Cars and cupcakes

Well, yesterday I had a marvellous day. You know how you sign up to things with enthusiasm and then when you actually have to do it you think, hmm? I signed up for two adult learning workshops on Car Maintenance for Woman, and Cupcake Decorating (never let it be said I'm not well-rounded) and then I had a hell of a week last week and didn't really have the energy. But I dragged myself out and it was really worth it.

It's like a rose. Do you see?

This is my cupcake. I have been trying hitherto not to get into the whole cake decorating thing because I live just with Partner*, and unless you time your cake decorating so that you only do it when you've got cake-loving visitors you end up with a lot of cake for two of you. But sod it. I'm going to be looking in Tesco for some plastic icing bags and a great big nozzle. The one above is piped buttercream (centre to outside) with what I think was a 1M nozzle (a really big one), dusted with coloured sugar, and I think I might have sprayed it with (edible) silver spray paint. I am not sure I am going to venture much beyond this in terms of cupcake decoration but I thought that looked nice and I shall make it again.

It was a great workshop and I learned loads about different techniques, etc. I feel like just baking a load of buns and sitting with a tub of buttercream one afternoon experimenting. These are my adventures in fondant.

I would agree with what you are probably thinking here that the black and red one is an aesthetic fail

I have not used fondant before and I am not convinced about it. It feels like Plasticine, and also, whereas buttercream is always handmade and is delicious, with fondant it comes out of a packet and I am just not sure whether you are putting the look of it above the taste. And the taste is the point in a cake! Anyway I have not actually eaten one of these yet so I am again pronouncing on things of which I know nothing, and you can certainly get some nice effects so I shall experiment. I just wonder if I might be more of a buttercream/ royal icing girl. I think it's important to have a cake decorating philosophy. (Although I thought these looked rather nice so perhaps I can be persuaded).

Marbled fondant and orange flowers! Partner rejected these in favour of the Ones With Loads Of Buttercream

Car Maintenance for Women was an utter delight. My relationship with the small blue Punto is basically that if it sounds unhappy or won't start I pray to the Horned God and take it instantly to the man down the road who is trustworthy, while I have a vague feeling that I should be engaging with things like Checking Levels in a more adequate way than I am able. However now the lovely man down the road has retired and so I decided to seize things by the horns and do you know, it was so useful. We did how to do all the basic checks (windscreen wiper fluid, coolant, oil, tyre pressure and gauge, lights etc), how to change wiper blades, how to change headlight bulbs and all things like that. I can appreciate this doesn't sound a particularly thrilling way to spend a Saturday morning but the teacher was lovely and all the other course members were loads of fun. I had such a great time!

If you are thinking, why would it be Car Maintenance for Women, well, I wish it had been for men too because I would have sent Partner and stayed in bed as he has more of an interest than me and knows where we keep the manual. However, lots of the women on the course said how nice it was that it was just women, and certainly I did think some people were quite - not defensive at the beginning, but definitely scared they would not be able to pick it up. So I wonder if, if we had had men there, it would have been a different dynamic and less accessible for people. (Although, they would have been men with absolutely no knowledge of cars! I can assure you Partner would not intimidate anyone with his superior knowledge of the internal combustion engine). I certainly felt I could ask my stupid questions with impunity. I could see the teacher thinking, oh good Lord when I said 'and where does oil go to?' (it burns away. I should know this) but he was non-patronising and I learned so much.

So today Partner, who was in a frenzy of excitement yesterday when I returned because he was waiting for a cupcake, is going to receive a lesson on how to check the brake fluid etc. Thus I disseminate things I learn, including the fact that we have a spare wheel and that the foglights are not where I thought they were (this would have been useful last winter). And I shall buy a magazine on cake decorating and try with all the power that is in me not to acquire another hobby. I MUST NOT!

* Although I do have a friend with four children. NO I MUST NOT FORCE MY CUPCAKES ON OTHERS

Transfixed by terror. But with tutu

Apologies to anyone who has already seen my costume on Facebook but I just wanted to show you quickly where we are so far with my outfit for UK Amateur Pole Performer.

Ignore the yoga mat. I love the corset but if I lose one single pound I shall slide straight out of it so I shall be mainlining digestives between now and the end of July. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it

I've ordered a big feathery mask from Ebay (what could go wrong there??!!) and now I'm working on my routine. If you've ever choreographed anything, well, to start with you're a better person than me, but, it's difficult, isn't it?

It is striking me (again, too late) that competing in UK Amateur Pole Performer might be a bit scary. Indeed: I am shit scared. That's the technical term. But at least I have a marvellous tutu. Could I get away with gold body glitter, do you think? (I imagine I won't be allowed anything that will rub off on the pole).

Last weekend I did a couple of pole dance workshops in Shoreditch. Last week, I took people into dark corners and corridors and insisted on showing them the resulting bruises, because there was one on my hip that swelled up just like an egg and it was very exciting. One of the workshops was in slightly ratty-looking dance studio behind a sex magazine (I know I sound like Alan Partridge), where you have to climb up a fire escape and it all looks a bit unpromising. As I climbed the fire escape, with my pole shoes, half litre bottle of Evian and my liquid chalk in a little bag dangling from my wrist, I did have a moment of thinking, what am I doing? I am 38. I have a veg box. I ought to be at home ringing the gardener (I know) about what we're going to do with the back bit near the shed, not wandering about up Shoreditch fire escapes considering whether I ought to buy a size down on my stripper heels.

But then it came to me. I am a Seeker. I look for new experiences. I look for new things to learn. And sometimes things grab me and sometimes they don't and sometimes the things that grab me are not necessarily the ones I might have chosen in the cold light of day. I think it's probably a good thing to be a Seeker and I'm not just going about looking for trouble. What do you think? (I have got to ring the gardener tomorrow, though).

Once I ran to you. Now I run from you.

Well, readers, the other weekend I did my first race. Yes: I am now a runner. I trot round the streets behind our house for 30 minutes very, very slowly three times a week (my colleague said ‘well, if you’re running in Arbury, at least you’ll learn to run fast’ but I do not listen because actually Arbury is not as bad as people think it is, and the streets behind our house are very nice. The street with our house on isn’t nice, but you can’t have everything.) When I say I run slowly, I am not exaggerating. Today I was overtaken by a woman in a pink anorak with bags of shopping, and often cats wander past me and look at me thoughtfully. Anyway, as I often have more enthusiasm and chutzpah than sense and experience (remind me to tell you about Dan’s and my projected trip to Warsaw!!!) I felt that running along a flat street for 30 mins slower than a woman carrying shopping bags was excellent preparation for fell running. Indeed: I felt that in being able to run for 30 minutes I had so far exceeded my own personal expectations that I might as well enter the Olympics or jump off the University Library and fly to John Lewis, as anything seemed possible.

It was not.

I am going to try to extract a moral from this, readers. I did the race (5 miles with a 600 foot hill) with my brother Dan and his friend J, and our first clue that all might not be well was when we got to the beginning. I was expecting children. I was expecting people dressed as chickens. I was expecting, ooh, I don’t know, a hot dog stand, at least 5 octogenarians, someone with a Labrador wearing a themed jerkin, but no. What we got was a gaggle of sinewy men in lycra and women in team vests stretching their thighs out and running backwards and forwards just for fun. The only person who looked remotely less fit than me was the St John’s Ambulance man. Everybody set off twice as fast as I was used to, and when I came to my first hill I made like a Dalek and kind of gave up. I considered taking a short cut and going to wait for Dan and J in the pub but then I thought, no! I am not a quitter!!! (This is where I always go wrong). So I pushed on and I came last. I mean, I didn’t come last by a tiny bit. I came last by a decent margin (apart from all the people who did not finish or indeed, did not even start).

 

A hill in Derbyshire. The thing to do is to make sure you don't run up it

So I said to Dan we would do the same race next year but this time I would train and would do something called Fartleks which apparently are nothing like they sound, much like Burpees aren’t and I don’t know why you can’t call exercises something sensible. So Dan said, we could do that. Or, alternatively, we could do this killer half marathon and it would be lots of fun. So now I am doing a really hard half marathon this time next year, I have suckered in my friend too, and Partner is practically considering getting power of attorney to stop me making independent decisions as it is certain that no good can come of any of this. So here is my dilemma. Obviously I should be ashamed that I came last. I should be humiliated. I should give up. But I kind of… am not ashamed. I kind of.. forget about the coming last part and think, I did a 5 mile fell run! Very slowly!! I finished it! I didn’t die! I am a runner! I am amazing! I am going to buy new trainers and a proper sports bra so I don’t have to strap myself down with layers of lycra! I am proud of myself! Even though I have absolutely nothing to be proud of. I even bought myself a reward for finishing my first race. Admire the practicality!

 

Czech crystal. I am so bad at buying practical things to wear that there are no words. I buy this and then I wear pants with holes in them and have one work cardigan. One!

One more thing (in terms of over-ambitious physical stuff). You may remember, I am competing in the UK Amateur Pole Performer heats this summer (only at beginner level. It will be ok). I am working on my routine, and I have got my song: Marilyn Manson’s cover of Tainted Love. This was my idea for a costume: tell me what you think. I thought I could do a kind of deconstructed punk-burlesque look. So I was thinking a corset like this which is very cheap:

some kind of either short tutu or frilly bloomers:

(I have to have very short bottoms so I have lots of leg flesh exposed to stick to the pole. You see, it’s glamorous), possibly additional feathers around the cleavage, some kind of feathered headband and a great deal of dramatic eye makeup, or, a venetian-type mask if I could see enough to dance:

All deconstructed a bit (bits of ratty lace added? Dyed? Not sure yet).

How does that sound? I’m slightly concerned about my capacity for dancing in a corset: I thought perhaps I could buy it in advance and try it in the comfort of my own home which will finish off the window cleaner if he appears with his Squeegee at the wrong moment but tant pis. And in any case if I collapse through asphyxiation or bang my head on the pole and knock myself out because I can't see in that bit where he goes ‘once I raaaaaan to you. Now I RUUUUUN FROM YOU!!!’ it couldn’t possibly be more embarrassing than the fell run. Except, there might be a YouTube video, though. Wait… O_O

New podcast by Stitched Together

Just wanted to link you quickly to a new podcast by Chrissie from Stitched Together - she's going to be putting them here and you can also search on iTunes (I don't know how to link to that, you just go to iTunes and searched for Stitched Together).

I'm listening to it now and it's really interesting and worth a listen - go Chrissie and the Stitched Together Podcast! I look forward to future episodes x

Suckerpunched by nostalgia

Partner and I were watching one of the obscure channels at about midnight the other night when an advert came on which entirely overwhelmed me with memories (look. You get to an age...). It was for David Nieper, which is a factory in Derbyshire where I worked in customer services for about a year after I finished my degree and was saving up to come to Cambridge.

I believe that is the first time David Nieper catalogues have ever been arranged near a pole. A first there for David Nieper

I imagine this is the same for everyone but, every job I have had, we have spent all the time laughing. I mean, I do do some work as well, but, I always end up in places where we laugh a lot, for some reason (and eat a lot as well). But, David Nieper was the best. It was great. I think there is a certain type of humour when you put a lot of northern women together in a factory and I still miss it. It was probably the most fun place I worked. I thought it was merely preserved in the aspic of my memory but no! They are still going! I had to order a catalogue! And they have literally not changed one bit in the fifteen years since I left. They are a small piece of perfection in a changing retail world.

Just imagine this woman in 30 years' time with a labrador. YOU SEE

All the models in the catalogue look as if they have stepped straight out of the wives' section of an Aspiring Tory Candidate Selection Panel. Some of them look a bit racier than others but still. When I worked there we supplied Mrs Thatcher with her full length lace slips, I believe she favoured the 1826. I am sorry to see that the 1826 appears to have been discontinued but you can still get the 1726 which is a perfectly acceptable substitute. We also provided Catherine Cookson with her nighties, indeed I like to think we contributed to making giant swathes of Middle England look less alluring in bed. We probably kept down the birth rate in the Home Counties.

Me on my last day. My desk is the one on the right nearest to the camera. I did a version of that squat in Hot Yoga this morning

I loved working in customer services. We had a large following of transvestites because we did larger sizes and were able to customise things, and our favourite, Mr Transvestite, once sent us a photograph of himself in a wedding dress in the back garden of a small pebbledashed house (much like mine in fact! House that is). All the women in the factory worked on piecework, which was kind of a good idea, but meant they churned out the things with just a few seams much more quickly than more complicated things, as the factory manager was a young man with no control. So, if you wanted a velour gown, you had no problems, whereas if you wanted french knickers - well, good luck to you. I used to find the velour gowns (useful for entertaining at home or on a cruise! Bracelet-length sleeves that won't tangle with your breakfast tray!) so amusing that when I left they made me a mini one and I still have it in a little gift box.

I always get great presents when I leave jobs. Sometimes I worry they're pleased to see me go...

They employed me solely because I was a size 12 (they already had an 8, 10, 14, 16, 18 and 20) and would be useful for trying on the sample sizes and impromptu shoulder-to-nipple measuring sessions. If you've never modelled sample underwear in front of a panel of women hyped up on cava and ready to heckle, then you've not lived. The graphic designer used to spend hours airbrushing nipples out of the catalogue on the specific orders of Mr Nieper, and all our customers had titles and were mad. It was marvellous. We spent all our time apologising for how slow the french knickers were being and eating pecan slices from the bakery down the road. I sat behind a nice woman who used to save up all her weightwatchers points so she could get slaughtered on lager at the weekend and who poked me periodically with a ruler, and who once got drunk and tearfully gave me the following, excellent advice: 'never have two men in love with you at the same time, Susie. It's not fun. It's awful'. (No danger yet, Mandy).

I aspire to be the kind of woman who would know what to do with a full slip

Sometimes things went wrong. There was the man who wanted to order, on his wife's account, french knickers (can you see where this is going??) to be sent to his recently widowed sister-in-law secretly, with a card which said, from an anonymous admirer, I mean, can you imagine. Well, the french knickers were delayed (plenty of velour gowns though), and somehow, in error, we sent the wife a letter (we are sorry the knickers you ordered to be sent to xx at xx address with the following gift card won't be available for another month) and that dirty rat was exposed. There was the woman who ordered a black patterned two-piece for her mother's birthday party: the fabric ran out: it was horribly delayed: she was very angry and said, cancel the order!!!. However, she called us back a few weeks later and said on reflection she would like to keep it on order because (I kid you not) although it had missed her mother's birthday, her mother was now looking a bit peaky and she thought it might do for the funeral. There was Miss Smith who burst into hysterical tears when the coffee silk peignoirs were discontinued before she could get one to match her pyjamas. There was the time I rang the bewildered woman in Australia to ask if she wanted a pink or a blue nightie, forgetting there was a time difference.

But on the whole it was a perfect family firm of the kind that cares about its employees and puts on a dinner dance every Christmas: the kind you don't think exists any more. But it does! So I hope they're all having as much fun in customer services as I used to do. I hope they're having pecan slices and sausage rolls for tea, mince pies at Christmas, and kebabs for the Saturday shift. I hope the Silly Name Competition is still running. I notice they've taken the french knickers out of the catalogue. It's probably for the best. And if I ever get a windfall, I might be tempted to buy a nightie. I always found the high necked long sleeve ones strangely alluring in an Amish kind of way ...

I am a Collector

My dad collects toby jugs. I don't know if you have toby jugs in non-UK countries (you lucky things) so if you don't this is what they are. A disembodied head with a handle. He has a toby jug in the shape of Mr Micawber which he places carefully on top of a corner cupboard, which looks even worse because then it looks as if Mr Micawber's body is in the cupboard and if you come upon it in the night it can be quite frightening. Anyway you can see that with this background I would not be keen, myself, to be starting collecting anything, especially given that our house is the size of the postage stamp and now has a pole in it, so does not need anything else. But, readers, I am weak. Sometimes even though you know something isn't good for you you cannot stop yourself, especially when you keep seeing it on ebay for under £5.

Sell me all your mud-coloured cups and send them to me in boxes! Hooray!

Yes. 60s and 70s ceramics. I just love them. I love the graphic patterns. I seem to have gone slightly down the brown route with these the beginning of my haul, but I promise you I shall be branching out into brighter colours. I am going to have a collection of teacups and mugs and put them on my shelf and then I can give people tea from quirky eclectic drinking vessels when they come round. Partner would call this 'twee and affected' so he will not be getting any tea from my eclectic vessels. Nor any biscuits.

Handpainted swirls. Do you get that in John Lewis? Probably

These teacups are Denby Arabesque. Denby Arabesque is my top favourite. I have an Arabesque jug too which sits behind the record player in a delightfully retro fashion. The vase at the back in the first picture is also Denby although I do not know what pattern or indeed if it has a name at all.

Luckily the sun shone just as I was taking the photograph otherwise we would all have been overwhelmed by the brownness of this post. But look! A bit of turquoise!

This teacup is Hornsea Pottery, Bronte, which was designed by John Clappison who was apparently some big name in questionable 70s ceramics. Doesn't this pattern just say the 70s to you, though? Don't you want to sit drinking coffee from it while digesting a nut roast, wearing a kaftan and discussing whether heterosexual sex is by definition oppressive to women? (actually, I have got a vintage kaftan, and you would be surprised how often I end up having discussions about sexual politics. Welcome to my home and life, stereotypical 70s pottery!)

Anyway there we are. Do you know what I am stalking now on ebay? Meakin. And I also have my eye on a bit of Elizabethan Chelsea. We have not even done my Fat Lava interests but I will inflict that upon you another time.

Things I like: cats, poles, Denby. Does that make me a rounded character? I think it must do. (Almost...)

A story with a moral

I am failing at Knitting and Crochet Blog Week. I am sorry. However just popping up because today an event happened to me which can be made into a Story With A Moral which is worthy of Pinterest so I am sharing it.

I was walking home from work down the street near our house with a ridiculously large number of cats, the bad black cat, Siamese-But-Striped, the cat with the bushy tail who stares, other black cat, nervous tabby grey, lots of cats. (This is not about cats. I'm just remarking). Anyway because it was practically the first sunny day this year I was wearing something different. I was wearing my brown jacket (ebay), grey skirt (Secret Lentil), green cardigan (factory shop), Boden biker boots (ebay), and various printed Uniqlo items whereas previously I have been wearing my camel duffel, bright blue Ugg boots bought for me by mum, and with my Ipod in my ears, shivering and looking a bit miserable. I was walking along when a woman on a bike who I did not think I had seen before came round the corner towards me and I moved to the side. As she came up to me she beamed at me and said, 'but no bright blue boots today! And I love those boots! They are my favourites!' and then she beamed again. I smiled too and said thank you and we both went on our ways.

I do not need to spell out the moral of this but I will do anyway because I am pedantic and literal. I did not remember ever seeing that nice woman before and yet she had been watching me and admiring my boots! So the moral is, you do not know when you are brightening up someone's day. You just do not know. Even when you are wandering along looking like Paddington on Valium with Dolly Parton in your ears you may be cheering someone up. Is that a cheering thought? It is a cheering thought if it is a nice smiley woman on a bike. Not if it's a stalker.