In praise of Podcasts

My life has been transformed of late by the exponential rise and rise of the podcast.

Until recently, the Working Woman missed out on the daily joy of housewifedom in the form of her coffee-time fix of Woman's Hour. No longer. The BBC, wrongly-accused of fuddy-duddiness, has caught up with the 21st century and launched bite-size podcasts of the show, enabling all us worldly-wise but coffee-morning-denied ladies to catch up on the woman's world out there.

Although initially sated by Jenny Murray's dulcit tones, this soon became insufficient and I began to question the deficiencies of the spectrum of podcast availablility. But not long did I have to wait. Only 6 months down the line came Blue Peter video podcasts: alright, viewing Blue Peter in bed on a 2" screen is not ideal, but it's a heap better than missing out on how to make your Advent Crown!

And now, in the last month, podcasting has surpassed itself. Not only has the BBC finally sorted out daily unmissable podcasts of The Archers, but Luscious Lawson has launched her latest series Nigella Express in scrumptious, recipe-sized, video cook-along-a-podbites.

Off to bake a Pineapple-Upside-Down Cake with my new podcast pal Nigella ..............

PIneapple Upside-Down Cake

2 tbsp sugar

6 slices pineapple, plus 3 x 15ml tbsp of the juice

11 glacé cherries

100g flour

1 tsp baking powder

¼ tsp bicarbonate of soda

100g soft butter

100g caster sugar

2 eggs

Preheat oven to 200C. Grease a 23cm tin. Sprinkle 2 tbsp sugar onto the buttered base.

Arrange pineapple to make a circular pattern. Pop cherries in spaces between pineapple.
Put flour, baking pdr, bicarb, butter, sugar, eggs & pineapple juice into food processor until smooth.

Pour mixture over the pineapple rings; it will only just cover it, so spread it out gently.
Bake for 30 minutes, ease spatula around edge of tin, place plate on top and turn upside-down.

Ta-Da!!

It's Scrabble, but not as we know it

Not one to miss out on a fad, I recently signed up with Facebook. Facebook, for those not in the know, is one of a wave of ‘social networking’ sites set up to fill a non-existent gap in the lives of mid-twenties social butterflies. As a woman of an uncertain age, you might be wondering why a grossly post-twentysomething such as myself had been drawn in to the web of Facebook.
Scrabble. That was the lure. On-line Scrabble.
A word of warning to Scrabble enthusiasts not yet embarked on marriage: marrying a dyslexic limits the joy to found in inter-espousal Scrabble. Whilst it may be great to win each time, I only manage a game with Iain if I suggest all of his words to him, then correct his spelling. As competitive as I am, even I don't want to win this way. Playing with the kids means dumbing down my words, or winning every time - and I'm told that winning is not sporting maternal behaviour.
But on-line Facebook Scrabble offered the opportunity to link up with Jayne and Jaki and off we go. I am stunned, and more than a little worried, at Jaki's masterly 'zaniest'. I call Jayne to remnind her that it's her go only to find that she is staging a conscientious objection. Turns out Jaki's masterstroke is not a lexicographical feat but a gross act of cheating acheived through putting her scrabble letters into Google Anagrams.
Now what can you trust in this life if not a game of Scrabble. I give up.

In praise of ...............the virtual holiday

Our summer holiday has been an entirely virtual logistic.
Accommodation, travel, holiday insurance, maps and guidebooks, new digital camera (last one died a death on recent camping trip), RAC routeplanner: all sourced and bought on-line.
If that was not enough, we received our 'e-tickets' 2 days ago inviting us to take a virtual tour of the boat that will sail us from Plymouth-Santander.
What a fabulous thing! We 'virtually' strolled around the on-board swimming pools, the restaurants, the cinema and even our cabin accommodation - all the time gathering zeal for our holiday. Fired with enthusiam, the girls suggest we use Google Earth to take a look at our destination.
Oh my! We type in the name of the vilage near St. Jean de Luz and the Google Earth virtual globe spins, slows to a halt and zooms right in through the Pyrenees, giving us not only a bird's eye view of our accommodation, which turns out to be just 30yds from the beach (fab, this means the sherpas gets a rest!), but also photos of the beach, the surf and of numerous seafood restaurants nearby.
And now, thanks to my virtual insight, I can't wait to get there. Roll on Saturday!
Will be back to blighty and the blog around 5th September.

In praise of ........camping

Hi-de-hi!

Camping is not what it used to be. Gone are the heavy cotton-twill tents of yore, upon which many a corporate team-building challenge was based. Gone are chilly nights in draughty, single-skin abodes. Gone too, the need for a logistics expert to organise a family camping trip.

On recent camping forray to Hay Festival, teenager Georgia had thrown tiresome teenage strop when her help was demanded for erection and packing away of tent.

There are, of course, 2 ways of resolving family conflict;

1. Angst-ridden method. Confront and forcibly control the problem (in the camping case, force daughter to join in, stomping, tutting and lip-curling, helping under fear of with-holding of pocket-monies), or alternatively

2. Coward's Method - my preferred option. Remove source of conflict (i.e. don't camp).

But since chilled camping trip had been planned by My Friend Mary, neither of the above was an option.

So it was that I resorted to the The Third Way. The Third Way being that middle-class luxury of throwing money at solving the problem. And what an investment that money proved to be. Just £54 bought us a self-erecting tent; a Quechua 3-seconds Air Tent that, when thrown skyward, frisbee-like, from its flat pack bag, springs into action, transforming itself from 1 metre disc to 3-man tent, landing upright and ready for pegging. (for demo see, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dI9m8aSZaEU&mode=related&search= )

No teenage strop; instead filial bicker ensued for rights to fling tent, but in the course of the argument the tent was tugged from its bag and took its own decision to metamorphose before they even had chance to launch it.

Carry on Camping, I say!

La Vie en Rose ?

Well, as My Friend Jayne pointed out, it was not the for first time that she and I had stepped out with intent to watch a girly feel-good movie, only to find ourselves elbow-deep in misery.

La Vie en Rose is the big-screen biopic of rasp-voiced French icon Edith Piaf.

Her life comprised, in alphabetical order; alcoholism, bereavement, child abuse, cirrhosis, destitution, drug dependency........I'm only at 'D' and I'm sure you've had enough.

We emerged from the film, red-eyed and soggy-hankied!

But yes, a feel-good movie nonetheless - I challenge anyone not to feel good about their own life after living through just an hour and a half of hers !!

Haircuts by children

The brainchild of a canadian artist, Haircuts by Children aimed to 'challenge the forces of power and trust between children and adults'.

The children concerned, all 10- and 11-year old members of Birmingham Repertory Theatre's Junior Drama Group, were, joy of girly joys, to be let loose in a city centre hair salon for a Saturday afternoon where they would give free haircuts to anyone fool enough to proffer their coiffures.

Margot was thrilled, having long dreamed of becoming a hairstylist, of the hairdresser's life of glamour. Two two-hour sessions of training by a qualified hairdresser and Margot was set to go; complaining sorely that she had only been taught how to cut fringes, layers and (oh horror!) how to operate electric clippers.

More than 30 victims, sorry, clients, turned up to sacrifice their barnets: indulgent parents of the children (me included), lads in their twenties wanting a free haircut, unconcerned at the risk of a short-back-sides-and-top-scalping from a novice child in charge of a hair clipper.
And an elderly lady with a gorgeous head of wavy, white, shoulder-length hair; in a leap of faith telling her mini-stylist to do whatever she thought might suit her. Was this woman of sound mind?!

Reviewed in the press, Margot finds herself in print, quoted thus: 'I was practising on my dolls this morning. I tried to give them a Pob (Posh's latest hairdo, an asymmetrical take on the bob), but it turned out all wrong! I search her room and find, head-down in the waste-paper bin, three Barbies, the worse for wear and sporting skew-whiff and spiky Pob-alikes.

Margot, a couple of days later, announced the she no longer desired a career as a coiffeuse, prefering instead to aim towards cosmetic dentistry. I just hope no progressive artist ever gets funding for a 'Dentistry by Children' event!

End of Term

11-year old daughter Margot, leaving junior school forever today, announces at 8.15am that she must immediately be provided with 4 presents for Form Teacher, Maths teacher, Deputy Head (who retires today) and Headteacher. Competent Yummy Mummy would have done pre-emptive shopping trip for cheap and cheerful chocs. Not me though.

Frantic rummage of presents drawer reveals possible options as;
1. tin of Werther's Originals, sell-by-date August 2006
2. bashed up box of lavender soaps, circa 1995
3. mug bearing mantra, 'without stress my life would be empty'
4. a boomerang

Werther's Originals become stealthily stripped of their sell-by-date label, gold ribbon attached over ripped patch and labelled for Mr Shelton, beloved and esteemed maths teacher. One present down, three to go.

Lavender soap removed from packaging, reveals two soaps - hoorah! Repackaged in separate gift bags, addition of gold ribbon. Nearly there.

Daren't give comedy mug to Mrs Jones as I previous caused Margot to be appalled and ashamed of me when I sent a message to Mrs Jones, inadvertently written on the reverse of a card which boldly stated 'An ugly man with no money might as well cut off his penis!'.

Which leaves the boomerang. Mrs Jones is not the boomerang type.

Stress levels rising now with school run imminent.

Last-minute trawl in bathroom cabinet brings to light an unopened tube of my favourite Angel body lotion. Loath to give it Mrs Jones as £23 is OTT for teacher pressie, especially as she'll never teach Margot again so it won't count as incentive/bribe promoting Margot's chances of prime role in school play.

Grudgingly add gold ribbon and warmest message of thanks.