Week 1 of the Summer holidays takes me to The Lake District, to quote William Wordsworth
” the loveliest spot that man hath found”
I’m joining friends who have recently purchased a cosy wooden lodge, a few miles north of Ambleside … and I am instantly in love. The setting is just so glorious. I actually feel as if I’m in a tree house with lush, vibrant greenery in every direction. It’s peaceful, it’s magical…its perfect.
And I am not the only person to find trees such a source of bliss. There is much research about the benefits to both physical and mental well-being in aboretal locations.
Ooh Ginger cake … just the word, just the thought is exactly what my weary Saturday limbs need to motivate this morning’s run.
It evokes warmth, comfort and the reviving zing of ginger, ‘the wonder spice’, widely recognised for its benefits to digestion and some muscular pain relief.
And I am needing all of these as we jog off today; my knee a little sore following a week in the Lakeland Hills. But, buoyed by a chance for a chatty catch-up, I manage a respectable 2 or 3 miles before my arthritic joint demands that I slow to walking pace.
And my reward? Yes, stick on that kettle and plate up that cake!
It is good. Fruity, rich and delicately spiced, we polish it off with relish. Perhaps it would benefit a touch more spice and I’d prefer a stickier topping in place of the icing but without doubt a grand post-run delight and we agree a score of 8!
My run buddy is off to a (celebrity) wedding next week so I’ll probably swap out the run for a fortnight of some serious arthritis exercises. Thereafter…here’s to my next cake run adventure…
Friday was my last day in my current post, after memorable 14 years …
Yes, quite an ‘end of an era‘ and I’m not sure that it has entirely sunk in as yet. Even now, sitting in a house that resembles a florist shop with enough wine, fizz and whiskey in the cupboard to last me until Christmas my head doesn’t fully know what to make of it all. I imagine that particular reality will strike home as I begin training for a new challenge at the end of August and find myself, ever so completely, out of my comfort zone for the first time in a decade!
But, whilst the location and the colleagues will change, I shall continue working with young people. I got some amazing letters from pupils this term and I think it sort of hit me like a thunderbolt that, for some of them at least, I was ‘that teacher‘; the one who inspires, who builds up, who encourages them to be more that they dreamed possible and who is never forgotten. And that feels phenomenal, such a privilege and … unbelievable! Because when you set out on a career path, you never quite know how it is going to turn out.
And the same is very much true of parenting too.
Yes, back at home we are also fast approaching the end of an era. Small boy has finished his A levels and, with everything crossed (because Physics paper 2 was an abomination), plans to head off to university in the Autumn. Gracious me; when I started my last job he was nervously lining up outside Reception class and now… on the verge of setting out into a new life in a new city.
And he is a great kid, as are my girls, which also hit me the other evening. Because, who can predict what type of parent any of us are destined to be? I know I have made lots of mistakes, I could fill several posts with all them all, but nonetheless when I look at my lovely offspring, with their kind and caring ways, I’ll confess I feel pretty proud of myself as a mum too.
Yep, over the last 14 years, I’ve not done at all badly either at work or at home. So here’s to a ‘little bit of new’ mixed with ‘a good portion of carrying on‘ as I look ahead to the next stage of life’s big adventure…
Sometimes you’ve earned your cake even if you haven’t done any running…
Chorley Cakes from Cissy Green’s Bakery
Yes, I haven’t even run an inch today, nor in the last fortnight actually. Why? Well it all began with a cough!
Oh the cough. One hacking, gravelly, sounding like a person-with-a-40-year-smoking-habit cough. The ghastly, spluttering monstrosity started about 8 weeks ago. I thought half term would see it off, but it did not. Upon my return to work, I struggled to function, clinging onto a huge water bottle and gasping for breath every time I tried to get a sentence out in the classroom. I visited the Pharmacist, polished off box after box of Lemsips and consumed my own body-weight in honey. And still I barked on!
“Have you got the 100 day cough?” colleagues would ask,
“Could it be pneumonia?”
“Have you considered TB?”
Everyone had a theory. And everyday I was wiped out; fights of stairs looked like mountains, my back and chest ached all the time and I felt as if my motivation to do anything at all, even eat, had evaporated.
So, about 4 weeks in, I went to see my GP. I was prescribed precautionary antibiotics plus a steroid spray and was sent for an xray.
Two days later, I awoke at 3 am, making the most horrendous din. In my head I sounded like an angry seal, the offspring,who came racing in, claimed that I sounded ‘in human‘ and ‘like a siren’ as they found me careering around the room seemingly gasping for breath. It calmed down after 10 minutes but I was made to call 111 who labelled this as ‘Stridor Breathing‘ and, having heard my other symptoms, ordered me off to A and E …whereupon we waited for 7 hours before being discharged home.
Later that same afternoon however, I was summoned to the GP… and it is here that everything changed. My x-ray results were on the screen. The GP read them out quickly to an uncomprehending me. He immediately called radiology and, via speaker phone, I heard them telling him that yes, I did need a follow up CT scan and that it was marked as ‘urgent’.
“Why did they say urgent?” I asked, still a little at sea.
The GP mumbled about something needing to ‘rule our the worst’. Upon arriving home from work, less than 24 hours later, I found my GP actually at the door hand delivering an appointment for the very next day. The light was beginning to dawn.
‘So when you say urgent … you really do mean it!‘
I spent half an hour the next morning being CT-ed with iodine ink.
Now I began to feel alarmed. I re-read the x-ray report. It told me that I was on the ‘2 week pathway’. I looked that up. One word. Cancer .
I sat, with a cup of tea, my usually busy mind feeling as if it had been replaced with a blank white board of blind panic.
Not a great week followed. It became difficult to focus at work. I didn’t tell my mum, who was ill. I couldn’t tell Small Boy, who was mid-A levels. My closest friends were terrific, and my boss took me off some duties, which helped enormously. But mostly, I just steeled myself for a long and lonely wait.
But such anxiety is difficult to recall now because… thankfully me this tale has a happy ending. The ‘all clear’ letter arrived by post. The Lung Cancer team discharged me back to Primary Care, with nothing more than a recommendation for a steroid inhaler, and I was overjoyed to be sent!
So, come on, no jogging but surely I’ve earned this week’s cake? And what a belter it is, none other than a Cissy Greens Chorley cake.
‘Is that the same as an Eccles Cake?’ I hear you cry.
Actually, not quite. There is less fruit in the Chorley cake and shortcrust pastry replaces the flaky casing of the Eccles variety. And therein, to my mind lies the secret. With a generous helping of butter, that crisp but crumbly pastry is a triumph, melting seamlessly into the soft rich fruit. For me, a self confessed non-sweet-toother, this is cake heaven. Fellow tasters suggest a 9, but, as I could happily devour a full plate of these beauties, I’m going out on a limb with a cheeky 9.5 and a bold claim that ‘this will take some beating’.
And next week, providing my wheezing is fully back under control, I’ll be back to running and cake sampling to test that out…
Hard to pinpoint exactly when our weekend run became as much about ‘the cake’ as it did the exercise; but it has! And… well who could argue that it’s a blooming fantastic addition to any weekend routine!
We still doggedly rendezvous every Saturday morning to take on the Lancashire hills. Drinking in the beautiful, tranquil countryside which reminds you that life is for living, not just getting by, as we recharge the batteries and get the heart pumping. But my limbs, now in their 50s sometimes, can need a bit of extra motivation these days …and cake will do that for you!
Oh yes, knowing that coffee, catch-up and a slice of something delicious awaits… well it really spurs you on to see that run through to the end!
And, having spread the net wide to savour the confectionery offerings from a range of establishments, we thought it would be fun to celebrate ( and rate) each weekly discovery. And kicking us off to a super strong start are the Angel Cakes from Cissy Greens Bakery.
Described as a ‘true taste of history’, Cissy Greens was opened in the late 1800s by Cissy who was born into a baking family. As a child, she made pies as a passion of hers, but soon expanded to include sweet treats too.
Sweet treats; well there is no better word to describe our post-run angel cakes. The bake is perfection, airy, light and delicious. The butter cream is smooth, sweet and luxurious, For me there is a bit too much of the filling but that’s just me, (always a girl who prefers her cake to the icing) and I am outvoted by fellow tasters.
We polish off every last crumb and award an impressive 9 out of 10.
Next week we stick at Cissy’s for the Chorley cake … or is this local version actually a ‘Rossendale cake’? Whichever is the correct name, I cannot wait to give it a try…
Jeanette Winterson’s recent FT article celebrates Manchester as an ‘unquenchable city“, a place of spirit, energy and “magic” and on Sunday night , I soak up a little of the razzle dazzle with a trip to Band on the Wall to see the iconic and extraordinary Courtney Pine.
The gig, the final event in the Manchester Jazz festival 2024, is wild and exuberant. Pine is a legendary figure and his virtuosity is breathtaking. The band, featuring steel drums, and guitars as well as the traditional jazz staples of bass and piano, blend reggae & hip-hop with classical jazz in a set that exudes energetic, musical passion. But more than this, Pine is also a great showman. His rapport with the packed venue is confident and bold. The audience are encouraged to fill their glasses with rum; to party with commitment … and it all leads to an evening of great fun and, to steal one of Pine’s own mottos, ‘unity’.
And if I can stretch that unity word into… ‘United’, a weekend of celebrations in our household actually begins on the Saturday with an FA cup final that nobody is expecting…
Small boy has been working really hard for his A’ levels and on Saturday mornings asks if he can have the afternoon off to watch the match with some friends
Oh and mum…can we ‘host’?
As supporters from the red side of Manchester we are a beleaguered bunch this season and our FA cup opponents, local rivals and all-round superstars Manchester City are anything but! Nonetheless, my son deserves a break, he assures me that as soon as the match is over he’ll be back to his Physics flashcards and so we stock up on the Guinness and get ready for the arrival of ‘the boys!’
And this afternoon the unimaginable happens… United pull off a 2-1 victory and … gosh the extra-time minutes are tense and tortuous but as that final whistle blows, our lounge explodes with joy. Physics flash cards are put on-hold for a celebratory trip into town,
” Don’t worry though mum, I’ll be back by about 9pm and get back to some revision then!” shouts Small boy as he disappears out of the door
At around 1:15 am, when my Eldest child, who is home for the Bank Holiday weekend, comes in from a night out with friends, I learn that my son is actually at a Cricket Club several miles away!
He is ordered home but it is difficult to be too cross and I tell myself that, after 14 years living up here, maybe Winterson’s indefatigable, mancunian spirit has left its mark on my youngest child,
“Manchester is a city that thinks a table is for dancing on.”
Mark Radcliffe, quoted in Jeanette Winterson on Manchester, ‘the unquenchable city’
It is Friday around 8am, a colleagues has arrived at work with a plaster on her arm and is regaling us with the tale that led to the unfortunate injury. It involves a mishap with a knife and some ‘Yankee candles‘ during finishing touches to a family soiree. I am full of sympathy for the cut, which looks truly awful… but inside my head, my own carving knife calamity from earlier this week resurfaces. Alas, the setting is far less glamourous than soirees and atmospheric scentedness … and, not for the first time, I wonder where exactly I was hiding when ‘domestic goddess‘ tips were being handed out…
Let me re-set the scene as we head for my kitchen! I am rushing in, late, from work. Smallboy is wearily busing it home from the library and will be, I am sure, as tired and hungry as I am. I rummage frantically around the freezer and am overjoyed to unearth some burgers, nice burger buns and few French fries. Ok, so I know it’s not topping any health eating gourmet cuisine hit list … but it is quick, easy and a crowd-pleaser. All in all, think I,
“Result!“
Then comes the snag. The burgers come in a box of 10, are frozen solidly together and I only need 2. What to do? Well, I reach for a small knife and start hacking. I crash and hammer cheerily away until I notice the knife…
Oh my goodness … it is missing a bit. But here is the question, was it missing the tip when I started…or is the metal fragment now buried in a burger?
For some unfathomable reason, probably to do with the clock now showing 7:30pm, I decide to hope for the best and ‘cook’ on. As my son, turns his key in the lock I am ready to usher him to a comfy seat and present him with a plate of tasty looking food,
“Err .. there is something you might want to look out for while you eat….!”
I mutter, as he picks up his cutlery to begin.
Thank the Lord that Smallboy has more sense than me. In truth, my son is incredulous and, however famished he may be, all thoughts of putting any of it into his mouth are cast aside and forensic burger dissection is instantly underway. Within seconds he is brandishing a small piece of metal accusingly at me. How appalling! The offending items are cast into the food bin and we finish our long day with a dismal offering of burger buns with French fries and lettuce.
Even by my standards, this was a real lowpoint. Definitely not to be shared with colleagues … even on a Friday morning. In fact, as there is still 5 minutes before our morning meeting begins, I decide, instead, that it is time to make ammends. I grab my phone and text my son,
“I’ll pick you up from the library tonight and … let’s go out for tea!”
So as the Easter weekend dawns and the sun breaks out from behind the rain clouds, I do have to face the garden for a good few hours of mowing, weeding ,pruning and …. I know, bring me a pipe and slipper and call me ‘grandad‘ … but thereafter, I fire up the lap top and sit down to muse bank on March and forward to April.
Quite frankly, what didn’t happen in March? As I look back, I can see exactly why my beloved blog had to take a backseat.
Prom-dress daughter first learned that she has a severe case of glandular fever (with some alarming complications). This was, and still is, a real worry on many fronts and has led to several weekends of pelting up and down the M6 and M74 to Edinburgh and, for me, wondering what is the best course of action for her health, her happiness, her degree course and my financial survival.
Small boy was, and still is, balancing a ramping up of A level workload with a grade 8 piano exam, tons of playing in Youth Orchestras and college productions plus … far too many 18th birthday parties. At times, he has been too exhausted to eat. So, as his ‘kick ass single -mum’, I am insisting that he hears the word ‘no’ more often than usual and this has led to conflict on more than one occasion!
My eldest, who is ever buried under a mammoth medical-student workload, received the exciting news that she had been accepted, via random ballot, for the Great North Run in September 2024, … alongside the bombshell that none of her friends had. In consequence, many lonely months of training for a half marathon looms…and is, understandably, in something of a panic.
And somewhere in he middle is me. The sponge expected to soak it all up and somehow solve it all and always say ‘yes ‘ and ‘where to‘ and ‘what time’ and always be on hand ‘for a chat‘.
Only I seem to be aware that I also have a full time job, worries of my own and the occasional dream… that no- one hears about. So, all in all, it has been a month when it has felt incredibly tough to be me! On Thursday, when I left for work, realised I’d left my laptop at home, drove back, located the machine, popped into the kitchen for a quick glass of water and them promptly set off without it again, I thought ‘Blimey I am tired…I may even ‘be done’?’
But that was Thursday, I have slept since then and April is a new month, so a new start. And come what may, I resolve to make sure I find time for a weekly pause to blog back and then look forward. It can only help …
As other Gen X-ers will know, when you first get a pair of reading glasses it is… well there is no other word for it; bloody fantastic!
You pop on those simple frames and a minor miracle occurs. The years roll away, the world brightens, sharpens and comes into focus; it is simply amazing. I just had to shout out,
“Woah… now I remember what the world is supposed to look like!”
And I would probably use the same phrase to sum up the wondrous ‘half term’ I’ve just enjoyed. A refreshing week away from work is the perfect way to recharge the batteries and recall what living is ‘supposed to look like!’ I catch up with many friends. I spend time with Small boy, sorting out the myriad of little things that build up when you regularly work an 11 hour day. And I do a show, playing in the band for a local production.
I absolutely love it and find myself pondering the following. If someone were to tell me that I’d played my last ever gig, would I be more or less devastated than being told I’d taught my last ever lesson at school? I’m not sure that I know, though in my defence not much of my life is devoted to such musings.
No, alas, as single mum, you are allowed precious few moments to think about yourself. Small boy was only 3 when his dad left and he has just turned 18. That makes 15 tough years,in which I doubt I have spent even 5 minutes thinking about what I’d actually like to be doing. But in this week of contentment I do find myself wondering whether or not the life I’ve lived in the last seven days is now the life I’d like to be living far more of the time.
Eek! If only seeing clearly through this conundrum were as easy as popping on my reading glasses … !
Golly gosh folks, one moment I’m in my thirties, in a Southwest hospital, high on gas and air and crooning Nat King Cole songs to any unfortunate soul passing by the birthing pool room, and the next; nearly 2 decades have past and my son, the new little being who was born that memorable day, and I are trundling around Tesco stocking up on Vodka and Moretti beer for his coming of age party. Where does the time go?
Where indeed? And on this particular eighteenth, I am also facing the reality that all of my children are now viewed as adults, in the eyes of the law at least. They can vote, serve on a jury and, or course, go to the pub! It is a truly epic journey from the days of formula milk, car seats, ballet classes and Saturday morning football… for me as well as them. Looking back, I actually cannot understand how I ever found the energy to fit everything in!
Exhaustion aside, however, the trip down memory lane is a real joy for this single mum, as she ponders her role in the era of adult offspring. Years and years of good times, shared adventures, crazy capers and much laughter. Of course there have been tense and tricky times too, but one of the nice tricks of my mind, maybe everybody’s is that it tends to filter those out or at least push them into the background letting the brighter pictures and reminiscences dance and shine.
But back to the eve of Small boy’s party, where there is precious little time for looking backwards! We have a house to clear, disco lights to set up, a play list to perfect and costumes to finish off. Costumes? Why yes, my son has a theme; ‘come dressed as a musician‘ is his choice. He and two pals are going as the Bee Gees so, as I blog, he is strutting around the house, in white flares, face-timing his sisters for advice about wigs!
My costume? Now don’t be silly! If 40+ eighteen years olds are descending on my house then I am off out; at least for the first few hours. But if I was to dress up… did I mention that I do great Nat King Cole? Back in the birthing pool, I was singing ‘Let there be love’ . And what a perfect way to end this post, because, as lyrics go, there is no better advice I could give to my grown-up offspring as they launch into the world. Live with your heart, always respect the hearts of others and … the rest will sort itself out!
Smashing Single Parenthood 