The life story thus far (alternatively entitled, bad decisions and other farcical acts....)

I will gloss over my childhood, suffice to say it was not a happy one, long periods of self-harm and substance abuse in my teens, a spell in a less than welcoming semi-secure unit where I was allowed to give free-reign to my insanity (although it did have the benefit of introducing me to a lifelong friend, who is also, incidentally, still barking mad!) led to me making the unlikely choice to joining the Police at the age of 24. And what a jolly life is the life of a young single officer. Parties, money, having your time off when no one else has, yes those were happy, if slightly blurry, days. I bought a house a year after joining, I was the very image of the "together" young person! What you must realise, dear reader, is that I was in my early 20's and (hard to believe) quite fit. The job provided free gymnasiums which I frequented with alarming regularity, even managing (once, and one time only!) to run 6km after a night shift - I am not, and never was a runner! It was during one of those evening gym visits that I was rudely interrupted by a friend coming in to tell me off for having the music too loud. He was accompanied by a Royalty Protection officer who I subsequently fell hook line and sinker for. Well, a guy in a tux packing a pistol, who wouldn't? 15 years older than me, he seemed terribly sophisticated, had money and was very gentlemanly. He was separated from his "fruitcake" wife who he stated was as vicious as she was vindictive. But that was fine, separated was ok, I had also got one unsuccessful marriage behind me by this time (lasted 364 days, I was quite proud of that!) Of course he failed to mention that he had, in fact already replaced his wife with his next door neighbours wife......and so cue three and a half years of agonising toing and froing where I would dump him due to his lack of commitment, then fall for his reassurances (for reassurances read lies) all over again. Anyhoo, one lie too many and he was kicked into touch for good.

Then along came Kevin: on paper very eligible. 2 years older than me as opposed to 15, no children, no ex wife or troublesome ex partner of any description, it seemed a perfect match. More partying ensued and within 6 months I was, shockingly, expecting number 1! I say shockingly as I had been told I would need IVF to conceive, yet another reason I don't believe everything doctors say! And so the marriage was hastily arranged, walking up the same aisle I walked up for my first marriage, divorced and 6 months pregnant - ideal! And so, we married, it was a wonderful day, February arrived and along came Georgia. Well, to say I was less than prepared is an understatement. In fact I was totally prepared, I had been eating for both of us and Kevin since I learned of her existence (which was at 12 weeks - that's what having an infertility condition does for you!) and resting in front of Sky baby delivery programmes for approximately three solid months. I was the size of a house and knew exactly what my labour would entail (provisionally whale music and a birthing pool) Of course when the time came I thought I was going to die from the pain and so demanded an epidural (didn't work) and copious amounts of other drugs. And then, there she was. Battered and bruised from a traumatic assisted delivery, looking like a little squashed Winston Churchill. The midwives left me with her to have some bonding time, and I looked at this little grub. I knew all about development in the womb, I could have told you to the second what changes were taking place in my stomach, I knew every minutiae of labour......I'd just failed to do any reading about the bit after that. You know, where you get to have the baby for the rest of your life. To say it was like someone dropping a handgrenade into your life then walking off and leaving you to deal with the fall-out is putting it mildly! And so, a few weeks of pain from infections in places that were never meant to be infected, hormones came and went in tsunami proportions, sleep deprivation stuck it's kindly head into the fray, I think I was less than pleasant to be with around that time. Getting out of the house before 10 was not just impossible, it was, quite frankly, never considered! But we managed, and somehow, this little bean grew and thrived and was utterly gorgeous (and was commented on whenever I took her out too so it's not just my biased opinion!) Shortly before her 1st birthday Kevin and I decided to emigrate to Australia. £1100 secured us a flexible visa, we remortgaged to make the house presentable for letting and, armed with a career break but very little in the way of cash, a truckload of optimism and a 13 month old toddler off we went. Also, and unbeknown to our families, we also took along bump number two......
The trip around Australia is another blog altogether (and a far more amusing one at that) but suffice to say in October that year, some 6 months later, Lauren arrived into the west wing of Murwillumbah hospital in Northern New South Wales, with a view over the River Tweed and the scent of the jacarandas in full bloom. Sadly by that time Kevin and I were sick of the sight of each other, 24/7 in an old Toyota Coaster bus with a toddler and allllll those pregnancy hormones, plus almost a month in hospital due to complications and we were ready to come home! So home we came. With Georgia I had had to return to work after 4 months, this time I had the luxury of 6 months with my little buddha baby. Kevin returned immediately to his pre-baby and pre-Australian routine of spending every spare minute and some that weren't spare in the pub distributing our mortgage amongst his friends and the landlord in equal, generous rounds. The rows were getting worse, 2 children under 2 plus working 6pm til 2am every night made me even LESS of a pleasant person to be around. Somehow though, bump number three occurred and, in 2005, Harrison arrived. I'd always hoped for a boy in amongst my children, but if he'd have been my first he'd have been my last! Boys are little buggers! He was a delightful, easy baby, and then he learned to walk! And climb. And drag over a kitchen chair so he could dismantle the cooker rings and put them in the microwave! God I love having kids! And actually, I mean that, I do love having kids, in fact they are my raison d'etre without any doubt. This is what I was born to do. Sadly Kevin thought I was also born to run the house, work 32 hours a week and do all the childcare whilst he flitted from one improperly priced job to another, spending the profit in one ale house or another. In January 2009 the end came, and not before time. A friend in Weymouth had had too many moonlit visits from me as I fled with the children after late shifts from an unconscious drunk, this was no way to live. So off he went. And here's where it starts to get complicated, so get a cup of tea, make yourself comfortable and read on.

In June 2009 I had a letter from the Official Receiver telling me that my almost soon to be ex-husband had declared himself bankrupt and that, as we were still married and his name was on the house, they now owned his share of the property and would be valuing it with a view to recouping the creditors moneys. Once I'd corrected them on several errors in their first written communication (like the address of the house they were stating they now had an interest in was South Road, not Rounce Lane where he was currently renting) I entered a phase of ringing them every single month for the next 3 1/2 years. I kid you not. The Receivers office, and I only ever once spoke to the same person more than once, told me that the matter was pending, passed to another department, not at that department, waiting to be dealt with, still in the system......by this time I had already sent them £211 + £1 for costs and provided them with three valuations as required. The only thing I was constantly told was that actually, they had three years to process this claim and so I would just have to be patient.
By this time there had been all sorts of problems with our split; he kicked in our door at 2am prompting a terrified call to 999 by me and his removal by people I had the embarrassing issue of facing during my working days. I took the children camping and he broke in and helped himself to a shower and was found in a towel drinking a bottle of wine lounging on the sofa. Sadly the officers that time, called by my Dad as I was in Devon, didn't find the small baggy of cannabis he left in the dog food cupboard - I found that on my return.....which was nice. He constantly drove past the house, he actually rang the police beligerently asking what they would do if he did the door again prompting the children and I to do a bunk to Wales for a week - if he was going to do it it was best he got on with it when we weren't there. He made complaint after complaint against me and my colleagues in an effort to get me the sack and prompting a long investigation by PSD......stress, I know thy face. But gradually, and after a first course of conduct warning for harassment, and once he'd found himself another girlfriend, things began to settle. I was still battling the receivers in a bid to get them to shift their arses so I could get it dealt with - I was desperate to move my mortgage which was £1023 a month. I only bring home £1500 a month, even I with my undeserved grade C at O level maths can see that those sums are never going to work. Kevin had initially declined to pay any maintenance at all and the CSA had, helpfully, assessed him as having to pay £8 a week for all three children....slightly galling! Then he was reassessed at £31 a week which was marginally better but still borderline breadline! So anyway, Receivers; by September 2011 they finally admitted they had lost all the paperwork in relation to his file and would have to start all over again. The consequences of this soon became clear......in 2009 the house was borderline negative equity due to the state in which it had been left ie: a half finished extension and some rather dodgy wiring thus there was nothing into which the Receivers could get their claws.... Of course 2 1/2 years later the market had improved considerably, and suddenly there WAS equity and the Receivers started demanding £45,000. Now bear in mind dear reader, I have been in this house since August 1993, that's 19 years, Kevin was here for a little over 8 years during which time we remortgaged 3 times, once for Australia, once to build the extension and once.....well sadly I know not what for, it would appear subsequently it was probably to bail out his business looking at the bankruptcy amount....but anyway, surprisingly I was a little displeased about this and commented in such a manner to the Receiver. Having stamped my feet and thrown numerous hissy fits, and having written to Michael Gove MP (yes, chinless wonder, yes bane of educators everywhere, but sadly my local MP and, for once, surprisingly useful!) they finally admitted that actually, they hadn't handled things quite as well as they should have. Particularly losing the £211 cheque TWICE then demanding it a third time when they'd already cashed it the month before - am I inspiring confidence in government departments dear reader? I thought not.
Eventually, and I shall spare you the details of a further 5 months of phone calls and letter writing, it was agreed that the amount they Receivers would claim would be £13,500, that that amount would be placed as a restriction against the house so that I only had to come up with it if I sold the property and that the amount would carry no interest, the amount was set and would not increase. Bingo! Job done! I could live with that although it still grated that they had never once, not ever ever ever approached my ex husband and asked him to cover his debts (all personal, none secured against the house and none in my name I hasten to add). Then in October this year I received notification from the Land Registry of the restriction against the house. £13,500 set in stone? No. £27,500 being charged at 8% interest per year. I have absolutely NO IDEA where they got this figure from, it certainly was never discussed....This amount having been dealt with at court in August.....not quite sure where the two months went of them hanging on to the paperwork but still! Funnily enough I was a trifle displeased with this also, especially as I had it in writing from them that the amount would be £13,500. And that is where we are today. I have lodged objections with the Land Registry, rung the Receivers and written to the Official Adjudicators who are the body that deals with complaints or mismanagement issues with the Official Receivers. BUT, one thing is certain, as it stands, every day I am here I am accruing more and more of my ex husbands debt. Those of you on Facebook may recall me asking for some ridiculous percentages sums to be done a while back - it transpires that in 6 1/2 years I will owe more than my ex husbands original debt. I have 2 1/2 years to get out before I go into negative equity what with solicitors fees, estate agents etc etc.....and so, for my piss poor judgement of character, what I have to show for nearly 20 years of mortgage paying is, approximately, and as far as can be estimated, give or take, fuck all.

And talking of piss poor judgement, lets get back to men....not content with marrying an alcoholic bankrupt I decided to go against every rule I had ever made, namely: never go backwards, only go forwards. And so, re-enter, stage left, Mr Tux wearing pistol packer. Why I sent that e mail I will never know, there's only so many times you can slap yourself round the head.... Anyway, it was lovely to hear from him, the woman he had been living with in 1995 was now gone, they were in touch occcasionally but that was all, he was, in fact, living alone in the east of the country, by the coast. The picture of respectability, he was retired from the job on a pre-Winsor report 30 year pension (very nice thank you!) he had his own business in financial investigation, he was a co-director of a car dealership, a local Conservative party councillor (should have sounded the warning bells then!) was very involved in the upkeep and maintenance of a local theatre group and hall, drove the bus on a Friday afternoon for the local Blind Society and cared for his very elderly parents who were in varying stages of age-related maladies. He coached and was in charge of vetting for the under 9s rugby club on a Sunday, in fact I think he only had Saturdays in which to polish his halo.....and apparently, after all these years, he had never forgotten me and, subsequently discovered that he still loved me. (I will take a short break here reader to continue beating myself about the head a little longer) So this was in late 2009: he visited, he took me out, he took the kids out, he helped with their homework, he was, too all intents and purposes a part time father figure, and bearing in mind their original example, he was not a bad one either. And, sadly as it turns out, they grew to like him, then to be quite fond of him, and finally to act up and misbehave in front of him which is always a sign of acceptance!
And the months rolled on, and, once again, I became suspicious of his lack of availability for phone calls, "always text first, I might be in a meeting" his absence of invitations to visit (because we do love the sea side!) and so I chucked him. Again. Then I took him back. Again. (Are you seeing a pattern here? The universe loves a pattern...) And now we reach the weekend just gone, the weekend of the 17th and 18th of November. He arrived Saturday night, he took us all out to lunch on the Sunday, we visited his childhood haunts in Hampshire, had walks in the countryside, a leaf fight by the side of the river Test, it only needed a labrador and we could have been an advert :) (And Delilah the dog was not with us as she didn't fit in the car he had lent me, mine being repaired in his garage at his expense, how kind) He returned again on Tuesday evening, driving the 2 hours up the motorway to return the lovebus, all fixed, and to give Lauren an old pre-upgrade Nokia "looks like a blackberry" mobile phone. Now then (and you're going to love this bit) Wednesday evening, as I lay, prostrate and suffering on the sofa from some hideous childhood bug, Lauren was unable to make the phone send texts and so she handed me the phone (god knows why, I know less than my cat about mobile phones!) Scrolling through the text menus, I chanced upon "folders". Well, and wasn't there a lot of texts from me? And from someone called Denise. And Kareen, Charlotte. Olwen and Teri.All dated 2011, and all at pretty much the same time! Then I went to "sent items" and blow me down, there were more of the same! After a small amount of mathematical calculation, consulatation with a calendar, holding up both hands and finger-counting.....can you see where this is going....? Well, never being accused of being a shrinking violet I copied down all the phone numbers, including that of the woman he lives with, and sent them all the following message.....I shall quote it to you now my dear reader so you can experience in full, the majesty of his discomfort.: Dear N (that's him) G (that's who he lives with), Kareen, Denise, Charlotte and F (his sister) Forgive this unexpected intrusion, my name is Rebecca and I have, it seems, been seeing N at the same time as at least three of you. Kareen and Charlotte, you seem to have overlapped with each other and me! There are undoubtedly others, maybe you know some? G, if you're wondering where N was this weekend just gone and last night, he was here with me. N, thank you for fixing my car and promising to rescue me, apparently, reading the texts on the phone you gave to my middle daughter in the folders and sent texts section, this is a recurring theme with you. F, I am not "his crazy mistress" I am ONE of his crazy mistresses. And why am I not going quietly? Because he told my children that he loved me and that he loved them, and that, ladies, is unforgiveable. Three children let down by a philandering serial liar....anyway, please excuse me, e mails to send, tea to cook for loving children who deserve better...... 
Well. What do you think of that? Turns out G had never been away, so that's 20 odd years of adultery she has tolerated (she must have had some idea, in fact I know she did because she blocked me on Facebook at one stage and he deleted all his "likes" of my posts - how very grown up we all are!) It transpires that Charlotte is rather angry, having been in his web for over two years, Denise, and for this you must be sitting down, was with him for 18 years and he told her that G was his sister!!!! Kareen denies it, but I've seen the texts, there are three other names but there is nothing really conclusive, and all this is an 8 month period last year.......I would so love to have access to this years phone and computer?! Callous towards G? The woman with whom he has shared his life? Maybe, but I, in her shoes, (flat ugly sensible ones probably but that's just me being bitter - most unbecoming!) would want to know, although I quite obviously don't expect any thanks, au contraire, I expect to be vilified and despised. That's fine, I have broad shoulders - I think this blog has shown that at the very least! Anyway, N's reply to this disclosure? "Why would you want to hurt me? What a thing to do. The only person of any consequence on that list is G....." so 18 years, 2 years, any other persons years are of no consequence? I count myself as one of those "inconsequential" women despite his declarations of undying love and promises of matrimony. And I did think of trying to explain why I felt the need to be a tiny bit mean to him, but then I thought, psychopathic philanderers capable of that level of deceit are incapable of any empathy, they must be in order to continue the lifestyle to which they are committed. His parents must be so proud.  He did initially try to deny it, but of course he can't. Charlotte is plotting revenge although I have counselled her that none is required and not to waste a single other moment on him. Don't think she's convinced - I'd be worried if I was him! But sadly, this was all last years texts, there WILL be others, if G has kicked him out he will merely move to the next one and tell them that he could no longer live without her.....I expect she is even now full of love with her heart swelling in unbridled joy......my lovely, it will not last. And to think,. this man could have been the new PCC for Sussex......sorry, did I just partly identify him? I never would.... ;)
And there we are, that has brought you up to date, apart from the argument with my mother where she has practically told me she can no longer do childcare (although I think I will be able to convince her to carry on for a short while) but that is why I must leave. Not only can I not afford the house as things stand, I am now finding it increasingly difficult to get my sorry arse to work. Which is a shame as, having changed my role, I am now back in the job I loved. However the town in which I live is, I believe, toxic, being tainted by my ex husband and all his acquaintances. My house has no good karma about it, it never has had. It is also falling down around my ears, the upstairs bathroom needs ripping out as a row of tiles has fallen off the wall and the plaster is wet through back to the bricks, it also leaks through to the dining room table every time someone has a shower. The ceiling above the table is, therefore, a rather precarious bulge of mouldy hardboard which threatens every meal with an unexpected extra helping of fungi. The "new" kitchen has running damp, possibly from a burst pipe - which was conveniently set in a concrete floor, but that ensures a nightly influx of green slugs (don't walk barefoot in the kitchen at night dear potential visitor, for fear your feet should squelch!) The "wet room" downstairs is the junk room although the plumbing IS there somewhere but it is not tiled and has no floor, neither does the utility room. The wiring in the kitchen is VERY dodgy, although the live wires that were left hanging from holes in the ceiling by my illustrious choice of husband have now been made safe at a cost of £500 (thank you Daddy) The lights in the front room don't work at all, no one knows why, just one of those little quirky things. And so, the house must go. Someone is going to get themselves a lovely little project as this house has good potential, that said I bought it for the garden which looks out over three rows of fields inhabited, in less inclement weather, by doe-eyed cumbersome cows during the day and owls and deer at nightfall. I shall miss the garden even though Elvis, my Indian Runner duck and his harem of 5 puddle ducks have turned it mostly to mud. Again. 13 chickens haven't helped too much either!

Far too much information really, but I feel a shedding of loads approaching. Stress will, no doubt, accompany it, it will all go horribly wrong at various stages. I expect to come out of it with nothing financially, the goal is only to come out without debt. I couldn't bring myself to tell my Dad when he came down with Lemsip earlier, although I was keen to disillusion him about N - he couldn't quite believe it either! So, new start, no more men for me, I think I have categorically proved that I am NO GOOD at choosing partners.....perhaps I should turn lesbian......actually, no, scrap that! :)
Thank you for reading ,if indeed you got this far. I have taken two cups of tea to complete this, plus some "head beating" time and now it is time to collect my little darlings from school. Because as long as I have them, as long as they have me, as long as we have each other, one way or another, we will be alright....

Camping.......

So of course the thing about going camping, even for only three days, it that it takes FAR more than three days preparation to get you ready for the off. I have a friend at work who simply gets in his car and goes (mind you, he runs up mountains with his tent on his back, my tent weighs 32kg and comes in it's own suitcase with wheels...) another friend has a campervan ready packed, just add milk and family and off you go. I am starting to believe that I am one of the most disorganised campers, perhaps because I am a somewhat reluctant canvas dweller. I don't, for example, generally travel more than 2 hours to go camping, in case the weather is too inclement, or the toilets too "festival" and I have to come home in a hurry. I don't camp in persistent bad weather, I also don't camp before about June or after September which kind of restricts trips on the basis that I don't do cold OR wet once I'm in bed. (to which end I take my goose feather pillows and duck-down duvet.)
And so here are the sort of things that come to mind when I am preparing for a camping holiday with the children:
Firstly the realisation that the tent is going to stink to high heaven because I put it away wet last August and never got round to opening it up again and now it's the following June (that was last year and this year)
Opening up the tent in advance of the trip, ostensibly to air it, to find a rat has crawled into the creases, died, and there is an explosion of maggots and an unholy stench as you take the thing out of the suitcase (last year, I haven't tried it this year)
Getting all the way round the M25 before realising I haven't remembered the tent poles, not the pegs, the actual poles that hold the thing together, thus necessitating a U turn at the M23 and an hour and a half BACK through the rush hour to fetch them. The knock on effect of this was no beans and sausages round the camp fire that evening, no ice cream by the sea, rather chips from the chip shop 2 miles from home and putting the tent up in the dark, which at least provided entertainment for the other campers. (last year) 

And so this year, my already full to bursting brain, is not only trying to cram in ALL the extra things we need to take, but age has commanded that, as I add something to my brain, I have to drop something else. Therefore I may remember the incense and the drums, but I will almost certainly forget the tin opener or a towel. And that's the other thing, other campers take the bare essentials which generally means food, cooking equipment, tent, sleeping facilities etc etc, I have to take bunting, incense, drums, candles and candle holders, carpet (for inside the tent), gnomes (for outside the tent), flags (also for outside the tent), my "Love" and "Peace" signs that are hanging in the lilac tree....you see? I can't camp without these things, and to add to my ever growing list this years particular trip requires us all to dress as faeries. Yes, even me. And my son, much to his disgust. He's indicated that he will probably be dressing as a pirate instead which will be fine, at least I think that's what he meant by waving his "Legoland" cutlass under my nose and yelling "NEVER!" when I suggested wings weren't just for girls.....


Of course it was never really looking good for this weekend. I'm breaking two rules before we've even left - the campsite is 4 1/2 hours away on the Devon Cornwall border, and the forecast is rain, rain and showers...... we're all doomed!!

Diary of an addict....

.....my name is Rebecca, and it's been only an hour since my last beetroot. It should have been three hours, but thinking about writing this post led to yet another relapse and I could resist no longer! My problems began on Saturday when I went to the veggie market in Woking. I was shopping in town for middle daughters 9th birthday and was on a VERY strict budget so thought I was safe. After I'd purchased the correct number of electrical gadgets, music and film offerings, this years "must-have" soft toys (druggy-bears my eldest calls them due to the presence of their enormous staring eyes), presents from eldest to middle daughter, presents from youngest to middle daughter, cards to sister from brother (mustn't be pink) from sister to sister (mustn't be gushing or even remotely kind) from mother to daughter, and rolls of brightly coloured paper with which to wrap the lot, I proceeded to the fruit and veg market which, now I am vegan, is pretty much my favourite part of town (it being the place where almost my entire weekly sustenance comes from!) Being vegan has thrown up it's own challenges (poor choice of phraseology!) but the market regularly tempts me with its displays of fruitful loveliness. I have, however, discovered a rather uncontrollable passion for root veg. Those earthy globes, pulled fresh from the soil, round and firm, sometimes with traces of soil still clinging to their hairy roots. Their leaves, fleshy and abundant, dark and fragrant.....how can I resist?
 And so, with my budget set in stone, I approached the baskets. I was there ONLY to buy strawberries, so that they could be taken home and dipped in chocolate, before being set upon a china stand to be ravaged by 8 year olds a mere four hours later. Putting three boxes of berries in my basket I joined the queue, my eyes casting everywhere but the end of the line where I knew temptation awaited. I pretended to be oblivious, I scanned the stall laden with every fruit imagineable. The queue moved. I was three steps closer to root vegetable heaven, but I knew I had to resist. Concentrating, I selected some bananas, easily within budget AND within my grasp. How long would this queue take?! I put four in my basket, taking longer than necessary. The queue moved again, now I was so near I could almost smell their pungent redness. I had to distract myself. Scanning around my eyes landed upon my saviour - celeriac! And at only a pound, easily within budget! Reaching over I brushed past the leaves of the beetroot, it was an exquisite torture, their dark green leaves, blood red veins marbling their fleshy darkness catching at my sleeves, enticing me to buy, but no, the pain was so sweet it was almost heavenly....

 And then, it was my turn. Handing over my basket, "Alright love? Having a good weekend?" The normal banter proved a welcome and perfect distraction. Fumbling in my purse as my goods were bagged up, I was nearly home and dry. The bags handed to me, the money passing between the dealer and the user.......and then "what? No beetroot for you today then?" Said with a smile and a knowing wink......"Oh, I nearly forgot...." as I reached across and selected a full and heavy bunch. The dreadful deed was done, the items bagged, the extra 80 pence handed over, and there was no going back. Striding away, head high and defiant. This was NOT my fault, she MADE me buy them, and therefore I could take them home with not a shred of guilt! Of course, I would just stash them in the fridge, probably forget about them, certainly never cook them. And even if I DID cook them, I wouldn't cook them all, or if I did, I wouldn't EAT them all......

The party came and went with its mishaps (like forgetting the cake was in hiding in the oven, putting the oven on for something else entirely and cooking the cake for a second time once it was decorated AND had the candles on) and upsides (like when they all went home!) and the fridge remained with it's tempting cargo still intact, still in the bag to hide it from my sight. The next day arrived, however, and there was the challenge, once more, I'm hungry, what can I eat. It's difficult to snack when you are vegan, particularly if you don't have a sweet tooth....and so I thought I would cook "one or two" beetroot, just in case I wanted some later you understand. I reached in and took out the bag, the green plastic carrier bag that held my secret desire. But what was this? As I removed it, down fell ANOTHER green plastic carrier bag from the market, containing not, as I thought, parsnips for soup, but yet MORE beetroot!!  And this was a bunch with maybe 7 or 9 smallish globes, all dull in their pre-washed, pre-cooked state, practically imploring me to roast them before they went past their best! They must have been in there from the week before! Well I can't abide waste, at least that's what I told myself, so carefully, and respectfully, I took them from their bag and washed and prepared them for the cooking.

 Now every addict has their favourite method of cooking, I like to trim the roots, carefully slice the leaves from the globe, rinse then wrap individually in foil before roasting in the oven for an hour or so. And so this is what I did now, attending as much care to each as if it were a gift-wrapped gift for the gods.... And of course if I was HAVING to cook more than one or two, I reasoned I might as well cook them all, after all, just because they are cooked, didn't mean I would have to eat them all. In fact, I would make sure I wasn't hungry and then I wouldn't eat ANY! How in control would THAT make me?! So, whilst they were cooking I busied myself, kettle on for coffee and, to stop me being hungry and succumbing to temptation, I made a bowl of soup. Sweated down some onion, added the ends of some other, lesser veg.....but then, at the last minute, chopped up some beetroot leaves and threw them in! Instantly the liquid turned pink....I could feel the heat beginning to rise in the kitchen! The coffee was drunk, the soup supped, the oven timer rang. They were done. With an air of nonchalance I removed the tray from the oven. Without a second glance, I unwrapped each circlet of sensory sensation, setting them aside to cool. Deliberately I left the kitchen, distractions proving harder and harder to find. But then I thought, just one won't hurt, then I'll have had one and I won;t need another one! And so, to my shame, even though they burnt my fingers, the first one was peeled and eaten, right there in the kitchen. Anyone could have walked in. One of the most aggravating and yet wonderful things about beetroot is the anticipation, you never know if you are going to get a sweet one, or one that is just "ok", it's the not knowing that makes the consumation all the more complete. The first one was "ok" but not "the one". I knew one of them would be the one, and so, with inhibitions cast to the wind, I had another. And, I'm ashamed to say, another. Until I could eat no more. I stood back, my reddened fingers proclaiming my shame as loudly as a drunk singing on his way home the bloody mess staining the kitchen worktop, berating me for my lack of will power.

Am I laughing at  addiction? Am I belittling the struggle that millions deal with every single day of their lives? No, I'm not. Because last Thursday a very dear lady, one of the gentlest souls you would ever wish to meet, someone I'm very privileged to say I knew, lost her battle with her addiction to alcohol. No one forced her to drink, no one forced her to starve herself either, she punished herself daily for I know not what. And even though she, in her own mind, probably believed that she deserved every ill that befell her as a result of her inability to cope with this violent and cruel world, she achieved the one result I know she would never EVER have wished to achieve, she left her two beautiful children without their mother. No older than my middle child, they face a future without the most important woman in the world. I never heard her say a bad word about anyone, never, and I've thought about that a lot. She was designed for another world, this one was too unkind for her, as sometimes it is too unkind for all of us. And so I dedicate my latest load of old bollocks to Helen. A nicer lady you will never meet. The world is truly a poorer place without you my dear, know that you were loved, are still loved by those most important people in your life, know that energy cannot be destroyed, only transferred and so your children WILL see you again, in the shape of a cloud in the blue sky, in the scent of a flower, in the touch of a rain drop on their upturned faces. Wherever Mother Nature sees fit to transfer the unique spark that was you, then your children will surely know you again. Rest well my friend, finally at peace, the answers are all yours now for the knowing.

Making jam....

....There are reasons why I am standing in the kitchen making plum and ginger jam, wearing only a bright blue bra and knickers a pair of brown, high heeled boots, and, personally, I blame the council. Because I started out making plum and ginger jam fully clothed, obviously, because, as anyone who has ever made jam knows, when it gets to that volcanic bubbling bit, you don't want ANY part of you exposed to stray jam spits, never mind those squishy, pale bits that are normally under cover. The plums had been boiled and cooled, stones removed, then re-boiled and then, the crucial factor, the sugar added. And it was at this point that the whole thing, really, went to rat shit. Because I went to throw the empty sugar packet away in the recycling bin in the kitchen, because I am a good and conscientious recycler, plus I can't afford the fine those thieving bastards in Surrey Heath council will levy if they ever found a stray cat food tin in the "grey" bin. Not that my bin men would dob me in, oh no, middle daughter keeps them supplied with chocolate brownies which absolves me of the responsibility of wheeling a maggot infested bin out to the kerbside on a Wednesday morning (the pleasures of fortnightly summer collections!) And not that my recycling makes the slightest iota of difference to the planet, not when China negates anything I and every single one of my recycling citizen friends in the UK will ever do for the next thousand years by belching out vast clouds of toxicity without so much as a "do you mind if I smoke?".  So anyway, albeit that I am a  good and conscientious recycler I am also a bit of a slattern when it comes to bin emptying and numerous other household chores that ought, really, to be undertaken on a daily basis. In fact it would be fair to say that bin emptying only normally occurs when, even having stood a small child on top of it, you simply cannot cram any more in to the bin. Of course that makes emptying the thing practically impossible as by that stage the bin is, to all intents and purposes, vac-packed and there is no way of prising out its rancid contents without resorting to kitchen utensils, a plastic apron and a thick pair of marigolds (because the stuff at the bottom will be sodden and foul smelling and it will be THOSE that assault you on the way out, full of retribution and smug wetness just to reinforce the knowledge of your tardiness) ANYWAY, so this morning prior to any kind of preserving commencing, there was' of course, the feeding rituals that comprise the best part of any morning in my household. This includes (in no particular order) cat, dog, rabbits, chickens. fish and three small vultures I call my children. As this is all packed in to the space of 2 1/2 hours that also includes making packed lunches, ironing uniform, normal toiletry ablutions, sudden costume making / project completion (delete as appropriate according to time of year) then, if it's not a working day the tidying gets left until AFTER the school run. So the 1.2kg empty tin of dog food was slung in the general direction of the recycling bin, where it lay, precariously balanced, at an impossible angle on top of the bin. I have, however, perfected the fine art of "slinging and slamming" that is to say hurling something distasteful in to the cupboard, and slamming the door shut before it comes to rest, thereby preventing it from falling to the floor and necessitating the emptying of the bin, which as already discussed, is an undertaking all of it's own.

So cut to after the school run, washing up done, table cleared, animal food run to Rokers for supplies done and unloaded and now a quick bit of preserving. So I'm approaching the volcanic bubbling stage when I decide to "clear up as  I go along" (which never really works, but does shove things to one side in order to facillitate more mess making) Cue the transport of the empty jam bag to the bin cupboard. At this point we should change to slow motion. I approach the bin cupboard, my overloaded, busy mother, butterfly brain has already overtaken bin chores and is already on other matters such as shopping in the Sally Anne shop on the way to mothers at 11.30 (although I am ostensibly going to the Sally Anne shop to drop off unwanted items. Well, I don't want them, and small boy doesn't know they're gone, he really should have kept his bedroom in better order then I wouldn't have two and a half bin bags of "charity" items - you see? As well as recycling we like to do a bit for those less fortunate!) So back to the slow motion bin approach....as I came within a few inches of the door out went my hand, the handle was gripped, the door pulled slowly open, at which point, and at exactly the same moment in time that "too late" became fact, I remembered the empty 1.2kg tin of dog food, precariously balanced and, if I may refresh your memory, at an impossible angle just inside the door. So to go back to real time, I opened the door, the tin dropped, vertically to the floor landing perfectly upright with a telling bang. Now I didn't pay much attention in physics lessons, but as I am so fond of telling my children, every action has an equal and opposite reaction. And just as the tin dropped to the floor, it's contents shot up at a velocity approaching the speed of sound (I know this because they hit me before the scream came out of my mouth) Now you might be saying, but it was empty? Yes. It was. However, because it is Sainsburys cheapest of cheap dog foods, it is not so much chunks in gravy as gravy with the odd chunk (but the hound seems to approve and so does my purse) and so, when left at an impossible angle for slightly in excess of an hour or two, the remains of the gravy collect in the bottom of the tin. And it was THESE that shot in an upwardly direction. It wasn't so much "impact" as "soak". And as I stood there, dripping in room temperature (to enhance the smell) slightly rancid dog food gravy I realised that no amount of dabbing with a tea towel was EVER going to fix it. So off came the jeans and the t-shirt. But of course the jam was still volcanically bubbling!! There was no time to make a dash upstairs for alternative garments. And so, the jam making was completed looking like the Pilsbury dough boy modelling Victorias Secrets (albeit slightly chewing gum grey versions)

But of course none of that would have happened if the bloody council just let me have ONE bin and collected it every week as I wouldn't have a total of FOUR bins in my kitchen for differing items so they can mould and fester for a fortnight but we can all feel better about ourselves.
Anyway, to conclude, the plum and ginger jam is delicious and will be available in the rest room at work from tomorrow for the very reasonable sum of £1.00 a jar :)