Page 121 of ‘Things to Do Now You’re 50…’ begins: Buy a back scratcher and you will enjoy hours of pure bliss. This was a definite case of preaching to the converted.

I have had an itchy back since…well, since I’ve had a back, I suppose. Itching can be torture, especially when politeness prevents us from scratching, in public, for example. And I can vouch for the fact that there is no more pleasurable sensation in the world, as getting rid of an itch.

Over the years, I’ve tried many, many methods of relieving the itches:

• gripping a towel in each hand and rubbing it up and down my back (doesn’t scratch so much as stroke)
• using a knitting needle (quite dangerous!)
• using a knife! (ditto)
• asking someone else to do it (never a success because you simply can’t direct someone else’s fingers and nails to the exact spot required)

About six or so years ago, while out with my hubby for one of our long, country walks, I hit upon the idea of choosing a suitable stick to do the job. If bears can relieve their itches with the help of trees, then a smaller animal (me) must be able to do likewise with a smaller part of a tree.

You’d think it would be easy to find a stick on a country walk, but finding just the right shape, style and rigidity was tricky. We attracted quite a few looks of bewilderment too: usually it’s people with dogs who are looking for sticks, and we had no dog.

Once I had found my perfect specimen of scratchworthy topiary, I took it home and used it regularly. It was about eighteen inches long, with a similar girth to a wooden spoon, and it had several knobbles along its spine, which were just the job for digging into that annoying itch. The rapturous satisfaction I felt while using that stick could truly be compared to those experienced during a quite different ‘alone-in-my-room’ activity. I can well imagine the euphoria felt by a bear when it happens upon just the right kind of tree in the woods!

Alas, my stick and I had to part. I kept it at the side of my bed until we moved house (much to the surprise and amusement of the removals men!) but somehow it got lost in transit.

The above picture represents just the right sort of stick. Each end of the stick can cater for a specific type and place of itch. However, I have since progressed to other methods of alleviating the wriggling, embarrassing discomfort of an itchy back.

One day, my husband was making fun of me and my stick in front of my father-in-law. Highly amused, he said he had just the thing for me. He went to his garden shed and returned with a heavy, metal gardening fork. This has been my scratcher of choice ever since. It absolutely can reach parts other back-scratchers can’t. Being metal, it’s also cool, so takes away that hot-and-bothered sensation at the same time as the itch. However, I have sometimes dug much too deeply (see those sharp fork points?) and made myself bleed! Not good!

So, in the end, I have found a happy medium; something that will discharge the itch but leave my back unscarred: a purpose-made, purpose-sold back-scratching stick, found in one of those Arkwright-style shops that sells everything from toffees to toilet rolls.

It’s purple (my favourite colour – a la Jenny Joseph!); it is telescopic; its teeth bite but don’t lacerate!

Now if you’ll excuse me (all this talk of itching and scratching!) I’m just going to my room for a little while…ecstasy!

Since I named this blog after a line from a Tennyson poem, I recognised that at some point I would have to write about something wine related. So here at last, I am.

 

My relationship with wine has outlasted most other relationships. In my late teens and early twenties, I thought that Black Tower Liebfraumilch was the height of sophistication. It was smooth, fruity and not too dry on my young palate. Now that I am older, I prefer a full-bodied red, such as Rioja, and I rarely drink white wine any more. (Unless it’s Champagne, of course!)

On page 77 of ‘Things to do now that you’re 50…’, I came across this suggestion: Go to a winery and sample the wines. Many of them offer free tasting. Do this whenever you are in wine country. Not having imminent plans to travel to warmer climes, I decided to purchase a voucher from www.yorkshirewineschool.com for my husband and me to attend a wine tasting evening at The Sheffield Tap. (I should confess here that although my husband is not a keen wine drinker – preferring his real ale instead – I gave him the voucher as a wedding anniversary present! Well, who hasn’t ever bought their spouse a present that they themselves would really like?)

The Sheffield Tap is a lovely old pub, with its own onsite microbrewery, that is housed in what was once the Edwardian refreshment rooms of Sheffield Railway Station.

We felt a little nervous as we arrived at the function room. Would it be full of wine snobs? Would we feel intimidated? I do enjoy wine but I am no connoisseur. If I recognise a bottle I’ve enjoyed before, I buy it. Otherwise, I look for whatever’s on special offer. I rarely buy a bottle of wine that costs over £6. Fortunately, we were soon put at ease by Laura, who runs the wine tasting sessions.

During the course of the evening, we sampled six different wines from six different countries: three whites and three reds. Every single bottle cost twice as much as I would normally pay, but I soon began to understand why. And the first thing I learned was that I had been doing it all wrong!

Instead of throwing the wine down as though it is pop, the following methods should be applied:

Laura informed us that we had to get our whole mouth involved in the wine drinking and I can honestly say that after sniffing and swirling the Alsace Riesling round my mouth, allowing it to travel across tongue, teeth and gums, I could definitely taste the lemons therein. The wine had a playful zing about it that I had not noticed before. Lesson one learnt! Lesson two closely followed after I had detected the gooseberry flavour of the New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc and the smoky vanilla of the oak-aged Australian Chardonnay. I have long been obsessed with drinking white wine only if it is very cold. Not any more though. After sitting in the glass for a while, the Riesling tasted even better. Now I know why I have gone off white wine: it all tastes the same when cold. Once it has aired and breathed, you can tell the difference between a Riesling and a Sauvignon Blanc, between a Sauvignon Blanc and a Chardonnay! I am newly reconverted to white wines; like all new converts I will zealously sniff and swirl from now on!

Onto the reds: more knowledge to be assimilated; further lessons to be taken in. Whilst enjoying the Rioja Reserva, I learned the difference between Joven (young wine), Crianza (a year in an oak barrel), Reserva (at least three years in oak and bottle) and Gran Reserva (even longer in oak and bottle). Naturally then, we pay for the time and room given to storage as well as the wine itself. And for those potential wine snobs: it doesn’t mean the wine will be better old or young: it is all simply a matter of personal preference. So there!

Wine is about grapes and about place. So when we sampled the Chianti Classico, we did so alongside a lesson in both. Chianti comes from one of the oldest wine producing regions in the world; Classico refers to particular grapes grown in a specific area of Italy. We tried this wine and then we ate a little Cheddar from the Isle of Mull. With a cheesy coating in our mouths, the Chianti tasted divine. (I can feel a cheese and wine party coming on, and very soon!) Similarly, the flavour of the Argentinian Malbec was greatly augmented once we had consumed the chorizo which Laura proffered. Apparently, it also goes deliciously and moreish-ly well with bitter dark chocolate! (Note to self!)

So what did my husband make of his anniversary present? He admitted that it had been a worthwhile adventure: that it had been lovely to spend the evening togtheer, learning something new together. But still, his choice would be the beer. Fair enough! As for me, I took the above picture and then I drank the remainder of the wine in each glass. To the lees indeed!

I am an all or nothing kind of person. I latch onto an idea or an interest and I become obsessive about it. I have developed two new passions in 2015, one of which is a frequent visit to a spa. (Not a week in a German Health Spa recommended on page 119 of ‘Things to do now that you’re 50…’, but one nestled in the English countryside.)

It all started when my friend Sally (with whom I shared a room in London during my late teens) suggested we treat ourselves to an overnight stay at Champneys Springs. Being a teacher, I could only make it during the school holidays, but we were delighted to see a special deal for February: Couples Retreat. Most of the people there were indeed romantic couples, and if anyone thought that we were too, so be it. As I proudly announced to Sally: ‘Our friendship has outlasted all of our romantic relationships – and between us there have been plenty – so we are a couple.’

As part of the deal, we both had just the one treatment: a Head in the Clouds massage, which was aptly named because all my worries seemed to float away as I relaxed and let go of my tension. I would recommend it.

Since that first visit, I have been five more times: two Mother and Daughter Days, twice with my hubby, and one more time with Sally. (I will go just once more this year, with my cousin Frances, for pre-Christmas de-stress and detox.) The staff recognise me now!

On page 111 of ‘Things to do now that you’re 50…’, it says: Have an aromatherapy consultation. You can benefit enormously from those relaxing vapours. Unfortunately, this was not true for me! On my second visit to Champneys, which was Mother’s Day, I had the Head in the Clouds massage, followed by an Aromatherapy Wrap. The former took away my tension; the latter gave it back.

The Aromatherapy Wrap was meant to last about half an hour. The first part was wonderful: the therapist smothered me in sweet smelling oils and massaged my aching body. Then, as the name suggests, she wrapped me in something very like cling film, with my arms by my side so that I couldn’t move. She covered me with a warm brown, fluffy blanket and tucked it in both sides, so that I resembled a cocoon. I wouldn’t describe myself as claustrophobic, but I am a bit of a control freak and the prospect of not being able to use my arms worried me. ‘What if I need to scratch anything?’ I thought, but I told myself to stay calm.

What happened next though ruined the calm completely. The therapist produced an eye mask and placed it across my eyes, so now, not only could I not move, I couldn’t see either. The therapist’s soft, gentle voice explained that she was going to leave me alone ‘to get nice and toasty’ but assured me that she would be back in five minutes. Lying in the dark, with only the sound of the spa music for company, my imagination ran riot. The rational side of my brain was saying, ‘It’s only for a few minutes; relax and enjoy; how often do you get the chance to do nothing?’ The irrational side (by far the larger) was screaming, ‘I can’t see; I can’t move; anyone could come in and do anything to me.’ Becoming hotter and hotter, the two sides of my brain in turmoil and having no idea what time it was, I could stand it no longer.

I flicked my head so that the eye mask flew onto the floor. ‘Okay now that’s better’, I told myself. ‘At least I can see and I am sure she’ll be back in a minute.’ However, time crawled by. I could hear footsteps and whispered voices on the corridor outside. Inside, the combination of the warm coccoon with my usual menopausal heat, meant that the temperature was soaring. In a flash of imagination induced panic, I wriggled frantically until my arms were free. I breathed easily again.

When the therapist finally rentered the room, she looked down at the crumpled mess and simply uttered, ‘Oh!’ in a quietly bemused tone. ‘Sorry,’ I whimpered, ‘I felt a bit claustrophobic.’ Once dressed, I looked at my watch: I had been in that room for an hour. Most clients may have been pleased about the extra time but not me: I now shudder at the memory. I vowed never again; I’d try something else next time. However, I can now tick off the activity on page 95, ‘Blindfold yourself and find out what it is like to be blind. Only do this where you can’t come to any harm.’ My admiration for those who are truly blind increased infinitely that day.

Fortunately, that experience didn’t put me off Champneys at all. Since then, I have tried Thalassotherapy with my husband. For those who don’t know, thalassotherapy is ‘a mineral rich warm pool with hydrotherapy jets to stimulate and tone tired aching muscles. Excellent for treating cellulite, arthritis and general muscular and joint aches and pains.’ The thalassotherapy pool at Champneys resembles a huge Jacuzzi. (Ah, I can tick something ese off the list: (page 108) ‘Have a Jacuzzi installed in your home. If you can’t afford it, at least try one in a health club.’) Of course a regular Jacuzzi is great fun, though I do wonder what some people get up to underneath the disguise of all those fierce and noisy bubbles! But the thalassotherapy was something else altogether. In fact, there is one particular jet which is perfectly aligned with the tops of my thighs. Aahh, no more needs to be said!

Although it is strange being in there with nine others, moving from jet to jet every few minutes in a rather regimental fashion, it did our muscles and aching joints a power of good. (Power being the operative word as the force of the water in those jets can leave you feeling as though you have been pummelled by a skilful masseusse.) Now I wonder how many times I’d have to dip into that pool for my cellulite to disappear?

My six visits have turned me into a confident spa user and my spa days now consist of swimming, lounging, browsing in the shop, eating healthy food and drinking vitamin filled smoothies. It doesn’t take much to make me happy. Of course, I could just as easily lie on my own settee in a dressing gown and lose myself in one of the many books on my ‘to read’ list. But I wouldn’t, would I? I’d find a job to do round the house. I appreciate that having to pay to sit and relax is a first word problem, but I am very grateful that I can afford the occasional opportunity.

So, Champney, please can I have my parking space?

 

On page  87 of ‘Things to do now that you’re 50’, one of the suggestions is: Give some of your time to charity work. It’s great to give money but even better to give a bit of yourself. With my mum’s church’s Christmas Fair looming, I decided to do just that.

I knitted ten mini Christmas Jumpers which could be hung up as tree decorations. I added buttons from the collection I have built up over the years, many of which had originaly adorned my babies’ clothing. Each mini jumper took me an hour to make so it was a labour of love as well as a fund-raising exercise. My mum sold them on her stall for £1 each. Of course I could have put £10 in the pot and saved myself two evenings of work, but I felt good for having contributed.

I haven’t always been interested in baking. My very accomplished mother and grandmother tried on many occasions to teach me and I would use the excuse, ‘I’m academic, not domesticated’! One day, whilst watching me make pastry, my Grandma pronounced, ‘You’d be good at making bread.’ A backhanded comment if ever there was one! My school Domestic Science lessons often involved me dropping a bowl or producing unfinished or burnt offerings. Fortunately, my teacher was also my aunt.

Years later, I realised that learning to cook and bake at school would have been much more useful to me than the Latin and Greek I was forced to study. With my own children to provide for, I practised and improved, creating a great variety of cakes, in all shapes and sizes. Some of them actually looked as they were supposed to, but (though I say it myself) all were tasty and every crumb eaten.

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

My prowess as a domestic goddess peaked in March 2011 (and again in October 2013) when I made the wedding cakes for my son and daughter.

 

The Great British Bake-Off Obsession: I was a latecomer to this party!

My husband started watching the Bake Off during Series 4 and I was soon hooked. After a glass of wine I would convince myself I could do that, but in the cold light of day woud remind myself that as a busy mother and teacher, there was no chance.

During Series 6 however, I semi-retired and set myself this task: I would make every GBBO technical challenge, week by week.

Week 1: Frosted Walnut Cake

I followed the recipe to the letter, even sifting the four, which I wouldn’t usually bother to do. Ordinarily, I buy the walnuts already chopped, but again, wanting to be authentic, I bought whole ones and chopped each one. This took a long time!

Having made coffee and walnut cakes before, the actual sponge was a success. I wish I could say the same about the frosting and of my attempt to caramelise the walnuts for the top. My walnuts came out of the pan covered in a rather dull batter, instead of the shiny toffee appearance of Mary Berry’s original! The pan was a mess and took ages to clean (so said my obliging hubby!) Although the frosting was easy to apply (a bit like plastering), it was far too sickly for my pallette and because the sugar hadn’t properly dissolved, its texture was grainy. Oh dear, what would Paul have said?

 

VERDICT: time consuming, and a little disappointing, but it’s only week 1, so I’ll persevere

 

 

Week 2: Arlette Biscuits

To produce these, you need time, patience and arthritis-free hands. To begin with, I had the first of those elements. (Again, how on earth would I manage in the tent, especially with people talking to me or trying to film me?) The lamination process (sandwiching the dough and butter, then chilling, then repeating) did become a touch tedious, for someone who has been described as a ‘want-it-now-girl’. However, I was pleased with the end result, although they looked and tasted more like Cinnamon Swirls than biscuits. Oh, and I did let the edges burn a little! Oops!

 

 

 

VERDICT: oh my goodness, what a faff; I’d never be able to do these in the time allowed in the tent

 

Week 3: Baguettes

My Grandma was right: I am good at making bread. I can do the heavy-handed kneading that’s required to knock the dough about and allow in plenty of air. However, Paul recommends using a mixer with a dough hook, which I don’t yet possess (Dear Santa…hint, hint) so I used the traditional method of manual mixing and kneading, but remembered to end up with a wetish dough, as stipulated. I managed to fashion a couche (French for bed) out of a tea towel and hoped that I could create the recognisable baguette shape. Not bad eh? Although not quite the correct shape, my baguettes were crisp on top and made that mouth-watering crunch when broken in two. Bon appetit! Sorry, I couldn’t resist. So impressed with myself was I, that I bought a proper couche to use next time. Thanks, Lakeland!

 

 

 

 

 

 

VERDICT: success, and in the time allowed; maybe I will apply for Series 7

 

Week 4: Spanische Windtorte

Pardon?!  Never heard of it, but it looks easy: meringue, cream, fruit? What’s not to like, as Joey from ‘Friends’ would say!

The first thing I had to do though, was go out and buy a sugar thermometer. (Thank you again, Lakeland.)

Not being the patient sort, I did find the whole recipe tricky, from waiting a whole fifteen minutes for the sugar and egg whites to reach 70C, to making smooth, equal-sized meringue circles. I decided to save money by not buying violet coloured fondant icing for the flowers and ended up with pink and blue fingers for the best part of a week. At the end of the bake, I had used twelve egg whites and all the yolks were huddled together in a bowl. Can anyone suggest a recipe for egg yolks please? For want of a better idea, I turned them into a rather rich omelette. As for the Windtorte: very sweet and sickly, so only for the serious sugar lover. (And those who relish the challenge of pouring runny meringue into a wobbly piping bag!)

 

VERDICT: I wouldn’t be surprised if the Eton Mess was created as a result of someone attempting this windtorte, failing, and smashing it up instead!

 

Weeks 5 and 6? I have a confession: the ingredients for these two challenges were very difficult to acquire in small amounts, so I took a two-week break

 

Week 7: Victorian Tennis Cake

I love tennis, I love fruit cake and above all else, I love the Victorian era. So I expected to make a pretty good fist of this week’s challenge. Then, I remembered that the Victorians would not have our mod-cons or our pre-packaged ingredients. Chopping and slicing all that fruit (approx. 1300g) and then the nuts (approx. 100g) proved to be a little too much for my arthritic fingers and I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the real-life Mrs Patmores and Daisys. The smells which emanted for the kitchen during the two-hour bake were divine. However, as with many of my culinary efforts, the finished cake tasted far nicer than it looked. I didn’t have a fine enough nozzle and thought I could improvise but the result was a sloppily arranged flower border and not the dainty one in Mary’s version. Well, at least my net stayed up and I knew better than to put the royal icing in the oven!

VERDICT: a very expensive, but delicious cake – all who tasted it agreed that the addition of pineapple was a winner 

 

 

Week 8: Mokatines

Having never made Genoise sponge before, I approached this bake with trepidation. Again, plenty of time and patience were required. I found each individual component (sponge, coffee icing, crème beurre) straightforward enough, but the tricky part was the assembly. The Genoise sponge is fragile so it tends to tear or break when icing is applied. Also, I couldn’t risk handling the individual Mokatines when adding the chopped hazelnuts, so it was difficult getting them to stick to the sides. The weirdest part of the process was turning fondant icing into a glaze! Who’d have thought? Nevertheless, they did taste lovely.

 

  mine

VERDICT: I will definitely make Genoise sponge again as it’s so light and fluffy; just the thing when you want a taste of a pudding, but nothing stodgy.

Week 9: Chocolate Soufflé

This was my best week of all. I had made soufflés before, so didn’t find this a serious challenge. However, I only had small, individual soufflé dishes, so I went out to buy a large one. (Thanks, Sainsbury’s.)

I always find whisking to be most therapeutic. I love to watch the egg whites slowly becoming snowy white, thick and shiny. However, when it came to whisking the crème pâtissière whilst still in the pan, I managed to coat myself, the recipe and indeed most of the kitchen in brown, chocolately splodges.

Strangely enough, one of the suggestions on page 94 of ‘Things to do now that you’re 50’, is: Teach yourself to cook the perfect soufflé. Well, job done. I can tick that one off!

VERDICT: I was so thrilled with myself; mine turned out better than the soufflés of any of the Bake Off contestants! I gave myself a star and then downloaded the application form for Series 7.

 

Week 10: Raspberry Millefeuille

When I saw the Bake Off finalists making these, I knew they would be the hardest challenge yet and I wasn’t wrong. The picture of mine below shows my second attempt; the first just wasn’t worth photographing becuse I had burnt the thin layers of flaky pastry. (They still got eaten!)

Fond memories returned to me from childhood of my mum’s vanilla slices, which she sometimes made with flaky pastry but more often with the more voluptuous puff pastry.

I made a lovely batch of raspberry jam for the filling, but my husband did not appreciate having to scrape the residue from the bottom after it stuck rock hard. I think it took him as long to do that as it took me to make the flaky pastry!

You should have seen the mess! I could never have made these in the tent. Frozen butter, grated! Folding and chilling; folding and chilling! It took me an entire evening.

It was a deliberate choice not to add the strips of icing on top. I thought it would be too sickly altogether and also, where’s the challenge in cutting up strips of ready-made fondant icing?

 

 

VERDICT: Now I know why my mum used puff pastry; I will never attempt to make flaky pastry again!

 

My conclusion: I enjoyed putting myself to the test but I don’t think I will apply for Series 7 after all. The application form is binned. I’ll just watch, admire and enjoy! (With a glass in hand, of course.)

On page 228 of ‘Things to do now you’re…50’, by Robert Allen, one of the suggestions is: “Find the numerological significance of your name.” Pardon? I thought. I’ve known for as long as I can remember the etymological meaning of my name, but numerological? Then I remembered Google. My youngest daughter had said to me just a few weeks ago, ‘I don’t need your advice; I’ve got Google’, so I knew that the oracle search engine would be the place to go. I was right.

http://www.paulsadowski.com/NameData.asp

To begin with, I entered my full birth name. The numeral equivalent of all the vowels and consonants came out as 8. (How or why, I cannot say, but this website offers help: http://www.seventhlifepath.com)

So, what’s a person with a score of 8 like?

I am supposed to be materialistic, driven by money, status and power. Well that’s not true. I’d hardly be a lowly, part-time teacher, mother of five, divorced twice, if I were. So that was disappointing. But I was prepared to read on, with an open mind.

Apparently, the number 8 breaks down as follows:

A Soul Urge number of 7 means: 
‘With a number 7 Soul Urge you are very fond of reading, and retreating to periods of being alone and away from the disruptions of the outer world. You like to dream, to study and analyse, to gain knowledge and wisdom. You may be too laid back and withdrawn to really succeed in the business world, and you will be much more comfortable in circumstances that are tolerant of your reserve, your analytical approach, and your desire to use your mind rather than your physical being.’

So, is teaching the right career for me? It would suggest so.

‘You are very timid around people whom you don’t know very well, so much so at times that casual conversation and social situations can be strained. You tend to repress your emotions to the extent that some people have a good bit of difficult understanding you. You tend to be very selective with friends and you don’t easily adapt to new environments or to new people very quickly.’

I agree with the above assessment. I have a few close friends. I love conversation and debate but I’m not so good at small talk. I do bottle things up and then there’s usually a mess to clean up when I explode!

Your Inner Dream number is: 1

An Inner Dream number of 1 means: 
‘You dream of being a leader and one who is in charge. You want to be known for your courage, daring, and original ideas. You seek unconquered heights. People may get a first impression that you are very aggressive and sure of yourself.’

I dream of being someone; someone to be remembered. I dream of being known for my creative writing but I am too much of a procrastinator to realise this dream. I would be very upset if people thought I was aggressive.

Eager to find out more, I found this site: http://www.numerology.com/numerology-news/letter-name-numerology

Here, each letter or your name is analysed. Again, it’s a case of picking and choosing what you like and what you think fits you.

Having said that, when I looked at the character analysis based on the first letter of my name (the cornerstone, apparently) it was spookily accurate.

“You wear your heart on your sleeve — lucky, since you have a strong instinct about matters of the heart. You express yourself clearly and are also witty — a “life of the party” sort.”

The analysis of my capstone (last letter) eerily confirms the above.

“You believe strongly in falling in love … in fact, you may do it quite often! You are outgoing and the life of the party, but you are also very keen and a hard one to fool. You can see a situation from many different sides.”

I have indeed fallen in love often. (And married thrice!) A friend of mine once wondered whether I was addicted to wedding cake! No, but I am addicted to romance. But I blame Emily Bronte for that: I have been searching for my Heathcliff since I was 13!

My conclusion then? Did my parents know that by naming me, they were imbuing me with certain characteristics? Was it fate, or destiny? Or is it simply this: as with star signs, meanings of names are very general, and can often be made to suit our own purpose or ideas about ourselves. Still, it was all most interesting and proves that we do indeed learn something new every day.

Margaret Atwood, Albert Hall, Nottingham, 26th September 2015

Shock, horror: this year I became a tweeter. After years of eschewing social media, I joined Twitter and was delighted to be able to follow some of my favourite authors. Margaret Atwood is one of them. I had read her works in the past such as ‘The Handmaid’s tale’, ‘The Penelopiad’, ‘Cat’s Eye’ and ‘The Blind Assassin’. I had also read ‘Alias Grace’ when I was pregnant with my fifth and last baby. My Grace will be eighteen in January 2016.

If it wasn’t for Twitter, I’d never have discovered that Margaret would be touring GB to talk about her new novel, ‘The Heart Goes Last’. So my friend Kate and I went to see her in Nottingham. We each bought a signed copy of the new book. I also bought a brand new copy of ‘Alias Grace’ and plucked up courage (in a rather awestruck, shaky voice) to ask Margaret if she would dedicate it to my daughter. She did so, as you will see. I plan to hand this over on Grace’s birthday. Whether she reads the book or not, it serves as a lovely souvenir of her parents’ inspiration to name her. Not that we supposed she’d ever become as notorious as Grace Marks! (Fingers crossed!)

Fellow tweeters may be interested to note that Margaret Atwood posts regularly and is a keen supporter of human rights and environmental issues, amongst many other things.

For a review of ‘The Heart Goes Last’, head to: http://www.theguardian.com/books/2015/sep/07/the-heart-goes-last-review-margaret-atwood-stan-charmaine-positron-project-consilience-prison

I’ll let you know later on what I think of it.

Nigella Lawson, Waterstones, Manchester, 22nd October 2015

I have long been a fan of Nigella. I have followed her career (and some other aspects of her life) with keen interest for around fifteen years. In my eyes, she can do no wrong. (In fact, I admire her all the more for being human and fallible.) Although she doesn’t call herself The Domestic Goddess, it is a monika that has frequently been attached to her, largely due to the success of her second book, which is a firm favourite (very dog-eared and spattered in various cake mixtures) of mine and of my family. So (again, thanks to Twitter) I learned that she was to visit a select few Waterstones’ book stores, Manchester being the closest to me.

I arrived in store for 3pm and although Nigella was due to arrive for the book signing at 5.30pm, I was not the first! I sat in the cafe on the top floor, with a scone, a pot of tea and her new book, ‘Simply Nigella’. At around 4pm, staff began to set out a table and chair for Nigella and the queue started to form. I joined it. Whilst waiting, I chatted to one or two like-minded devotees. We discussed our favourite recipes and our plans for which of the new ones we’d make first. Being a liquorice lover, I will initially head to page 280 to try the Liquorice and Blackcurant cake and then to page 336 for the Blackcurrant and Liquoruce ice-cream.

A frenzy of excitement shivered along the snaking queue when at 5.30 precisely, Nigella arrived, flanked by her PA and two chaps in black (her minders? security? Waterstones bigwigs?) Loud applause broke out; I wonder what on earth it feels like to know that folks have queued for hours to see you and can’t wait to have a fleeting few-minutes’ audience with you?

My turn came soon enough. I prattled something to her about being a domestic goddess (as though nobody had ever said that to her before!) What is it about meeting your idols and heroines that turns you into a blithering idiot?! (Me, anyway!) It was over, as quick as a flash. She spoke a few kind words to me – we, her fans, are the real domestic goddesses in her eyes – signed my book and that was it. Next please! Of course, that’s how it has to be: she has to meet and greet hundreds in the next couple of hours. Smile and sign; smile and sign!

     

Unfortunately, it took me until yesterday to try out one of the recipes in ‘Simply Nigella’. The above picture shows my attempt at the Slow Cooker Moroccan Chicken Stew (page 221). I wondered why mine looked so bland compared to the picture in the book. Then it came to me: after specially searching out a small sprig of fresh coriander, I had forgotten to add it at the end of the cooking time. Doh! I found it later, lurking (as if in mockery) in my vegetable basket.

My husband, daughter and son-in-law enjoyed the dish; my one-year-old grandson didn’t! Sorry Nigella, you’ve yet to win him over, but please do keep trying!

Can’t wait for 8.30pm: ‘Simply Nigella’ on BBC 2.

Added after the programme: Our ‘Simply Nigella’ teatime:

I settled down to read ‘Things to do Now You’re 50’, with a pen. I placed a tick next to all the things I’d already done, such as ‘visit the Tower of London’ (p.10) and ‘take at least one big risk in your career’ (p.41). Then I drew a circle round the things I wanted to try soon such as ‘do a sponsored parachute jump for charity’ (p.143) and ‘write a song’ (p.153).

So, slowly but surely, when time and opportunity permit, I need to work through the list. But what to do first? And will I have achieved everything I intend to achieve by the time I am sixty? Watch this space and we’ll see!

 

NOTE TO READER: I would be mortified if I allowed any grammatical errors or spelling mistakes to remain on this blog, so please feel free to tell me if you spot any!