making the dinner

Do you want to know what is doing my head in this week? I shall tell you: it is making the dinner. It is making something we can ALL eat, that doesn’t involve tons of washing up; take shedloads of preparation, and isn’t nutritionally void. I mean, is that too much to ask? We used to feed the girls earlier and then eat later ourselves, which was a bit of an arse-ache, because I seemed to be washing up all evening, BUT, at least it allowed LSB and myself to be more imaginative with our choice of cuisine. But during lockdown we decided it was nice to all sit at the table together and pretend to be civilised, hence I am trying to cook once and make it do all us and the results are, well, varied to say the least.

Here’s a list of things everyone will eat: Spaghetti Bolognese; chicken fajitas (unrecognisable to most Mexicans, but hey-ho), pizza, roast chicken or ham, fish and chips. So far, so flipping boring. Here’s what isn’t on the menu: lasagne (‘too creamy’), stir fry (‘too cabbage-y’, despite the fact that there wasn’t even any cabbage in the last one I did); curry is ‘too spicy (even if it’s bland as f**k). Salmon, sea bass, veggie burgers or any veggie meals AT ALL, are off the table completely. I tried experimenting with pulses for a while, but other than chucking a few lentils into a sauce, it was a dismal failure. The faces that greeted me when I set down the spinach and chickpea curry from BBC Good Food; are etched on my memory for evermore. Anguished they were, ANGUISHED. Out came the chicken nuggets and into the oven they went. In an effort to avoid waste I ate it for my lunch every day for the rest of that week. That was over a year ago, and if I’m being honest, I’m still not quite sure my bowels have recovered.

It’s all very hard, isn’t it? Used to be, when in doubt, one could always fall back on a sausage. When I was little, The Mothership served up sausages at least once a week, and often they made an appearance at breakfast. The Mothership is a great one for the breakfasts and could write her very own blog about how to get toast ‘just right.’ And tea: fuck me, never get her started on the perfect cup- she sets a timer and all, for it to brew for exactly 4 minutes. Tea obsessed is that woman. Anyway, back to sausages:  I’m after reading about the pig farms in Ballymoney and I was near sick. I don’t know if I can ever eat a pig related product again, except I have a bit of Spanish chorizo in the fridge, and it livened up the chicken fried rice I made last night no end.

When the children were small I read a French guide to child rearing. It taught me many things, but mainly it made me feel shite as the French just appeared superior in just about every aspect of parenting. The book suggested that a child has to try a food thirty times before giving up on it. If I thought I was going to have to watch the Small Child’s face while she forced down a piece of cauliflower thirty times, I would be downing a litre of Smirnoff every night, just to get through the meal. There were many other tips, such as how to get your offspring to eat grilled courgettes and pamphrey and braised celeriac with a balsamic glaze. Needless to say, this is all pure bollocks and my children have yet to eat any of the above.

They also don’t like salads, soups, quiche, meat pies, risotto, or spaghetti carbonara, (which I fecking LOVE). And when I use the pronoun ‘they’, LSB is included in that. He doesn’t have the most refined palette and would live, if I permitted it, on white bread and bacon. At this stage in his life, I think he is about 50% nitrate.

It’s shite, I’m telling you. Every week I get the ‘Guardian Feast’ and entertain notions of trying something new, and then I take one look at Ottolenghi’s list of ingredients and feel tired. I live in Belfast, not the fucking Edgeware Road in London, I think to myself, and it would take me about a month and a half just sourcing the ingredients for a meal, half of which I’ll inevitably to be scraping into the compost bin.

So it’s Friday and thank the good lord above because it’s takeaway night and thus I have very few decisions to make. Hallelujah. I would say ‘send me your suggestions’ but it’s probably a waste of time, so just leave a ‘wee thumbs up’ if you too are suffering from ‘extreme dinner fatigue’.

Check out Dirt Birds too on this theme- it’s Hilarious

We bought a Ninja Creamy, so the fridge is crammed with fruits waiting to be whizzed into something with a million calories, by the time they’ve added the condensed milk, cream and pistachio cream, because we’re nothing if not on the zeitgeist in this house. I mean, are you even alive if you haven’t made several versions of Dubai Chocolate? So yesterday, when I reached in to find dinner ingredients, out tumbled  grapes and strawberries and I shouted ‘F**K’S SAKE,’ then, ‘Sorry about that girls!’ and LSB says to me, don’t worry, you’re in esteemed company, obviously referring to Trump’s blooper when he stepped off Marine One and lost his shit.

Poor LSB is sick looking at my ‘ What The ABSOLUTE F**K?’ face. The news gets worse every day, and I’m screaming at Alexa to turn it off when it pops up on BBC Six Music on the half hour, with that reassuring ‘sonic thud’ as an intro, which seriously, they need to address because it’s become a total trigger for me.

So I try not to listen, and endeavour to avert my eyes in the shops lest I catch sight of whatever apocalyptic headline the Daily Mail have decided to run with, to generate as much terror as possible. Their sole aim, I am convinced, is to stir up as much fear as they can and make us believe that the way to peace is to follow the warmongers’ lead, which sounds a tad counterintuitive to me. It’s all very Orwellian, but hey, what would I know- I’m only a teacher, not say a property mogul or a tech bro: apparently they have all the answers.

But needless to say, the news abroad and the news at home, has my nerves royally shattered. Generally I have a somewhat tenuous grip on sanity, so to be living in these “interesting times” has been testing. (LSB will attest to this.)

It’s why I haven’t been on here much, because in the light of global catastrophes, it seems trite to whinge about a rubbish ski trip, a shit house-sitter, or when my children turn up their noses at the wild Norwegian line-caught cod fillets I’ve sourced for their dinner.

To be ‘proactive’ I contacted my MP, (Gavin Robinson) about the situation in Gaza. After two e-mails, a Facebook request, and a phone call to his constituency office, I finally received a mealy-mouthed two-line response. Big Angry Gav doesn’t seem bothered– I mean, if you want a bag of flour in a war zone, you can only expect to first be hounded into a cage and then shot at, right?But what to do? I’ve kept e-mailing. I’ve kept signing the petitions, I’ve kept making donations. And I’m breathing deeply, running a bit and holding it together, because rocking back and forth in the corner isn’t much help to anyone.

If you would like to share your ways of coping with apocalyptic news I’d love to know. I also forget how much doing anything creative soothes me, by means of distraction. So thank you for reading my words. My mental health is the better for blogging, so I’m grateful that there is an audience out there for my musings. Happy Summer everyone.

Meanwhile:

What I’m watching:

 Ghosts with the family. A bit late to the party with this but it is hilarious and clever; a gentle watch if you will, so apt for troubled times.

What I’m reading:

I just finished ‘Lost for Words’ by Stephanie Butland as recommended by Lucy Mangan and it’s wry and poignant: a perfect summer read.

About to start The Dream Count by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

********Mother’s Day Post- pleaae skip on if you would rather not read.**********

So hear me out on this- would you be pleased if your Mother’s Day gift consisted of a soft toy and a box of Miniature Heroes? Because, and forgive me if I’m wrong, is this not a more appropriate present for a child? How many mums do you know who would appreciate the like of this? Who on earth would actually say: ‘That’s exactly what my life has been missing! A pastel pink boom box cuddly toy with blue hearts and teeny tiny legs!’ Readers, let me reassure you that I’m not in the grip of some menopause induced stupor, but I saw such an item in a well-known service station on the Saintfield Road.

Have you ever seen such a pile of crap?

There’s no accounting for taaste, but while I’ve no issue with chowing down a few Cadbury’s Dairy Milks, I’m wreacking my head to come up with a single person I know, who would want to add to the mountain of kid’s stuff they’ve already accumuated. And I’ll tell you this for nothing, I’d be bloody livid if I was handed this next Sunday. It’s unthinkable. ‘Hi Mum, as a big thank you for the trauma of having us plucked from your womb, here’s a floppy-eared elephant fron Sainsbury’s.’

Observe the dark circles under the eyes. I blame the decluttering.

Maybe I’m touchier than ususal on said matters because I’ve recently instigated a clear out, and quelle surprise, I’m the main one  doing the clearing. Let’s be clear: I’m not trying to rob my offspring of all their worldly goods, but we’re being buried alive under all manner of shite and it’s destroying my happiness. So I took action, and lobbed a few soft toys into the machine and hung them out by their ears or arms in the winter sunshine. The Small Child, (or our very own Lord Sugar) got busy on Vinted, but it her Sour Wee Mother who packaged up two neon coloured sloths and a ‘Spring Bundle’ ( two lambs and a rabbit) for which we were offered a paltry sum.

Take them to Oxfam! I hear you cry, but very few charity shops actually accept teddies, so they mostly end up in landfill; the thought of which makes me go a bit funny.

What I’m saying therefore, is that toys are work. Anything, in fact that comes into your house, is work, that primarily the women have to deal with. Items have to stored, cleaned, and prised from the mouths of family pets with a strange proclivity for chewing off their eyes and noses.

I’m suggesting that mums deserve more than being gifted this sort of nonsense. So here’s a handy guide to what I think counts as a present:

Looking something thoughtful and sustainable? A charity shop may have the answer. Who wouldn’t appreciate a vase filled with hand-picked flowers a well-chosen book and maybe a bag of good coffee to go with it?

Feeling harried and put-upon? (Me- almost always) then a relaxing experience is what you need. Close to my heart in Belfast are Betty (Betty’s Place, on University Street) or  Geraldine Boyd who operates out of her snug and perfect ‘cocoon’ in Rosetta. Both use their intuition to tap in to where you need it most. A reflexology session or massage are two gifts in one- time away from frenetic family life, plus the benefits of something restorative.

No time or funds for any of the above? Maybe then on Mother’s Day, mum has dinner made for her. And, I mean deciding on, shopping for, cooking and cleaning up after the meal: the full hog.

In our house we don’t go big on these occasions. Case in point, last June LSB spent Father’s Day screwing on a new Toilet seat he bought in Homebase. And on Mother’s Day 2020, I trailed him to a random house off the M2 and we ended up coming home with a greyhound. ‘It’s entirely my project,’ I told him. It didn’t work out like that though; in fact he’s out walking his project now. But it was unintentionally the best present ever. And beats a toy boom box anyday. She’d only try and eat it.

When it comes to optimism, and looking on the bright side, I’d be the least likely candidate to spring to mind, wouldn’t you think? But this morning I was tasked with chatting to Frank on U105 about channelling positivity, of all things. I was an odd choice, given that I write ‘The Sour Wee Blog,’ but paradoxically, it’s exactly because of this that I was asked me to contribute, because being aware of my mindset, I actively seek out ways to cope when all seems bleak. Indeed, it’s my only defence to keep the proverbial ‘Black Dog’ from the door, and it would be easy, wouldn’t it, to fall into a collective gloom as we begin a New Year.

Over Christmas, the joy of the season was so much at odds with the atrocities reported daily on the news, that I felt a jarring sense of doom and unease. But by allowing myself to rest up a bit and read books by the fire, I felt myself replenished, and sufficiently energized enough to do parkrun and yoga classes, and as such, my mood lifted a little. And now, as work beckons and it’s time to take down the tree and stash away the glittery outfits for another year, I find myself clinging to the magic, and want to keep the glowing embers aflame. In Sweden it’s the custom to keep the lights on until the 13^th January, and I don’t begrudge our Scandi neighbours a thing, because they’ve a long auld winter to plough through. Keep the decorations up for a while, if that’s what you want.! While we plan to take our tree to Kinedale Donkey Sanctuary on Saturday, LSB won’t be clambering up to remove the outdoor lights for at least another week.

Small wins are a must for me, whether it’s keeping up my streak on Duolingo, making dinner from scratch or putting the cork back in the bottle of wine to avoid a hangover, (mornings are tough enough in winter.) It’s taking time to drink tea from a favourite cup with a homemade truffle, or meeting a pal for a latte. Having things to look forward to is crucial, so I’m making plans for a weekend away with friends, and in November I thought ahead and planted a rake of tulips for some spring blooms. These are all small things, but added together they become significant.

When the news is very grim indeed, one could easily fall into a pit of despair. But it’s not terribly helpful, is it? Running about with a face like a DUP-er at their first same sex wedding isn’t going to change anything, other than irritate the life out of those around me. LSB got me on to the Stoics a while ago, and my main take-away was trying not to excessively worry about things I can’t control. I’ve agonised over the news in the past, so much so that I was rendered unable to deal with day to day life. No good came from my angst, and it certainly didn’t make me any more productive.

This doesn’t mean that I don’t tune into the news, but I’m not doom scrolling or getting into debates on Facebook or X. Truly, that way madness lies. Rather I’m trying to focus the inspirational stuff. Might I recommend this piece of joy by Anita Chauduri in the Guardian, and Myke Bartlett on the Stoics. And finally, I felt incredibly humbled to read an article about the Ukrainian film-maker and war reporter Msytlav Chernov, whose film ’20 days in Mauripol’ was released in October. Despite documenting the tragedies which unfolded when the Russians relentlessly pounded the city with bombs, he kept working in a place from which most people have fled. And this is what stuck with me; he said that no matter what they endured, no one was alone, there was always someone there, offering support. He concluded, ‘I find that incredibly hopeful.’ Well. If I can’t shake myself out of a stupor then, it’s a pretty poor state of affairs. Chins up everyone!

There’s always the worry, isn’t there, when one is as vocal as me the topic of recycling, that one will be caught out and held to account.

The very thing happened to me yesterday, when LSB remarked that he and the girls play a fun game of a morning, while I am upstairs, otherwise engaged doing my toilette. The game they rejoices in the name of ‘Is this butter?’, so called because of the number of times they open a tub of Lurpak, only to find concealed within some forlorn sausages (mouldy), a small pile of fusilli (mouldy) or this week’s treat, elderly baked beans, and you’ve guessed it, not only mouldy, but potentially growing another life form.*

It pains me to admit it, but I’m a wishful user-upper, a wannabe zero-waster, and perhaps just an aspirational arse. I’m forever scraping out whatever’s caked to the bottom of the pot and telling myself earnestly that it will form the basis of tomorrow’s lunch, then forgetting all about it. It really isn’t good enough, especially since I was on with Frank on Thursday morning, chatting animatedly on ways to eke out** dinners such chicken tikka-masala and spaghetti bolognese in these fiscally fraught times. And do you know what he had the cheek to tell me, live on air?

‘Helen,’ he says, interrupting my spiel, ‘you’re obviously very accomplished in the kitchen, whipping up these fancy meals of an evening!’ I swiftly disabused him of this notion, telling him that my culinary skills have dwindled to nothing of late, since time, lack of imagination and fussy eaters have leached away any enthusiasm I once had. ‘I rely heavily on bought sauces,’ I told him frostily, ‘and jazz them up a bit with a few herbs and extra garlic and ginger.’ Well, some listeners took umbrage with that too, when I said I chopped up the aromatics and fired them in the freezer for easy access of an evening, (about what exactly their issue was, I am still unsure.) I started on the ‘chop, bag and freeze’ after finding too many knobs of ginger lurking at the back of the fridge like some wizened appendages, and one can’t be having that if one is apparently opposed to waste.

But do you know what pisses me off no end? So much of household recycling falls to the woman of the house; it’s we who are micro-managing the clothing, the laundering, the shopping and subsequent sorting of the by-products. It’s the fridge blindness and overall vagueness of my husband when it comes food in general that shreds my nerves.

Case in point, say I were to lovingly prepare him a bowl of strawberries and sliced pear for a late afternoon snack while he’s writing away at his code, or whatever the f**k he does at the computer. ‘Oh, lovely!’ he’ll say, horsing it into him. But it would NEVER cross his mind to source such a snack for himself. Same with the lunch items. He’ll take the most cursory glance at the front of the fridge, then leg it down to the Super Spar on Sunnyside Street to buy sausages and chips. I falls upon me to yell, ‘THERE’S CHILLI CHICKEN CHUNKS BESIDE THE YOGURTS IN THE FRIDGE,’ as I race out to work. In his defence, he says that he’s so melted ushering me out the door making sure I have my phone, keys, wallet, laptop-bag and my coffee, (hot in my little flask); THEN switching his attentions to the children and the dog, that he’s almost passed himself by lunch time.

Anyway, what I started off to say was this: sometimes I’m rubbish at the whole shebang. It’s damn near impossible to be zero-waste in this world, but one reason I do try to recycle so much is to assuage my guilt for how un-green I am in other departments. You can’t do it all, and sometimes I don’t manage any of it. Cleaning, tidying and decluttering are my absolute nemesis. But I can still persevere. Any ideas welcome!

*The Mothership was on the blower and suggests placing leftovers in jam jars so one can clearly see the contents. Bon Maman jars are particularly good for this since they are wider and also aesthetically pleasing. One day I will strive towards this level of organisation.

**Can I have a big drum roll please for LENTILS? I routinely throw half a cup of red lentils into Bolognese and curry. They thicken up the sauce nicely and with the addition of extra veg means I can reduce the amount of meat without it being too obvious. In my pre-lentil days, anytime we made curry there was often wastage in the form of a gloopy sauce with a few sad bits of onions floating about in it. Now what we are left with is of a more dahl like consistency and its super tasty.

September: there’s a month which just wallops you up the face, am I right? The glow I felt after my summer break is disappearing as fast as my tan: there’s too much to remember: seesaw passwords, football training, drop offs and pick-ups and the constant missives from the school requesting money. Then you have to be making a nutritious dinner of an evening: can’t be sending the weans to school half starved; I don’t think Tayto prawn cocktail sandwiches constitute brain food, more’s the pity. There’s not enough wine in the world like, is there? No wonder Sober-October has taken off: as we drink their way through September to cope, before copping on if we don’t slam on the brakes we’ll have our livers pure pickled by Christmas.  

In an effort to cling to the shreds of sanity I have left I’ve decided to try a couple of things to boost the endorphins. 

I’ve donned the trainers again to get running: no more pulling on the pjs at 7pm and taking to the sofa. Well, not on a Tuesday anyway as down I go to Ormeau Park. It has been a blast: meeting friends from the running club and drinking in the last rays of sun before it sinks below the hills. I’d go as far as to call it uplifting. Last week, it actually made me think of The Retiro Gardens in Madrid. ‘What Kool-Aid has she been drinking?’ you may ask yourself, but no kidding, in that golden hour before sunset, a continental buzz prevailed. Buskers singing ‘Brown Eyed Girl’; families dining alfresco on picnic benches, couples playing badminton on the grass and dog walkers stepping out with French Bulldogs and chi-chi Chihuahuas.  Aside from a fella shouting ‘For f**k’s sake Rocky, get over here’ as I nearly went flying over his Yorkshire terrier, it was a joy. And, the delight that was me this morning when onto the scales I hopped and discovered I had lost four kg. My joy was great: I’ve now a slight chance of fitting into pre-lockdown jeans, reversing the damage of all those pineapple creams and caramel squares. 

Colour. Yes, I am injecting colour into my life, via clothes and accessories and nail polish. I know, you come to this blog for the really important stuff, don’t you? But seriously, the news is shite. Every day brings a bit more gloom, and yes, me wearing a bright blue jumper isn’t going to change that. But yet. Maybe if we dress for the world we want rather than the one we have, things might improve. I operate on a different frequency when I feel good and I’m not trogging about in my sweats. Dopamine-dressing they were calling it on Monday’s You and Yours on Radio 4. Well, I’m rarely one  to be on the zeitgeist, but in the summer I started embracing shades which sang, rather than murmured, and it’s cheered me. Fashion houses are churning out the colours to boost the nation’s spirits. Conscious that many have munched their way of a depression, they’ve also introduced softer waistbands and loose-fitting tops, to ease our way back to the office.  Might I recommend Robell trousers, if you’re looking to spruce up your autumn wardrobe. They are perfect for a gal like me who’s had two C-sections as although they have a structured look, they are much kinder to your mid-drift.  I picked up my last super comfy pair in Magowan’s in Ballynahinch. Cerise pink and fabulous (and only £21 because they were last season’s.)  

I get it. These small teaks aren’t going to change the world, but neither is plummeting into despair. If the world is heading to hell in a handcart, well then, let’d do it fabulously, darling.

Once I went backpacking round Vietnam on my own for a fortnight and went merrily abseiling down waterfalls in Dalat, a lush and verdant resort in the central highlands where the Vietnamese go to honeymoon. The following summer I jetted off to Madrid to learn Spanish- which proved harder than I’d anticipated, but perhaps that was because of my sangria-soaked brain. Both of these were pre-marriage, pre-children, and more significantly, pre-covid.

It was thus a shock to find myself almost deliriously happy last Friday morning, packing the car to go to The Burrendale Hotel in Newcastle. So excitable was I that I texted into Carolyn on U105’s Lunchtime Bistro. ‘The sun is bright, and my heart is light!’ I wrote. God almighty. That’s what it’s come to.

Arriving, I took the offspring to the pool where I’d booked a slot. Unfortunately, it was filled with other children, whose ear-piercing shrieks reverberated off the tiles, making my eardrums tremble and temples throb. I can’t cope with screaming, especially at a high pitch. Why don’t parents just say ‘stop that immediately, for it is painful on the ears?’ I will never understand this. (I know, just call me Mrs Kill-The-Craic). ‘I’m not cut out for these shenanigans,’ I thought. Meanwhile LSB had a snooze. He was hot, apparently, and very tired, after the 45 minute drive.

Head still pounding, we trotted into town. I had notions of going to boutique-y little fancy shops, but obviously they were all closed, because we weren’t in Spain, where establishments stay open until 10pm for happy holiday maker like ourselves.

Tragically though, a shop called ‘Around A Pound’ was very much open, and when the children spotted it, their eyes lit up. ‘Can we go in? Can we?’ they said, clutching their little purses. ‘We know you don’t like this sort of shop Mummy,’ said the smaller one. ‘You can go somewhere else.’

‘Three words,’ I said. ‘NO PLASTIC SHITE.’ The Older One winced. She takes a very dim view of vulgarity, unless it’s a fart joke, to which she is partial. Shortly afterwards they appeared. Sometimes I worry that my draconian parenting strategies may have caused some sort of imbalance in their brains. They weren’t clutching bubble gum or bright blue sticks of rock or even a stuffed toy. No. Instead they asked: ‘Please can we buy a stapler?’   ‘It would be so useful.’ ‘Obviously you can buy a stapler,’ I said, to which they looked at each other and said ‘YESSS’ as if they were Flander’s kids off the Simpsons.

On the way to the stationery section, I caught sight of a box containing ‘gutter mesh’. ‘Keeps your guttering clear of debris,’ said the box. I stood a moment and wondered if I should buy some. How ingenious I thought, my guttering is sadly lacking, and often filled with bits of twig.  I then wondered how much I needed, and lamented not having the foresight to measure my guttering before leaving the house.

I shook myself out of my stupor. Here I was, on my first night away since September, considering the merits of gutter mesh. Is this my actual life now? I pondered. The Small Child pulled out three shiny pound coins from her purse and bought her stapler. She eschewed a bag and said no, she was happy to carry it. ‘Now I have everything I need,’ she said smiling beatifically. It was a bit like Father Jack and his brick.

The stapler came with us to the Amusements*; it came on the walk to the beach, and it came to dinner, where it sat on the table, pride of place. Back at the hotel, they opened the stapler, after finding some paper which they’d quickly folded to make a book, imaginatively titled ‘Holidays’. And the terrible disappointment on their faces when they discovered that THERE WERE NO STAPLES INCLUDED. And this is how it came to pass that at 11am the following morning, I found myself BACK in ‘Around A Pound’ looking for the appropriately size of staples for the children’s stapler. They didn’t have any. There’s another pound shop up the street said the shopkeeper. ‘You’re alright,’ I said. ‘It’ll do til another day.’

Please feel free to let me know if any of your holiday experiences have been equally uninspiring and made you re-evaluate life choices. Obviously if you’ve had an amazing holiday, just keep it to yourself. Can’t bear to think of everyone else enjoying themselves. Oh, and just to add to it, while LSB took himself off to do Castlewellan park run, I made the children do a litter pick with me, after begging bags and some gloves for the hotel staff. Up and down the Castlewellan Road we went, lifting bottles and cans and crisp packets. I thoroughly enjoyed myself actually, which I suppose says a lot about what I consider fun these days.

*needless to say I LOATHE these arcades with a passion but the Small Child gets wildly excited about them and I struggle to say no to that wee face sometimes.

‘

This is the most middle-class, middle-aged stuff I’ve ever read!’ raged a malcontent a few weeks ago when she took umbrage at my rant about cooking the dinner. Well yes, she may have had a point: I think we’re all agreed by now, that I’m more middle class than a one-shot latte in Kaffe O. Middle aged though? That stung a bit, I must say: I’m only 42, FFS. Sometimes, I still feel like a youngster; a fact to which LSB will testify, especially when it comes to renewing the car tax.

But a few times recently, I must confess that I have tragically felt very middle-aged. I blame Radio Two, and Claudia Winkleman in particular. The other day I was nipping down to the shops to pick up a few bits in M&S for the lunch. And there was Claudia, waxing lyrical about a tip Sally Traffic had shared the previous week about putting on a duvet cover. Tragically, she didn’t elaborate on it, and I still haven’t got around to searching for the feature on BBC Sounds. I struggle with a duvet cover, despite people saying: ‘Ooh, just turn it inside out!’

I still end up making a Horlicks of the whole thing and end up trapped inside, like Casper the Friendly Ghost’s deranged sibling. The duvet tip though, sparked a whole rake of people ringing in with ‘top tips’, or, as they’re known now apparently, ‘life hacks.’  All you cool young things will know, but I’m late to the party because I’m still stuck inside the fucking duvet cover.

Anyway, this woman was ringing in with the BEST, EVER vacuuming tip and a younger SWB would just have turned off the engine immediately and headed on into the shop. But wait to hear what 42-year-old SWB did. She only sat in the car and delayed going in to get her edamame salad and salmon nigiri, to hear the Henry the Hoover tip. Apparently, according to woman, (who had stayed up late from her home in Melbourne to ring in); we all hoover as though we are infants who are new to ‘colouring in’ and do a quick squiggle in the centre of the picture. We take the same approach to hoovering, thus targeting a mere fraction of the carpet. What you have to do, according to our Australian whizz kid, is head over to the outer edge of the room, and vacuum in a straight direction, then veer left and right, thus covering a thorough area in a few deft movements. (Seriously like, I don’t believe I’m regurgitating this for your edification.) This method is known as the ‘shark’s tooth technique’, and is very effective. Many more people rang in to agree. I am unlikely to adopt said technique though as it would involve me tidying the room first and lifting all the shite, instead of just flinging the hoover around willy-nilly and congratulating myself at even managing t do that. Since I only do this once every few months, I’m unlikely to have any pointy shark teeth on my carpet any time soon.

But the fact remains- I listened, and worse still,  I found it interesting. I WANTED TO HEAR MORE. Now, if any of you have discovered that you have overnight hit ‘peak middle-age,’ I would appreciate you sharing your findings. Now, I’m away to iron some t-shirts and pair some socks while my husband watches The Euros. May just have a cup of the aforementioned Horlicks before bed too.

You know my big middle-class moan about cooking the dinner? Well, it was the absolute BESTEST thing ever because since, I’ve been inundated with kindly folk sending me recipes, tips, and even FOOD. Oh yes, how my heart leapt when a friend left a tub of fresh tagliatelle with asparagus and lardons on my windowsill. It was generously doused in olive oil and black pepper and there wasn’t A WORD out of me the following lunchtime as I shoved it in my face.

‘I can see you’re enjoying that,’ said LSB, struggling to keep his ham baguette down as I shovelled it in, mouthful after glorious mouthful. My pal Stephen found the recipe on the back of a pasta packet and I can enquire further and share it, if you wish.

In the spirit of magnanimity, when it comes to food sharing, I sent another neighbour a portion of ‘Campfire Stew,’ a recipe a uni-friend sent me with the guarantee ‘your kids will LOVE it.’

Did they love it? No. Did they even like it? No. Did they at least eat it in an effort to please? I’ll let you answer that. LSB picked at it, miserably. ‘Are there baked beans in this?’ he asked.

I nodded.  ‘I thought the other ingredients might disguise the taste,’ I said, a tone of desperation creeping in. He picked out the meat, but said he could still detect, and I quote, ‘more than a hint of synthetic tomato sauce and an unpleasant orange-ness.’

‘That what you get for marrying a Protestant,’ I snarled.

So, I ate it for dinner, for the following lunch and then for dinner again. I grated cheese on top and served it with rice vermicelli and it was hearty and fabulous. But then my innards took umbrage at all the beans, which is why I sent it down the road.  My pal said it perked up her lunchtime no end.

We also did, and I recommend it heartily, a dumpling making course with The Edible Flower. I’ll be honest with you- my dough bore little resemblance to theirs, but it was worth it alone just to get cracking with loads of garlic and ginger and fresh coriander. I have missed FLAVOUR, I thought to myself, as I fried up mushrooms with scallions in butter. I made two different fillings, a meat and a veggie one, both of which left enough for me to cook up for lunch the next day. The wee ones actually ate the meat, so that was a bonus too.

Then another friend, (and I will stop after this, I promise,) but said she was tired eating on her own at lunch and invited me to hers. We sat in her sun filed kitchen and she handed me a bowl with a lentil, feta, sundried tomato and mint salad. That was it, four ingredients and it was a revelation. Really, I ought to have taken a picture, but I was far too busy eating.

It all made me think though- food is such an absolutely joyous thing and yet it ends up, for women anyway, a source of constant frustration. When I go to the supermarket, I feel shackled by what everyone else refuses to eat, and with a world-weary sigh I go back to the old staples. But every so often, a wee invite or a tub left at your front door, it’s enough to boost the spirit again no end.  And of course, restaurants are open again, so HURRAH.