Oh the horribleness of insomnia. I am greeting the week in a haze again, eyes sore and mind fogged. Two hours sleep I had. It’s deeply unfair. Jep will understand…. What is most irritating is that I must have written nigh-on twenty features on sleep and insomnia over the years. I’ve spoken to every expert, tried every last cure (even going to bed in cold damp socks – courtesy of Lesley Kenton, usually a mine of useful and comforting information but sadly astray on that one). In fact, I clearly remember talking to Lesley. It was about ten years ago, before I had James, and in those halcyon days when I had never suffered even a moment’s sleeplessness. She told me that she hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since having her children and I clearly recall feeling quite horrified. A famous health writer unable to solve her insomnia? How careless. Now, of course, I unreservedly apologise for even thinking such a thing, for karma came round and bit me on the bum. Sleep and I have been playing silly buggers ever since I fell pregnant.
Adrian arrived home on Saturday and James and I fairly raced out the door to meet him. For once it was not only James who was hunting through his pockets, hoping for treats. He had promised ‘hand on heart’ as I can’t believe anyone can get to and from and into and around a foreign country without a zillion opportunities to buy something, anything for your nearest and dearest. But still I was prepared to be disappointed – after all, this is the man who tends to think that a postcard of a brewery and maybe a promotional pen is a suitable souvenir of a trip abroad. But this time I ate my words (quite literally). He had done a raid on a Spanish delicatessen and brought back a foodie haul of various chorizos and hams, tangy Manchego, some other deliciously gooey cheese and big fat olives. Plus a bottle of perfume (not deodorant this time, praise be). Plus various bits for James. Brownie (or should that be Scout) points all round.
He’d had a fine time at the cider convention and came back extolling the virtues of Canadian champagne cider and Japanese fruit cider (or it might have been the other way around).
Adrian arrived home on Saturday and James and I fairly raced out the door to meet him. For once it was not only James who was hunting through his pockets, hoping for treats. He had promised ‘hand on heart’ as I can’t believe anyone can get to and from and into and around a foreign country without a zillion opportunities to buy something, anything for your nearest and dearest. But still I was prepared to be disappointed – after all, this is the man who tends to think that a postcard of a brewery and maybe a promotional pen is a suitable souvenir of a trip abroad. But this time I ate my words (quite literally). He had done a raid on a Spanish delicatessen and brought back a foodie haul of various chorizos and hams, tangy Manchego, some other deliciously gooey cheese and big fat olives. Plus a bottle of perfume (not deodorant this time, praise be). Plus various bits for James. Brownie (or should that be Scout) points all round.
He’d had a fine time at the cider convention and came back extolling the virtues of Canadian champagne cider and Japanese fruit cider (or it might have been the other way around).
James and I gave him the three cheers he’d missed at the last (halleluyah) football training of the season (he helps coach the under-9s) and also a huge hug. Absence really does make the heart grow fonder – it was absolutely lovely to see him. I truly think that a few days apart does all couples the world of good – it makes you appreciate the other one just that bit more.
By pure serendipity, we had the perfect opportunity for a little ‘just the two of us’ bonding (yeeuch, that sounds ghastly). Yesterday James was whisked away for a birthday party at The Big Sheep, out near Bideford in North Devon. Toady, we thought of you! So A and I (and Asbo makes three) went to Appledore.
Appledore is a lovely seaside town, with picture-postcard cottages, painted in rainbow colours, all higgledy-piggledy down small winding lanes. It’s the kind of place where you always find something new, something to lure the eye. This time it was that clear pure shade of mauve – that reminded me with a kick to the solar plexus – of a crimplene trouser suit my mother made me to wear on the first holiday after my father died. Isn’t it funny – I hadn’t thought of that suit for all those years.
Appledore is a lovely seaside town, with picture-postcard cottages, painted in rainbow colours, all higgledy-piggledy down small winding lanes. It’s the kind of place where you always find something new, something to lure the eye. This time it was that clear pure shade of mauve – that reminded me with a kick to the solar plexus – of a crimplene trouser suit my mother made me to wear on the first holiday after my father died. Isn’t it funny – I hadn’t thought of that suit for all those years.
We'd had in mind a long walk along the coastal path but we soon discovered that this stretch is not that thrilling (copious amounts of dog poo and rather sludgy sea) so after an hour or so we turned back and by the time we returned to Appledore, we were ready for rest and refreshment. Our favourite café, on the seafront, was open (there IS a God) and so we had a leisurely few coffees and a slab of carrot and walnut cake, while reading the papers. It’s so rare to get the chance to just sit and be.
‘I suppose you’ll want to go to Atlantic Village,’ said Adrian, referring to a rather grim shopping outlet nearby.
‘Oh God, no.’
‘Oh. OK. I thought you would.’ Did he sound a little disappointed? Surely not. A few minutes passed as we sipped and read.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to go to Atlantic Village?’
‘Quite sure. Ghastly place.’
‘Oh.’
I read the supplements and he read the sports pages and then…
‘Umm. Well actually, I wouldn’t mind going there. I thought I might be able to get some shoes.’
How typical is that?
So we went. I said I’d lose myself in the Planet/Country Casuals shop while he looked for his shoes. And, of course, he came back empty-handed in time to find me handing over my credit card while the assistant wrapped two sort of coat-come-overshirt things into a big shiny carrier. Well, they were a bargain! And truly, how could I resist when one was the pure lime-green of the fresh new leaves and the other that deep dark rich and naughty purple?
I nabbed a Lavatera for my mother who wants one for some reason (can’t see the attraction myself) and we raided the deli for a picnic (stuffed onions, peppers and squashes, smoked duck and so on). Delicious. Then we picked up James who was in fine fettle having played laser warfare for several hours. Rattled along the expressway and then onto the moor, stopping to take a few pictures of ponies.
So, a lovely weekend has been had by all. The only sour note was a sad email I received from one of our little gang apologising for bothering and hassling me. I was totally confused. It turned out she had received some vicious anonymous emails from some people on the CL site. One of the horrible things said was that I was sick of having to respond to people like her (based apparently on the time I said I had found it tough during the comp to comment on all the blogs). I was horrified. When will this ever end? Can I just say, for the record, that I LOVE hearing from people – either by email or via this blog. Yes, it all got too much during the competition but, for pity’s sake, there were nigh-on three hundred blogs to read. Now it’s entirely different. I wanted to let CL know what was happening – as I am sure that the editors would be horrified at this. But our friend said the best option was to just ignore it. Wise words I feel.
‘I suppose you’ll want to go to Atlantic Village,’ said Adrian, referring to a rather grim shopping outlet nearby.
‘Oh God, no.’
‘Oh. OK. I thought you would.’ Did he sound a little disappointed? Surely not. A few minutes passed as we sipped and read.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to go to Atlantic Village?’
‘Quite sure. Ghastly place.’
‘Oh.’
I read the supplements and he read the sports pages and then…
‘Umm. Well actually, I wouldn’t mind going there. I thought I might be able to get some shoes.’
How typical is that?
So we went. I said I’d lose myself in the Planet/Country Casuals shop while he looked for his shoes. And, of course, he came back empty-handed in time to find me handing over my credit card while the assistant wrapped two sort of coat-come-overshirt things into a big shiny carrier. Well, they were a bargain! And truly, how could I resist when one was the pure lime-green of the fresh new leaves and the other that deep dark rich and naughty purple?
I nabbed a Lavatera for my mother who wants one for some reason (can’t see the attraction myself) and we raided the deli for a picnic (stuffed onions, peppers and squashes, smoked duck and so on). Delicious. Then we picked up James who was in fine fettle having played laser warfare for several hours. Rattled along the expressway and then onto the moor, stopping to take a few pictures of ponies.
So, a lovely weekend has been had by all. The only sour note was a sad email I received from one of our little gang apologising for bothering and hassling me. I was totally confused. It turned out she had received some vicious anonymous emails from some people on the CL site. One of the horrible things said was that I was sick of having to respond to people like her (based apparently on the time I said I had found it tough during the comp to comment on all the blogs). I was horrified. When will this ever end? Can I just say, for the record, that I LOVE hearing from people – either by email or via this blog. Yes, it all got too much during the competition but, for pity’s sake, there were nigh-on three hundred blogs to read. Now it’s entirely different. I wanted to let CL know what was happening – as I am sure that the editors would be horrified at this. But our friend said the best option was to just ignore it. Wise words I feel.
Once again it shows how much we have to learn about the Internet and what it can do to people. Looking back at the CL site (how very strange it felt), I discovered that Kitty Corrigan had strongly denied feeling contempt for bloggers. I know it’s tempting to think ‘no smoke without fire’ but I, for one, felt glad that she bothered to make the statement and am quite willing to accept her rebuttal.
However, let’s end on something cheery. I was rather chuffed to read that I (along with some other purplecooers) had been ‘tagged’ by CJ. Apparently it’s a way to alert other blog-readers to new or nice blogs. However, the only problem (for me at least) is that you are supposed to carry it on by, in turn, nominating your own favourites. But, er, how? I haven’t worked out yet how to embed a link to a blog or website in the copy of my blogs. Anyone out there got the key?
