tomorrow because I think I either have an ulcer or gallstones, and I have taken my plucky old Di act to the limit.

Give me drugs!

Man-Flamingo

2010-03-28T21:00:00.000-07:00

Significant Other and I had a rare night out on Saturday. It’s not that we are boring old farts or anything; well, I suppose we are these days. But it is more the fact that I am an irritating lark who wakes up with a smile and a jolly tra-la at or around 6am every day and wonders why no-one wants to talk. The downside of this charming characteristic is that come the time everyone else is revving up for a rave, I’m not charming any more. Instead, I’m snarling at the world and craving Horlicks and pillow. Add to that our ongoing impecuniousness and going on the razzle is not really an option. However, we really felt we had to go to this event to support our non-dancing friend Ollie who had taken on a challenge to do the Mallorcan version of Strictly Come Dancing.

Ollie’s dancing prowess up till now was summed up by the fact that his lady wife’s invitation asked us to go and support the original man-flamingo. Go on, think about them in flocks picking their way on spindly pink legs with those odd knees across strange lakes filled with salt or borax. Well, Ollie, who is lanky and long limbed, looks like that on a dancefloor. Sort of handsome but like the borax was stinging his feet. Lady wife, however, was so pleased with his progress, the romance of the occasion, and the fact he was wearing a tie, she was seen choking away the tears. Ah, bless.

Gallantly enough, to deal with the challenge he had taken all of three lessons at Pickles Ballroom; yes, we have an English Ballroom on the Island. And a Cricket Club. And an English newspaper famous for its typos, just like the Grauniad. Well, you don’t expect us to go completely native, do you? Some standards have to be maintained. And what a thoroughly English occasion it was. The volunteer dancers were three plucky little Brits and one very beautiful Spanish boy; don’t tell us we don’t integrate. The ballroom had been set out with almost enough chairs and tables. Unfortunately, only stools were left when we arrived so we had to sit there for several hours being very brave about our ancient sacroiliacs, and wondering about deep vein thrombosis. I suppose I could have stood but I was wearing car-to-bar shoes and I had to save the feet for later in case I got a chance to dance. Not likely, actually, because I too live with a man-flamingo.

There was a wonderful buffet with proper English white bread sandwiches; yes, I sometimes miss lovely English soft white sliced, OK? And lots of pastry products, although there was a distinct lack of sausage rolls; never felt like one in Walthamstow, miss them here. Odd. It transpired that the pretty professional risking her reputation and talented feet with the volunteers had done the entire spread just before changing into her “Come Dancing” frock. Blitz spirit. There was the traditional queue round the room for the food with everyone trying not to look as if they wanted to get at it first and cursing because all the chicken thighs had gone. There was a small group of overexcited pre-pubescent girls feigning disinterest in boys and stamping their patent-clad feet on the sprung floor. It was the most English I had felt in a long time; but I still don’t want to go back and live there. Hallelujah! I am safe from the blandishments of Blighty.

Ollie lost.

Loose ends

2010-03-21T22:02:00.000-07:00

I know you are all following this blog with bated breath waiting for the next disaster to happen, so I thought I would just put your minds at rest by tying up a few a few loose ends. For those of you new to the blog, do read through to the end, where a treat awaits you as an incentive.

1. Last week’s attack of bathroom bunjying is almost over. I am saying this with crossed fingers, as it does seem to be a particularly virulent variant, and every time I try to re-establish normal eating patterns (ie. anything more solid than porridge) it rears its ugly head again. You would think I might have lost weight, wouldn’t you? Nope. I remain doggedly fat. I don’t even look pale and interesting; just fat and exhausted. Mind you, I have been eating rather a lot of Maltesers to make myself feel better. Strangely enough, they don’t seem to disagree with me. Ah, well, into every day a little sun must shine.

2. I have tenants in my flat back in Blighty, although as yet I have seen no evidence of rent arriving in my bank account. I will start getting hysterical about it tomorrow; I’m having the weekend off right now. My Son, the Actor, did a stirling job of getting the place civilised for them, but apparently they don’t like the new plain grey carpets he bought (they were identical to the ones he removed. Perhaps he should have gone for a 70’s floral in autumn colours instead? I’m told 70’s is really on trend right now). Oh well, as long as they don’t ask for a rent reduction because of lack of taste in the floor department. He is also still recovering from the lady of the house wondering if the cold water cistern could be removed to make space for storage. Being a landlady is not easy, especially when it’s your home that people are renting; every critical word makes me want to fly to the flat’s defence. Poor little house.

3. Significant Other has been asked to start his seasonal job again. You have no idea how relieved we are. Or maybe you do. When we first arrived here three years ago, we were really comfortable and able to live quite well on my pensions. We could afford flights back to see the sprogs and do Carnival. We could eat out occasionally. We could buy shoes. However, our income has been reduced in value by about a third over the past year or so, and we have been forced into a really tough economy drive. We even gave up booze. That’s a bit of a bummer; when we occasionally do stop for a noggin now, I find I can’t take it. I have become a complete lightweight. When we get rich again, I shall have to practice to regain my match-fitness.

4. Significant Other has been given a temporary reprieve from knicker dancing in the bath. We still haven’t been able to replace the washing machine which is sitting in our utility room doing a chocolate teapot impression, but a lovely friend has offered us the occasional use of her machine whilst she is not here. So now he just has to pop up the road like a laundry delivery man. Well, it’s a blooming sight better than the alternative, and his feet are no longer shrivelled. Thank you, Ms D, and we promise not to leave strange undies in your drum.

5. For the past two days, the temperature here has been in the twenties, and I can feel my scrunched up soul starting to unfurl. I defy you to feel miserable when you can look out of my window onto the orange and lemon trees and the sun on the mountains.

6. And lastly, for those of you who have stuck with the whining, as a small reward here’s my infallible recipe for lemon curd. Our landlord, Jesus, is disappearing under an increasing heap of lemons, so every time we see him, we are presented with more than we know what to do with. I have to admit that we even use lemon juice for de-liming the shower-head. It does mean you don’t have to stagger out of the bathroom clutching your throat in a cloud of toxic fumes and it smells like I imagine heaven does. But as an ex-Sainsbury’s junkie, and knowing how much organic lemons cost, I still feel massive guilt at my profligacy.

Anyway:
This makes one standard sized jamjar full and I don’t feel profligate, just clever.

60g unsalted butter, cut into cubes
130g caster or granulated sugar
Zest and juice of one and a half large, unwaxed lemons
2 large eggs, beaten

Put the butter, sugar, juice and zest in a heavy based saucepan over a low light and melt until the sugar has dissolved, stirring occasionally. Pour the beaten eggs into the pan, stirring continually till the mixture has thickened. Pour into sterilized jar, seal and keep in the fridge.

Nummanummanum.

Di and the Divas

2010-03-16T05:33:00.000-07:00

I am late posting this week due to a recurrence of the awful throwing up and other stuff bug. I’m sorry, but I had to have two days drifting in and out of sleep under a quilt on the couch, interspersed with rushes to the loo. Also included this time was a very dramatic and completely wasted collapse on the bathroom floor in the small hours. Well, what’s the use of collapsing if there’s nobody awake to appreciate the pathos of the situation. I did consider, just for a minute, trying to wake Significant Other just along the corridor, but reduced, as I was, to something between a quaver and a croak, and not having a handy Sherman tank (he does sleep well), I decided just to sit there between the bath and the basin till I could comfortably rise again. He didn’t even stir when I eventually crawled back into bed and tried to thaw myself out on him. Swine.

However, I have been cheered by my samba friends back in London, who are already revving up for Carnival at Notting Hill in August. My facebook is full of the little excitements that fill the months before the full-fledged Bacchanalia of the day. Have a look at this video put together by one of our clever people – he dances like a dream, too, by the way – to start to illustrate the feeling of our theme and inspire the look we might be using. Nice theme, Gods, Myths and Monsters; well, lots of mini togas and short leather kilts spring to mind immediately. I do like a short leather kilt. Mind you, you can be sure that our passista girls will be decked out, as usual, in as little as possible covered by the maximum amount of sequins and feathers, and our baianas will wear beautiful twirling hooped skirts. Our drummers will whinge about whatever costume they are made to wear. Well ‘ard, you see. And the costume will get in the way of the drum. But they will do as they are told, because there are so many of them (80-odd) that they are the largest and most dramatic section of the band. And maybe on top of all that, there will be a dramatic fire-breathing float. Oh all right, a Trojan Horse, then. Smashing.

Right now the competition for the Carnival song (samba enredo) is happening. Every year, songs are written to illustrate the theme of the parade, and the best is chosen to be used on the day. I have always had problems with samba enredos because I don’t speak Portuguese, and (oh dear, I shouldn’t be admitting this) for many years have just gone “Na na, lyaa, lyaa (there’s always a couple of those in ANY Brazilian song) la, la, yada, yada, yada”. God, they are never going to speak to me again. But I was a good drummer, honest.

Talking of Brazilian songs, here’s another video from the facebook treasure-trove. This is Elza Soares. Who is a remarkable 73 years old and a tribute to the Brazilian obsession with plastic surgery, but what a mover. And that harsh, compelling voice. I once danced in a baiana costume behind her at the Royal Albert Hall. She took one look at me and roared with laughter; I never knew quite why. You see, everyone should belong to a Samba School; amazing things happen to you.

Including the sudden appearance of Emilinha Borba, (31/08/23 – 03/10/05) another Brazilian Diva, at our 1988 pre-Carnival celebrations at the Africa Centre in London. Those were very early days for the band, and quite frankly, not many of us had heard of her, and neither were we very good yet. She commandeered the stage and demanded we accompany her in songs we didn’t know. But nobody seemed to mind. It was like being mugged by Shirley Bassey. She also turned up the next day and demanded to be on the float for Carnival. That was fun; she was wearing a dress so tight and platforms so high, she couldn’t physically climb the ladder up to the top. She had to be carefully manhandled up there by several strong men. I think she enjoyed it. I have just worked out she must have been 65 at the time.

I bet Divas never sit on the bathroom floor with a trembly lip.

Copyright Di Foden 2010

Stop Press! If you're interested, the entries for the London School of Samba's samba enredo for Carnival 2010 have just become available online on www.uksamba.org/LSSenredo2010 and if you listen carefully to the entry by Xavier and Paul, you will hear the lyaa, lyaa that I mentioned! Please don't feel you have to hear them all right through; you have to be real hardcore for that. I'm always staggered, however, by the fact that most of these clever boys are computer geeks or botanists or teachers or dustmen and they do this for love. In Portuguese!

Balearics Day

2010-03-07T05:27:00.000-08:00

I thought you might like to see this series of photos Significant Other took on Balearics Day in Palma. See, he has his uses. These are Castellers and they really aren't a Balearic tradition, but are deeply rooted in Catalonia. I think the Mallorcans imported the tradition because they saw yet another great opportunity to smack the bum of Health and Safety.

Prior to the scrum and climbing bit there was much twirling themselves into wide sashes that looked about as comfortable as a corset, and which seem to be used both as an oversized truss/back support and something the climbers can grab on to without de-bagging the unfortunate they are clambering over.

And so the layers grow. It was a really breezy day, by the way. By now I was biting my knuckles and whimpering about going home now, please. But then the girls started climbing, so out of solidarity with the sisterhood, I stayed, doing the outdoor equivalent of hiding behind the couch.

Because to top the whole thing off, they send up the skinny little kids. I didn't know whether to be relieved she was wearing a crash helmet (hey, Health and Safety at last); she was so tiny, I thought it would overbalance her.

Unbelieveably, when the two little kids got to the top, they climbed over each other and came down the opposite sides. Nobody was fainting so I imagine the mothers had stayed at home. This is definitely a pastime you do with Daddy.

We rounded off the day with a small picnic. The financial situation has turned me into one of those old ladies who always has a Tupperware box containing four bendy salad sandwiches in her capacious handbag.

And a hanky to spit on.

Cheers, Ms H

2010-02-28T20:34:00.000-08:00

I was musing on friendship today. It was a mixture of feeling like I needed a hip replacement and steeping the undies that did it.

Well, there’s nothing so blooming aging as that thing oldies (including me) do when trying to get up or down out of a chair. You know, grunt, grimace and let go of all semblance of dignity and control on the way down, so you just drop with a thud like a bean bag with bones; then you groan and flounder on the way up. Your kids, love them though you do, will neither understand nor empathise; they are, of course, immortal, and laughable stuff like backache, flatulence, piles and flat feet will never happen to them. Just you wait. Therefore having old friends is a relief because they know about the irritating ailments that middle-to-oldies are too embarrassed to talk about and I just did. They also have an account in the same memory bank as me, with deposits called mini-skirts and the Everly Brothers and church socials and Gold Leaf ciggies and the Gay Gordons when it was a dance. And stuffing the toes of your winklepickers so they didn’t turn up. And white lipstick and thick black eyeliner. They can’t visualise metric but they can remember ration books. They are comfortable and easygoing, and you chose them to last, like a pair of decent brogues.

And steeping the undies? Well, I hate to go on about it (see the last couple of posts), but the washing machine’s still broken and we have to wait for a miracle before we can get a new one. So Significant Other is still dancing on the dirty clothes in the bath. I’d help, but I need a hip replacement. To make up for my dereliction of duties I have taken to steeping the undies and giving them a bit of a bleach to make sure we remain sparkly in the crotch area in case we have an accident. See, not all oldies wear saggy grey interlock.

And my friend Ms H and I once had a conversation about steeping the undies because we come from a background (northern) and an era (50s/60s) when such activities were commonplace.

She’s wonderful, Ms H. She is very Scottish, with trenchant opinions upon everything under the sun. She is a magnificent cook and hostess and seems to be able to cater for seventeen and still be able to chat to everyone whilst it’s cooking. And once upon a time, she ensured that I would get the flat when my last husband eloped with the younger model.

That was a night to remember. The Ex had arranged to come to the flat so we could try to organise the future. I must mention at this stage that since his sudden departure with the hippy lady in the purple dungarees and far too much foundation (I can’t forgive him that lapse of taste), I had been sending him a cheque each month to cover the entire mortgage payment. Mad, I know, but I knew he had got himself into a financial bind (having an affair is SO expensive) and I was trying to keep it civilised. The first I knew about anything going awry was when the Building Society phoned me at work to tell me the mortgage had not been paid for months. The Ex had been using it to pay off his overdraft. Did I mention that he had gone off with said hippy lady to regain his spirituality, by the way? Seems an odd way to go about it, doesn’t it?

Anyway, on the night, Ms H saw that I was in no fit state to negotiate with anybody, so she came along to provide moral support. And she brought Murdo, her feisty little Scottie dog, with her. Who picked up on the atmosphere and went a bit mental at The Ex. Ex did try and put up a bit of a fight, saying feebly “I’ll have to consult with someone”, but Ms H rounded on him, tears streaming down her face and said “This isn’t about consultation, it’s about justice.” I’ll never forget that as long as I live. And he backed down and I got the flat.

So when I pop my clogs I’ve left her a couple of hundred to go out for a good drink. I think I owe her that.

Lord, I miss her.

Ditherywothery

2010-02-21T21:08:00.000-08:00

I make no excuses for dedicating most of this week’s post to emails written by some of my nearest and dearest because I have been ill, and the blood has rushed away from my brain, where the intelligent and insightful stuff is supposed to be, to my innards where it’s not at all intelligent and insightful. Lord, I hate throwing up, and will fight it for hours if possible. Apart from feeling horrible, there is no way you can do it in a dignified fashion. I dread Significant Other heroically entering the bathroom (I always make it to the bathroom) to cradle my head and wipe my sweaty brow. No. Go away and let me clean the stuff out of my own hair, OK? So I am still, in the immortal words of my mother, a bit ditherywothery.

But life was cheered a little on receiving a couple of emails from people who can write a good email. The following an exchange between my Son, the Actor and the Agents who are supposed to be looking after my interests and my flat back in Walthamstow. You might have noticed from the past few posts that we don’t have an awful lot of faith in these guys, and the following might explain why

1. From the young man who proudly informed us that he had tenants for us, starting early March. Oh, with just a couple of conditions.

“Tenants requests are:
Remove all furniture from front bedroom
Remove bed and chest/dresser from bedroom at back of property
Tenants only require the 3 seater sofa and the dinner table in the lounge”

Or in other words, 75% of the (lovingly collected, genuine Art Deco) furniture in the house.

2. Reply to the Agency from My Son, the Actor to the boss of the Agency. Hope you appreciate the tone of weary patience gradually rising to controlled hysteria. He gets it from me.

“Hi D,

I'm representing my mother whilst we find new tenants and make repairs in the interim. It just makes it easier for all since I'm in London and not Majorca.

H. did notify me of new tenants keen to move in but they wanted 'some' furniture removing. Having been emailed the full list of furniture they want removed it is quite apparent that these people are looking for an unfurnished let and shouldn't have been guided towards this property. Particularly a property filled with extremely large and heavy antiques. Exactly who would pay for removal and storage? That was a rhetorical question since the property is a furnished let and the removal of all the furniture they were requesting is completely untenable.
I spoke to H. this morning and the property is now back on the market but given that this property is my mothers only source of income whilst she is retired in Majorca it does leave us with cause for concern over the imminent departure of our current tenants.

Could I ask you to please follow this and guide your salesmen with some urgency and whilst I'm happy to take a cabinet or a chair away and pop it in the garage, the removal of a living room and two bedrooms including a one ton solid mahogany Art Deco bed is both logistically impossible and I fear stretches the definition of 'furnished let' more than a tad.

Do get back to me as soon as you can,

He will start ranting soon. That’ll be fun.

The second email is from a marvellous old man I met on my memorable visit to Australia a few years ago. The visit was memorable in that I had gone out there to stay with my lovely old Uncle Bill for three weeks, and two weeks in, he died. Back home, I did eventually get a letter from the Queensland police telling me I was off the hook (honest) but helping to plan a funeral was the last thing I ever imagined I’d be doing in Oz.

Anyway, the marvellous man was my Uncle Bill’s neighbour. In his eighties, he has lived in Australia for many years, is a complete reprobate and looks like a louche 1950s film star, six foot tall and slim. He was the one I ran to when I couldn’t make poor old Bill wake up.

I have been corresponding with him ever since, and I worry if there is a gap between messages. This is his latest.

DiandSO, Apologies for not having communicated but am utterly flatstrap.

The day is crammed with quite momentous activities.
1. Getting up and showering, shaving and making myself quite gorgeously irresistable.
2. Breakfast and planning of the days activities comes next and this possibly takes an hour or more.
3. Next a good hour is wasted trying to remember what the hell it was that I had decided to do.
4. Time for a walk and purchase of a daily newspaper, usually the local edition of the 'Courier Mail', one of Mr. Murdoch's stable of papers. Rather parochial in its Queensland content, but it does have a good puzzle page with easy & difficult Sudoku problems, crosswords of 3 levels of difficulty, including a London Times and various other little problems.
5. Coffee time melds into midday sandwich time. etc etc.

You can see how hard it is to cram everything in. Then there is bowls, Shareholders group meetings, University of the 3rd age activities, Poetry Society meetings etc. I am currently reading 3 or 4 books including one that you might enjoy called "God is not Great" by Christopher Hitchens; "Great Australian Eulogies; a book about the origins of life or a natural history of the first 4,000,000,000 years on earth called "Life, an unauthorised biography"; and another by Fatima Mernissi, "Islam and Democracy" which is rather heavy going. Incidentally that Poetry thing is very hard work, as we are expected to compose something passably rhyming to recite at each meeting on an allocated subject, not mandatory but preferred. Subjects as varied as 'Celebratory theme' or 'Haiti' for example. We get about ten or so at a meeting so one is expected to stand and deliver about 3 or 4 times each meeting. I try and give one original and a couple of other works.
Probus meetings, dinners, and general social activities also take time, and of course I'm still slowly renovating this place. Well perhaps 'renovating' is too strong a term but you know what I mean. Putting tiled entry ways at front and rear access doors rather than white ww carpet and relaying outside tiled areas etc.

What a star. No wonder he’s so popular with the ladies.

I almost feel better.

Copyright Di Foden 2010

Into every day ...

2010-02-14T21:32:00.000-08:00

It has been a week of pleasant little happenings. That will do me; waiting for pleasant big happenings is a waste of time when you’re 64. You might as well make the most of the small stuff, because, let’s face it, time is precious.

Pleasant Happening 1.
We got the sunburst mirror from the bootsale for Daughter Dear (see last post). I sent Significant Other in to clinch the deal; I may have mentioned before that certain important parts of his anatomy are made of tempered steel and he lacks the embarrassment gene. Anyway, last week, the bootsale stallholder was asking 70€, so we tutted and walked on in a nonchalant fashion. This week, it was cold and miserable and Mr Stallholder was looking a bit pinched, to say the least. Significant Other offered him 40€. Small explosion in ripest Catalan. So we tutted and walked on in a nonchalant fashion; we’re good at that. Out of sight we had a hurried consultation, scraped together a further 10€ and sauntered back. “50€?” said SO. If looks could kill, he would have been a dead duck, but I think the cold had finally got to Mr Stallholder, and he capitulated. I did, for a little minute, feel a bit sorry for him. But it didn’t last. And we walked off in a nonchalant fashion, with mirror. Smirking.

Pleasant Happening 2.
Daughter Dear has just confirmed that she is getting married on the 2nd October. I have seven months to learn how to be the mother of the bride, hit every shop in Palma and fail to find anything that will make me look like the mother of the bride (ie respectable) and that I can afford, find shoes that are gorgeous and I can actually walk in, book flights, and hassle SO to paint the picture we have promised Daughter Dear as a wedding present. I do love having a project.

Pleasant Happening 3.
It snowed at sea-level in Mallorca. This is quite a rare phenomenon and I looked out of my window to see a dusting of snow on the pantiles alongside trees full of oranges. Lovely. And very foreign.

Pleasant Happening 4.
I won the lottery. Not, I hasten to add, the mega-millions that went to two lucky devils in England and Spain. Although that was the idea, and then I could have stopped worrying about money. Well, everyone I know could have stopped worrying about money, actually. But I did win 33€, and that will cover the costs of getting the consignment of brocante (which is posh for stuff from the thrift shop and the mirror) back to Daughter Dear. She did suggest I might include a bottle of Torres 10 brandy in the box, but I think I’ll avoid that. Cheek.

Pleasant Happening 5.
I phoned my sister who is in her eighties and not terribly mobile. Well, two hip replacements, one knee replacement, one mastectomy, cataract removal etc. etc.etc. What there is left of her is apparently indestructable. I have been begging her to come and visit me for ages and this week she said she was definitely thinking about it as she has a friend who could come with her. “Brilliant!” said I. “But she’s got cancer at the moment”, said Sister. I love that “at the moment”, don’t you? As I say, indestructable.

Copyright Di Foden 2010

Sunburst

2010-02-07T20:37:00.000-08:00

Alright, you can relax. Except those of you who are new visitors. You will have to read last week’s post to get the full flavour of my suffering. Anyway, you will be glad to hear that I have come through the miseries and am now feeling much more able to cope with the slings and arrows. And dancing on the dirty knickers in the bath, and the mould and the broken indicator and the exiting tenant. They are all still there, except the mould (I sent Significant Other up a ladder with a bucket of bleach water. Well, he needed a break from the knicker dancing) but the sun and the almond blossom both came out this week and I didn’t want to spoil the view with a face that looked like a slapped arse.

The nice tenant in my flat in Walthamstow is actually leaving, which is worrying. But at least we know now and can do something about it. And My Son, the Actor, has come up trumps and is practising his craft by acting as my representative on the ground in the East End. He is a large man with quite a presence (I think he draws the line at the sharp suit, big rings and a sheepskin coat, but only just. Perfect Guy Ritchie material) and he’s already been into the Agents and very calmly and clearly explained with perfect diction to the young woman there that “IF YOU DON’T GET SOMEONE IN THAT FLAT IMMEDIATELY THE PRESENT TENANT LEAVES, MY MOTHER WILL STARVE. AND WE DON’T WANT THAT, DO WE?” Lovely boy. Loves his old mum.

Daughter Dear, however, has nominated me as her international buyer. She lives in an enchanting converted chapel and is doing it up slowly with nice old bits and pieces (many of which were wheedled from my stock when I was a dealer in small antiques, but we won’t mention that). Anyway, she has requested me to find her a pretty Spanish chandelier and a sunburst mirror in the shabby chic mode. Mallorcan shabby chic is just like British shabby chic, but it has an added layer of protective nicotine. I have located and bought the perfect chandelier, (25€. Result. Have you seen the price of this stuff back home?) and last week found the mirror in the picture at the boot sale. Funny, when we went back to take the photo for her approval this week, it had gone up from 50€ to 70€, so its fate is still being decided. Ah, the joys of bootsaling.

Now all I have to do is get the dismounted chandelier back to Blighty, and to do this we are using Webb’s, the Island removers. We went in yesterday to pick up the proper box to pack it in, which is 50cm x 50cm x 50cm. Aha, said I, we can pack it sideways. God, I wish I hadn’t said that in front of two disbelieving men. Significant Other is still sniggering, but I never said I could do hard sums.

PS. I have been given a badge (see right). I am unbelieveably chuffed about this, and will pass it on soon when I have recovered from the vapours. Thank you, Jan.

Sod's Law

2010-01-31T21:52:00.000-08:00

This week should have been good. Well, I’ve had over 5000 hits on my blog since I installed my little counter, so that’s nice. Perhaps there are 5000 people out there who have enjoyed the ramblings of Di. Hmm, if that’s the case why didn’t they visit again and make it 10,000? And why didn’t they become my followers and leave a little picture for me to treasure. And my bum definitely looks big in this.

As you can probably tell, I’m having a crisis of confidence. But it’s not really to do with you, dear Reader. This has all been caused by the possible departure of the nice tenant who has been inhabiting my flat in deepest Walthamstow for the past couple of years. Although I have never met him, I know he’s nice because he has paid his rent faithfully and on time every single month; and the rent he has paid so regularly enables me to pay the rent on the flat I am living in. So the foundation of my financial security has developed a wobble and I am now in a state of low-level anxiety waiting to see if he does go, and if he does, can our Agents replace him quickly enough so we don’t have to do a runner out of Soller.

The last time this happened did not fill us with confidence. The young men who rented my place when we first came to Mallorca never once managed to pay the rent on time (including the occasion when one of them staggered up the road and presented the Agents with several hundred pounds-worth of pound coins. We wondered if he had robbed a charity box, or something. But we’re not fussy.) And when they did leave, they thought that they could just wander off without paying the last month’s rent because they had paid a month’s rent as a deposit when they moved in. The Agents did not check on the situation and a month went past before anyone realised they had gone. We pay 10% for this service, by the way. Significant Other was incandescent, understandably. And we were poor. And of course, we are even poorer and less able to cope with it this time round. Aaargh!

Of course, Sod’s Law has kicked in at precisely the right moment and the washing machine has irretrieveably and finally broken down. I have been nursing it for months; you know, press that button, wait for the lights, do it again, and again, and again. Thump it. But it has now given up its soapy little ghost altogether. So we are washing clothes in the bath. I put the plug in before my shower and share it with yesterday’s jeans etc. Then Significant Other gets his kit off and dances on them. I have begged him to let me take a photo, but he’s not having it. Of course, the weather is utterly miserable at the moment, so we spend hours playing relay knickers and end up with soggy washing in the living room. Which isn’t helping with the march of the Mallorcan Mould. Very damp, Mallorca. Significant Other has suggested we stop breathing out in the bedroom before the ceiling is completely coated. Nobody ever tells you about stuff like this, do they?

Oh, by the way, we went out in the car today and the left hand indicator’s broken.

St Sebastian

2010-01-24T21:11:00.000-08:00

Normally on this, the Burns Night weekend, Significant Other would be fingering his sporran, bottom lip a’ tremble; well, Scottish, you see, and loves donning his posh frock as much as the next man. However, this year no invitation to address the haggis was forthcoming – yes, he can do it all without the book. In fact, you have to stop him doing all eight verses for the sake of the sanity of the (usually mainly English) guests. Don’t know about you, but I find Burns goes on a bit. Unintelligibly.

So we consoled ourselves by going into Palma to celebrate the Fiesta of St Sebastian instead. Less whiskey and kilt swishing, but more fire.

Apparently St. Sebastian was a Milanese member of the Praetorian Guard, martyred for being a Christian during the reign of Diocletian (around 288AD). He’s the one you always see looking a bit fed up and bristling with arrows. Actually, he didn’t die of that. A nice girl called Irene rescued and looked after him; then when all the little holes had healed up, he went and stood on the doorstep (men!) and harangued Diocletian who seemingly wasn’t too pleased to find him still airtight, and had him beaten to death instead. Obviously this death was not quite as photogenic, so painters of Sebastian since have just stuck with the pout and the arrows. The Palma celebrations have managed to build in, for no apparent reason other than fun, dimonis* and lots and lots of fireworks. No arrows, thank heavens.

We started in Santa Catalina, which is a district of Palma on the cusp of gentrification, but which still retains enough rough edges and nice bars to remain interesting, and for once in our lives found ourselves in the right place to see what was happening. I must say, it was a staggering display. Try http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7saN5fSq8wk if you want a small flavour of what went on. There were at least twenty groups of dimonis from all over the Island, with their fireworks on sticks and attendant drummers, and they processed from Santa Catalina right along the seafront to the Cathedral, a distance of at least 1.5km. I felt sorry for the poor chaps charged with carrying the spare stocks of screaming catherine wheels with built in bangers necessary to replenish the burnt out ones and provide a proper display throughout the whole parade. One spark ……

What I found great, as a hardened veteran of the Notting Hill Carnival, was the interaction of the crowds with the performers. Lets face it, if someone wearing a hoodie came running at you with a firework in London, you’d be belting them with your briefcase. In Palma, everybody screeches, laughs and carries on. In fact, it is regarded as quite lucky to get a bit singed. For a little while, I stood next to a toothless and beaming homeless man under the showers of sparks; we both danced to the drummers and he smiled at me in an approving fashion and went on his way.

The highlight of the evening, however, was the display at the Cathedral, which stands on the seafront. Lit in red and purple, it provided a magnificent backdrop for hugely amplified drummers, pipers and singers. And thousands of euros-worth of choreographed fireworks. And somebody who sounded uncannily like Vincent Price in Catalan against a background of thundering organ music from inside the building. I would have loved to have been on a boat coming into the bay; it must have looked and sounded spectacular from the sea.

Burns versus Sebastian? No contest.

*Dimonis appear at many Mallorcan festivals; most towns have a troupe. Ours is called “The Esclatabutzes”. They wear devil masks and are past masters at terrifying the populace with fireworks on sticks. Accompanied in most cases by drummers, they heathenify even the most holy of occasions.

Image of St. Sebastian from Wikipedia

Copyright Diane Foden 2010

St Anthony. And Stan.

2010-01-17T21:24:00.000-08:00

I don’t know if you know this, summer visitors, but Mallorca is great in the winter. All the Mallorcans come out of their hobbit holes, take a suspicious look around, breathe a sigh of relief and start on a series of fiestas safe in the knowledge that a passing tourist is not going to ask them for a Bacardi and coke and some paella.

This weekend’s fiesta is in honour of St Anthony who is associated with animals, particularly pigs; one version of the reason why has it that Satan (I just typed that as Stan, which is far too good to waste. So the pig is now called Stan, OK?) came upon him in porcine form and mounted a vicious attack which Anthony managed to ignore in that really irritating saintly fashion. Stan was obviously well impressed, changed its ways, and became his devoted disciple for the rest of its days. Somewhere along the line, Anthony also picked up responsibility for skin diseases, particularly ergotism, otherwise known as St Anthony’s Fire. Perhaps you have to rub it with pork dripping, or something. I don’t get religion.

So last night, St Anthony’s Eve, the population of Soller was in the Town Square for a bonfire and fireworks (Any excuse. Mallorcans love a good bonfire and a chance to ignore health and safety rules. Or indeed any rules at all) followed by the traditional torrada (communal barbeque). Not quite as smashing as last year by any means, it is becoming obvious that the financial situation has finally come home to roost on the Magnific Ayuntamente (wouldn’t you just love any organisation that calls itself Magnific?) So, far fewer fireworks and drummers and no stalls handing out sausages and butifarron* – see, pig again - and a feeling of nostalgia for better days gone by. It is quite sad, really; we didn’t even have Christmas lights in the Square this time. Lots of roadworks all year, and nice new drains and a superb new indoor swimming pool which has been finished for quite a while but contains no water (?), but I am of the opinion that people need circuses as well as bread.

However, today good humour was restored with the Blessing of the Animals. We thought, as we arrived to an almost empty square in the miserable drizzle, that perhaps this had been cancelled too, but the sun struggled through and the crowd materialised from nowhere with its foaming horses (the one in the photo didn't foam. Well it didn't move much, but it did try and eat an ornamental shrub and received a good talking-to from its owner) and overexcited dogs, its kids on strings and its parrots and rabbits. And, as you can see from the photos, one sweet little pig (Stan?) in a blanket.

After the ritual dousing with holy water, the mad horse people did their traditional scary gallop up the road to grab ribbon favours from a rope and the magic police tape safety barrier broke (I don’t know what practical use it is, actually, but it must be there for something) leaving me inches from being sideswiped by enormous sweaty horse backsides.

Gosh, I do see life.

*Black pudding, and very nice it is, too

Copyright Di Foden 2010

When I grow up ...

2010-01-10T22:15:00.000-08:00

I swore I would never write about the people I have met on the island; I have to live here and gossip gets round ex-pats faster than a certain substance off a shovel. And then it hits the fan.

However, I am going to make an exception in the case of one wonderful old man and his partner, and another equally wonderful old woman who deserve eulogising now, not when it’s too late.

Mr K is now (I think) 94; I know he was born in 1915, the same year as my mum. But we don’t talk about birthdays; he’s had so many, the subject must be a bit of a bore for him by now, I think. He retired to Mallorca in his 60s after a career as a teacher, and he is still here. Boy, what an advert for the Mediterranean lifestyle. He has the face and the pace of a patient little turtle, and the brain of a planet. He is one quarter of our all-conquering quiz team (I’m not showing off here, but we are The Greatest). There have been semi-serious rumblings about splitting us up and spreading us over some of the other teams from our District to hoik up the average, but I know it wouldn’t work. You need more than four brains-worth of utterly useless information; we work together like a well-oiled machine (well, some brandy is taken) and have perfected the making of concensus decisions and the trust issues around one of us saying “I absolutely know it’s that” when the others aren’t sure.

His partner, Ms. S (and, trust me, it is Ms) is not far behind Mr K in years. She is a tiny little firecracker who walks miles every day and swims in the sea from May till October. She exercises enough to make me feel guilty, is an old-school socialist, doesn’t do marriage and wears short skirts and hardly anything that isn’t purple. She loves it when Significant Other drives fast on the way to the quiz and once told me she quite fancied being a gangster’s moll. I don’t know why it should be that one can be surprised by racy opinions and radical political ideas emanating from a woman of nearly 90, but she makes even my jaw drop sometimes. At the same time, she knows the names of all the wildflowers and the location of every donkey in the vicinity. I want to be just like her when I grow up.

Mrs. M is my third golden oldie. She seems to have taken to Significant Other and me, and invites us to raucous gatherings in Palma. She is an utter character, with a life which seems to consist of a series of hilarious anecdotes interspersed with moments of high drama. She already has a mention in a Giles Brandreth book about colourful marital disasters (“I got a bigger paragraph than Joan Collins” she informed me with some glee) A very successful businesswoman in the days before it was quite proper, she is also probably the most glamourous woman I have ever met. Her blonde-beige hair is always swept up in front and tied at the back with a big black velvet bow. Very slender, she wears the most wonderful vintage clothes and chunky jewellery. She showed me the sheath dress she had recently had made (“Only 25€, dear”) for New Years Eve this year from an extravagent length of be-sequinned lilac lace, with a long matching scarf trimmed with feathers. When you go to her flat, a Hollywood dream of pale marble and gold with a fountain on the balcony, you are confronted with photos of her on the arm of Danny La Rue, and alongside Joanna Lumley. And her with her racehorse (she only owned one legsworth, but still). She has a very elegant Swedish opera singer staying with her at the moment; they make a remarkable couple. When he goes home, her devoted corps of male friends will re-form a protective phalanx around her.

Oh dear, I want to be just like her when I grow up as well. But I’ll never look like her in a lilac lace sheath.

Copyright Di Foden 2010

Excused Boots

2010-01-03T20:07:00.000-08:00

It was all Significant Other’s fault, really. Well it usually is.

I am back from the UK and the tiny bosom of my family, which is surprising, given the journey to the UK we had on the day before Christmas Eve which took us to London. Via Bristol.

This is what happened.

We found out our flight was cancelled before leaving the house (I have banned SO from ever doing that again; I’d rather be in blissful ignorance in future) so decided to park in the usual airport carpark and leave the cases in the boot ready for the instructions of Easyjet. At this stage I should tell you that SO was wearing his beloved Camper boots. The ones that lace up right up to HERE. See photo. You will understand why this is important later.

We joined the rest of The Abandoned at the Easyjet information desk (Easyjet information – the perfect oxymoron) to be told we had a couple of options. Option 1. One seat only available on the 2.00pm Gatwick flight. So that defaulted to Option 2. Two seats on a 10.45 flight to Bristol, and a coach to Stansted waiting at the other end. We took it (I burst into relieved tears), checked in (thank you Adrian who just happened to be there and smooth-talked us to the front of the queue. We owe you a large drink) and then started the real nightmare. You will remember the car was in the car park, but we had booked it into the Park and Fly (can’t recommend them enough and cheaper than return taxi fares), so we trotted back to the car park and then drove to the Park and Fly, where we dumped the car, and nearly missed the minibus back to the airport; I ran at it flapping like an overweight bat in my big coat, screaming “No, no”. It worked.

Back at the airport we then had to go through the dreaded security (thanks, man with exploding underpants) which included SO removing The Boots. This took the usual unbelieveable amount of time, but hey, we had plenty of that, didn’t we? We were checked in, weren’t we? After he had carefully laced himself back into The Boots, making sure he didn’t miss a hole or an eyelet, he finally checked the board to find that he had mis-heard the chap at the information desk by half an hour – it was 10.15, not 10 45 - and the flight was due to leave from a far-flung gate in five minutes or less. By the way, this issue was compounded by the fact that I am normally the sort of person who has to be dissuaded from arriving the night before the flight and setting up a small tent to ensure that I am there on time. I hope you’re keeping up at the back, there.

Now, I don’t know if you have ever been to Palma airport, but it is bloody enormous. And we had to run to the far-flung gate with the dreaded announcements ringing in our ears – “Will passengers Miller and Foden….”. Yes, we were those sods who delay every flight you have ever been on, and upon whom you are allowed to cast looks of derision as they finally stagger on to the flight and you have to move your hand-luggage so they can fit theirs in. You will gather from this that they let us on, despite looking faintly disapproving that two crumblies should have been such reprobates.

And so we arrived at Bristol, where a coach had been promised for our arrival. And then it was promised in 45 minutes. And it actually arrived two and a half hours later. And having picked up The Abandoned, it then proceded to go right through the centre of Bristol, complete with Christmas traffic and small blizzard, stopping only at one town-centre garage, not to fill up with deisel as might be expected, but for the driver to purchase two toilet rolls. Don’t ask.

It took us, including toilet roll stop, four and three-quarter hours to get from Bristol to Stansted. We passed the time looking at the twenty-five mile carpark facing the other way down the motorway and watching the snow fall. We eventually arrived at Stansted to find that the driver had parked in the wrong spot and was being taken to task by a jobsworth parking attendant who was set on him backing us all down an icy slip road and finding the right place to dump The Abandoned. The driver then rebelled and we were let off in front of the airport buildings. We ran away and let him get on with it. Poor devil.

Then all we had to do was pick up our hire car and drive right across London to our destination in Streatham. Couldn’t do more of an east to west journey if you tried. We landed on the doorstep only able to croak “Alcohol”.

And Christmas was fab, and Boxing Day with my daughter was fab and my birthday was fab and it was so cold and wet we spent most of our time huddled indoors and then we took our friend Stabs (he’s a haematologist) to my son’s house at Harwich for New Year and real ale and fireworks on the harbour.

I loved every minute of it all. Oh, and I made SO buy some new shoes in the sales. They have velcro fastenings.

PS. Here are some utterly gratuitous photos of my family, including My Son the Actor in deep communication with his beloved iphone, Littlest Grand-daughter in full flight and Daughter Dear and Son-out-Law wearing cute matching outfits.

Copyright Di Foden 2010

See you in 2010

2009-12-20T21:09:00.000-08:00

Just a line this week, as I am busy trying to pack according to the rules of Significant Other (everything squared off like military bedding in a nissan hut), whereas my instinct is to swear blind it’s crease-proof and just bundle it in, then fill up the holes with knickers. And it’s really difficult when you have an assorted heap of presents of different sizes, weights and squishiness that have to go in as well. He’s already made me take them all out and repack them with a layer of sweaters underneath for padding. Yes, I know, he’s right. But that doesn’t make it any better. I will probably kill him before we get home.

It is also a pain because I haven’t got quite enough clothes, and all the decent things I do have are now packed. So I am reduced to wearing raggy old things and can only leave the flat after dark for fear of frightening the horses.

And then we do have to have a bit of a clean ready for our Cat Sitting Man. Well, I do have some standards; very few and quite low, actually, but still there in my head in my mum’s voice just like the “making sure you have intact undies on just in case you have an accident” thing.

So do have a lovely holiday, and thank you all for your company this last year (specially Jan, Lec, Lulu, Ladyluz and Jon who keep me going with their comments. Cyberfriends. If ever you’re passing this way, ladies. Or gent …)

See you soon.

PS. This is Soller yesterday. I live in a Christmas card.

Copyright Di Foden 2009

Watch out turkey, here comes momma

2009-12-13T20:58:00.000-08:00

I am getting a bit overexcited because Christmas is coming. I know, I know – atheists shouldn’t really, should they? I admit that I am a bit of a contradiction. Don’t like religion, love churches. Listen to the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols from Kings College, don’t believe a word of it but sob throughout. And I do not understand those grumps that hate the whole thing. How can you not like presents and overeating and sparkly things and an indoor tree? I would settle for that lot all year round.

Significant Other and I are going back to the UK this year. I have to; it has grand-daughters in it and although they would probably deny it, they need quality time with me. Also, I have to add to their stock of ridiculous little bits of plastic for mummy to crunch underfoot in the weeks after the holiday is over. Although the eldest has now reached the stage when she would much rather have a grubby fiver and a bottle of nail varnish, as she seems to have morphed into a swan whilst I have been living in Mallorca. How could she? I wanted to watch. Thank the Lord the little one is still disguised as a child and wants those poisonous clockwork hampsters for Christmas; don’t worry, the manufacturers have assured the hamster-buying public that Mr Squiggles is absolutely safe. Well, we’ll soon know, won’t we?

I don’t understand them, do you? They look like hamsters and run round the floor. Why not just get a real hamster? I suppose the toy ones do away with the droppings problem; I don’t know if they do little toy droppings, do they? And I can’t imagine that they would try to escape and hide in the couch, either.

The rest of the presents have either been bought over the internet and delivered straight to neutral territory (my friend’s house) in the UK ready for collection, wrapping and re-presenting to the correct recipients, or bought here using the constraints that they had to be small and light enough to go into a medium-sized suitcase. And I’ve sent all my cards. Impressed?

By the way, for those of you aware of the fact that I am a poor old pensioner in a shawl eating gruel, don’t worry. I haven’t been selling Significant Other’s body to fund this jaunt. Although it’s a thought; his is definitely more saleable than mine. No, my lovely friend has lent me her fabulous house in London for the duration of her stay with her mum in the frozen North. She’s a Scot, so she doesn’t really understand Christmas; it’s just something that gets in the way of Hogmanay. All I have to do is feed her cats. And just to complete the game of relay houses, I have found a nice man to live in my flat , and feed my cat whilst I am away. I have already started freezing home-made tomato soup away for him as a reward, and will buy him a poinsettia and a bottle of vodka to keep him warm. Sorted.

I have even got My Son the Actor, here looking cool by wearing shades in a tunnel, organising a fowl for us so we don’t have to panic down Streatham High Road on Christmas Eve looking for a festive dead animal. By the way, he’s singing here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rdpjMF06a2A so if you like a bit of rock ‘n roll, this is my early Christmas present to you.

Neat bit of promotion there, eh?!

Life's too short...

2009-12-06T20:12:00.000-08:00

It comes to something when the highlight of your week is cleaning out the pantry.

This week has been a bit challenging, what with Christmas bearing down upon me sneering, and the fact that the bank seems to have mislaid the money I transferred from the UK last Monday. After some scary phone calls “Well, it’s left here, madam”, I was expecting it to finally arrive this coming Monday, but Sod’s Law being what it is – a sod - it’s a Bank Holiday. I therefore have another day alternating between panic and poverty. Nice.

So due to lack of funds with which to do frivolous things like buy food, and also to take my mind off the impending doom, I have been doing those housewifely jobs that I normally avoid like the plague and make Significant Other do as part of my campaign to turn him into a New Man. The old one has some strange, unreconstructed ways about him; it’s not that he thinks he shouldn’t do housework, it’s just he thinks he will get better results by suggesting ways in which I could improve my techniques instead. This has resulted in me not ironing a single thing for him since 1997 as that was when it became apparent that he could do it so much better than me. He has learnt to watch his tongue a bit since then, but it’s a struggle for him, and sometimes you can see him choking with the effort.

I also have a nice, and possibly properly reconstructed man coming to live with my cat whilst I am away over the Christmas break, and I couldn’t have let him plough through the carpet of papery onion skins that is the result of storing vegetables in a wire rack. The pantry shelves are slatted too, and there had been a bit of an egg noodle disaster (I suppose it makes a change from the pea disaster which always happens in my freezer). The noodles had trickled six feet from the top shelf to the floor, and as I worked my way down, more and more of them cascaded through the slats like a miniature landslide. When I brushed up, I also found one fig roll, which is a bit distressing as I can’t remember the last time we had fig rolls. It’s a good job we live three floors up and mice don’t mountaineer.

I am not too unhappy about being a slut. In the 60s I read a wonderful article by the sainted Katharine Whitehorn in which she admitted to being a complete slattern herself. And half the female population of Britain wrote to her in relief and gratitude as they thought they were the only ones. Including the woman who had absent-mindedly mopped the table with the kitten.

But isn’t it odd that you always find things in your pantry you could swear you hadn’t bought. Brown rice, for instance. I know you are supposed to like brown rice as it’s so good for you, and goes down your veins cleaning out the cholesterol, but it’s disgusting. And there it was, sitting on the top shelf. I once heard a theory that any audio cassettes you leave in the glove compartment of your car will eventually morph into “The Best of Queen”. Perhaps it’s the same with forgotten food.

One day it will be brown rice. Be careful.

Common

2009-11-29T19:53:00.000-08:00

This was a two bootsale weekend; gosh, what an amazing social whirl I exist in. At yesterday’s I picked up a hardback copy of Alan Bennett’s “Untold Stories”. Two euros. Bargain. I must admit to being a longtime fan of his wry and touching writing, (How about “Nothing excuses us from the obligation to divert our fellow creatures. We must not be boring”. My motto) and although I am only a little way into the book – it is very thick and too heavy to read in bed without a crane to turn the pages, so I am reading it in daylight rather than doing housework – I recommend you get hold of it. It was first published in 2005 so you might even still be able to find it in a bookshop. You might even be able to find a bookshop; I see Borders has hit the skids. That is somehow more distressing than Threshers and Woolies for me; bookshops are such lovely, warm places. A last resort of civilisation in the high street.

I think I may be so enchanted by his writings about his family and northern childhood, because of the similarities they have to mine. His mother, like mine, had a list of things which were “common”, and which I needn’t even bother thinking about, never mind asking for. Here is his description

“…..because if there was one consideration that determined my parents conduct and defined their position in the world, it was not to be (or to be thought) common.

Common, like camp (with which it shares a frontier) is not easy to define. At its simplest meaning vulgar or ostentatious, it is a more subtle and various disparagement than that, or was in our family anyway, taking in such widely disparate manifestations as tattoos, red paint, yellow gloves and two-tone cardigans, all entries in a catalogue of disapproval that ranged through fake leopardskin coats and dyed (blonde) hair to slacks, cocktail cabinets, the aforementioned ladies with alsatian dogs and boy with cherries, and umpteen other embellishments, domestic and personal.”
And my mum would have added wedge heeled shoes, pierced ears (it took me till I was 27 and had two children to get mine done. She didn’t like it) and one particular cake stand belonging to a neighbour which consisted of a flat chrome naked lady bearing a plastic dish aloft, something like the photo. I absolutely loved it. This may explain why I ended up collecting and sometimes dealing in showy Art Deco bits and pieces, and I relish kitsch. Forbidden fruit.

I sometimes wonder if this attitude to life led to our alienation from my father’s family after his death. From the day of his funeral, I never set eyes on any of the tribe again. I think my mum may have thought that the Scotland Road connection (you have to be a Scouser, but it would definitely have made the common list) was a bit beyond the pale, and the relations were quite possibly aware of how she felt about them.

Isn’t it sad to think of all the little lives lived unquestioningly within self-built walls of silly rules?

Copyright Diane Foden 2009

Hunting the mushroom

2009-11-22T21:24:00.000-08:00

We just came back from a Mediaeval Fayre in Pollensa, one of the Brit-roosts on the island. Isn’t it strange that wherever two or more Brits are gathered together, a fete of some kind is the inevitable result? Mind you, I know this particular group of fund-raisers is a bit long in the tooth to run a marathon for charity, and they are definitely incapable of a sponsored silence. They are going to kill me for that.

The Mediaeval Fayre with a Y is a Christmas phenomenon. Not only does proper spelling get thrown to the winds, but one hint of holly and ivy and normally sensible people will raid the dressing up box. It’s amazing what you can do with a bit of imagination, a dusty old velvet curtain and a dressing gown cord. Nice women, who I usually see in businesslike middle-aged lady attire, were there today working the resulting off-the-shoulder buxom wench look. Well, they are more or less forced to do buxom wench, being, like me, a tad past the nubile wench stage.

To add to the Mediaeval-ness of the occasion there was a set of stocks, containing the vice-chairman, and a hog-roast containing a whole pig. We avoided the pig, which smelt wonderful but looked, well, like a real pig with a stick coming out of its various orifices, front and rear – I couldn’t eat something that looked so uncomfortable – and instead Significant Other joyfully threw wet sponges at the Vice-Chair. He was still beaming, hours later; very therapeutic.

And we bought a hardly used chip-fryer (mediaeval, of course) and a pair of second-hand but really cool linen trousers for next summer and some nice English Christmas cards, and came home though the mountains.

The mountain road between Pollensa and Soller is spectacular, but that does not explain the numbers of people you can find up there at this time of year. There are cars parked everywhere and little knots of solemn men wearing camoflage gear and engaging in deep discussion. Now, if you live here, you have definitely seen those little notices on every single piece of private land that say “coto privada de caza”. Loosely translated this means “Don’t think about setting one foot on my land because I could be out shooting everything that moves, and this means you, especially on Sundays”. Sundays are hunting days here; and on a recent Monday, we watched in mixed horror and amazement as our downstairs neighbour sat in his garden, nonchalantly plucking a plastic bagful of thrushes. That wasn’t quite as bad as the time they skinned a sheep down there, but I won’t go into that. Suffice it to say that Significant Other was utterly fascinated. I had to hide.

But in November, the mushroom is the prey du jour. And all those men are up there with dinky little baskets instead of shotguns. Dinky little baskets do not go with camoflage trousers, by the way, but the hunt is as intense. We know of a certain spot where not only is there the “coto privada de caza” notice, but also one that tells you the dates you may not look for mushrooms on the land. You’d probably get both barrels if you did because mushrooms are so valued here, especially the the Saffron Milk Cap or Esclatasang (translates as “bursts with blood” as it bleeds red sap. See, I don’t just tell stupid jokes. You can learn stuff, too).

There are two calendars here. One is driven by saints and banks, and the other by the seasons. I wish I had the ability to know the exact mushroom weekend, or the one where everyone takes to the hills for a barbie (they do it in winter here; who wants to spend a summer in temperatures in the 90s standing over a charcoal grill?), or know when and where to look for the wild asparagus before some other bugger has nabbed it all.

I’d be able to carry the dinky basket of pride then, and be a proper Mallorcan. As long as I could give the thrushes a miss.

Copyright Diane Foden 2009

Glossy

2009-11-15T22:27:00.000-08:00

I do like a glossy magazine. In the good old days, when I had disposable income, they were one of my little luxuries. I could sigh over beautiful clothes that would never fit me, wonder if the £100 moisturiser would indeed give me a new head and rub the scratchy and, it has to be said, usually disgustingly stinky carboard perfume sample up my arm. Nowadays, having wrinkles, jowls and poverty – all the signs of age, in fact – I can no longer afford to buy magazines. So I am deeply grateful to M, whose flat I look after, and who also has a glossy magazine fetish which she has to deal with by letting me remove them by the ton when she runs out of room.

At present therefore, I am in hog heaven and truffling through last summer’s bounty of glossies. Guess what, faded denim is back. Heavens, going on what the average British tourist wears over here, it’s never been out. I digress, because amongst the ravishing shiny models and mascara ads I also found an article by Polly Toynbee, who in my opinion, should immediately be made a Dame. That’s the problem with being a woman socialist; you have to be nearly dead before the gatekeepers start realising what a great person you are. See Barbara Castle.

Anyway, the article, amongst other things, pointed out that there is still an average 17% difference between men’s and women’s salaries in the UK. I am trying to control my fury over this, given that equal pay legislation has been in force since 1970. Who has been monitoring this situation, for heavens sake? Did you know that the reason behind the various binmen’s strikes presently spreading across the UK is the fact that councils are finally being forced to bring in equal pay for equal work, and their initial response was to cut the binmen’s wages so they could afford to do it? And they wonder why strikes happen.

As you can probably tell, I am a long-standing feminist, having been in my prime in the 60s when it all suddenly kicked off. I didn’t burn my bra, but had I been a tad less well endowed I bloomin’ well would have done. Lord, it hit me like a ton of bricks what sort of system I was actually helping to prop up; I stopped that immediately, and I have been proselytising ever since.

But this week has been a good week for women. Firstly, the Red Arrows Air Display team have finally taken on their first female pilot, Flight Lieutenant Kirsty Moore. Women have been allowed to fly fast jets for the RAF for 20 years now, but it has taken this long for one to break through to the Red Arrows; and the reason given for the long delay? The special flight suits necessary for pilots at high speeds were not suitable for women. Bloody hell, I could have hand-knitted the Bayeaux Tapestry in 20 years. Single handedly. What you needed, boys, was a bit of motivation.

And the second award goes to Georgina Blackwell, who took on a conglomerate of Bellway Homes and their bully-boy barristers in the high court, and won. In a masterpiece of understatement she said “I’m a blonde, 23 year old beautician from Essex. I know it doesn’t look good on paper, but I think they underestimated me”. Bellway Homes had claimed access to their site through the Blackwell’s garden, and covered it in a roof of scaffolding. The fight to stop them was about to cost the Blackwells their home in legal fees until Georgina found something in the deeds (which had been missed by every male lawyer involved) and proved that Bellway had acted illegally. Result!! I wonder who does Bellway’s PR?

And a small “Yay” from me as I have just had an article published. In a glossy magazine; oh joy. You can read it at www.mallorcalifeandstyle.com on page 64.

Go, girls.

Copyright Di Foden 2009

All Souls

2009-11-08T20:54:00.000-08:00

I love getting comments on my posts. Not that I’m needy or anything – well I am, actually - and I know I should just be writing for writing’s sake. Apparently. But I am ridiculously pleased if something I’ve written strikes a chord with a stranger, and they take the trouble to tell me. In my world, writing is for being read. And then I’d like a nice pat on the head, please.

The reason I’m telling you this is because I have just had a very unexpected comment on an old post of mine about cemetaries. (See label Santa Maria del Cami. Or Death) It came from a cemetary lover, who would have liked some more photographs. See, I’m not the only person in the world who likes a good graveyard. It’s my dad’s fault; his favourite pastime when we were on our annual week in the horizontal rain of the Isle of Man – we went to the Isle of Man every year, because that’s what Liverpudlians did in the Fifties – was to take me for a wander round some of the really ancient churchyards over there. Other kids got to go to the penny arcade. I got mossy tombstones. Educational and cheap at the same time, I suppose. But it did ignite a spark of fascination in me for the engraved stories of ordinary dead people.

So, following my rather morose mood of last week (I’m trying to be cheerful, I really am), Significant Other and I decided to take a walk up to our cemetary, and take some shots for Cemetary Lover. It is only about a mile, door to door. This is a good distance for a walk because having walked the two miles there and back, you feel you have done enough to stop at the bar on the way home and have a drink. And now is the best time of year to go and see it because it was All Souls last weekend. Soller is a Trick or Treat-free zone, you will be glad to hear, so the celebrations here centre round the graves of your ancestors and everyone, and I mean everyone in town goes up to the cemetary with enormous armsful of flowers. The results are just stunning and even a week later, the lily-scented air was still full of the hum of opportunist bees looking for a late feed. I am not fond of chrysanthemums, the flower of choice at this time of year, probably because of that earthy, dying vegetation smell, but they do come into their own sitting on a gravestone.

There are some great grave markers too. We particularly admire this mucky angel who appears to be wearing a black fleece over her heavenly robes. And doing that pulling her sleeves over her hands thing.

Mallorcan graves are so upfront. Most of them have a photo of the occupant in pride of place; I can’t help wondering if the people inside suddenly decided one day “Hmm, I really ought to get myself down to Photos Brazil and have the tombstone photo done.” And did they say to the lady in said shop “It’s for the grave, dear. Make it a nice one”? I must say, they do all look as if they are in their Sunday best, with pomaded hair for the old boys, and lace collars and stern expressions for the grannies.

And not one of them is saying “Cheese”.

Winter draws on

2009-11-01T21:46:00.000-08:00

Despite the fact that we are having the loveliest Indian Summer here, I am getting that slightly melancholic Autumn feeling. You know, the days keep drawing in, the clock’s gone back, I’ve swapped the summer fripperies for darker, warmer clothes. Mind you, it has been so balmy, I’ve had to retrieve a few bits. It’s the warm-weather version of “ne’er cast a clout till May is out”. I knew I shouldn’t have done early clout-casting; I’ve now got my mother in my head, nodding sagely and saying “I told you so” in tones of triumph.

We have also been preparing the flat for the cooler weather; well, we got the rug out. It is a new flokati and whilst it looks fabulous and far too Hollywood for us two, it is still at the moulting stage. The fluff is everywhere. I’m quite surprised to find that there is any pile left on the blooming thing and it’s only been down for a week. The moult is piling up against the walls like indoor snowdrifts. It’s quite pretty, but I really should give the brush its annual outing. Can you use Autumn melancholia as an excuse for not doing housework? Oh, I think so.

The poor old cat treats the rug with suspicion as she can’t walk across it properly. Her claws stick to it, you see, and she has to shake the leg at each corner before she makes the next halting step. Hours of innocent entertainment for us two, of course. We want to see if she actually will get them all stuck at once and fall over in an undignified fashion.

And Significant Other’s job has finished for the season, so we are feeling a bit nostalgic about his salary – we loved his salary - and have gone into siege mode. His way of dealing with the siege is to do a budget. I think the rationale behind this is “Right, I’ve got it down on paper, therefore it’s sorted. Make it work, Di.” He is a natural born theorist.

My way is to start saving loose change in a jar, then checking out vegetarian recipes and wondering if I could make a dress out of curtains, a la Sound of Music. I am getting quite good at remodelling my charity shop finds, actually. I just turned a wrapover skirt into a side fastening one because I am of the opinion that wrapover skirts are the work of the Devil. Or designed by a man. I never wore one that I didn’t have to clutch at the crotch (it's the only way I'm ever going to resemble Botticelli’s Venus) in an attempt to preserve my modesty. They are not made for striders like me. I won’t dwell on the sitting down aspect. Nasty. However, I am a bit dischuffed to see how little material there was left from the skirt after the alterations. The original owner would have fitted into the new, me-sized version twice. Dear God, I will have to go on a diet. I am a poverty-stricken fatso.

So that’s not done much for my melancholia. Think I’ll go and eat worms.

Are they fattening?

Father Jack

2009-10-25T21:46:00.000-07:00

The other day, on a certain notoriously narrow (and until recently, two-way) street we have to negotiate on the way to coffee and comfort in the square, Significant Other found himself not only flattening himself against the wall against the approach of the manic four-wheel drive monster bearing down on us, but tripping over a doorstep and backstepping into an open entrada. (Entrada – Big entrance hall with uncomfortable but shiny chairs arranged down each side, and large and coffin-like blanket chests with aspidistras perched on them. Floor made of pebbles or flagstones, all polished. Yes, polished pebbles. Gloomy religeous pictures and photos of stern ancestors on the whitewashed walls. All illuminated by a single 60 watt bulb. It’s a room used mainly to display your excellent taste and the fact you’ve got a bit of wherewithal to the world. They come into their own in the heat – very dark and cool, and at Christmas – glowing fairy lights and the family nativity scene. And for the odd gossip with a neighbour which warrants a perch. But seldom actually used for living in. They are the Spanish equivalent of the front parlour).

The particular entrada that SO fell into is not a great example of the genus, being inhabited by at least three really old people who do actually live in it and are apparently quite happy about being invaded by enormous reversing Scots. They sent us on our way with much beaming and adeos. Their entrada contains the telly, some couches, lots of crochet throws, a tangle of zimmer frames, and an open door onto the street. And Father Jack.

Do you remember the wonderful “Father Ted”? And the dreadful old priest, Father Jack, who lived with him? (here’s a reminder if you don’t http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pL1rOQUVVHw ) Brilliant. Oh, dear, will my RC readers have to go to confession for watching it?

Anyway, Father Jack is apparently alive and well and living in Soller. Well, it’s probably just his doppelganger, but, poor man, we keep expecting him to burst out with “Drink!” “Arse!” or “Feck!”, and have to walk past him, smothering hysteria.

Honestly, when am I supposed to grow up?

Copyright Diane Foden 2009

Purrfect Vision

2009-10-19T06:53:00.000-07:00

I’m not being immodest here, but I have interesting eyes. Check the profile photo if you don’t believe me. People are always commenting on them, which is slightly embarrassing, because I’m never quite sure what to say. “Oh, these old things”, maybe? One of the husbands never quite trusted me because my pupils didn’t dilate when I looked at him lovingly (he had read a bit too much about body language if you ask me. He should have been grateful I was looking at him lovingly). Honestly, if I could make them go all black and swimmy, I would. But I’m stuck with ice blue and pinpoints.

I have collected a few great comments about them over the years; once at a party, a posh bloke with a cut-glass accent said to me “My dear, your eyes are Cambridge Blue”. And a lovely Scouse friend of mine once gazed hard into them and said “Your eyes are exackly the colour of washed-out denim”. However, during a counselling training session which was meant to encourage eye contact, another trainee suddenly burst out with “Your eyes are really intimidating”. Sorry about that, I didn’t realise. I’m stuck here on the inside of them.

In the sixties, I progressed through that Cleopatra eye-liner; I could never get them to match, but hey – knockout effect. And then there were the Twiggy eye-lashes we used to paint on underneath. That was the only way in which I ever resembled Twiggy. I was always more of your Trunky. I still like a good dollop of mascara, the only item of makeup I would need if shipwrecked on a desert island. Vanity, thy name is woman.

However, there is a downside. I am as blind as a bat, and have worn glasses since I was about six. Oh, Lord, those National health mostrosities; pink plastic with springy ear bits that actually drew blood. Or the little round, grey-rimmed John Lennon style. Before the advent of John Lennon. I don’t think so. Obviously, as a style victim from an early age, I was not about to wear either, and thus started a life in soft-focus; a world without edges.

I stumbled through my middle years so used to vagueness and varifocals that I didn’t notice the lights were slowly going out. Eventually it struck me that something was actually wrong – cataracts. So I went and had the operation. Twice. I am still not allowed to talk about it to Significant Other who has to stick his fingers in his ears and go “La La Lala” because he can’t bear the thought of eyeballs and surgical equipment in close proximity. It was actually completely painless and over in about three-quarters of an hour, but I agree with SO; I would have preferred to have been out cold whilst it happened. I can’t even contemplate contact lenses because I can’t stand the thought of messing with my eyes. Still, when it was done, it was like being re-born inside a cartoon. The colours!

And the great thing was, they offered me long or short-sighted implanted lenses. Obviously I went for the long sight. After a lifetime of short sight, I wanted to see down the road. Brilliant. The only problem is, whilst I can now see every tree on the mountain opposite, I can’t see my dinner. Or put on the beloved mascara properly.

But I was doing just fine, until recently, when I noticed a bit of double vision setting in whilst watching telly. Guess what? I have started to squint. Nothing too bad at the moment. I just look like a slightly cross Siamese cat. So now I have glasses for seeing my dinner with, and glasses for looking at the telly with and I am single-handedly keeping a firm of opticians out of the breadline. I have a bagful of blooming glasses and I never have the right pair at the right moment. Lord, don’t you just love the intimations of mortality?

And just to cap it all, the cat seems to have come out in sympathy and I think she’s started to lose her sight as well. Any of her perambulations around the flat are accompanied by soft thuds as she walks into chairlegs, the wall and people’s feet. She headbutted my knee the other day. What does one do with a cat with bad eyesight? Clever as she is, I don’t think she could handle the test card, and cats’ ears are in the wrong place for spectacles.

Perhaps she’s got cataracts. Lord, I should have resisted that one. I'm a bad person.

Crowded House

2009-10-15T05:26:00.000-07:00

The visitor-exchange has taken place (see last post), and all parties seem reasonably content. My Son, the Actor, and his friend Buggerlugs departed for the UK happily if itchily (the mosquitoes have been hell after the recent rain. What are mosquitoes for, for Pete’s sake?) leaving me a present of a beautiful bougainvillea, and our friends Mr and Mrs Allotment arrived bearing a whole Cheddar cheese. I don’t know how they got that past security. It looks like a lump of Semtex. But that’s what friends are for – they recognise a bad case of Ben Gunn Syndrome when they see it.

I did quite well with Buggerlug’s lactose intolerance and vegetarianism. He didn’t stagger away from the table clutching his throat and going “Aargh” once. In fact, he waxed quite lyrical about a couple of my concoctions. As, of course, he should. After all, I am his friend’s mum. That’s a bit like being his mother-in-law.

As a reward for not poisoning him, he and My Son the Actor took me out for lunch. Well, I demanded they treated me, actually. Got a bit fed up of being a careful cook by then. Guide book bit coming up. If you are ever in Mallorca and in the Andratx area, take the short drive to Es Capdella and try Bar Nou. It is a well known secret amongst us more impecunious expats, pelotons of lycra-clad German cyclists with those hoof-like shoes that make them clatter and hobble once de-biked, and many knowing locals. It is an utterly anonymous looking place with a small indoor section and a large outdoor covered terrace. When it gets really full, they shove you in the garage, and stick a cone over the door-stop to prevent you tripping over it. Sophisticated it is not. But the food, which arrives in all circumstances within about five minutes of ordering, is simple, delicious, well cooked and in absolutely enormous portions. If you ask for pork loin, you will get six slices. Ask for a “combinado” (Significant Other’s favourite. He’s a human dustbin) and you will get two fried eggs on the top as well. Fish droop over the edge of the platters like languorous pin-up girls. Each plate also boasts a mound of salad which is a meal in itself. And proper chips. Do not go there expecting anything containing the words “jus”, “drizzle”, or “pan-fried”, or anything arranged in a little heap in the middle of an enormous plate. You’ll get the enormous plate. It’s just that you won’t be able to see it through the food.

We tried to give Mr and Mrs Allotment the full Mallorca experience; well, we didn’t exactly take them to Magaluf for a goldfish-bowlful of Harvey Wallbangers. But, as Mr Allotment is a cricketer himself, (his team once got into in a bit of a brawl with a group of Western re-enactors, and someone tried to hold him up with a toy gun. He reached for the sky. Beer was involved) we did take them to the Saturday match at the Mallorca Cricket Club for sandwiches made of bendy English white sliced. And, of course, a few overs on the Field of Grit.

And for Sunday lunch we went to the Celler at Petra (second guide book bit coming up). Petra is a solid but unremarkable and quiet town; a bit like Bradford with sun. But it has the most lovely Celler restaurant. For my non-Mallorcan readers, Cellers were the places that wine was stored in marvellous old barrels before the advent of modern bottling plants. And sometimes the owners would supply a bit of food when you went in with your jug. Over the years, the food has taken over as the business, but the old barrels and the cool temperatures and vaulted ceilings remain. Lovely.

You enter this Celler at street level through an undistinguished and virtually unsigned door and find yourself at the head of a staircase which leads down to the magnificent eating area. It’s just like looking down into something painted by Breughel. In one corner is the barbeque, smoking away up its own chimney. There is a bar with a little barrel of the (highly recommended) house red. There is an enormous smoking area – hell, this is Spain - and a somewhat smaller non-smoking area placed, strangely, next to the barbecue. The service is friendly and brisk to a degree. The crockery is all terra cotta. The ambience is pure Mallorca – full of families all talking at the top of their voices and cooing over yelling toddlers. Fabulous. Your ears do ring when you leave, though.

Lamb is splendid. Try the barbecued chops or the roast lamb from the kitchen. Huge portions render a starter unnecessary. Just have the bread and alioli; there’s enough garlic in there to see off many vampires.

All my guests have now departed, taking the last of the Summer temperatures with them, and I’m up to my neck in laundry.

But, boy, have I got cheese.

Copyright Di Foden 2009

Late delivery

2009-10-11T21:15:00.000-07:00

I was so overwhelmed with dread regarding the arrival of Buggerlugs, the lactose-intolerant vegetarian (see last post), I neglected to mention that another set of friends was scheduled to arrive a couple of days later, and that there was to be a crossover day. Which is today. This is lovely – I do like a houseful – but I now have more visitors than forks. And chairs. And I can foresee that the towel situation could become a tad stretched. Oh well, if I can manage to feed Buggerlugs, the etc.etc. I am sure I can manage interesting finger food for six, and convince some of us to sit on the floor.

So I’ll be a bit late this week. I’m still waiting for the new visitors to do something entertaining to tell you about. I’ll have to poke them with a stick

Veggie Hell

2009-10-04T22:10:00.000-07:00

I love having visitors, I really do. But I have one arriving this week who is teaching me the meaning of fear. What the hell do I feed a lactose-intolerant vegetarian on? (You know who you are, Buggerlugs). Even if he did airily inform me that goat and sheep milk products are just fine. Well, gee thanks. Despite recently being gifted (Ha!) with the position of website Cookery Editor (No, I’m not telling you the address) I am naught but a simple country girl when it comes to food. You know, nourishing stews made of scrag end, fifty different things to do with economy mince and meals in which I can hide Panga (it’s the cheapest frozen fish in Alcampo; well, everywhere, actually, and it doesn’t taste of anything so you can curry the life out of it. It apparently comes from the Mekong Delta and is a bottom feeding fresh-water creature. Mmm, mud). It’s a good job I really like Buggerlugs, because I am tempted to go hide in the bedroom and let him fend for himself.

But because I am a granny and also a Scouser, and therefore burdened with the title “Salt of the Earth” (Hell, I wonder if he’s low-sodium as well), I will struggle to make palatable and tempting meals for him. Mind you, I will be going down the aforementioned “fifty different things to do with mince” route for the rest of us, and sending him to sit in a corner. And I do have to produce the obligatory pan of Scouse for My Son, the Actor; despite them being long-time friends, and visiting together, nothing gets in the way of Scouse.

The two of them are a prime example of the attraction of opposites. My Son, the Actor, large, chunky Liverpudlian blues-singing carnivore. Buggerlugs, slender vegetarian Wolverhampton magician. Well, the cabaret will be good. I just hope they don’t repeat the fire-eating experiment which went on in my back yard when they were youngsters. I didn’t know about it till my horrible neighbour banged at the door looking really pleased to have found something to complain about. Honestly, what a fuss over a bit of incendiary fun.

I do feel a bit sorry for Buggerlugs, though. How is he going to cope if they go out for a meal? The vegetarian alternative in Mallorca is often a disbelieving look and the offer of chicken. Well, it’s only got two legs, hasn’t it? And it’s white meat, which doesn’t really count. I will have to avoid taking him past the hugely popular local restaurant which does suckling pigs on an outdoor barbeque on Sundays. If you can imagine six of the poor little beggars, nose to tail, on an enormous skewer. Like a shish kebab with feet. Doesn’t stop me eating suckling pig, though.

I have been searching for suitable recipes; you’d be surprised how many veggie concoctions use milk, cheese and butter. So I have stocked up on chickpeas and he will have to live on my infamous chickpea chilli for four days.

That’ll teach him.

PS If you’re interested here’s how to make chickpea chilli

Ingredients
1 onion, chopped
1 courgette, chopped
1 tin chopped tomatoes
1 tin or jar chickpeas
Chilli to taste. We like quite a lot. I use dried.
Seasoning
1 bunch coriander

Fry roughly chopped onion till softened. Add chilli and chopped courgette, and fry for about 5 minutes. Add tomatoes and chickpeas and stew till everything is warmed through and softened but not mushy. Season. Add chopped coriander at the last minute and serve.

PPS. Beware. Roughage and chilli. I say no more.

And whatever comes after PPS Hello to my new followers. You’ve made an old woman very happy. And thank you to Wikipedia for the really interesting picture of chickpeas.

Copyright Di Foden 2009

A Grave Accident

2009-09-27T22:26:00.000-07:00

We have just had to go to Ikea to buy another flokati rug. That was dreadful, as Significant Other regards Ikea as a four-letter word and insists on going in the opposite direction to the arrows (and the massed hordes of dead-eyed shoppers) because it apparently saves time. Pah. For details of the first rug, to which I was quite attached, actually, click label “Winter”. It was a great rug; you could wash it. Well, Significant Other could. I made him jump up and down on it in the bath. It wasn’t worn out, or anything; no, he lost it. He’s the only man I know who could lose a carpet.

I suppose I am being a bit harsh. What actually happened was that he did the prescribed Bathrugdance whilst I was away in the UK then pegged it out on the clotheshorse on the roof. And there came a Great Wind, and Lo, the carpet blew away. He scoured the neighbourhood, but there was no sign of it. I spend many a happy hour wondering how the recipient might feel about having an insulated orange tree. Or if it smothered their cockerel. Or if they might have preferred a kelim. With Aladdin on board.

By the way, I feel that I should point out at this juncture that Significant Other is none other than Stormin’ Norman, your (mostly) accurate local weatherman for Mallorca. I say no more.

Anyway, it does illustrate for my non-Mallorcan readers just what sort of weather gets flung at us here whilst you lot are huddled round Agas toasting teacakes and toes inside insulated houses with central heating. We have to wing winter a bit, using many sweaters and awful butane gas heaters which replace cold with damp like there wasn’t enough already, in the knowledge it’s not going to last much longer. Honestly. We do manage to keep ourselves warm trying to stem the oncoming black tide of mould with scrubbing brush and bleach. Nice.

We have just had the first hint that summer might be coming to an end. Well, even the most insensitive might notice a two-week thunderstorm. Boy, the rain was something, and the local rag has just reported, absolutely deadpan, on the woman who, whilst trying to reach her sister’s niche in the wall behind, fell into a tomb through a hole which opened up under her feet, undoubtedly created by the amount of water which had hit the area. Poor woman. It’s your worst nightmare, isn’t it? She only had a few bumps and bruises, but it took her half an hour to get out. Eeeuw! And her poor old mother was upside wondering what to do. Can you imagine it? Best advert for cremation I’ve ever come across. Mind you, if it had happened to me, my mother would be up there, tapping her foot, spitting on a handkerchief in preparation, and muttering about me making a show of her.

There was a slightly po-faced notice in the offending cemetary about not walking on the tombs, which in some cases is a tad difficult. In our lovely Art Nouveau cemetary, for instance, the paths are made of tombs. What would they expect you to do? A bit of FreeRunning using gravemarkers? If you don’t know what that is, watch this. Lord, if I were sixteen again ….. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RmMPCbRuW2Y … but it’d be dead difficult if you had your granny with you.

Copyright Diane Foden 2009

Shopless

2009-09-20T21:50:00.000-07:00

Christmas is coming. You can tell. Strictly Come Dancing is back.

I love Strictly with its glittery eyeshadow, masses of bling and the promise of ducklings turning into swans. Although I do have reservations about Bruce Forsyth, who has been gifted with the role of National Treasure and seems to think that every feeble joke he makes warrants a standing ovation. You can see him giving the audience the chance to applaud. Embarrassing old fart. And I am glad Linda Bellingham will have the Loose Women vote, because she’s obviously been cast in the “Game Old Bird” role, and we all know how long they last, don’t we? Good Heavens, she shouldn’t be allowed out in public, let alone dance. She is PLUMP!! Look out, you lot. One day, with a great creaking of corsets, we shall rise up …..

But apart from that, I can now look forward to weekend after weekend of wonderful trash telly. And before you know it the final will be here (who do you think so far? That Chris Hollins is looking good to me, but my heart goes out to Gary from Eastenders), and Christmas will arrive with it.

We are going back to the UK for Christmas this year. Last year’s experiment of doing it by ourselves in Mallorca because we were broke was not a huge success and I spent much of the time with a trembly lip. I am of a sentimental nature and despite being a card-carrying atheist, have been known to sob my way round Tesco because they were playing Christmas carols. So this year, broke or no, I have booked our flights on the “Oh, sod it” card and we are going where every sensible person should spend the festive season. England. Nobody does it better. And my dear Scottish friend has lent me her whole enormous and beautiful London house while she goes home to Mum and Hogmanay. This means that I may be able to have Christmas Day with My Son the Actor, who is suffering from the usual thespian non-festive festive season (in the West End, one show on Christmas Eve and two on Boxing Day, for heavens sake). And we’ve really pushed the boat out and hired a car, so we will also be able to see the rest of the family in Whitstable and do a bit of pottering. Can’t wait.

One small drawback. Oh, Lord, Chrismas shopping in Mallorca. What a nightmare. This is a country of corner shops, all very quaint, of course, but one can get a bit impatient looking for the one that sells, for instance, aprons with naked ladies on them or a snazzy gadget for removing the hair from ones’ nostrils. I have started longing for a Kaleidoscope catalogue; you know, full of things you didn’t know you wanted. Monogrammed!

We have just one department store, El Corte Inglese (The English Cut. Hmmm) which is determinedly reminiscent of Grace Brothers. It’s “Are You Being Served?” in Spanish, with a layout to rival a souk. And the local supermarkets are no better – a complete aisle of tomatoes in all their many and various incarnations, and another of every style of tinned tuna under the sun. But can you get Tikka Masala curry paste or Kaffir Lime leaves? Or porridge? Don’t be daft.

Added to these problems is the fact that everything I buy has to fit into our luggage allowance. Please God, don’t let the littlest grand-daughter (aka Little Madam) pick something made of flimsy plastic in a metre-square box. She will, if only to see how much chaos she can create. And I will have to brave Toys ‘r Us, the name of which irritates me even before I’ve set foot through the door into pink plastic hell. I never patronised Spud U Like for exactly the same reason, and at least that promised fibre.

So I have to be a bit adventurous with my gift buying. I never miss a charity bazaar (flimsy little doodad for Daughter Dear obtained yesterday, or a boot sale (original pastel sketch of Dartmoor last year for Son, and the year before and also original, a beautiful old costume design for Dinsdale Landon in Richard the Third.

But it is all a bit nerve-wracking because you can’t order good stuff to be at a boot sale waiting for you when you need it. You just have to keep trying and sometimes I go for weeks having achieved nothing but an allergy to lilac polyester and an aversion to religeous kitsch.

I wish I was rich.

Image of "The Boot Sale" by Beryl Cook

Copyright Diane Foden 2009

Bang

2009-09-13T21:48:00.000-07:00

My usual post-Carnival low was enlivened this week by a blowout at speed, which happened, as did our last puncture, just as we left the tunnel under the mountain. I am beginning to believe that there is some sort of malevolent spirit under there, complete with long pointy fingernails and demonic laughter, who has a down on gently aging Ford Fiestas.

This incident was a real doozie, complete with Roy Lichstenstein-style “Kablooie”. We emerged from the tunnel looking like two startled lorises, and scraped to a halt on a patch of thankfully convenient waste ground. The explosion managed to blow not only the tyre, but the protective lining of the wheel arch so it dangled in a way which prevented Significant Other from changing the tyre easily. It also bent the bodywork at the front. Oh, and I forgot to mention, it was searingly hot and we had a month’s shopping, including the frozen food, in the boot. Looking back I can see these were not good conditions for maintaining equilibrium and good temper. And he didn’t.

The wheel arch lining was finally removed using brute force and much profanity, and then the spare tyre had to be retrieved from the impossible place in which it is stored, underneath the boot. Which was full of the shopping. Which had to be removed and dumped in the heat. Which was when he discovered that the spare had been fastened in by Godzilla the mechanic after our last puncture. I think this was when he demanded a bottle of water from the shopping and emptied it over his head, forgetting it was of the lemon flavoured variety. He then had lemon-flavoured sweat running into his eyes and had to take off his already soaked shirt to wipe himself sort of clean. He did eventually manage to free the imprisoned tyre and swap it for the exploded one. My goodness, the inside of a tyre is interesting, isn’t it? There was all this stuff protruding from it which looked just like an Aran sweater made of wire. Fascinating.

Anyway, we thumped the body panel back into place, re-packed the shopping and set off, only to stop within seconds because there was this very scary scraping noise caused by SO forgetting to re-fasten the thing that holds the spare in place. With this corrected we set off down the twisty road into town. Luckily, our lovely garage is at the bottom of this road, and we just made it to the left turn when the spare-tyre thing dropped off again and we scraped into the arms of Tofol, the only second-hand car salesman you WOULD buy a car from.

He took one look at SO, by this time purple, and led him to the water fountain. Lovely man. He then lent us a spare, promised new tyres, and sent us on our way, clucking.

All this has obviously had an adverse effect on SO’s notoriously short temper, so it was a bad night for the cicada to reappear. Now, we don’t mind the song of crickets which is restricted to the daytime and pine-forests here. But cicadas are another matter. I have never heard anything like it; it sounds like somebody grating a hampster. And it goes on nightly for hour after hour after hour without a break. And then there is a break, which is even worse, because you think it’s over. And then it starts up again. There is just one of the little buggers, up a tree almost directly underneath our bedroom window, and it was all too much for SO.

He went down three floors in the lift, and kicked the tree.

PS Roy Lichtenstein image from the Tate Gallery (Estate of Roy Lichstenstein). Loris and cicada on a tyre (unbelieveable!) from Wikipedia.

Carnival

2009-09-06T07:45:00.000-07:00

The Carnival is over; I can tell. I am back in Soller and I’ve just taken the fabulous white linen suit (see label “White Linen”) up to the dry-cleaners. This is a triumph of hope over experience. Everything I take there disappears into cyberspace for a three week period. You would understand if you saw the shop; it’s about the size of a cigarette kiosk and you have to pick your way in over squishy quilt mountains and the sheets of every hotel in town. Things do eventually reappear, beautifully cleaned, but it’s nerve-wracking. Mind you, the Dry-Cleaning Lady did fall on the suit with lust in her eyes – it is very pretty – so maybe she will look after it this time.

For those who don’t know me, I have just been back to the UK to perform with my band, the London School of Samba, in the Notting Hill Carnival. I physically left the School three years ago to start my new and lazy life in Mallorca (mentally – never), and I am very disgruntled (what’s gruntled?) to find they are managing perfectly well without me. You’d have thought they could have just wobbled a bit. But no, on they trundle. And what is more, they go from strength to strength. How could they? I wanted to be indispensable.

This year’s Carnival at Notting Hill was a particular landmark in the life of the school as it was our twenty-fifth anniversary. Good grief, that’s a whole grown-up lifetime. And I was to be part of the School’s first-ever Velha Garda – Old Guard – the members who have belonged to the school for ever, and who have been faithful servants in the past. It was my twentieth Carnival; I hold the record. I’ll have to keep going till I pop my clogs in case someone catches up with me, and robs me of the only thing I’ve ever been best at in my life.

This was also a special Carnival because we had managed to fund the visit of a group of Sambistas from our patron Samba School in Rio de Janeiro, Mocidade Independente de Padre Miguel (the Independent Youth of Father Michael. No, I don’t understand, either). For us it was like being touched by angels. Real sambistas, who play and dance because that is what life is in Rio. Musicians and dancers whose abilities had been absorbed through the skin since birth. And they liked us. And even seemed to think we weren’t too bad. For gringos. Result. Here’s Mestre Robson presenting our Mestre Fred with a banner; he cried.
It was odd and a bit sad for me during the weekend prior to Bank Holiday Monday. It used to be my place to run the centre we use as a base; but now I am a just a person who sits in the yard, trying to keep out of the way. God, what a saddo. However, sitting in the yard does have its advantages. You get to sit next to Carol, the most chilled security guard in the world, and you get kissed to death by people who thought they had seen the last of you. And you see Emilce, who has been around even longer than me, and is also a yard-sitter. When I first started with the school, she scared the life out of me. She defines feisty, and I (mostly unsuccessfully, it has to be said) had to get her subs off her. Boy, did I get shouted at. In Portuguese, because she is a proper Brazilian. But over the years, we have grown to love each other and she is now virtually the Samba School’s mascot. Things will be OK as long as Emilce is there.

And as well as the kissing and the people, if you sit in the yard, you get to watch them build the float. This is how to do it. Take one lorry. Build a two-storey scaffolding framework on it. On the truck bed, mount a generator about the size of a small ice-cream van and a heap of mixing desks and several sound guys. Over them, build a boarded out second floor strong enough to take several musicians, two singers and all their instruments and mikes. And a mountain of amplifiers. Make four platforms jut out from the sides, each strong enough and safe enough to hold a bikini-clad dancer. Add another over the cab to take the star float dancer. Decorate as required. This will take you until the small hours and you then have to drum for hours and look wonderful immediately afterwards.
This is what can be done; Robson the Brazilian Mestre seems to like it. And apart from a small incident with a parked police car (we had to dismantle the decoration on the road and replace it when we got a bit of space. I think the police car was relatively unscathed) it was massively successful. Easy Peasy. Not.

And on the day and on the road? Well, it all passed in a blur of laughter and tension and music and crowds and I felt like a million dollars surrounded by the people I love and being applauded by a multi-coloured audience. This video of us passing the judges might give you some idea of why I keep going back for more. It's worth a watch, honest.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IIURjTbgO3w

The costumes were all hand-made by the members of the organisation (this year we reckon we made over a thousand pom-poms alone. This was a pom-pom heavy parade. Serious business, pom-poms; you had to ruffle and trim them to within an inch of their lives. We were all on the verge of hurling them by Bank Holiday Monday) with invaluable help from a few art and fashion school interns who we work like cart-horses for months, and whom we cannot afford to pay except in the odd free drum or dance workshop. We love them, though.

That’s me, thankfully at the far end of the line of old gits near the front, not looking in the right direction and trying desperately not to show my feet were already hurting.

You might like to know that I had to walk back to the centre shoeless and utterly uncaring of the police-horse poo.

Stop Press
We found out yesterday that WE WON the Samba Section and came third overall against 80 other groups of all types.

I am so happy and proud, I could burst.

PPS Oh all right, here's some girls in feathers. And the purple girl designed the parade!

Update

2009-08-30T13:35:00.000-07:00

Just a line to say I'll be on the road at Notting Hill Carnival tomorrow with my band, the London School of Samba. Tonight the float is at crisis point, the costumes are almost made, the organisers are starting to crack. Situation normal.

I'll post on my return. When my brain has reassembled. xx

St Bartomeu

2009-08-25T02:56:00.000-07:00

The second biggest Fiesta of the year has been in progress for a week now. It all starts off very refined – exhibitions of watercolours, the launch of a new book, the petanque heats – but by the time the last weekend is reached, the proper rowdiness starts, and the sober citizens of Soller can finally celebrate the saint, for whom our church is named, in a suitably noisy fashion.

Friday - Nit Joves
I’m afraid I can only comment on the Young People’s Night from the safe distance of the bus pass and the bedroom. Although it might be easier to cope with if I actually did go up the Square at midnight and boogie till 6.00am. Nit Joves are the noisiest events you can imagine, outside of a short nuclear war.

Young Sollerics are the nicest and most civilised folk; the sort of threatening mayhem I left London to avoid just doesn’t occur here. I think it may be something to do with the fact that they are allowed to go completely bonkers on regular occasions, usually, strangely enough, in the name of some Martyr or other. Actually, poor old Bartomeu probably deserves a bit of a do; he was flayed alive and often pictured lugging his own skin around like a travel rug with a face. But the kids certainly give him a party. The noise is indescribable, and I live a ten minute walk from the Square. However, the adults just seem to accept the appalling noise-for-a-night as a good trade-off for peace the rest of the year.

Saturday – Ballroom Dancing in the Square
Saturday night was much more suited to old fogeys like Significant Other. And small children, browsing the stalls for that perfect bag of firecrackers, or a torso-sized cloud of candy floss or the best plastic sword; Mallorcan tots have the ability to stay awake all night and remain sweet. Sounds were supplied by a nice little duo with keyboards who would be called Bert Smith and his Music back home at the British Legion club. Middle aged couples gravely danced round the fountain in the balmy night. Including the two rotund old ladies, remarkably light on their feet, who bounced gently off each other like a couple of well buffered dinghies. I couldn’t get Significant Other up for a stately bop. He doesn’t smooch properly (far too tense, and thinks everybody’s looking at him. They are), he Dad-dances and since I pointed out this fact in my usual tactful fashion he’s given up altogether. Shot myself in the dancing foot there.

Sunday – Caparrots, Escacs and Jazz
The day started with the Chess championship in the Carrer de Luna. Chess is called Escacs (Bless you) here; I’m immature enough to be amused by that.

A little later the Caparrots showed up. I’m a bit unsure about the Caparrots, although the Big Head thing is amazingly common in celebrations and Carnivals the world over. This little troupe, far from being full of representations of Mallorcan folklore, contains Porky Pig and at least two of the Seven Dwarves. But they put on a brave little display. I just wish they had worked out a way of wearing the heads without having to hold them on. They must weigh a ton and they wobble alarmingly. They do try and amuse the tinies by tickling them with little brooms. On this occasion they managed to leave a swathe of horror-stricken toddlers behind them. Those kids are going to grow up having issues around papier-mache.

The day was rounded off with the appearance of the Soller Music School’s Big Band Jazz Band. All teenagers, they played very correct interpretations of Pink Panther, the Shadow of Your Smile, and Moon River, all in exactly the same tempo. The audience (and it was huge. There must have been at least a couple of thousand people in the Square) dabbed its’ collective eyes and applauded them to the heavens. It really is like being part of an enormous warm family living here.

Monday – Carrefoc!
The best night of the week is Monday. This year we had a concert of three town bands in the square. I don’t understand why it is that British brass bands make you want to march, whilst Spanish ones make you want to rend your clothes and weep. I have to give a special mention to the Soller Municipal band with, last night, over 100 players (I may be biased, but don’t you think that’s remarkable in a town of this size?) who played amongst other things I didn’t recognise, a 15 minute tone poem based on African rythyms. I was a solid tower of goose-pimples.

But it has to be said that the main event is the Carrefoc, which is best translated as “fire in the streets”. We have a group in town (there are groups for everything here) called the Esclatabutzes which is dedicated to the making of mayhem whilst dressed as devils (dimoni), running with fireworks, fire breathing and some very heathen drumming. It's a damn sight more interesting than the Boy Scouts in my book.

They have recently expanded into film-making. They choose the most gothic and gory stories from local history and transfer them, quite well actually, on to film which is projected on to a large screen on the Square. They then continue the action of the film using the live actors that you have just seen on the screen. Last night’s was a classic; started with a screamy birth and continued with the successful seduction of a very cute priest. The seduction scene was greeted with uproarious laughter and wolf-whistles, as the actors are all locals and known to a large proportion of the audience. Never mind, the heroine got her own back; she had been rigged up with some sort of pump and when she came on the stage for her live bit, she projectile vomited an enormous gush of fake blood over the audience. It was like that bit in “Little Britain”, only better, because it went on for at least a couple of minutes. Not noted for their subtlety, the Esclatabutzes.

Then comes the bit everyone has been waiting for; the Church apparently bursts into flames and on come the dimonis with their pitchforks full of catherine wheels to spray the audience with sparks. And the skeleton horse with its rider belching fire. The atmosphere is charged with something not quite proper, and gangs of youngsters with wet scarves covering their faces and heads appear out of the crowd to run under the fireworks. It’s the nearest Soller ever gets to hoodies. But I think it’s also a rite of passage for the kids – they will never forget the year they were brave enough to run with the dimonis.

I cannot hope to describe the atmosphere of a Carrefoc. And even the photos I tried to take don’t do it. Suffice it to say that a decent dose of unholy glee does one the world of good.

PS. For my Samba friends, look what turned up in the Square recently. Capoeiristas!

Late

2009-08-23T05:20:00.000-07:00

Oh, dear, my life is now so blog-driven I feel I should apologise for the small hiccup in the normal one-post-a-week-on-Monday schedule. In my mind, you see, you're all panting with anticipation for the latest burblings of Di. Self-deluding, or what?

I can't do it on time this week, because what I'm writing about will still be happening on Monday evening. And then there's the packing and panicking about going back to the UK on Wednesday. So watch this space, and don't get fed up and disappear. You know how needy I am.

Mothers

2009-08-16T22:02:00.000-07:00

I have been watching “Who do you think you are?” the BBC programme which investigates the family histories of well known people. I have had to put a brake on my investigations of my own family; it’s a bit much spending money on credits to buy certificates and look at old census returns when you are reduced to finding even more ways to stretch mince.

Funnily enough, they couldn’t do National Treasure Sir Michael Parkinson as his ancestry is so deeply boring it wouldn’t have made watchable telly. I have some sympathy with him; mine’s a bit like that. He had miners. I have generations of agricultural labourers (known to us genealogists as Ag Labs) plus a line of Liverpool stonemasons who lived around Scotland Road for four generations. I’m proud of that. It makes me a real Scouser. They were Clarks and the other side were Carters. That helped, as you can imagine. Oh, to be a Featherstonehaugh. Or even a Cholmondely.

They did do Kim Cattrell of Sex and the City, though. She is of Liverpool stock too, and she, her mother and two aunties finally found out what had happened to her grandfather –their father - who left the family in utter poverty (and we’re talking bedbugs and malnutrition during a depression in Liverpool here), and started a new life and family apparently without giving them another thought. You do have to be careful what you wish for, don’t you?

It is odd that I feel so Liverpudlian. My maternal line hails from Leicestershire, Lincolnshire and Nottinghamshire. Their very slow transit across the Victorian and Edwardian eras and the flatlands of the English midland counties would have been in pursuit of farm work. I visited my grandfather’s village, Scredington in Lincolnshire a couple of years ago. Lord, what a remote little place. A church, a scatter of terraced cottages (I think the one the Carters lived in was still there) and from horizon to horizon endless bleak winter cabbage fields. Perhaps I should not have gone in December, and on my birthday, but I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. This photo shows one of the Mrs Carters at Scredington village shop. We are not sure which one she is, but she is my relative.

I could certainly understand, given the size of the cottages and the size of the family, how so many of them came to suffer and eventually die from TB. Strangely enough, I appear to have what they call “closed TB”, which was discovered whilst I was working with young refugees from many countries (see post “The curse of the Drinking Classes, March 2009. Click on label “work”). I felt like Typhoid Mary for a good while after that shock. But don’t worry, I’m not infectious. It’s a bugger, isn’t it? Other people get a silver spoon.

My mother came to Liverpool to help set up a tobacco factory, after working in that trade in Nottingham. A lifelong non-smoker, she handrolled cigarettes for a living and entertained me with the tale of Latakia, the Turkish tobacco which is fermented under camel dung. Until she died, she sat on buses handrolling the tickets into perfect cylinders.

My paternal grandmother is the one I am fascinated by. Her name was Lizzie Calcutt and she was born in Bloxham, Oxfordshire to Michael Calcutt and Catherine Heath of Charlton Kings in Gloucestershire. Yes, another set of Ag Labs. I visited Bloxham on the same ancestor hunt as the sad Scredington trip, and what a difference. Bloxham is a picture postcard, thatch-roofed Whimsey-on-Wye stereotypical English village.

Gorgeous. So what made Lizzie, at 18 (and her slightly older sister Amy) turn up in Liverpool? I suppose you can’t eat the scenery, eh?

This picture shows her, probably in her thirties, with James Alexander Clark, my grandfather, and her almost complete family. One more came after. The little blonde boy with the big collar in the front is my dad Henry, invariably called Harry. It looks like a happy family, doesn’t it? No. Rumour has it that James Alexander, the fourth generation stonemason, was a bit of a monster and the boys were scared of him. My dad seemed to cut all relations with his family with his second marriage (to my mother). And look closely at Lizzie’s hands, already showing the gnarled knuckles of arthritis. My dad developed rheumatoid arthritis as well, aged only 27, and died from a perforated ulcer caused by the amount of cortisone he was given to control it. Aged 56. I was thirteen. Ah, the Good Old Days.

Although, as with all my grandparents, I never met Lizzie, she is my hero. She must have been a clever and resourceful woman because although she was illiterate, she ran two businesses, a shop and a door to door fruit and veg service. She could obviously count, then. My dad used to drive the cart (and the bad-tempered horse called Peggy) when he was unemployed.

I wonder what traits I have inherited from my forebears. I don’t think I am very much like my mum who never recovered from the poverty-stricken and probably fairly loveless childhood spent with granny after her parents both succumbed to TB within a few months of each other. In adulthood, she “kept herself to herself”, and “knew her place”. She told me calmly that she only married my Dad out of a sense of duty. He had been left with my two teenaged half-sisters to rear. It couldn’t have been easy for any of the protagonists, could it?

She had a cliché for every occasion, and made it her business to ensure I didn’t “get above myself”, once telling me, aged 15 to “put some makeup on. We might meet some of my friends.” She was desperate for me to pass the 11-plus and go to grammar school, which I duly did; but she seems not to have considered the natural follow-on of university, because I was told aged 16 that I had to leave school and start bringing in some money. I probably had to, actually, as she was a ten-bob widow. But if I ever said anything she considered “clever”, I got “You and your grammar school education”. She would punish me by not talking to me for a week at a time. My politics were decided the day she told me that the Tories were “natural leaders”.

It wasn’t an easy relationship, though I will say that in later life when both she and I had mellowed, she got herself a great old boyfriend, felt love, and said to me “You were right, Our Diane”. I will treasure that till I die. I now realise I have been looking for her approval all my life.

She was a smashing Nana, though, and both my kids loved her and her great cooking. I will never be able to make pastry like her, or wrap a parcel, or back a book, or sing “Paddy McGinty’s Goat”.

One day, Daughter Dear and My Son, the Actor, are going to start blogging. Lord, let them be kind.

I do try.

Nothing much happened this week

2009-08-09T21:39:00.000-07:00

It’s been terribly hot; so hot all I wanted to do was curl up on the couch and whimper. But when you do that, the couch/skin interface heats up and sweats, so it’s a bit counterproductive. I dabbed at the housework, but if it didn’t get done before 9.30 it didn’t get done. Slut. I did manage to feed Significant Other a bit, seeing he’s out there killing dinosaurs. Salad. And even that made me sweat. Luckily, he’s impressed by the fact that there’s a bit of home made potato salad on the plate, along with the stuff you just organise into a green heap. Bless. So I’ve fulfilled my “Good Plain Cook” criteria for the time being, with Special Mention for bravery. Well, I had to boil potatoes and it’s hot.

The heat has brought out the dragonflies in force. Beautiful but aggressive little devils, they patrol columns of midges, neatly picking off the slackers. They are so macho, they have also been known to take on our car (well, it is only a Fiesta) if we dare to mistake their territory for a bit of road. I have seen them squaring up like tiny little kamikaze pilots – you know, cross face, helmet, goggles, scarf streaming in the wind, shouting “Banzai” in dragonfly, and flying straight at the windscreen. I’m ashamed to say that I duck every time it happens.

Talking of great flying manoeuvres, we had a bat with obviously faulty radar zoom into our living room recently. When it realised what it had done, you could hear the screech of air-brakes as it came to a mid-air standstill and threw the best u-ey you’ve ever seen. I swear you could see the skid marks.

Oh, yes, and we’ve had an attack of Big Foot in the Sky. My regular readers will know I don’t do religion, but you do have to have something to blame in times of need. I have that Big Foot that used to be part of the Monty Python titles. It comes down and squishes me. Have a look at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tq37WSg9ESg in case you’ve forgotten. Big Foot tends to happen in groups of three and in this case it was all car related. New shock absorber, brakes and as soon as we’d dealt with them, a new tyre following a dramatic puncture inside the Soller tunnel. We came out with teeth bared, going “flic, flic, flic” and limped round the roundabout only to be halted by a young Guardia Civil officer (in Spain, you know you’re getting old when the Guardia Civil have bum fluff) who was apparently keeping watch over the Alfabia Gardens and a restaurant which was closed for the holidays. Significant Other coped personfully with his first Spanish tyre-change, despite having to compromise his cool summer outfit with the obligatory high-visibility jacket, and we made it to our destination. My hair was on backwards, though. The air-con has also broken down and we have to have the windows open at all times. Great look.

We’ve been out for a couple of runs, actually; things feel better (apart from the hair department) when you’ve got a bit of moving air. We went to look at Arenal, which is basically a mile long strip of high-rise hotels and beer-gardens. Definitely not “the Other Mallorca”. It has the loveliest long, flat and clean white sand beach, however, and I suppose if you want beer and sunbathing and thousands of other people, it’s perfect. But if you go a little further out along the coast, there is a series of little rocky places (Cala Blava onwards) with people fishing and swimming and no hotels. There are also a lot of very pleasant urbanisations, if you like that sort of thing. We decided to pick our way along the low cliffs for a while – the rocks are interesting - and amazingly enough, stumbled over a middle aged couple who seem to be living in a little cave. They were very pleasant, given that our route took us straight through their patio. You could tell they were settled in for the summer, at least. As brown as berries, they had a palm tree in a pot and an only slightly beat-up parasol outside the cave. And a grubby day-bed sort of thing. They gave us a smile and a “Bon Dia” and we went on our way.

Talking about coastlines, I think this is an apocryphal story, but I really want it to be true. The beautiful coastal area of Mallorca is on the whole, difficult to farm, so boys were left the good land towards the interior, and the coastal strip was left to the girls. Then came tourism. Voila! Lots of rich ladies who now hold the purse strings. Nice.

Anyway, we headed homewards via the Cellar Bar at Randa, an island institution. This place is always busy because it does Mallorcan soul food for very little money. You can get pigeon wrapped in cabbage, rabbit with onions, and the essential caracols. Snails, spelt in the unchanging menu “sanils”, to help the poor confused English. It also has the obligatory grumpy waiter; just one, the rest do smile if they have the time. And in winter, they have a huge open fire with logs crackling. Great place.

The Boss chatting up the customers

And today, I went along with Significant Other as he visited clients in Banyalbufar. Just look at these grapes.

I shouldn’t whinge, should I?

White Linen

2009-08-02T21:43:00.000-07:00

In one month it will be August Bank Holiday in the UK, which means NOTTING HILL CARNIVAL, and I am already ridiculously over-excited. For those of you who don’t know, I am a member of the London School of Samba , and have appeared with them at Carnival in various guises for the past couple of decades. We all missed one year to do the Edinburgh Festival, and I missed last year because, due to the Credit Crunch, I couldn’t afford to get home. It would have been my 20th Carnival. It nearly killed me; I had to avoid the television in case I saw any clips. Unfortunately, I caught 20 seconds of the Panorama (pan band competition) and burst into tears. Try http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S71sGOOpmrM for a great example of pan music.

So this year, I have thrown caution to the winds and my ticket was booked using the “Oh, what the hell” gambit. Well, why sit here miserably watching the value of my savings decrease when I could just spend it and make some memories. The results on my reserves will be the same, and at least I will be able to sit here afterwards with a smile on my face. Have a look at this and you’ll see why - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aLX04ldmO7E – this is a video of our drummers and dancers taken recently at a festival in Germany. At Carnival we will have 80-odd drummers and an awful lot more feathers. And a tad more flesh.

Just let me tell you a bit about Carnival, which is actually a fascinating phenomenon. The majority of the world’s Carnivals take place on Shrove Tuesday (February), to mark the last bit of hedonism and excess before Lent. Therefore Mardi Gras – Fat Tuesday. However, the roots of Notting Hill Carnival lie in the aftermath of the Notting Hill race riots which occurred in 1958. Black Activist Claudia Jones (who had been given asylum in Britain after being deported from the USA in the chaos around McCarthyism) organised events to help the British African-Caribbean community re-establish and display their cultural identity. By 1964, the first pan-band to be heard on the streets of Britain was playing in an embryonic Carnival. February is a bit challenging in the UK, so pragmatically the Carnivalists now use August Bank Holiday Monday when at least they stand a chance of sunshine, and your feathers don’t get wet. There’s nothing more bedraggled than a wet passista. Here’s a nice group of dry ones, but you can imagine, can’t you?

Four lovely LSS dancers

The immense spectacle of Carnival in Rio de Janeiro grew from the traditions of the Portuguese colonists and the African slaves they owned. On the eve of Lent, the Portuguese would feast and hold grand balls in a last blowout before their period of denial. The slaves took on the cast-off finery and some of the dances of their masters and for just one day a year were allowed to have some fun. The samba music of Rio Carnival as we know it now came into being at the beginning of the 20th Century and sprang straight from the favelas (slums) of Rio, using rhythms which can still be recognised in African drumming, and instruments which could be improvised from the average kitchen. It is poor people’s music. And on the whole, the Samba Schools who make up the parade are still peopled by favela dwellers.

Our group in Britain was for many years the only band parading in the Brazilian tradition at Carnival, and we understandably encountered a fair bit of suspicion in the early days. Now, however, we are an established and popular part of the Carnival and regularly appear within the top ten bands.

This year is our 25th anniversary. I can’t believe it. The group has been my life for more than 20 years, and I think I am now their longest-standing fairly active member. I can no longer join the bateria (band of drummers), because it’s a bit difficult making the weekly rehearsals when you live in Mallorca. So for the last couple of Carnivals, I have danced baiana. Wearing a crinoline is lovely; you can swirl and look really graceful and you get lots of fresh air round your bits.

But this year, I will be part of the Velha Garda (the Old Guard), a group consisting of the Oldies but Goodies. Traditionally, the Velha Garda wears pure white, with a trilby or panama and perhaps the odd trimmings in the School colours. It is a position of huge respect and I am thoroughly delighted to have finally made it. Well, everyone thinks you’re great and it’s easier on the feet.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9g42hwj_yCk This is the Velha Garda of Mangueira, the oldest and most respected Samba School in Rio. God, I wish we could sing like that. Just watch the first bit unless you enjoy documentaries in Portuguese.

Anyway, the only problem has been the white suit. Well, I suppose it wasn’t too great a problem, but the white clothes here tend to be a bit Ibiza, and I don’t do cheesecloth and raggedy hems. Or peasant necklines. Make me look like two watermelons trying to escape from a string bag. So there has been a bit of panicking round Palma’s middle-aged-lady-shops looking for the perfect bit of tailored white linen. No chance. The clothes I found were for well-coiffed Spanish matrons to go to church in. Lots of stiff lilac and pushy florals. I began to yearn for a Marks and Sparks, a place in which I never shopped back in Blighty. I did find a shop that sold nothing but white clothes, and nearly bought a tunic and trousers combo which, on reflection, would have made me look like Wee Willie Winkie. Or in my case, Whopping Willie Winkie. All it needed was a candlestick.

Luckily, whilst doing the Big Shop at our nearest hypermarket, I stumbled upon the perfect outfit. It’s a linen skirt suit with white on white embroidery. And cut-work. And just a tad of appliqué and a smidgen of lace. Nothing too showy, you understand. Well, perhaps it is. But I’ve been down the register office twice and never worn the Full Monty. It’s finally my time for the meringue.
Watch out, Ladbroke Grove. Big Nana’s on her way.

Mostra

2009-07-26T21:27:00.000-07:00

I met one of my followers on the square in Soller this week. Isn’t that lovely? Her name is Randi and she is Norwegian. I really want to follow her blog, the name of which – Randi Tanker - makes me smile. But it is in Norwegian, of course, so I have to satisfy myself with looking at the pictures and admiring all the little circular accents with which written Norwegian is decorated. She, naturally, has good English. What is the matter with us Brits? The ability of other European countries to cope with our language whilst we settle for shouting clearly in our Mother tongue is an embarrassment. Anyway, she follows me because she is a Sollerophile, spending her summers in the Port, and my ramblings keep her in touch with the town during the cold Northern winters. She Googled Soller and got me. Lucky girl.

Via blog comments we had agreed we must meet; but in the way of Soller, we just bumped into each other in the Square. I was rushing home from the Doctor’s after my blood test results. Everything’s fine, apparently, except my triglycerides (?) reading which is showing a bit too much evidence of my love of a butty. For Randi, that’s a Liverpool sandwich. Bread is my downfall, and my bloodstream is on the way to being mobile black pudding. How the hell am I supposed to live without bread? I’ll have to take my cheese naked.

I digress. I do that, have you noticed? Randi and I had a nice chat, ranging from children and grandchildren to the impossibility of finding a reasonable white linen suit that fits a Juno-esque figure and that you can’t see your knickers through (there will be more of this in the next few weeks. It’s important) and will no doubt see each other again. This more than makes up for whoever it was that dumped me the other week. God, 63 and still getting dumped. And it wasn’t really insecurity that made me transport all my facebook followers onto the site, just to show that I do still have friends. Honest.

Anyway, back to the Square. Apart from Randi, we really have had the world and his wife here for the past week. We have just had the “Mostra”, Soller’s very own folkdance festival, and town has been full of exotic creatures with flashing eyes. I have to admire Soller’s cultural life, by the way. There can’t be many small towns (pop. 12,000ish) that have a silver town band with at least 70 members, and a group of xirimiers (traditional pipers) and a music school and folk dancers.

The Mostra is a real highlight. As a person who was involved in trying to fund a Carnival group in London, I have nothing but admiration for the Magnific Ayuntamente (tell it like it is!) of Soller for the effort that must go into funding and organising this event. This year, we had groups from Ireland, Bosnia, Turkey, Valencia, Mexico and Cuba. I saw the Bosnians in mufti shopping down the Carrer de la Luna. They were all, boys and girls, nearly six feet tall, with pale, farseeing eyes and hair the colour of hazelnuts. It was like encountering a group of elves; if you have seen Legolas in the film of “The Lord of the Rings”, you will know what I’m talking about. They protruded through the top of the crowd of little Mallorcan shoppers like slender masts.

All the groups were great in their own way, although I must admit to not really liking Irish dancing, despite Michael Flatley’s attempts to sex it up. I think it’s those ridiculous ringlets they make the girls wear. They have to buy them, you know. They are not the work of mother with the curling rags. And Significant Other, not being a dancing sort of chap, finds the folk variant a bit “quaint”, and was heard muttering something about Smurfs which I won’t repeat. He shut up when the Cubans came on, however. Boy, what a show. Lovely, lithe, multicoloured dancers and singers, and drums we recognised from our own involvement with Latin (Brazilian) percussion. But the highlight was the Maypole.
Before I speculate how this got into a Cuban performance, I must just tell you about another strangely out-of-place encounter I had with a maypole. My last husband and I were on holiday in Jamaica with six other friends and all being interested in World music, we decided to go to an open-air folk festival in the next county. It was a blast, and we, being the only white folks there, were a sensation. We sat fascinated through the batty-riding (I won’t even attempt to explain), and the Ska competition that was won by the wrong person (the audience chose him, but the organisers weren’t best pleased, and kept demanding a re-clap). And I treasure the memory of the MC, faced with the fact that the moon had not yet risen above the bowl in the mountains where it was all going on, had commandeered the services of a small boy to hold up a bedside lamp (approximately 60 watts, by the look of it), till the moon arrived, yelling “Hol’ up de light. Hol’ up de light” if the lad’s arm wavered.

The most awaited item of the night, however, was trumpeted as “The Mirple Dance”. We were dying to see this, never having heard of the like before. Then out came a team of little girls in flouncy party dresses, and a Maypole. Go on, say “Maypole” with a Jamaican accent. See?

We imagine that the tradition had come in with the dreadful English slave masters. Maybe those far off slave children had been taught it to entertain, or maybe they just appropriated the tradition as their own. In Brazil, the same sort of thing happened when the slaves took on the clothing and some of the dance steps of their Portuguese masters, mixed them with African rhythms, and Carnival was born.

I can only think that the Cuban maypole dance had been borrowed from the island next door. But isn’t it great to find something that illustrates our similarities rather than our differences?

Deia Days

2009-07-19T21:43:00.000-07:00

I hope you like the new profile photograph. A certain wag of my acquaintance has already pointed out that it sums me up perfectly. I must admit, the “nose buried in a bucket of wine” look is quite flattering, given that it hides half my face.

It was taken just the day before yesterday in Deia, which is the next town along the coast from here and is famous for being the home of Robert Graves, author and poet, and where he is buried in the churchyard at the very top of the hill. It is also absolutely ravishing and I would recommend a visit if you are ever here. You might even find somewhere to park. However, I have problems with Graves, which is probably going to lose me more followers (I did a rant about royalty recently and I think I scared someone off. If you are reading this, it still hurts. Sigh).

The Graves family home, Ca N’Alluny, is now a museum, and well worth a visit even if you are not a fan. It is a sweet little example of a Mallorcan country house and full of ghosts from the fifties and sixties. It was still in use as the Graves' family home 20 years ago when Daughter Dear used her 21st birthday money to spend the summer in the sun, and for various reasons ended up in Deia camping in one of the Graves offsprings’ garden and helping out with his annual birthday show.

If you do go to Ca N’Alluny, watch the little documentary on Graves and you may understand why a committed feminist might be a tad tense about his attitudes to women. Muses, indeed. I feel for those poor wives who had to sacrifice their dignity and self esteem on the altar of his genius. Pah! Surely it is possible for a man to be a genius without being a self-centred so-and-so? No? Strangely enough, he has the most self-effacing gravestone you could imagine. Just a concrete slab upon which someone has written “Robert Graves Poeta” with a stick whilst it was still setting. Perhaps I can forgive him just a little bit for that.

I may also be just a little biased by the fact that one of my personal parade of ex-husbands was a fan of “The White Goddess”. He was always a bit Green Man and Aran sweaters, if you know what I mean. I think it was only my hysterical laughter that prevented him from Morris dancing. Lord, there go another couple of followers. Oh, I do hope he has stumbled upon this blog.

Anyway, The White Goddess – codswallop. I’ll admit to loving “I, Claudius”, but that may be more to do with Derek Jacobi’s performance in the telly adaptation. I’m a philistine and proud of it, you see. However, if you want to know about real life in Mallorca, read any of the gently humorous books by Robert’s son, Tomas Graves. Smashing stuff.

I digress. Significant Other and I were in Deia at the invitation of Es Moli, a lovely old hotel in incomparable surroundings on the outskirts of town. He had been invited to check out their new menus and have a look at all the facilities; it’s the new job, you see. How fabulous is that? It was worth keeping him after all. The hotel buildings are based in and around an historical finca; this is not minimalism. Lots of comfortable sofas, breakfast on the terrace, waiters in uniform, staggering views, big swimming pool and lovely food. And brilliant, friendly staff.

They have a private cove just down the coast called La Muleta. It isn’t sandy but they have used the cliffs to create lots of little romantic pine-shaded terraces for one or two people. The snorkelling is apparently very good (I can’t comment. I do not find swimming masks a good look, especially those which have my terrified face behind them), and thrillingly, we did see something large and silver (a Tuna?) jumping out of the waves. You get to the cove using the hotel coach, which is good as there is a well stocked beach bar. A special mention must be made of the driver, Ramon, who negotiates the almost two-car-wide coast road with panache, whilst singing sentimental Spanish songs of amor, interspersed with “Delilah”, at the top of his voice.

I am now officially ruined for ordinary life and want to live in a hotel.

Enter, stage right

2009-07-12T21:54:00.000-07:00

I just had a three day visit from My Son, the Actor. It was too short.

He declined the Significant Othermobile service from the airport, deciding instead to arrive on our little train. For those of you who don’t know, a beautiful wooden train dating from 1912 runs for 27k between Palma and Soller. Once into the mountains, there are spectacular views of Soller and the train stops at a viewpoint where you can get off and take photos. We can see the flashes from our flat and hear the toots as the driver threatens to leave the snappers behind. The carriages are all original and some are complete with unyielding wooden seats; ever so good for the posture, honest. Anyone with piles, take note.

The Station has got to be the most refined public transport hubs in the universe. It is an Art Nouveau gem, with one room dedicated to a display of Picasso ceramics and another to the works of Joan Miro, an adopted son of the town.

Anyway, here is the son of Di, arriving in style.

You will note that he is unaccompanied. Despite much nagging on my part, he remains resolutely single. He is actually being sensible, dammit. He needs to be a rich superstar before he can relax into coupledom, and although he is earning today, tomorrow is another matter. He has had a string of the most adorable dancing girlfriends, every one of them gorgeous, and said goodbye to them all. I’m scooping them all up on facebook at the moment because I missed each one of them when they disappeared. We try not to talk about him behind his back. However, I am a bit dischuffed at the amount of beautiful babies they have produced with their husbands. None of whom is my son. It’s not fair.

He is not a stereotypical luvvie type. I am happy to say that he retains a fair dollop of his working-class Liverpudlian background and the groundedness that goes with it, and looks more like a miner than a dancer. I am therefore very grateful for his role in “Billy Elliot”, the musical that needs good dancers who look like miners. So is every chunky male dancer in town; it’s quite a big chorus line in every way. Unfortunately his costume runs to orange overalls, tank tops and a pink tutu. So here he is being Jean Valjean in Les Miserables a couple of years ago. Isn’t makeup wonderful?

In response to the high-energy, high-tension life he leads, his precious Sundays at home on the Essex coast are spent doing the Guardian crossword (cryptic – he’s following in mother’s footsteps) down the pub and chatting to his mates, none of whom has anything to do with the theatre. And all he wanted to do while he was here was a. to float in the sea until he wrinkled and b. sit on the balcony all night watching the stars, swatting the mozzies, drinking my remaining bottle of wine and listening to music on his iPhone. Alone, please. As a reward for leaving him in peace to wrinkle (I actually wanted to hug him to death and gossip for hours), he took us to the Gran Hotel Soller, which has the best restaurant in town, for his last evening.

He is going home to a change in digs. Living in London ain’t cheap and he has been living in a campervan since last Christmas in an attempt to keep costs down. But this has now been bettered by the offer of a room in a flat in Theatreland (he can walk to work) belonging to a charming inner-city cleric. Son is an atheist.

I’d love to be a fly on the wall.

Anniversary

2009-07-05T21:50:00.000-07:00

Last month saw our third anniversary as residents of Mallorca, a good occasion to remind myself why we are out here and check our dream-fulfilment progress. Well, it’s my dream, actually. Significant Other came later and realised, sensibly enough, that he might as well lie back and enjoy it.

I was twenty-one years old, and seven months pregnant when I first set eyes on Mallorca in the September of 1967. I didn’t mean to be pregnant on holiday; it sort of happened between the booking and the trip. Well, something certainly did. I was travelling with a girlfriend too. She wasn’t best pleased; I was the plain one of the partnership taken along specially to make her look even more gorgeous on the man-trapping outings. As it was, I was fit only for my sweaty single bed by ten at night and she was just revving up for the hunt.

It was all so exciting. This was my first encounter with “Abroad” and it cost me £69 for ten days half board. And I had £50 to spend. This was the period when one was only allowed to take £50 “Abroad”. There were complicated rules about what one was allowed to bring back in as well, and now I can finally admit it – I had a coral ring threaded onto my bra-strap as I headed home to Liverpool. I have never felt so guilty in my life; basically, I’m a bit of a goody-goody so I walked through customs like the Hunchfront of Notre Dame in case anyone should detect the illegal bulge on top of the natural one. The ring broke shortly afterwards. Excitingly enough, the tour company also went broke whilst we were there.

But what did last was the passion I felt for Mallorca. From the minute I stepped off the plane into the balmy night (I thought there had been some mistake and they had left the engines on. It was like opening an oven on a just-baked coconut cake. My glasses steamed up) and “Abroad” hit me, I was lost.

I did try and go out and bop with the girlfriend, but pregnancy makes you a bit of a lightweight when it comes to going out on the razzle, so every night with a sigh of relief I took my small but embarrassing bump to bed and gazed dreamily out of the window. We were in a hotel in Porto Pi which gave me a night-time view over the Bay of Palma complete with a path made of moonlight on the water. The American battleships with their attendant hordes of lively sailors could easily be ignored from the height of a sixth floor package tour bedroom. The girlfriend ignored the view and instead admired the sailors, so we were both happy, really.

And although I did manage to sit on beaches without whinging too much (I am so white skinned, I’m fluorescent), what I really liked was the coach trips. Lord, a twenty-one year old middle-aged lady. But those trips opened my eyes to the astonishing loveliness of the land outside package-tour limbo. Oh, the Formentor Peninsula, and the Soller Valley. And the day we did a boat trip to a bay you couldn’t get to except by sea, when we ate sardines grilled by the short but sexy boatmen and drank rough and headache-inducing red wine from those ridiculous and non-Mallorcan vessels with a spout. (This was the 60s. Pregnant ladies were allowed to drink, OK? Oh, God, I smoked as well) And then they sang and accompanied themselves with castanets. I was in folklore heaven, always having been a bit of a Romantic, and it never occurred to me that the poor devils probably did it day in, day out throughout the season and sighed with relief when it was all over and they could go back to the Mallorcan equivalent of Radio One and a plate of chips. But I was hooked.

And I stayed hooked for 40 years, despite the parade of husbands. Oh, I’ve travelled fairly extensively; I’ve been to Brazil for Carnival, Jamaica to lie in a hammock, New York for a weekend, South Africa to see what I had been protesting about, and Sri Lanka – India for beginners. I even lived in Iran for a couple of months. But inbetweentimes I came back to Mallorca for simple, unchallenging holidays in lovely surroundings. And to keep a weather eye on the property market just in case.

And has living here lived up to my expectations? Oh yes. I don’t indulge in philosophical discussions with my neighbours, but I didn’t do that in Walthamstow either. We nod and smile and are friendly. I can survive in the Spar, and order drinks with the best of them in any bar. I have negotiated the labyrithine difficulties of becoming an official resident, and registering with a doctor. I’ve even got a Spanish EHIC so the NHS won’t disown me if I finally have a coronary at Notting Hill Carnival next month. We have a Spanish bank account and manage to pay for our utilities, despite the bills being twice as indecipherable as British ones and in Catalan. We’ve taken the cat to the vet, Significant Other to the dentists and I’m just about to go to the opticians. Significant Other has even got a proper job; hopefully he can draw proper dole when the season is over.

I look out of my window on the most beautiful scenery and I am as brown as a berry, despite keeping in the shade most of the time. I have new friends in media and broadcasting. We get invited to posh dos.

I miss my family desperately, but when I see them over here, it’s quality time. When I visit them, I’m not a boring old lady; I have a life.

Wish you were here?

Copyright Diane Foden 2009

Norman's Bad Day

2009-06-28T21:51:00.000-07:00

Poor old Significant Other, in his Stormin’ Norman the Weather God persona, had a very bad day last Friday. It was a Michael Fish and the hurricane moment.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eKPQLl5rupg for those of you who don’t know what I’m talking about. Any Brit of a certain maturity will remember with pleasure the best example of televised hubris that they are ever likely to see.

It was SO’s 99th weather forecast for Luna Radio as well, and he has thus far been uncannily correct; so how on earth could he have missed a thunderstorm of that size? He was so sure of his usual accuracy, he emailed the forecast and went out in shorts and shirtsleeves to get the paper. Ten minutes later, he was back, drenched, disbelieving and shaking his fist at the heavens.

It was probably that which distracted him for the rest of the day. He certainly couldn’t drop it as a topic of conversation, so our trip to Pollensa to hit the charity shops for additions to the summer wardrobe (gosh, what a sophisticated life I do lead) was slightly coloured by rumblings about the unfairness of it all.

At this stage I should mention that SO does suffer from what the family has called “CRASH! ‘B****cks’” Syndrome. We call it this because it is not unusual, if he is anywhere in the vicinity, to hear an enormous crash, followed by a bellowed expletive as suggested above. There is also a wheeled variant, called “CRASH! ‘Bollards’”, but I’m not allowed to talk about that. He is terminally clumsy, and like a lot of large men, he seems to have no conception of where his edges are. This, added to an absolute conviction that everything he does is just fine, make for an interesting life both for him and for those around him. I treasure the memory of my daughter and me, sitting in the living room and hearing CRASH! “B****cks”. We are both so used to him that we ignored it and carried on chatting until he came staggering in looking like this picture of Einstein, sans brains, of course. He had done the grown-up equivalent of sticking his finger in the socket and electrocuted himself a bit.
Back in Mallorca and the present, we decided to treat ourselves to a Chinese menu del dia in Pollensa. I know, culture clash, but being an ex-city girl, I crave takeaway, and whatever it is they put into Chinese food, particularly sweet and sour sauce, is proving a hard habit to kick. During the course of the meal, he managed to dump a dish of noodles all over the tablecloth. He did scrape them all back eventually – noodles wriggle – but we were a bit embarrassed by the pattern left on the napiery which looked exactly like a square foot of worm casts. He threw a napkin over it in a nonchalant fashion and we hoped the proprietors wouldn’t notice they had a bad case of Table Worm. Then when we finished he stood up using the table as a lever (if you are over fifty, you’ll understand) and his weight made it tip up so violently, it just missed my chin.

Surprisingly enough, we got home without mishap, but just to provide the perfect end to the perfect day, he then smashed a bottle of bubbly he had just bought for a client’s birthday all over the kitchen floor. Of course, he was barefoot, and bled quite a lot, but by now he was feeling so aggrieved and martyred, he wouldn’t let me kiss it better and put a plaster on it.

I’m willing to swap him for a guinea-pig, if anyone’s interested.