Exmoor House vegetarian barbecues and picnics

As regular readers know, I'm not exactly a foodie and, left to my own devices, I will happily eat the same thing (or nothing) day after day.  But the one thing that does get me salivating are Rosi Davis' tweets about the food she's serving at her Exmoor guest house.

So I said to her, 'Hey, Rosi...how about doing me a blog post.'  Cos this is the season of barbecues and picnics and really, us vegetarians tend to draw the short straw - a handful of crisps and the odd corn on the cob, if we're lucky.

Anyhow, Rosi said yes, so I'll handy you over without further ado...

Rosi Davis:  Here are some ideas for summery vegetarian food that you could use for picnics and barbeques. At our guest house at Wheddon Cross on Exmoor we specialise in providing food to suit peoples’ dietary requirements – we design the menus around our guests each day - and much of this article is based on dinner recipes we use for guests who don’t eat meat or fish. I’m an omnivore, my husband Frank (who’s the chef) is definitely a carnivore – but we both just love good food and really enjoy experimenting with taste and texture. I’ve avoided being too prescriptive, so haven’t given detailed recipes here: the aim is more to help inspire you.

Picnics

Vegetarian scotch eggs

I had the idea for this a few weeks ago, we tried it out on ourselves first (as we always do) and it’s had the seal of approval from guests. The ‘scotch’ bit is pulse based; it can be any mixture that is the right sort of consistency to be moulded around the egg and not fall to pieces when fried. Coat peeled hardboiled eggs with, for example, flat green lentils cooked till soft with herbs and/or spices and (technical term) mushed up. You could also try using your favourite falafel-type chickpea mixture… or a nut roast recipe, if it’s the right sort of texture. You need to put a double layer of breadcrumbs (beaten egg, crumbs, beaten egg, crumbs) on the scotch eggs once they’re assembled, then deep-fry them. The scotch eggs go nicely with a garlicky mayonnaise or a tomatoey dip.

Quiches, pasties, filo parcels

Some suggested fillings: tomatoes and mixed peppers; goat’s cheese with spinach and mushrooms; brie with courgettes (Somerset brie is made with vegetarian rennet); blue cheese, cream cheese and lovage herb (Exmoor Jersey Blue cheese, made with vegetarian rennet, is very blue and tastes deliciously creamy); mixed mushrooms; spicy lentils.

Omelette wrap & roll (thanks to Michelle Vickers of Ras Mbisi Lodge for the inspiration for this one)

Make omelettes with your choice of fillings (or just spice ’em up a bit). The omelettes need to be about the same size as the wraps you’re using. Just use a small amount of filling, and don’t make it chunky – the omelettes don’t want to be too thick, or the wraps will split. Place each omelette on a wrap or soft tortilla, and roll up. Cut into slices diagonally for a pretty pinwheel effect.

The barbeque

Halloumi and courgette burgers

We found this recipe in the Morrison’s magazine. We adapted it a bit for our guests, but the original version is also wonderful: the link is here. 

You could do the burgers directly on the barbeque, or in a griddle or pan (definitely use a griddle if you want to do the aubergine slices).

Vegetable kebabs

Always good! We use aubergine, peppers, square slices of onion, courgette, cherry tomatoes, button mushrooms… Marinate the cubes of aubergine in olive oil first. The squares of onion are good for holding things in place; watch out that the cherry tomatoes don’t split. Once your kebabs are assembled on their skewers, brush everything with olive oil (flavoured with herbs, chilli etc if you like) before cooking; baste with oil while they’re cooking if necessary.

The best garlic mushrooms

Use big flat mushrooms (e.g. portabella). No need to peel them, just wipe any dirt off. Remove the stem if you like. Spread the gills side liberally with garlic or herb (or garlic and herb) butter. If you’re making garlic butter, try baking the garlic beforehand for a lovely mellow flavour; if you’re using herbs add a splash of lemon or lime juice too. Wrap the mushrooms lightly in foil, to keep all the juiciness in, and barbeque till soft.

Salads

No summer meal is complete without them…here are a few with a slight difference.

Add a new dimension to a Russian salad (finely diced cooked potato & carrots, peas, bound with mayonnaise) by including a touch of smoked paprika.

Try ‘coleslaw’ made with grated carrots and courgettes instead of cabbage. Salt the courgettes lightly once grated and leave in a sieve for about an hour to drain, then rinse and squeeze out gently to get rid of the moisture. If you want a change from mayonnaise, use yoghurt, a light vinaigrette or just olive oil.

This is a simple and lovely pepper salad. Roast red peppers till the skin is charred and the flesh is tender; remove the skin (use the plastic bag trick*), slice and dress with olive oil, garlic and some ground cumin and/or coriander – or whatever you fancy! It’s even better when left to marinate for several hours.

Tomato salad with mint instead of the ubiquitous basil makes a nice change.

If you’d like us to do the cooking for you, you’ll find details of our dinner bed & breakfast packages at http://www.exmoorhotel.co.uk 

We also do dinner for people who are not staying with us at Exmoor House; because we make everything ourselves, taking dietary needs and preferences into account, bookings are needed at least 24 hours in advance.

Rosi Davis, Exmoor House Wheddon Cross, Somerset

* The plastic bag trick for peeling roasted peppers: once they’re cooked, put the peppers into a freezer bag (or similar – one that’s not going to melt) squeeze as much air out as you can, seal and leave till cool. The pepper skin should then be easy to pull off.

Samael, sequels and Hell on Earth.

Well, truth to tell, there isn’t much good news to impart but hey, you have to stay positive, right?  And I have finally finished Tanit, the sequel to Samael.  I wasn’t sure I liked it as I was writing it but, reading back, yeah, it’s okay. It’s dark, much darker than Samael – more downbeat I suppose.  But then, hey, Samael is in Hell and Gen is in hell on earth.  Which of them is worse off, I wonder? 

As I’ve been editing it, I’ve been thinking about the themes of these books.  What they’re trying to say.  On one hand, they’re typical teen novels, channeling my inner sixteen-year old – full of music, existential angst and that deep yearning for ‘real’ love.  I never set out to make any big claims, never tried to prove any deep points – I just wanted to tell a story.

But they're not just about romantic and sexual love but about love in all its many forms: parental love, deep friendship love, the love between an animal and a human, the love humans have for gods (and maybe vice versa).  And, at its heart, that strange mystical alliance – the deep esoteric love where a man and woman are bonded on all levels, on all planes.  A kind of love that is beyond rare.  A love that is the polar opposite of sweet, kind and squishy - a terrifying, dreadful, cosmos-shaking love. The kind of love that can make or break worlds.  Where lovers become gods. 

Here’s what Gen says (in one of the rare quiet moments when the poor girl isn't lurching from one disaster to another)...

“Why do people want to control those they love? To mould them to some warped idea of perfection?  Then again, I thought, was I really any better? We all have these images of perfection. I had wanted the archetypal mother, loving and nurturing, the kind who cooks supper in a neat apron, who reads bedtime stories. But then, when I thought about Mum, how could she ever be like that?  My beautiful, screwed up mum, who’d started out as a rock siren and ended up as a crazy cowgirl dyke.  And, frankly, that was way cool.  She loved me, bottom line, totally and unconditionally. She had even loved me when I’d tried to sink a knife into her – is there any greater love? 

"And Samael?  He didn’t ever try to change me and he never tried to hide who he was – he showed the good and the bad, without ever trying to pretend, without ever putting a gloss on things. I could hear his voice so clearly in my head.  ‘I’m not a nice guy, love. I’m not sweetness and light.’ But what was he? Really?   I barely knew him yet I felt like he was part of my soul.  No really, I felt him.

I wanted to sit on a beach with him, as the sun fell into the sea’s embrace. I wanted to feel his arms around me, holding me skin on skin, as close as close could be. And then, as the stars came out, I wanted him to make love to me, until we plunged together into the void, joining the constellations in their infinite dance.  I wanted him.  Full stop.”  

From Tanit.

Yup, all very typical teenage yearning.  The book also poses the question – ‘How far would you go for love? What would you sacrifice?’ 

It looks at deeper issues of right and wrong.  What if the thing you wanted more than anything would come at so high a price that the implications would resound, not just through your life but through eternity? 

What if you could have everything your heart desired  – love, wealth, beauty, youth, fame - would you pay the price?  What if that price were your soul? 

Wanna read more?  I’ve plonked the first seven chapters of Tanit (awful title, btw) on Authonomy.  As far as Samael goes, I never did hear back from HarperCollins after they requested the full ms.  The book is hanging around with a couple of other publishers…y’know, the usual stuff.

For anyone’s that interested, Samael has its own blog (a bit neglected of late) and Pinterest board.  Tanit also has a Pinterest board. 

And the third book?  Well, Genevieve will have to sit on ice for the time being as I need some dosh before I can research it.  Cos, see, the action heads out to the desert – the Texan desert.   And you know how I feel about deserts…

Fleas, dust, time and the river...

Quite apart from dealing with broken hearts, I am in a tailspin. My lovely in-laws are coming to stay on Thursday. Suddenly I am seeing the house in a whole new – deeply unflattering – light.  Ye gods, what the feck am I going to do?  Their house is pristine. Everything is in its place; everything matches.  Yeah, sure, that’s just a taste thing – and I like the mismatched Bohemian mess of this place.  But, for pity’s sake, their house gleams.  And for sure, I couldn’t ever aspire to gleaming.  But…clean?  Clean would be good, right?  I’d even settle for not filthy at a pinch. 

Seriously, I don’t know where to start. Adrian is away at another beer festival, James is surfing at the beach. I am walking round the house with wild staring eyes wondering how it ever got quite this bad.  There isn’t just dust, there are dust armies. Dust sculptures. Dust installations. I suppose I could apply to the Arts Council for a grant? There are festoons of cobwebs punctuated by dead things. More to the point there are fleas.

Yes, the house has fleas.  The dogs have fleas. I have fecking fleas.  Everything scratches. The dogs scratch. James and I scratch.  The dust probably scratches too. Weirdly Adrian doesn’t scratch but then he just sneezes instead. 

‘Bloody hay fever,’ he says. Bless him.

Yes, I’ve doused the dogs with Frontline. It doesn’t work.  

The last time they came to stay (the inlaws, not the fleas) was over ten years ago.  The house we lived in then was relatively normal (just stuck on a hill in the middle of Deliverance country – honestly, families round there were seriously…familiar). I had a cleaner; I had a gardener. The sheets were new, things were polished.  I was still functioning in a vaguely acceptable way and cooked vaguely edible food. I was house proud. I subscribed to interiors magazines, for pity’s sake. 

This is the first time they will see the house. It’s high summer, the sun is shining fit to burst and yet the mould is still playing at a series of variations on the Turin shroud on the bathroom walls. I have given up on the Loo of Doom, Cellar of Despond etc – and just shut the door firmly and put up a sign saying ‘Danger – Beyond Here Lie the Kind of Life Forms that Dr House Says Lead to Definite Death’. 

The spare bedroom is now in what was my erstwhile office, hence packed floor to ceiling with books with titles like ‘Demonology’, ‘Psychic Self-Defence’, ‘The Sin Eater’s Last Confessions’, The Demon Lover’ and ‘How to Turn your Ex-Boyfriend into a Toad’. It is also the repository for all furniture which will not fit anywhere else so – apart from my mother’s old bed (antique, with suitably antique squeaking springs), it also contains a large sofa, a small weird wardrobe, a kitchen table and six chairs, a homeopathic medicine cabinet, a few occasional tables and an unconnected wood burning stove.  Frankly, it’s a mess. 

But hey. What can I do?  Unless a small army fancies popping over and blitzing the place – or someone sends over a crack troupe of industrial cleaners, there’s no way I can get it fixed. So I may as well not bother.  It is what it is. There are worse things in life than dust and fleas, right?  In the scheme of things, who gives a shit?

I have friends, good friends, the best, who are going through real shit right now. Nothing I can do about it and yeah, that sucks out loud.

So, yes, I could clean like a skivvy on speed.  Then again, I could sit at my PC and try a bit harder to get myself out of the total utter mess I’ve got myself into. But hey…who knows eh?

Who knows how long any of us have got?  That interstellar highway could be coming through any second now. The Grim Reaper, bless him, could be readying his pointy finger just millimetres away from your or my shoulder.  Soooo... I take me a bag of cherries and me dawg and I go…

…down to the river…

How do you mend a broken heart?

I met a woman recently. She was beautiful, in all ways – with the voice of an angel. But she was also sad, so terribly terribly sad.   Her husband had died just over a year before and she couldn’t stop talking about him. When she remembered him her eyes became soft and her voice lowered. Her hands touched the silver necklace she wore like a talisman.  Yes, he’d given it to her.

‘He was the love of my life,’ she said simply. ‘He was everything I ever wanted.  Everything I ever needed. We were just so…right, in every way, on every level.’ 

She told me that her friends were losing patience with her and telling her she should start dating, find somebody new.  ‘But how can I?’ she said. ‘How can I find someone to take his place?’

‘You can’t,’ I said. ‘You won’t. How could you?’ 

But then?  What do you say to someone in that position? How do you comfort them?  That time heals?  Does it?  Maybe it numbs. A little.

‘It’s just so cruel,’ she said. ‘So unfair. We didn’t have that long; we didn’t have long enough.’  

For some loves, there is never enough time. For some, there is no time at all.

When I told her that my last remaining work as a journalist is to write an agony aunt column for Natural Health magazine each month, she smiled. ‘Answer my question,’ she said. ‘Please.’ 

And so, today, on this bright beautiful sunny day, I am sitting here with a heavy heart.  Thinking about loss, about time, about separation, about broken hearts, about lost love.

What would you say to her?  What advice would you give?  How do you live with a broken heart?  How do you cope with the cruel vagaries of Life and Time?  

Wrestling with teens, bingo wings and ruminations on film sequels.

So, I was never going to be the Earth Mother type, right?  I tried hard when James was small – y’know, trying to fulfill the archetype – giving him the psychological safety blanket that the warm nurturing Mother dispenses.  It was a bit hit and miss but then again, trying to get Adrian to act the firm but fair Sky Father didn’t exactly come off either. 

'Psychology isn’t my strong point,’ he said with a shrug. No shit, Sherlock.

But now he’s a teenager (James, not Adrian) I no longer feel the necessity.  In fact, I feel my most important role is to act as surrogate sibling.  So I tustle with him for the last sweet in the packet; snort with him over deeply inappropriate funnies on the Internet; goad him and needle him and, yes okay, wrestle with him.  Cos, see, I do think there is nothing worse than a spoiled only child so I seek to redress the balance.  Our relationship seems to suit us both exceedingly well. I am a revoltingly lax and liberal parent who frequently veers into incipient madness.  Which makes him, by necessity, a relatively sane, sensible and balanced child who keeps me grounded.

‘Mum!’ he said the other day, opening the glove compartment of the car, his tone indicating a mixture of shock, amusement and resignation.

‘Huh? What have I done now?’

‘You finished off the Haribos.’

I shrugged.  ‘Of course I did.’

‘But they were cola bottles. You hate cola bottles.’

‘So?’

He shook his head sadly. ‘You’re such a mess.’

Which made me howl with laughter.  Now Adrian thinks I shouldn’t let him call me a mess but – really – why not?  It’s funny and it’s true and it’s said with love and affection.  It’s part of our relationship. We banter.  I poke fun at him and he pokes my upper arms. ‘You’re gonna start flying soon,’ he says with an evil cackle. Bloody nerve. I have many less than perfect bits but…

‘I don’t have bloody Bingo wings!’

‘Flap! Flap!’

‘You little bastard!’

‘So that’s where my above average intelligence comes from, huh? Cos it’s sure as hell not from either of you two.’

‘Lemme get my hands on you, you little…’

Cue Simpsons style chase round the kitchen ending up in a fight on the sofa. 

‘ChildLine! ChildLine! I’ll call ChildLine!’

‘Be my guest.’ Handing him the phone. ‘Any time like now would be good to pick you up.’

‘No, that would be too easy. I’ll stay and torment you. Brouuuhaaahaaaa.’

‘Sigh.’

We talk about pretty much anything; there are no taboos.  I don’t put filters on his laptop – if he comes across anything weird he tends to tell me and we talk about it.  So yep, we’ve talked about porn, racism, homophobia, advertising, politics, religion, smoking, drugs, alcohol, political correctness, poor taste in pop.  We trade memes and yes, occasionally I commit the ultimate parental crime of posting on his FB page. We laugh – a helluva lot – and poor Adrian hasn’t a clue what we’re on about. 

‘What the hell is trololol?’

‘Never mind, Dad.’  And we launch into a rendition of Carmina Burana, the misheard lyrics version.

‘An octopus! Let’s give him boots! SEND HIM TO NORTH KOREA!’

Adrian shakes his head and walks away.

And yet, sometimes, even now, he likes me to revert to Earth Mother mode.  Like when we got the Ice Age trilogy last week and he wanted me to snuggle up with him and watch a DVD per evening.  Funny thing – he loved them, even though it was years ago we watched the first one at the cinema.  I confess I have a huge soft spot for the first one. It’s funny and smart and tugs on the heartstrings like fury.  The second and third?  Nah.  Which made me think – how many movie series are there where the sequels and beyond are as good or better than the first?  Shrek 2 was sort of okay but not a patch on 1 and, after that it just descended into a big... mess.  

In fact, after…oh at least ten minutes of serious thought, I came up with only four exceptions. The Godfathers (obviously). Lord of the Rings (definitely). Star Wars (possibly).  Harry Potter (patchily).

Did I miss any? 

Oh and by the way, Ice Age 4: Continental Drift is out now in cinemas. God help me, James is desperate to see it.  I’ll take a huge pack of Haribos, my iPod and face mask.  But then again, every so often, there is a seriously funny line. Hmm. Anyone seen it?  What you reckon? 

In which Kellogg's take me to Champneys to eat biscuits

Anyhow.  Yesterday was…curious.  I got up at 5am and drove to the station after about three hours of sleep in a sort of fugue state to catch the early train to London.  It was pretty well empty – hardly surprising when I clocked that the ticket I’d been sent had cost £240 – and no, I wasn’t in first class.  How bonkers is that?  My plane ticket for Greece cost way less than that.

I was going to Champneys, the smart spa in Tring, courtesy of Kellogg’s.  I love Kellogg’s – I seriously do.  Not just because they produce Special K (my total guilty pleasure) – yes, I know, it’s not exactly a cream donut but when you scoff the stuff in industrial qualities it probably ends up amounting to much the same thing. And certainly not because they produce Krave (my son’s total addiction) – hey, even the guys at Kellogg’s have the grace to look a bit abashed about that one. You ever tried it?  Basically chocolates masquerading as breakfast cereal.  

'And so?' says James.

'Whatever,' says I.

Interesting aside – they don’t put MSG in it but apparently Pringles (which are, let’s be honest, stupidly moreish, do contain the stuff – so there you go, that’s why you can’t ever eat just one). Food for thought, huh?  

Be very grateful this is blank...

But no, more than all that, by far, I love Kellogg's because they invite me to lovely pamper days.  The irony is not lost. I am so broke I can’t even afford to get my hair cut.  I can’t even afford to get my disaster of a bush sorted out so now I’m getting ingrown pubic hairs which are threatening to turn septic. Yeah, okay, so that was way too much information. Sorry.  But Kellogg’s, lovely lovely Kellogg’s, plonk me on a killer expensive train and then usher me into a kick-ass Mercedes taxi and then deposit me at this vast pile to be pampered for the day. 

And yeah, I know, you’re muttering into your beards that they hardly do it out of the goodness of their hearts; that they don’t sit there up in Manchester thinking, ‘Poor old Jane. She’s having a seriously crap time right now (and boy, those ingrown hairs are a bugger); let’s organise a pampering press day to cheer up the miserable old cow. How about it, guys?’  Nah.  

For sure, they hope that I’ll write good things about their stuff, that I’ll spread the word through social media and, in my small way, raise brand awareness.  But, as anyone who reads this blog knows; it could backfire horribly.  Let’s just briefly stop a moment and remember the dog food that (allegedly, according to Adrian) nearly killed the SP and ended up costing me an arm, a leg and a perfectly nice sofa. The PR, bless his cottons, had the grace to laugh but did say that it was one he ‘wouldn’t be showing to the client.’

But...whatever...I was very grateful for the invite. Cos not only did they cheer me up with champagne and lunch and steam rooms and massages (of which more anon), but they very thoughtfully arranged for two of my dearest old muckers to be there too.  Alice and Becky were two of the Disney 7, the mad crew with whom I went to Florida back in 2009. Lovely, lovely people. I’d seen Alice at a few odd occasions (hmm, mainly Kellogg’s dos, come to think of it) but I hadn’t seen Becky since we waved goodbye (still cackling) at Gatwick.  And so yesterday we spent a good couple of hours talking – in fact we talked so hard we clean forgot we were in the outdoor Jacuzzi and our whole bodies, not just our fingers, went all weird.  So we cackled a bit in the steam room and then we had smoothies in the café and really, it was lovely.  Cos she’s one of those people that I just feel easy with and, yes, even manage to talk a bit of truth with… (sorry, too many whoms were threatening to overwhom me). 

Anyhow. Somewhere in the middle of all this niceness the Kellogg’s bunch gave us their presentation which was, actually, rather good.  They were launching their first biscuit – aimed at people who are trying to lose weight but keep falling head first into the cookie tin and not emerging until they have munched their way through a whole packet of Hobnobs or whatever and then proceeded to hurl themselves into a broiling cauldron of self-loathing. I’m not big on biscuits so it’s not my particular ‘issue’ but hey… each to their own and this is a smart idea.  These things don’t come in chunking great packets – they come in little self-sealed jobbies that contain two sweet offerings – at 99 calories for the pair. Theory being, having consumed the whole packet, your psyche says ‘job done’ without having scarfed twice your daily calorific load. They’re also designed to be filling – and to taste good.  And yeah, you might think that goes without saying but, seriously, have you tried some of the stuff that's out there?

Okay, so let’s take a look. Biscuit Moments?  Uggghhh!!!!  REVOLTING name. How can you have a biscuit ‘moment’? But, as they pointed out, it’s a helluva lot better than Fibre Plus.  

Hate the packaging – it just screams ‘DIET!!!!!’ (though, come to think of it, that’s probably the point). They look weird – kind of like an anaemic Garibaldi with icing drizzled over.  Let’s take a taste.  Way too sweet for me – there’s a jam filling (strawberry or blueberry) that makes your teeth sing. But, fair play, they are seriously filling – and if you have a sweet tooth, they might be right up your street.  I tested them out on James who absolutely loved them (blithely ignoring the packaging or maybe not realizing it was shouting ‘diet food aimed staunchly at women’). 

His preference was for the blueberry and announced they were ‘just the ticket’ for a mid-cycle snack. In fact, I had to double-check that they really don’t have MSG tucked away in there cos, since writing this, he has eaten his way through three packets (ummm, there’s that theory of mine blown away).  He’s just looked over my shoulder as I was downloading this picture of them and started licking the screen.    

So, thirteen-year old boys love ‘em.  And I suspect a lot of people will. 

‘Couldn’t you do them with chocolate?’ I asked wistfully (and, the words unspoken, ‘And have another launch at another fabby spa?’).

Kellogg’s Sarah tapped her nose.  

‘How about coffee flavoured?’ I sighed hopefully.  Even though I don’t drink coffee (only decaf) I adore anything coffee-flavoured.

‘Oh, I wish,’ she said. ‘But apparently it’s too niche.’

‘Almond?’

‘Ditto.’

Oh come on!  Let’s sex up these damn biscuits!  Lobby Kellogg’s for funkier packaging and some seductive fillings for the blighters! Let’s make ‘em gorgeous – how about vivid pink or neon orange biscuit for  a bit of contrast to those dark chocolate or caramel coffee fillings? How about drizzling a clashing colour of icing over the top?  Make them totally square rather than that boring old brick shape. Put ‘em in silver or gold shiny pouches with DECADENT or TREAT or DROOL stamped on the outside. 

Sorry, just got a bit carried away there.  But really, why not make it all a bit more fun? 

Anyhow, back in the real world, Kellogg’s Special K do this website that aims to help anyone wanting to lose weight. I reviewed it before and still think it’s pretty good.  Check it out here.  Oh, and try (oh GOD that name!!) Biscuit Moments and tell me what you reckon. 

Biscuit Moments available from August 2012 - £1.99 for a pack of five sachets (each containing two biscuits).

Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies...

"You and I ought not to die before we have explained ourselves to each other."

- John Adams, Letter to Thomas Jefferson [November 13, 1815]  

‘I love your blog because you’re so honest,’ someone said to me. And I frowned inwardly and shook my mind. Cos I ain’t honest; not remotely.  And that is why I often stop blogging altogether, cos really I do wonder sometimes…what is the point?  

Someone (a different someone) yesterday asked why I blog. Specifically she asked why I don’t put ads on my blog; why I don’t make money from it.  And I said that partly it’s cos I haven’t got the nous or dosh to get the blog set up in a commercial way but mainly it’s cos I don’t want to have to tow any particular line. ‘I write to please myself,’ I said (wincing a bit as it sounded so bloody lofty). ‘I write a blog cos it’s the only place where I don’t have to answer to editors; where I can say what I please. Where I can be myself.’

But really that was a wopping fat lie cos I don’t and I’m not.  The gap between what I think and feel and what I write is a yawning chasm.  I censor myself all the time; I don’t speak the words unspoken. About anything.  Why? 

Well, partly because I don’t want to be hurtful, I suppose.  Of course Byron Katie would say that’s bunkum; that I can’t possibly know what will or won’t hurt people and, anyhow, it’s not my business.  But, I dunno – why take the chance?  And our society is built on everyone lying all the time.

We’re taught as small children that we should always tell the truth. But then, quite early actually, we’re also taught that we should lie. That sometimes lying is bad, very bad – and sometimes it’s good, kind, smart, sensible, the right thing to do. How bloody confusing, eh?  No wonder children end up wanting to blast the hell out of zombies on-line.

Take my sister and I ducking beneath a rail at Marks & Spencer when my nephew – about three or so – shouted out in that clarion clear voice of a toddler:  ‘Mummy, why is that lady SOOOO fat?’ And the look of intense puzzlement on his face as my sister explained to him (okay, hissed at him from under the anoraks) that it wasn’t ‘nice’ to say that. ‘But she IS fat, Mummy,’ he said.  And she was. ‘And you said I should always tell the truth.’ And she had.  Btw, I've told you that story before so it must be true, right?

So, sometimes we don’t tell the truth because we want to be nice. Often we don't tell the truth because it would be personal or professional suicide. But more often we avoid the truth because we want people to like us.

We don’t want to show the world just what petty, nasty, greedy, jealous, mean-spirited, vapid, shallow, cruel, lazy, stupid people we can be.  We like to present a good persona.   

It's sensible. A reasonable persona is a useful tool if you want to navigate the social tides in a calm and pleasant manner – if you want to avoid conflict and lead an easy life. Nobody likes a trouble-maker; nobody likes the awkward sod.  Well, a few people do like Nobody, but hey, in general, en  masse, people don’t want the truth – they want the sweet little lies. 

Not just emotional stuff – all truth.  Years back, I caused a furore at a job because someone asked me my salary and I told him. My boss was incandescent with rage. In fact everyone was incandescent with rage – with a few exceptions (who were obviously earning more than I). 

But, more pertinently, we don't tell the truth because we want to pretend we like ourselves - we don’t want the fat lady to turn round, look hurt and make us feel bad.  We lie to ourselves even more than we do to others. And writing it down can make it real in a way that just thinking it never does. Sometimes I write things and just wince at how revolting they make me feel. And I think, shit, if I ever published that, nobody would ever talk to me ever again.  And, hey, sometimes that is almost tempting. Which probably makes me some kind of masochist - or, as Adrian keeps saying, an odd-ball wannabe hermit.

So we lie. We all lie. Sometimes overtly, sometimes by omission. We dodge the truth with one another and with ourselves.  But then again, what is the truth? When I ask myself that, I flounder again. Because the truth shifts and changes, depending on who’s looking at it and when you’re looking at it and which way up you're regarding it. Doesn’t it?  The truth can be another lie. 

And where does that leave us? I’m telling lies; you’re reading my lies and then maybe you leave a comment which probably lies. Or, at least, doesn’t say what you really think.  And we all lie to each other, all the time. And so, really, you gotta laugh, huh? 

Btw, I just cleaned the fridge with what turned out to be toilet cleaner. I just saw the words ‘mould’ and ‘mildew’ on the bottle and merrily sprayed until the stench of bleach made me feel a little sick. I presume this wasn’t a good idea and I should probably chuck away the food that was in it? 

Yeah, I’m telling the truth there. Honest.