ENGLISH MUM: never knowingly undercatered

So I never told you about the Power Plate thingy. I’ve started frequenting this rather lovely spa, which is slightly closer than the beautiful Knightsbrook - sadly no longer within driving range (at least not without getting into trouble with the diesel police). I love it there; it’s all soft lighting and lovely scented candles. You get to wait in the ‘relaxation room’ and frankly it’s so bloody relaxing I have to be dragged out of there for my appointment. At the moment, the whole place is filled with little trees covered in sparkly lights. It’s like a beautiful winter wonderland, except nicer smelling and with gel nails. My kind of heaven.

Anyoo, last time I went to get my nails done, the girls were all chatting about these Power Plate machines that they’ve got there. They’re a bit like those old fashioned weighing machines you used to get in Boots, you know, with the rubber covered plate bit that you stand on and then all the gadgetry up at eye level like on a running machine. The difference here is that the plate vibrates at an alarming rate and you do various different stretches on it. So the girls all reckon that 15 minutes on this particularly evil bit of kit and you’re aching like an old fart the next day. ‘Woo’, thought I, ‘exercise for lazy people. I gotta get me some of that’.

So I made my appointment with the terminally jolly Dmitrij and… er… stepped up to the plate as it were. He took me through various stretches using the machine - each exercise is only held for a short time - for example one particularly evil one had me doing hamstring stretches with one foot up on the plate, whilst being vibrated to within an inch of my life. I also did those tortuous things where you lie facing away from the machine whilst doing kind of reverse dip things with your hands. Dmitrij cheerfully tortured me for a while longer until, finally, we got to warm down. This was actually really nice if a bit bizarre - you get to lie across the machine in various positions while it buzzes softly (steady, now), giving your muscles a nice little massage. Heaven. ‘Pah’, I thought as I walked away, with slightly jelly legs, ‘that was easy peasy’.

Well, people, the next day I awoke in such tremendous pain that I’d completed four whole swear words between the bed and the bathroom, much to Hubby’s amusement. I took the dog for a walk and felt slightly better once I’d got moving, but for 15 minutes of stretches, I was in a considerable amount of agony. Dmitrij, whilst telling me that he plans a whole exercise regime for each client, based on your ‘problem areas’, happily recommended three sessions a week. Jaysus, not on your nelly, mate.

Well that’s that then. The kids are now officially off for Christmas and there are no more early mornings for me for a whole month. Woohoo! They had a lovely end of term carol service, which, even for a total heathen such as myself, was rather enjoyable. Slightly ruined, I have to say, by that whole ’stand up, sit down’ thing that you have to do after every hymn and for the readings and all that. I began to feel like I was taking part in a particularly shambolic attempt at the Mexican wave. Still, I got to belt out ‘Oh Come All Ye Faithful’, and snigger at the very shrill lady singing behind me. There was an awkward moment when we all stumbled over the words to one of the carols when there was a typo in the hymn sheet, but we rallied well and it all turned out okay in the end. Phew.

The school laid on fantastic mince pies and a particularly evil brew of mulled wine made by the science teacher (say no more). #1 did worry that he was going to try and turn us all into frogs just in time for Christmas, but I’m pleased to say I suffered no ill effects, well, unless you count very clovey hiccups.

So I was thinking, in between hiccups, on the way home, that I haven’t done a mad fantasy Christmas list yet. Everyone should do one, just in case they fall hopelessly in love with a millionaire (sorry babe, but you never know xx). Here goes then, oh and remember, don’t write in, it’s just for fun:

1. A pink KitchenAid blender (okay, so I know it’s on every birthday and Christmas list I do, but I really really want one)

2. Scented candles (again - Dyptique or Jo Malone would be fab, but hey, anything’s a bonus)

3. Pink champagne!! Oh and those beautiful new red John Rocha glasses for Waterford Crystal to sip it from.

4. More cookery books: Bill Granger’s ‘Holiday‘, ‘Eating for England: The Delights and Eccentricities of the British at Table’ by Nigel Slater (I love Nige), Jamie Oliver’s ‘Jamie at Home’, James Martin’s ‘Desserts‘, Ina Garten’s ‘The Barefoot Contessa at Home’ ohhh the list is endless.

5. A blank cheque to run around Agent Provocateur with.

6. Oh and don’t get me started on cosmetics…MAC make-up, Clarins yummy creams, Kerastase hair products, yada yada

7. Jimmy Choos!

8. I still want my Land Rover Discovery 3, but could be talked into the monster that is the new Audi Q7, or a new Mitsubishi Lancer Evo 10 (woohoo!)

9. Ooh, and what about clothes - a beautiful Karen Millen black riding coat, some fahbilis new jeans (Rock & Republic please), cashmere….

10. I think that’s it. Greedy? Moi?

Well, dearest reader, an exciting day was had by all today. Hubby and I set out on an intrepid journey to visit another country! I can tell you’re both intrigued and impressed so I’ll let you down gently and tell you that it was only Northern Ireland. Still, another country it certainly is, and one which I’ve not visited before. And jolly nice it was too.

So our international expedition all started this morning, when Hubby mentioned that he’d heard rumour of a fantastic, new and unfeasibly large Tesco opening up in Enniskillen. ‘Ahh, Tesco Extra’, says I nostalgically. What I’d give to have a Christmas rummage round an impossibly large Tesco, with proper prices in sterling and everything. ‘Well then’, says Hubby, ‘let’s go’. We’re like that sometimes: devil may care and spur of the moment. So off we went.

I have to say it’s a big bloody anticlimax, as there’s no ‘border’ or Welcome To Northern Ireland sign or anything. Slowly and sneakily, the road signs change, there are less huge pot-holes in the road and the petrol becomes incredibly expensive, and that’s your clue that you’ve arrived. In the same time it takes me to get down to the unfeasibly large shopping centre, we arrived in Enniskillen. It’s a delightful place, though, with castley sort of ramparts by a lovely river, and loads of really nice shops. We spent a happy afternoon bumbling round Tesco, filling two trolleys with wine, champagne and beer, all scandalously cheaper than here in the south. Hubby thought the whole thing was rather entertaining, especially my excitement at my first trip to the north (and my rather girlish squeaking at getting pounds…POUNDS!!.. out of the cash machine). Well, I don’t get out much. I’d thoroughly recommend it, though, and I might be tempted to go back again and explore some more. Imagine, a whole new country just an hour away. I’m spoilt, me.

So Hubby and I did The Christmas Shop: 1 ½ solid hours of hell to get down to the unfeasibly large shopping centre, and then another 40, count ‘em, 40 minutes to find a parking space. We ended up shoe-horned in to a teeny space, miles from any of the shops on the very far side of TK Maxx and our first sortie into Smith’s Toys ended in us swiftly walking back out again having clocked one look at the fifteen-strong queues at every checkout and vowing to make our purchases online. Following a rain-soaked sprint across the car park, then across the road, then across the other car park to get into the main shopping centre, we decided that we’d lost our Christmas spirit in a BIG way. There followed a very unseasonal (and somewhat soggy) argument about the merits of sparkling icicle lights versus chaser lights, and how many on one row really stretch across a single house. People stared and everything.

Regrouping, however, with the help of Ronald McDonald, we managed to get most of our pressies, including (in that most grown up of ways) presents for ourselves. No surprises there then.

Our biggest surprise, though, came on our return, another 2 hour’s drive later (diverted through Kells following yet another fatal collision on the N3 - the third this week). It turns out that not only can greyhounds really sit, they can also climb Christmas trees, as was evident when we walked in to find a rather wonky Christmas tree stripped bare of every single chocolate tree decoration, and a very fat, burping greyhound. Furthermore, #1 informed me this morning that Bertie has very festive sparkly poo. Santa’s little helper, eh?

J’s beautiful new little niece, Alexandra, was christened today. J is ‘Da Godmother’ and I had to laugh, because teeny tiny and an absolute sweetie she may be, but J doesn’t take any sh*t off anyone, so it really is the perfect role. We had a rather long and sniggery chat about the possibility of punishment beatings to any particularly bitchy playground rivals, and God help the wee one’s potential suitors: there’ll be interviews to ascertain their suitability, and horses heads in the beds of the less fortunate to boot, no doubt.

The first casualty in J’s new regime of terror was the jeweller who was given the task of creating little Alexandra’s christening present: a bracelet engraved with her name. The trouble is, J obviously picked the only dyslexic engraver in the whole of Ireland, and ended up with a delicate little bracelet engraved ‘Alexander’. To add insult to injury, the pillock had engraved it upside down, so that the cross next to the name was inverted.

So, via this blog, J would like to appeal to any devil worshippers with a small child named Alexander, as she has the perfect present. The engraver, meanwhile, hasn’t been seen since, and is probably swimming with da fishes in a disused quarry somewhere near County Laois.

Three men died on Christmas Eve and were met by Saint Peter at the pearly gates. ‘In honor of this holy season,’ Saint Peter said, ‘you must each possess something that symbolizes Christmas to get into heaven.”

The first man fumbled through his pockets and pulled out a lighter. He flicked it on and said ’see, it represents a candle’. ‘You may pass through the pearly gates’, said Saint Peter.

The second man reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He shook them and said ‘they’re bells’. Saint Peter said he could pass through the pearly gates.

The third man started searching desperately through his pockets and finally pulled out a pair of women’s knickers. St Peter looked at the man with a raised eyebrow and asked ‘and just what do those symbolize?’

The man replied … wait for it…

‘They’re Carol’s’

Katie French died this afternoon, aged just 24, after collapsing at a friend’s house early Sunday morning. If you’re not Irish, you probably won’t recognise the name, but I suppose she was kind of an Irish It-Girl - a socialite and model. The circumstances of her death are still under investigation and the rumour mill churns, but this beautiful, bright girl was just 24 years old and whatever the truth, it’s an absolute tragedy.

This awful news comes on the same day that the Doyle family in Waterford bury their 21 year old son, Kevin, following his collapse at a house party on 24 November. His friend, John Grey, is still fighting for his life in hospital. The Doyle family’s message was very clear:

“We would earnestly ask all those — both young and old — who may be tempted to dabble in potentially lethal substances to simply say ‘no’. No amount of so-called fun is worth the loss of life that so often befalls young people in Ireland today.”

EDITED TO ADD: John Grey also lost his battle for life today: 08/12/07

You know when you were little and your Mum used to make stuff that you liked so much it stuck in your memory? With me Mam, it was Sunday lunch - well, not so much the actual lunch as the pudding, which could be proper steamed treacle or jam sponge, or a yummy rice pudding that she used to bake slowly in the oven…mmmmm.

Anyhoo, digressing. Apparently when Hubby was little, his Ma used to make these things that they called pastry-jammy-cakey-things (I know, imaginative title). These were basically jam tarts with a sponge top. Hubby and I were chatting last night over a cup of tea (oh yes, after the spectacular failure of the every other day AFD, alcohol has been banned on week nights - it’s nearly killing us) about such things and Hubby came up with a spectacular idea - ‘ooh, I know’, he said ‘what about pastry-jammy-cakey-mince pies?’

So I had a fiddle, and here they are. Beware, they are severely moreish.

Pastry Mincey Cakey Pie Things

For the pastry:

9 oz plain flour
5 oz cold butter, cubed
3 oz caster sugar
1 egg, beaten

First, mix the flour, butter and caster sugar in a food processor, slowly adding the egg until it comes together (actually, this is a total lie - I just bung it all in, then add the whole egg and hope for the best). Or to do it the old fashioned way, rub the butter in to the flour, add the sugar and bring together with the egg. Squish your pastry into a flat lump and cool in the fridge for half an hour (or however long - it’ll keep in there).

Then, when you’re ready, take half the pastry (save half for another day), roll out quite thinly (pound coin width isn’t it?) and cut with a cutter into discs to match your muffin tin (best with a nice deep one). Line each little hole with a disc of pastry and blind bake them in a 200 degree oven for about 5 minutes. You can do all that baking bean stuff but frankly I can’t be arsed. Then take them out and let them cool while you whip up a boring old cake mix:

4 oz butter
4 oz caster sugar
4 oz self raising flour
2 eggs

Cream the butter and the sugar, then add the eggs one at a time and finally the flour until you have a nice smooth mixture.

Take about half a jar of mincemeat and mix with a splosh of Morgan’s Spiced Rum (optional, but fabulous). Dollop a teaspoonful of mincemeat into each little pastry case and cover with a tablespoon of cake mix. Back into the oven for about 12 - 15 minutes until risen and golden (watch carefully for the last few minutes) and there you go. They’re ridiculously difficult to get out of the tin, but they taste divine so who cares?

As to the name, well, they can’t be pastry-jammy-cakey-things any more as they contain no jam, but pastry-mincey-cakey-things doesn’t sound right. So how about Christmas Mince Pie Cakes? Ooh, or how about just Christmas Pies? Pah, whatever.

Some joker once told me that greyhounds can’t sit. And for a while we thought it might be true - after all, they’re very muscle bound and, well, if you had buttocks like enormous chicken drumsticks, you wouldn’t want to spend too long teetering on them either I’d wager. They certainly don’t sit when they’re begging, or at any stage between standing and lying down - they just tend to hurl themselves onto the sofa, or do that walking round in circles thing getting closer to the ground with every turn.

Still, the gangly one has once again bucked a trend in his own inimitable fashion. I went to the gym today (more of that later) and when I came back I noticed the skies were looking rather grey and angry. Still, that’s nothing unusual in Cavan so I decided Bert deserved a walk after all that waiting around. Well, 100 yards down the boat road and the heavens opened. We’re not talking a bit of drizzle here either; we’re talking a blowing-a-hoolie ferocious wind, accompanied by sideways stair rods that I’ve only encountered the likes of in Cavan. The lake was frothing like a dirty great cappuccino and I was actually quite enjoying myself. Bertie, on the other hand, has a pathological hatred of getting wet and decided to stage his own dirty protest, proving that greyhounds certainly can sit by plonking himself smack bang in the middle of the road and refusing to budge. This was accompanied by a very Scooby Doo-like ‘harumph’ kind of sigh and a raising to heaven of the windscreen-wiper eyebrows. He’s a big lad, as you know, so after ten minutes of woman vs greyhound tug-of-war that I was patently losing, I gave up and stood forlornly, the rain dripping off my nose, practising my swear words. I came up with a few new ones when it turned out that my new ski jacket isn’t waterproof (hmmm, guess it only has to be snow-proof) and big, cold drips started making their way down my back.

‘Twas only when a dirty great tractor pulling a trailer load of cows started meandering down the lane that Bert realised it was either him or the Massey Ferguson and that the Massey Ferguson might possibly win. So he picked himself up and sauntered slowly to the grass verge, where he stood as the tractor driver drove past us laughing, yes, actually laughing, at the mad English woman with her ridiculously hormonal dog, standing drenched in the p*ssing rain. Git.

Anyway, so the upshot is that yes, greyhounds can sit, but only when they’re sulking, so try not to let them as they’re nothing but bloody trouble.

Now you’ll remember that the unfeasibly expensive fireplace gives Hubby a funny turn every time he passes by (he’s still not recovered), but now it’s all covered in holly and baubles and little tea lights, he likes it a lot better. So here, for Nats, is my festive fireplace in all its glory. I have to say the pic doesn’t really do it justice, but it looked rather nice last night. Oh and if you have a fire, get some extra holly, it burns a beautiful shade of blue.