Brassed off

We've just taken M to her first gig - the Youngblood Brass Band, who were bizarrely playing at the DLI museum in Durham. Well, not inside the museum as such, but in the grounds outside, with a lovely backdrop of the 1960s concrete delight that is County Hall. M was supposed to be asleep, mummified in several layers of blankets in her pushchair, but of course woke up and wanted to boogie.

To be fair, the rap bits were quite loud. And not quite what many in the audience had been expecting - from the deckchairs and silvery hair I suspect that a fair few of them had been expecting to hear a slightly more conventional brass band. They seemed to enjoy it though, especially the New Orleans-y bits, which were probably my favourite too, to be honest. The more punky rap stuff, while interesting, is a bit shouty and doesn't really hit it with my pop sensibilities. Mind, the band did a great job explaining to the oldies and me where their influences came from, and how it was all like performance poetry, man.

A recipe for disaster

1. Try to make kedgeree for tea for wife and parents, who have spent all afternoon slaving away in the garden chopping down evil spiky conifers.
2. Boil eggs, cook rice/fish etc, using materials prepared by outstanding sous chef/wife.
3. Place lightly steaming smoked haddock on a plate.
4. Put tight-fitting saucepan lid on the top, to keep the heat in.
5. Leave for a while, whilst you finish off cooking the rest of the rice.
6. Attempt to wrestle lid off plate, using a combination of tea towels, mallets, screwdrivers, hot water, brute force and rude words.
7. Try to ignore hysterical laughter.

Eventually, the plate saw sense and collapsed under the pressure. The kedgeree tasted fine, once we'd picked out a couple of bits of china...

Problematic

I can't quite believe it, but I think I've become addicted to 'How do you solve a problem like Maria'. As a book-loving time-starved YM, I don't normally have the time to watch reality tv shows, but this one's got me hooked. Maybe it's the sparkly dresses and the pretty lights (those are definitely the bits M likes), or maybe it's the sheer delight of watching Andrew Lloyd Webber trying not to show exactly what he's thinking the whole time (he'd be such a terrible poker player). Or maybe it's just that I was in the Sound of Music at school (Sister Margaretha, since you ask, and yes the costumes were horrible and yes we did wear fishnet stockings underneath) and have a soft spot for it. Whatever it is, I'm there on the sofa on a Saturday evening, glued to the telly. Who's going to win? Connie of course. Although Abi, Siobhan and Leanne will probably give her a run for her money. I'll get back to you with the results in a couple of weeks, once I've finished trying to get 'High on a hill stood a lonely goatherd' out of my head...

In other news, made bara brith yesterday for the first time, and it seems to have turned out ok, despite me forgetting to put any sugar in. Mind, I'm not remotely Welsh (a funny mixture of English, Polish and Irish in fact), or a tea bread connoisseur so it could have been way off for all I know.

Shopping

Having blithely claimed to my friend Kate today that "oh, I haven't bought any new clothes in two years", I've realised that it's a complete load of rubbish. I reckon I can cheerfully ignore the things I bought while pregnant, as they're not exactly things I'll wear again day-to-day, so that takes care of at least a year (trust me, even when you've had a baby you still have to wear 'maternity wear' for a while). But if you take 2006 onwards, I've bought (in no particular order)

• a pair of blue sandals by art (£65, and the most comfortable shoes I've ever bought)
• a black La Perla bra set (£20 instead of £80 in the sale at Fenwicks - bargain!)
• a yellow t-shirt (can't remember the brand, but it was a TKMaxx bargain for £12)
• a blue sleeveless t-shirt (TU at Sainsburys, £2.50)
• a brown t-shirt (Tesco, £4)
• a gorgeous brown cardigan (antoni and alison in the department store - one of Debenham's weird designer brands, and another bargain at £20)
• a pair of second-hand jeans (Top Shop, but £4 from the Scope shop in Gosforth)

Oh well. Not exactly fashion-leading is it? This whole trend for skinny jeans has passed me by, obviously, as has the whole 80s kick (I was there the first time round and it wasn't any better then, trust me). But I probably score reasonably well on the bargain hunting bit.

She sells seashells on the seashore

Having spent yesterday plodging about on Long Sands beach at Tynemouth with R and M, I can now see why people with children go on beach holidays. M is fascinated with (a) sand and (b) waves, so it was a top day out. She's also discovered the delights of paddling, chasing the waves in and out while grinning like a loon. The only downside is that it's me that has to keep her company in the freezing cold North Sea, as her dad is even more of a wuss than I am. I refuse to go any further than ankle-depth without a full wetsuit, so her experience of swimming in the sea might be a little on the limited side until we can find one that's a bit warmer...

I'd forgotten all about the delights of sandcastles too. We have a rather natty red bucket and spade set that R was given for his 30th birthday, so it finally put in an appearance. It's a proper castle bucket, with turrets, crenellations, a main door and steps. Quite posh really. You almost expect Archie to come popping out with some mad invention.

Ear Ear

I realised today that I might need to broaden M's listening experience during the daytime. I'm a Radio 4 addict (as an ex-journalist it goes with the territory), so she gets the Today programme at breakfast time (Farming Today on Saturday, maybe Broadcasting House on Sunday), You and Yours and the World at One at lunchtime, and PM with Eddie Mair at teatime. If she doesn't grow up to be a news junkie, it's not for lack of trying. And if she's very good, there might be a bit of Vernon Kay or Jonathan Ross at weekends. Poor lass. What with that and A-ha in the car, she's got no hope.

Speedy Gonzalez

Have discovered it's very hard to maintain your YM status whilst crawling round the living room on all fours at top speed, chased by a hysterically cackling child. It's also rather difficult to do in a skirt.

Sometimes I wonder what I've done with my day, apart from wash up, and feed and change M. It's hard when you've been used to achieving lots at work, and been good at demolishing large to-do lists. And then I remember the cackling, and the huge grin whilst splashing at the swimming pool, and the wide eyes when trying a raspberry and strawberry smoothie for the first time. To-do lists are so last year, sweetie.

Ah.

Goodness. You take your eye off the ball for a couple of minutes, only to discover that you've been in hiding for a whole two months, James kissed Patroclus, and grey is again the new black. The cat ate my laptop. Honest.

Actually, it's been more to do with the fact that R, M and I moved house. Boxes. Boxes. Boxes. That's all I can say. My life was taken over by evil boxes. Hundreds of 'em. Most filled with VERY HEAVY BOOKS. But thankfully, normality has resumed. There are no more dastardly boxes, sitting mocking me from the corner of the room (apart from a few in the garage which are nearly empty. Oh, and those ones in the wardrobes in the spare room, but as they mostly contain R's classic car magazines they'll be ok for a while yet). I now have a whole new house and garden to play with. Yay! Oh the potential for baking cakes, planting vegetables, decorating Christmas treees...oh god it's all starting to sound rather Martha Stewart, isn't it. I do have a life, honest.

And to prove it, I even had a morning to myself today. It included an educational experience (the bus trip into Newcastle, through some of Gateshead's finer architecture...), a little light shopping (Fenwick's sale), a lot of window shopping (much sighing over gorgeous jumpers by Sita Murt in Fenwick's French Salon, and the realisation that self-employment, a small baby and cashmere do not mix) and a very civilised cappuccino and Guardian-reading experience at Intermezzo. Roll on the delights of next Saturday.

Wishy-washy

I am beginning to think I have an obsession with laundry. Not only do I find myself debating the finer points of fabric conditioners while going round the supermarket, but M and I actually spent 5 minutes in Lakeland the other day looking at pegs. Not just any old pegs either - these ones were pastel colours, with special cushioned grips. Mine are currently the traditional wooden type, with a few aberrant plastic gripper ones thrown in (I think we inherited these with the house), housed in an old dishwasher tablet tub. What I really need is a peg bag...or a life.

Scary

M and I went on an outing today to a farm. Nothing spectacular, just lots of goats, rabbits, sheep and pigs etc to stroke, a few mini tractors to pedal around on, a bouncy castle (every farm should have one), that sort of thing. But it struck me that it was rather a milestone - it was the first place I'd been to that was specifically for kids. And I hated it. It's the whole dumbing down thing, even to the fact that the cafe served "children's meals" (essentially beans, chips and fishfingers) rather than just small portions of normal food. The interpretation boards were patronising and kiddified, and the whole place was packed with 4-year-olds which really didn't help. Shame, because the goats were lovely, and enjoyed sniffing M's trousers (to much leg-waving excitement).

Simply the best

I have discovered the ultimate website for neurotic, to-do-list-obsessed YMs (I include myself in this bracket of course). If you've ever wondered how to make deep-cleaning tasks easier, how you could be more photogenic, or how to use a matchbox as a travel sewing kit, then head on over to www.realsimple.com for endless ways to improve your life. There's even a magazine, to help you on your way. I've just spent a happy couple of hours with the mag and a cappuccino in Borders. Not only can I now tell you the best swimsuit designs for your figure (handy hint: black is quite forgiving), I know how to hang mirrors and will be able to make several mean dishes with lemons. My life is complete.

Housekeeping

Not content with writing posts, I've tidied everything up as well, and added some links in the proper places. If you hang on a bit longer I'll do the washing up, put some washing on and mop the floor. It'll be riveting.

Update

So, M's bigger, I'm wrinklier (and it's definitely not just the result of sitting in the bath for ages), and we have a house. Phew.

Funny, how time suddenly speeds up when you have a baby. I could have *sworn* that it was only a week since I last posted, but I've just checked and it's actually a month. Oh bugger. It's a direct contrast to being pregnant, let me tell you, which actually went on for what felt like years. Decades even. It was interminable.

Anyway, back to the daily grind. Which just gets weirder. Take bank holidays, for example. They used to be great, but now are very annoying. I never thought I'd say this, but they are (apart from the fact that R gets a free day off work). Everything is either (a) shut or (b) open but shuts dead early, and (c) is full of people who should be at work. Except, bizarrely, Fenwicks. To which emporium of delights we hoyed ourselves this afternoon because it was raining, we have a small child and we needed to get out of the house. Strangely the place was deserted, apart from the standard-issue ladies of later years who always staff every counter. I can't quite believe that all of Newcastle has renounced shopping and taken up knitting or visiting art galleries, but you never know.

The hunt continues

So this finding a house lark is proving to be somewhat trickier than expected. Yes, there are some amazing houses out there, but they all seem to require us to win the lottery, which as we've had one number in the last four weeks isn't looking like something that's going to happen any time soon. Unfortunately. The rest all seem to be either too small, too smelly, or too empty - where on earth do these people keep their books?

But M is becoming very useful at charming middle-aged female estate agents. We're suddenly very memorable if I pop into an office or when I ring up, particularly if she's gurgling adorably in the background. It's amazing how quickly a viewing can be arranged at times. And handily M seems to have the dual purpose of putting off the slightly slimy male variety of estate agent (usually to be found in shiny suit with a lingering smell of aftershave).

The professional editor in me is fuming about most of the house details that I have to read through. If one more house is "warmed by gas central heating" and requires "a detailed internal inspection" to appreciate how "deceptively spacious" it is I am going to scream. It seems that no house in Low Fell is complete without a sun lounge or "atrium", and no house in Whitley Bay is without some sort of "sea view", even if you'd have to be a contortionist with a periscope to see it. Aaaargh. Will somebody somewhere please set up a school for estate agents to tell them how to (a) write and (b) spell?

That's jazz

To the Sage Gateshead today, for a bit of lunchtime jazz. Sounds very pretentious, but wasn't - bands from the local college were playing, people were milling about chatting goodhumouredly, and M sat and covered herself in yoghurt from head to toe. Nobody batted an eyelid. It's an essential part of listening to music, obviously.

If thrashing arms and legs are a sign of enjoyment, then she quite digs jazz. Maybe I should invest in some black polonecks for her?

Cake, anyone?

As a newbie YM who attends a fair few coffee mornings/chats over cups of tea with M, I can safely say that any biscuit or cake consumed would be much improved by being placed on one of these... And if you could happen to find a couple of fairy cakes to go on them (why do the Americans call them cupcakes? Just why?) then so much the better.

According to The Guardian, fairy cakes are now all the rage in LA. Marvellous. Ship me over now. But if you could just do something about the awful Liptons Yellow tea bags that are over there, that would be perfect.

Feeling sick

I am pursued by a trail of vomit, of a feline and baby variety. I'm not sure what I've done to deserve this, but I really wish it would stop. Last time I checked it definitely wasn't in the small print.

More houses today, all of them vastly unsuitable. One 1920s terraced house had two gas fires, and a woman who didn't know if they worked or not, as she was "allergic to gas". A very realistic (but undoubtedly cuddly-toy) dog sat in a basket next to one of the fires, which was rather weird. The next house was artexed to death (every wall and ceiling in the house, in a delightful shade of prison grey-blue), and contained a black onyx dining room table and chair set which wouldn't have looked out of place in a James Bond villain's lair. In fact the lampshades, clock, tv set and sofas could have belonged there too. I know you're supposed to "look past the decor", but it would have cost thousands to put right. So maybe another one that wasn't really for us. The search continues.

Just a wafer-thin mint?

Not content with the veg strike of the last few days, M has now decided all solid food is the work of the devil (with the exception of dried apricots, rice cakes and toast, which she can hold in her hand and proceed to mush into any available fabric/surface). It's hurting my YM credentials somewhat, given that I've been very good and made half a hundredweight of cubes of organic fruit and veg puree (Annabel Karmel-style, naturally), which are now sat redundantly in the freezer, for no-one to see. If she's not careful, I'll go the whole hog, and give her some chips. With gravy on the side.

House-buying gets more complicated, as plan A to move to the beach has fallen through. But we've seen a really nice place that's too expensive, as is always the way. All we now have to do is explain to the vendor that a low offer is not meant to be insulting to them or the condition of their house, it's simply that we don't have enough money, and are chancing our arms... Think it'll work?

Poetry, please

"Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir..." has been running through my head all day. It's Patroclus' fault. So I went and looked up the whole thing in a very ancient (well, 1970s) book that I had as a child called "I Like This Poem". M and I have been getting into poetry recently, especially stuff that is silly and has lots of rhymes. She likes the Ning Nang Nong, and a bit of A A Milne. I'm rather partial to Macavity the Mystery Cat. We're both not overly fond of Roger McGough.

Housey housey

The house madness continues - our offer has been accepted, and raspberry-fuelled summer dress fantasies are go. Obviously as the house we want is at the coast it will be a summer of sea frets and mist-obscured loveliness, while M and I sit indoors, watching endless reruns of ER and bewailing the demise of Anthony Edwards.

All being well, everything will descend into a chaotic mix of estate agents, builders, mortgage advisers and removal men, who will all proceed to suck their teeth and charge us a fortune. Something to look forward to, then.