Brevity, and soup.

Today, the blog is late, and short. This is because I did actual social life. Instead of making jokes on Facebook with my virtual humans, I actually interacted (I believe that is the technical term) with sentient beings IN REAL LIFE.

This was reasonably rare for me even before the explosion of the internet. I have advanced hermit-like tendencies, and really am very happy alone in my room. But I drank too much champagne at my sister’s new year’s eve party and rashly made a date, and the nice people took me literally. (I am always faintly astonished when this happens.)

At first, I panicked. The house must be tidied, logs brought in, risotto cooked, candles lit, cushions plumped. I suddenly decided the guests must have four different kinds of cheese, so an emergency trip to the village was required, in the blizzard. I even arranged tulips and hyacinths, for extra points.

In the end, of course, it was absolutely delightful. It was lovely to see the real life humans, and they all had second helpings of the risotto, and admired the dog. The conversation veered wildly all over the place, from autism to the American gun lobby to the in-breeding of canines. There were enchanting young people, one of whom is studying to be a writer. ‘I must just ask you about plot arc,’ he said, as they were leaving.

‘I’m not awfully brilliant at plot,’ I said.

We discussed his difficulty for a moment. The designated driver was revving the car, needing to get off on the journey north before new snow set in. The writer had to go. He had moved on from plot to point of view.

My parting shot, as they drove away, was: ‘Now you are into the treacherous waters of the omniscient narrator....’

I really do sometimes wonder at the sentences that come out of my mouth.

It was very sweet and lovely and now we are all hunkered down for the promised storms to come. The snow has swept across the south and west, and is heading straight for us. Luckily, the field shelter for the horses is finally finished, and we showed it to them this morning. It seemed to gain their approval. (Autumn the Filly was especially impressed. Red was a little more doubtful about the idea of inside, and snorted quite a lot, as if to say: you mean I have to lead my band into this strange wooden place? She takes her duties as lead mare very seriously.)

All week, I have been promising one of the Dear Readers a recipe for soup. It was supposed to be my new chicken soup, but that is not yet perfected and I am too tired now to write it. So here is a very quick, back of a postcard, completely cheating sort of soup, which is simple and fast and good for the winter chill.

First take your stock. If you have some chicken stock, hurrah. I’m afraid I just used my favourite Marigold powder. If you are going to use instant, I would only recommend Marigold, as all other brands I find greasy and too salty and not quite right. A litre will be plenty.

Into it, put eight or nine roughly chopped tomatoes, two fat garlic cloves, and three or four cooked beetroots. I use the ones that come vacuum-packed. Not the ones in vinegar, whatever you do. Add a sprinkle of dried chilli. Simmer for ten minutes.

Liquidise, quickly, with a good dollop of extra virgin olive oil and a good squeeze of lemon. Don’t over-process. Sieve. This is important, because you want a thin, spicy, rich broth, with no pulp. Adjust seasoning; it may need a little Maldon salt.

And there you are. It’s my own invention, and it’s a good, brightly coloured, fierce thing. Perfect for the snow. We drank it out of little Moroccan tea glasses, just because.

 

No time for pictures today. Just one very dear face, also much admired by the lovely guests, and a blue, blurry evening hill:

Angst; or, sometimes I really think I should not be let out of the house

WARNING: this is all about me.

I’m generally a little leery of writing too much about myself. Heavy use of the first person singular can fall into narcissism and solipsism and other unattractive isms. On the other hand, a bit of personal revelation can be good, because of the Me Too factor. I sometimes think that Me Too are the happiest words in the English language. You are not alone; you are not the only freak or fool or goofball. Your flaws may come out in public, without having to wear the hat of shame.

It’s a fine line though, and I walk it warily. Balance must be struck.

All this started because I was thinking of human contradiction. It is a subject that fascinates me, mostly because it is so common and yet always seems slightly unexpected. There is a desire for people to be consistent. There is also the giving of labels. Sometimes it seems that the world wants you just to be one thing; into your neatly marked box you go. You may be the brain or the beauty, the jock or the geek, the loner or the life of the party. People often appear confused or even cross if you are more than one thing at once.

Generally, I like to think of myself as fairly strong-minded. (This may be a polite way of saying: stubborn as a mule.) It is partly because this is a muscle I had to build up, on account of not doing the expected thing. I am a forty-five year old female with no desire for husband or children; I live alone, from happy choice. This is, even now, considered very strange indeed. A highly educated man once said to me, in blank astonishment: ‘But you have a womb; you must use it.’ We are still in family viewing time, so I’m not going to mention the filthy rejoinder that went through my head.

It is quite difficult for women to buck social expectations. One is either sad, or bad. Women who refuse to breed are variously selfish, unnatural, misguided (poor pretty pink things who do not know their own mind) or just plain bats. A hundred years after the Pankhursts fought for autonomy and the vote, a lady without a gentleman is seen as a pitiful creature. I always think of Jennifer Aniston in this regard. There she is, lovely, highly successful, with her own production company and one of the most beloved sitcoms of all time, but her life is reduced to the tired headline of Sad Jen and Her Search for Love. (This narrative is being interrupted at the moment, as she appears to have become engaged, but the yellow papers seem convinced that it will not take, and soon she shall be Sad Jen again.)

Since I took the road less travelled, I had to learn to shrug off the epithets. I had to teach myself not to mind, to understand that people will think what they will and that is their business, not mine. Each to each, I chant to myself, in the echoing halls of my cussed mind.

Then, every so often, I tumble into a craven state of caring horribly what people think, and it never ends well. This happened last night. I went for a dinner with some of the HorseBack people. I am used to seeing them in working conditions. There, I am easy as a fish in water. I wander about with my notebook, fall in and out of happy conversation, make jokes, am my utter self. But suddenly, there was a social gathering, and I lost my rhythm completely. I became unaccountably shy; talk came out in fits and starts. I heard myself mouthing platitudes, and being faintly dull. (Dull; one of my absolute terrors.) At one point, I even did an innuendo. I never do innuendo. What was I thinking? I wanted to be Dorothy Parker and instead I was channelling Terry Thomas. Now they are going to think that I am a sort of low rent Leslie Phillips.

I had angst about it for two hours afterwards. I said out loud, in the kitchen, to the dog: ‘Why did I say that?’ I felt like hiding under the bed.

There are several things about this. One is, almost certainly no one noticed, and I have created a drama in my own head, out of whole cloth. The second is that it always astonishes me that I mind so much. These moments of angst litter my entire adult life; I can almost list them for you.

I suppose it makes sense that these are people I admire and I would like them to think well of me. But how is it that I can take on an entire social construct, the one that says all those horrid things about women who do not have families, and yet fall down the rabbit hole of panic if a bad joke comes out wrong?

I start to think that I am actually very poor in social situations generally. I had another moment of crassness at dinner last Saturday night. It was with a group of people I had not met before. I felt the same constraint; I opened my mouth and something idiotic came out. I longed to be suave and charming and instead was awkward and faintly vulgar.

I realise that what I really like is seeing people in an informal way. A quick cup of coffee, a dropping in, a chance encounter; these are the easy ones. Put me in my best bib and tucker, make me sit up straight and put my lipstick on, and it’s a fifty-fifty chance that I shall screw up. Either I get over-excited and talk too much and too loudly (I have a fatal tendency to yell), or I am suddenly seized with bashfulness and can hardly form a sentence.

I especially like seeing people when there is some form of doing. The Beloved Cousin and I have easily our best conversations when we are cooking supper. The Sister and I do our finest talk when we are walking the dogs. If I am working with my horse, I appear to be able to do seamless chat at the same time.

I suppose there is something entirely unnatural in sitting round a dinner table, or standing at a cocktail party (my absolute number one worst social gathering). Humans were not really evolved to be Oscar Wilde; it takes a lot of work and concentration to acquire epigrammatic social polish.

The angst slowly subsides. Quite soon, it shall go back into its box. Happily, I am diverted by it being Frankel week over at the Racing Post. They somehow managed to get an entire troop of Household Cavalry to ride out this morning in Frankel’s colours. It is one of the funniest and loveliest and most unexpected things I’ve ever seen. There are delightful photographs of the fine sight all over the internet. Lucky Frankel, I think: there is a fellow who does not know the meaning of the word angst, nor needs to.

Vaguely, I wonder if I shall ever achieve a decent public deportment, or if I can train myself not to care. There really are more important things to worry about, like the polar bears and the national debt. How lovely it would be to reach the stage of accepting that sometimes I am an idiot, and that people may just take that as they will. Perhaps that shall be my next project. Because, as every fule no, we single ladies must have a project.

 

Today’s photographs:

Weather too beastly for the camera. The dour brown rain falls and falls. Instead, here is a quick selection from the archive:

A Dear Reader asked about this next view, and I rudely neglected to answer. (More low-level angst.) It is the sight I see when driving home over the Cairn O’Mount. I used to think it was the cairn itself, but in fact it is a granite tor called Clachnaben, which is Gaelic for Mountain of Stones. Even though it is still a twenty minute drive from this point to my front door, I can see this in the distance if I walk up the rise behind my house:

 

Important chicken picture for the Dear Reader who loves the chickens:

My happy herd:

Herself is a bit grumpy today, because of this weather. The raindrops gather in points at the end of her mane and drip onto her delicate skin and annoy her. I give her extra breakfast and love to compensate. The little Welsh pony, on the other hand, is merry as a grig, on account of her tough mountain blood, which allows her to laugh at the elements. The American Paint, in her laid back way, just puts her head down and gets on with it.

And the glorious Miss Pigeon, who has had good news from the vet. One more check on Friday, but I think we may bash on together for a while yet:

A brief report from the Borders

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Back from the Borders. They are quite shockingly pretty; I always forget. They have those lovely green folded hills and mountains which look as if they are made of velvet. Sometimes, in the thick yellow light, the country looks almost Italian, faintly reminiscent of the slopes of Lake Como.

There were very old friends; one rekindled acquaintance, who had grown funnier and more fascinating with age; and several people I had never met in my life. I laughed a lot, pontificated excessively, drank slightly too much good Burgundy, and wore my red patent wedges. I had to apologise twice for bombast. My social skills are creaking from lack of use, so when I do go out, I get very over-excited and have a fatal tendency to shout and wave my arms about. Thus: slightly angsty apologies. Luckily, everyone was most charming and forgiving.

The Pigeon was a tremendous hit. There were two particularly adorable little girls who fell in love with her. She has a profound affection for children. On Saturday, we were out on the hill when violent wind and rain came howling down the valley. The small girls decided that they would keep The Pigeon warm by rubbing her all over with their gloved hands, to get the circulation going. ‘Oh Pigeon,’ they said with a dying fall, as they gazed on her slightly plaintive wet face.

Tired now after my social exertions. Since I am used to being silent for days on end, forty-eight hours of non-stop talking takes it out of me, as if I have been competing in some marathon athletic event. So today’s blog is shockingly brief. I give you some pretty pictures of the Borders in compensation. They even have snowdrops down there, great pale carpets of them, enchanting the woods. Two hundred miles north, we have no sign of snowdrop yet. Although I did see the first daffodil shoots this morning, which have appeared, like a miracle, in the two days since I have been away. It is the first official mark that there will, one day, be spring.

 

Pictures:

And, back at home, the fledgling daffs:

The wonderful mossiness of the grass:

I became rather fascinated by the mossy grass, and took a while to work out the best way to capture it in a photograph. There was a great deal of crouching, and bending, and lying down on the ground in order to get the best angle. In the middle of a particularly inelegant squat, a smart gentleman drove up, and asked where he might find The Landlord. Clearly they had some kind of business meeting.

I gave directions. The fellow gave absolutely no sign, not by the flicker of an eyelid or the twitch of a cheek, that he had come upon me squatting down on the ground, taking photographs of the mossy earth. It must have appeared a frankly peculiar thing to be doing. To make it worse, I had my new super-stereophonic headphones on, and was so moved by the sound quality that I was singing tunelessly and very loudly along to Everything But The Girl. And I was wearing my most ancient green velvet coat with the holes in, and bits of tattered lining drooping out of the sleeves, and one shoulder faded to olive by the sun.

He addressed me as if I were the Duchess of Alba. The more I think of this, the more I believe that he must have a most remarkable mother, who taught him the best manners in Scotland.

My own dear hills:

And finally, the perfect canine guest. She really did behave with tremendous decorum:

I am not ashamed to admit I was very proud of her.

The Day After

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Well. My dears. What a swellegant, elegant party that was. The strains of that song have been running in my head since I woke up. I have been wandering about the bathroom singing: have you heard of Mimsie Starr, she got pinched in the Astor Bar? And: that French champagne, so good for the brain. (Are you all running to find your old copies of High Society?)

Anyway, it was lovely. Almost the moment I walked in, I was introduced to a historian. This is the kind of thing that makes me very, very excited. Oh, I shouted, can we talk about the repeal of the Corn Laws? He looked very slightly panicked. It is at times like this that I realise my social graces are rather rusty. Which is a polite word for it.

Luckily, he was very happy to discuss the Battle of Cable Street, so we talked of that instead. Also: the true meaning of fascism, and why people use the word so loosely these days. (This happens most particularly in relation to Barack Obama, whom his critics accuse, oddly, of being both a fascist and a communist.) Then we talked of why everyone insists there must be a one-word answer to the riots, when it is patently clear there is not. There is hardly a four hundred word answer. 'Nuance,' I kept yelling. 'COMPLEXITY.' Poor fellow, he was very brave about it.

Then I drank a lot and was quite camp. Which is my second favourite thing after discussing the Second Reform Act.

There were a lot of glamorous and interesting women in outrageous frocks. There were actors. That is always a huge treat for me. I don't get actors, where I live. There was paella, and jokes. It was perfect.

Now, probably to your relief, I am going somewhere where there is no internet. I am going to sit quietly and read that papery old thing that is a book. There will be no blog, no Twitter, no breathlessly checking what Michelle Bachman is up to, with those great staring eyes.

Forgive the break. I shall be back in a week.

PS. Suddenly realised you may be wondering why I was shouting and yelling. This is part of the problem of not going out very much, and living six hundred miles north, surrounded by hills and sheep. When I come back to the smoke, I get very over-excited, and start shouting. Also there is a lot of talking very, very fast. And, I hate to admit, occasional shrieking. I really am amazed I get asked anywhere, ever.