The Interim.

I am nearly dying from boredom in the space between Christmas and New Year, neither of which I like very much. They no longer mean anything to me, although there was a time when they did. I have just forgotten for why. Perhaps it was presents for small children and the delight on their faces. At least I still remember that.

Jesus however was born in April according to The Stars, so nothing much to do with God. Born and crucified in the same month. What Ho. That took care of two Christian Festivals in my book. But then The Christians were quite good at this. Can’t have two at the same time. This might keep people out of Churches.

Now I only wait for shorter nights. I am currently sleeping for at least ten hours a night which is in itself frightfully boring.

Feed The Dog. Feed The Cat. Feed The Birds. The Birds are marginally more interesting. Such a clutter of them and all very pretty. They wait in the trees to see me coming. And that is nice. The Robin Bird is the one that I worry about the most. Robins don’t do well in Winter.

Two more days and this will be over and then I can get on with it all again.

My Bulbs are all coming up to glory. Oh My. 150 of them. That was a stoic effort on my part, apart from the expense. Although I can no longer remember what I planted where. But I expect to find out in a minute.

My one real passion is the purple and white stripy ones, but they are a bit on the expensive side. However, I have two pots of those right outside my back door.

Onwards to Spring. Live Long and Prosper.

Noel.

Okay.  Dinner is on the go, most of the effort having been put in last evening.  I never drink on Christmas Eve and followed this time worn habit.  I am one of life’s great planners and you need your wits about you.  Anyone else would probably chuck it all together and then chuck it in the oven and then come up with the same result.  But for me the pleasure is in the planning.

This Blog is beginning to look really boring, although quite possibly my Blogs often are.  But then I only do this for me.

I am doing Pigs in Blankets for the first time ever but with that ghastly French Black Sausage which always goes to slop.  I don’t have any of the other kind of sausage so I am hoping that the bacon will keep them all together.
The Stuffing is as ever something else and never tastes the same twice.  And I threw in some Quince Pulp after I achieved one jar of Splendid Quince Jelly, yet again.  One only I mean.  I have since given that one away.  But then I only make that because I can nowadays and the colour of it delights me.

I am leaving the roast potatoes to Robin Dominic.  Dear of him.  He is still sober for now.
I did get some really nice Christmas Presents, mostly practical apart from one which I had nearly forgotten about the liking of.  Somedebody remembered.  The rest are great as well.
Four new cushions for my now very battered Antique Dinning Chairs, mostly chewed by various dogs, but not ever by O’Connor.  And he hasn’t ever chewed my Antique Table Feet either.  He missed a trick there.  But probably too busy wrecking my lawn.

The Feast of Stephen.

I survived Christmas Dinner, but only barely.
The Pie Meat is in the fridge and The Stew is on top of the wood burner.  One spare dish of Stuffing in the freezer. And the dog got fed.  This has turned into a really cheap Capon.  I only discovered Capons last year and how nice they are.
I made far too many Bloody Mary’s in a big jug..  I didn’t drink any of them but they have all vanished.  Robin Dominic is comatosed of the sofa.

I shall now return to my current nervous breakdown and hope that New Years Eve somehow escapes me.

Christmas Dinner.

I’ve got a Capon, if anyone is interested. Apparently they are illegal in Britain, although why anyone should mind about chopping the testicles off a very young chicken is completely beyond me. Oh, and I’ve got another one in the freezer should the hoards decide to attend, which I hope they won’t.

I remain an entirely unrepentant anti vaxxer and I never go anywhere without a mask and even then not very often. Dinner for two tomorrow, unless my very annoying youngest son decides to really upset me. I’m on a knife edge at the moment. In which case there will be no dinner at all. Mother so very rarely gets shirty, but I am awfully good at it when I do.

I have seriously upset my absent neighbours although I will apologise for that when I feel a bit more altogether. I might also have upset my grandson, but more in defence of him than perhaps he realises. He has a very nice new girlfriend by the way. Not quite sure how he managed that.

Spent my two 10 Euro Vouchers for The Aged in the local shop this morning. Nothing even remotely interesting. Unless you find Dog Food for The Rotten Little Pisser vaguely notable. I have got a nasty bill for Insurance coming up on the 1st of January, House and Car, so let’s just survive that.

And then there is a new back door to pay for. I don’t know if I really need it, but at least it will keep the rain and the mountainous pile of leaves from blowing into my next door kitchen from that dreadful Wisteria. I have definitely gone off Wisteria.

I am still thinking about stuffing The Capon. I might just stuff it.

Happy Noel to everyone.

A Very English Scandal.

You all might wonder why I am Blogging about this, but it was riveting. Sometimes funny and sometimes rather sad.

It all began when homosexuality was still a crime, although there does seem to have been quite a lot of it about. At the time I didn’t even know what it was, but there were a lot of giggles in The Wrens Quarters on the rare occasion that it came up. Nope, there was no such thing going on, at least at the time. So heaven knows what a bunch of well bred young ladies thought it was. I just giggled along with everyone else.

The whole thing traveled on for a number of years under cover, until The Jeremy Thorpe Affair came to light. Homosexuality was no longer a crime by then but Conspiracy to Murder was. Sadly, the only thing that died was a rather splendid dog. However, enough details as I don’t want to spoil it for anyone.

For me Hugh Grant was splendid as Jeremy Thorpe. He even looked like him. I had no idea until I watched this of what an amazing actor he is, which is also a bit sad.

You can catch it on BestSeries.me if you are interested.

Things.

I am a Things person.  I like some Things.  When I was quite small I worried about knives and forks in case any of them felt neglected and so I alternated them.  Although for all I know your average fork might have preferred to be neglected because the silver plate wears off after a while.
After that it all got a bit difficult because I didn’t have a lot of money to spend on Things.  But my Mitchell Uncles did send me a small cheque every Christmas which I spent on Green Wheat Pottery at the local Helston Ironmongers.  Just a couple of this and a couple of that.  Green Wheat was cheap in those days.
I now have a vast collection which could well be worth a small fortune.  Picked up here and there.  Six Teapots and Six Coffee Pots.  Forget those.  An entire Dinner Service by eight and with all attending other thingies  like where in to put the bloody boring vegetables..   In the vegetable things of course.
And then I went on to Paper Weights.  Two Euros a throw but all utterly lovely.  Bankrupt stock so who knows what they are worth.  I have no intention of selling any of them.  These are my Things.  Dolphins and Whales embedded in glass.
And then all of that Chinese stuff.  So blue and so pretty.  All sitting on my ancient stone built mantle.  It all gleams when it is clean, but a complete pain in the arse when I have to wash it.
And then there are four long tall china Japanese Pots that I bought in Leclerc for five Euros each.  You can find the flaws if you want to look for them, but then I don’t.  They are beautiful .
Obviously none of this rubbish cost me very much.  But I remain an unapologetic clutterer when I see something worth saving for me.

Oh,  The Bell.  Christ  knows where I found that one.  But I am going  to  have to clean the bloody thing tomorrow.  I ignore it mostly, but O’Connor knows it is there.  Rotten Little Shit.  I love him to death.  No really.  I really do.  Something has gone very wrong in my dotage when it comes to The Rotten Little Shit. 
My children may do with it all as they please.  And they might be agreeably surprised to find that Mother wasn’t half as daft as they thought.
Meanwhile I shall go on enjoying it all.  There is much to be said for Things.

Me.

As ever.  Everything is always about Me.  But since I am the only person behind my eyes then it really isn’t all that surprising.  Have You ever thought about that?  It’s actually quite miraculous.  It was one of my what the fuck moments, albeit a rather long time ago.
When I feel stressed I know what I feel like.  But I don’t know what You feel like, so, often I can’t help.  

Possibly You are being silly.  I know that I am sometimes.  I tend to work through these times in my head and beat myself up a bit until I agree with Me that it’s all a waste of time.

You could start from that premise.  If only it was that simple.  I haven’t sussed that one yet.  Perhaps I never will.

But there is only one person on the entire Planet who is You.  Try to see this as the magical thing that it is.

Try not to lose your temper.  It’s a complete waste of time and energy and doesn’t( help anyway.  And there are a lot of people out there who are so much worse off than you are, even if only in mind.  An irrational burst of temper won’t help them, presuming that you even want to.  And it won’t do much for You either. I do try to be kind on occasion in a disinterested sort of fashion, albeit not often enough,. but there is always something else going on that I don’t know about.  Only You know what it is.

My only God is The Universe which has no end.  That was another mind fuck for me.  Try to imagine that if you can.

I am here and now and will always have been so.  No one can take that away from Me.

Mummy Mummy. Whaty Whaty

A very long time ago. But for now these peculiar French people are trying to sell me something. Or my son actually.

The French tend to get things arse about face. My birth name is now Maureen. That is my surname. And so as long as I sign that then no problem. The Mitchell and The Eccles and The Lang mean nothing. I am Maureen. How could you have done this to me Mother. Maureen is too much bloody Irish even for me.

Eleanor is unfortunately a bit too Welsh as well. Who on earth was I supposed to be?

I settled for Mitch in the end. All Mitchells are Mitch. But you need to be a Mitchell to understand that.

The Mitchells are ape shit serious. Really nice people. It is in the blood and the bones. And so we really don’t understand unkindness. But we fight it when we see it.

Covid.

What? I don’t really know what to say. I never go anywhere these days, but then I never have for quite some time. So Covid is a mercy for me.

I do have to tell all you that my most beloved first born told me that he is going to die young because his father did. So I told him that he has a very tough old mother. This was misogyny in the most awful way. How could he so easily discard who I am? Celt to the core. What did I do or not that he failed to notice?

Anyway, I told him that he is definitely not dying before I do because I’m not having it. I haven’t heard from him since. That is probably the real joke. Who are these dreadful children?

So hopefully Simon is coming to terms with living long. It ain’t that bad Our Kid.

As it happens my daughters in law don’t like me all that much. But that is their problem. I lost my sons a very long time ago. This is the way of The World. But The Celt goes on in all of my grandchildren. No one dies until they are at least 95 years old and no one loses their marbles in the meantime. This is who The Mitchells are.

The Mitchells are a strange breed. Southern Ireland to the core, but as hard as nails when push comes to shove. Mostly kind, but don’t push it. We are lethal if you do.

And Covid is not a problem. It’s Omikron by the way. At least get that one right.