reminiscing

Drove past Darlington today (home of the very exciting brick train), and was, as always, filled with an impending sense of doom. I'm sure there's lots of lovely people there, but the outer reaches of suburbia (full of boxy housing, windswept playing fields and disreputable pubs) that you drive through to get to the A66 remind me of a fairly horrible year I spent there.

Back in 1997, there wasn't really much of a scene in Darlington. Lots of pubs, the Plastered Parrot (their 10p shots may not have been of the highest quality), a flea pit cinema that closed shortly after we arrived, and some down-at-heel former bingo halls turned discotheques. Oh, and the chippy down by the station that specialised in deep frying sticks of rock. A night out on the tiles was likely to lead to a terrible incident on the tiles, particularly if you were sporting a vaguely non-northern accent.

In between studying journalism, I failed to sell posh shoes in joseph M (where my crimes included not having all the coathangers facing the same way), nearly suffocated with cigarette smoke while working in Ladbrokes (sadly, have completely forgotten the intricacies of betting), had a lovely time shelving cds alphabetically in HMV, and spent a long time photocopying at NEDL. Glamorous it wasn't.

So I fled north to the flesh pots of Newcastle, where at least there was a cinema, lots of places to drink where you could actually hear yourself think, and shops other than the twin peaks of mighty Boyes and posh Binns. Not much to ask, really.

I know just how he feels...

You know how in Studio 60 Matt Perry's character, Matt Albie, is always counting down to the next show, with his doomsday digital clock ticking away? Well, in suburbia the countdown to a hip and trendy late night comedy show has been replaced with the countdown to teatime. Woo!

We all eat together now, which is great (Jamie Oliver would certainly approve), but some days I find myself dreaming of the pureed sludge, and how easy it was. No sooner have I made one tea, than I seem to start thinking about the next...and it's getting harder to come up with something different. Maybe I've just got stuck, and need to start perusing the cook books again. After all, I do have about 200 of them, and it's about time something other than a baking encyclopedia made it off the shelves.

This week, for example, we've had:

Friday: pasta with chilli/bolognese
Thursday: bacon, courgette, potato and cheese gratin (thank you Nigel - the Kitchen Diaries are saving my life at the moment)
Wednesday: sausage, lentil and tomato bake
Tuesday: chicken and courgette stir fry with rice
Monday: not sure I can even remember that far back. But there were probably tomatoes and courgettes in there somewhere.

Right, off to think about tomorrow...all suggestions welcome.

Help.

It's Thursday, it's late and I've run out of inspiration.

What the hell...I'm off to bed.

Fantastic, fantastic, fantastic!

Wah-hey! Big project pretty much finished, holiday just round the corner. Just time to pop back and tell you all about my exciting plans to finish painting the wardrobe doors (it's like the Forth Bridge all over again) and make a lemon drizzle cake. Hey, suburbia's where it's at, don't you know? What with the lawn mowing and washing cars, we really know how to party.

Actually, my car could really do with a clean at the moment, given that the last time it was done was when it went in for a service several months ago. Since then it's been liberally smeared in toddler goop on the inside, and Northumberland mud/sand on the outside, to the extent that even said toddler keeps remarking on how dirty it is. So far I've decided to buck the Sunday carwashing trend, but I might have to succumb.

Our carwashing avoidance tactic last Sunday was to spend the weekend camping in the wilderness of Northumberland, up past Rothbury. That's right - the bit that's practically Scotland, with no mobile phone coverage. It might have been a beautiful back-to-nature experience - the website of the place we were staying promised: "No busy roads or traffic nearby, just the gentle bleating of sheep in the surrounding fields, penetrates the tranquillity of this ideal retreat." Ah, but they hadn't bargained on the Coquet Creek Country and Western Weekend just up the valley or the Beerpigs Scooter Club taking over the nearby hotel with about 200 scooters had they?

Still, outbreaks of grumpiness aside, I've now discovered (a) it's pretty light at 4.30am (b) birds sing REALLY loudly at dawn when you're in a tent trying to sleep and (c) I can function reasonably well on three hours' sleep as long as I drink obscene amounts of strong coffee.

When Houses Attack

Slightly distracted recently, due to the fact that the house is getting its own back. The central heating/hot water boiler packed up on Monday night (which just happened to be the coldest night of the year), and then the shower managed to trip all the electrics on Wednesday morning, and has since been declared kaput. Marvellous.

Anyway, all is now fixed, and R has spent several happy hours looking for new showers on the internet. It's amazing what you can find - I particularly like the weirdness of the wireless shower, which you can set off from any room in the house. Sadly, it's probably out of our price bracket, which runs more to the Wickes end of the spectrum.

Oh, and I've got my voice back. Boy how I missed it.