Sunday
So, it’s been a while; a wee while, or a Weald while, as we say on the Weald. (We don’t, but I’ve decided to start a trend.) I’d like to say a lot has happened since my last entry but of course not much has in reality, except that Mr Young has finally painted the kitchen and we’ve decided to eat more avocados, seeds and nuts because they’re really, really good for you. Also sauerkraut and kimchi, which are gradually removing the skin from the roof of my mouth, although apparently they’re enjoying some sort of bacchanalian orgy down in my stomach with my gut bacteria who are welcoming all this fermented cabbage with open arms.
We must be so healthy now, me and Mr Young tell each other over our weekend brunch of poached egg with smashed avocado on sourdough toast, sprinkled with pumpkin seeds and a side order of walnuts. (And no, I don’t know why the avocado is smashed either; I guess it sounds more sophisticated than plain mashed. I’m a just a boring old boomer; who am I to question the Gen Zs? Adjective choice is not a hill I’m choosing to die on.)
So, we are those people now. Twenty years ago I would have been nursing a red wine hangover and bingeing on cheap white toast with a side order of paracetomol and strong coffee on a Saturday morning. Now we can't afford alcohol any more because we spend all our money on spicy, salted brassica. My younger self would have needed a stiff drink and a lie down if someone had warned her. I’m sure it will all be worth it when I’m 96, bouncing out of bed and still touching my toes (hopefully getting back up to a standing position). At least the avocado part is enjoyable. The jury is still out on the sauerkraut; I think it’ll be a guilty verdict.
Just a gut feeling.
Monday
In other news, Mr Young has been using his monthly allowance to stealthily add to his woodworking equipment. These aren’t exciting, or even recognisable things, like saws, or hammers, or dangerous sharp whirring objects that look as if they could take your arm off if you happen to get distracted when a thoughtful wife pops her head round the door to ask if you want a cup of tea.
Amazon parcels regularly arrive for his workshop but when I ask what they are, to show an interest (because that’s the supportive sort of partner I am, always keen to make sure he’s not wasting his pocket money when he should be setting at least some aside for useful purchases, such as, oh I don’t know, let’s say anniversary gifts or the occasional romantic bunch of flowers…but I digress) they are always glue, or small dull objects that look like the discarded bits you find at the bottom of a skip, or clamps. Clamps, clamps, clamps. Apparently you can never have too many clamps. Or glue. Or small dull objects.
But he’s definitely very skilled. He’s made lots of cupboards and shelves and drawers and handles and workbenches and knobs for his workshop; because that’s the first thing you have to make when you are a woodworker. Things to put your tools in and on and hang them from. Bless.
Wednesday
In other other news, I took up running again in October. Then quickly took it down again after my third slow job around the Weald because my knee told me it was a really, really bad idea. It was annoying, because although I hate running, I should have been the one to decide to give it up, not the other way round.
‘Nobody puts Baby in the corner,’ I’d puffed triumphantly after my first lap round the estate, punching the air, but it turned out that Baby should never have left the corner in the first place with her dodgy meniscus.
My beloved chiropracter, who has seen me through pregnancy sciatica, aching hip joints, shoulder pain and a stiff neck, has a look and tells me that my right foot turns in slightly and I need to wear an insert.
‘Do you mean I have flat feet?’ I ask her, slightly appalled.
‘No, just one, really,’ she says. ‘It's been throwing you off balance when you’ve been running, which is why you’ve torn the cartilage in your knee.’ (I’m paraphrasing; contemporaneous notes were not taken, and I was in a bit of a shock about the flat foot comment.)
I drive home, pondering. The off-balance bit could explain a lot, such as my poor spatial awareness, particularly when it comes to reverse parking which is something I've never quite got the hang of, despite Mr Young's repeated attempts to teach me (which, to be quite honest, isn't suprising, since his 'lessons' mostly consist of tutting, sighing and exasperated head shaking).
The fact that there might be an actual medical reason for my carpark humilations cheers me up quite a lot.
I tell my sister Rachel the exciting news that night.
‘How can you have just one flat foot?’ she says. ‘That’s so typical of you. You have to be different.’
Ha! I think. You’d better believe it.
Nobody puts Baby in the corner.
Saturday
Life on the Weald has recently reached a fever pitch of excitement with the opening of a Co-Op store. Yes, we can now walk – walk, mark you – to an actual shop and buy things. (Previously, if we couldn't drive anywhere for food, it was a case of foraging for berries and poisonous mushrooms or going through next door’s bins.)
Our Co-Op is wonderful. They sell cappuccinos, fresh croissants, the Cook range of frozen food, wine, flowers and avocados for smashing, mashing, or sitting in the fruit bowl, rock hard and refusing to ripen.
Nancy loves going there because they sell gingerbread men, girls’ magazines that cost £100 but are worth it because they have stickers and plastic pink tiaras, and….drumroll….children’s trolleys.
The allure of these miniature metal menaces to a five-year-old cannot be overestimated. I know if I was her age and in a wonderland of gingerbread men and Barbie comics, my small hands gripping the handle of my very own trolley, the empty aisle stretching ahead of me (they never are actually empty, of course, they always have annoyed shoppers dodging out of the way but they are invisible to Nancy), I would be in heaven. Especially if I was with my Granny, who I knew for certain had £101 to spend on me.
I’ve usually only got time to reach the beginning of the first aisle before I hear her shouting, ‘Granny!’ from the other side of the shop. With my best excuse-me smile, I hurry over, assisting a struggling pensioner who appears to have tumbled headfirst into the Cook freezer cabinet – no doubt shoved violently from behind by a speeding child-sized trolley – and find her gazing at some glittery objects.
‘These are nice, aren’t they Granny?’ she says.
They are not and I summon up my courage to tell her so, pointing out that she already has something similar fastened to the Disney princess magazine in her trolley.
She sighs and her shoulders slump as she looks sadly between the two objects of desire. I wait for the inevitable negotiation.
‘Granny?’
Here it comes.
‘How about if you buy one for your house to keep there and I can take the other one home, like you said? Because you said I didn’t have enough toys at your house.’
Unfortunately, this is true. I had said that.
‘But I don’t have much money today, Nancy. And I have to buy Grandpa’s supper.’ (Not true.)
She gazes at the glittery object with palpable longing.
‘Ok,’ she says, stroking the packaging with a forlorn finger.
She breaks me every time.
‘Well, just this once,’ I say. ‘But that means no gingerbread man, all right?’
I spend £201 on a magazine, a glittery thing and a gingerbread man.
That’s the bad news.
Good news? No money left for sauerkraut.