Sad and SAD

Last week, as I was whiling away some time on Twitter, I came across a guy who, like me, does not enjoy this time of year. He told me that it has all improved for him as he got older, and I guess that, together with saggy knees, the menopause, liver spots and dentures, maybe there will be something to look forward to with Old Age. Imagine enjoying March to August instead of proceeding as if shackled into a mould of black treacle...! I cannot even process it, dear reader, as even on those days when I step outside in a silk dress and with my hair in a knot because it doesn't need drying and styling, I invariably catch myself thinking that... God, if only it were October already and I could wear my scarf...

I settled down in bed at 11.30 last night and then I tossed and turned. And then tossed and turned some more. 0.47 am. Then 1.47 am. Then 2 am. Then 3 am. Then... you get the picture. Of course Victoria now gets up at an ungodly hour, as she sees so much light so early and evidently thinks that 5 am doesn't really look like 5 but more like 9. Wrong Vic. William isn't much better, although he seems to have understood the significance of TO YOUR BED!!!!!! after twelve years of living together. 

When I finally caved in at 7.15 and got up, bending to their scandalous requests to be fed broadcast in my face at full volume, I felt teary. Here's another reason why I could never be a parent: I need to sleep. When I don't sleep, I feel tragic. When I don't sleep and it's summer, I feel even worse if humanely possible.

It's now 3 pm, I've been sitting at the computer for what feels like a lifetime, and I am all but ready to drop face-first onto the keyboard. Except... I've got one bloody ghastly meeting to get through still and the air is tepid and the windows are open and I am in such a low-key mood that it's a lucky miracle I didn't have to see anyone today, because I think that visual stimulation other than the blinking cursor may as well caused an implosion of my mental faculties. 

It's not just the Seasonal Affective Disorder though; indeed I am not just afflicted by SAD, I am also sad. 

As the whole job situation is as slick as oil and gives me the much treasured opportunity to think about all good things, something has been paining me for quite some time and I must confess that I am experiencing all of it as a death, no overstatement there. I think that it isn't just the SAD that didn't allow me to sleep last night but rather the enormous difficulties that I've been experiencing. 

I don't know how to cope. In fact, the other day I wrote a pointless email to my best friend, telling him that my problem is... I don't know how to cope. But I guess that nobody knows how to cope about anything anyway, and that we only travel through desolate lands because we have no choice. I keep telling myself that absolutely everything will be fine by my birthday and that I needn't think about anything at all right now. But that's still two months ago. I guess I would be just a little bit happy if I could remove Victoria's cone, thus preserving what remains of the house. Just another week to go and then I'll update you all.

Living The Dream

I've often thought of those people, mostly faceless, whom I have a tendency to admire for really odd reasons; people who can sing well without even trying, people who live or work in exciting places, people who produce really nice work, be this showcased through a blog or self-publishing, and more. Then I looked back and realised that, at some point in my life, I was living a dream, yet I did not realise it. I used to live in a flat right behind the London Eye, that tall, semi-circular building known as The White House (very imaginatively named, I must tell you). While my own windows faced the rather little thrilling Waterloo roundabout (or the IMAX cinema, if you're feeling a little more upbeat), the roof terrace overlooked the Thames and, with it, Big Ben, the London Eye itself and, a little more to the right, The National Theatre.

At that time, I was consumed by work. I am not saying this in the sense of 'rushing up the career ladder as quickly as I could'; no, I really do mean consumed in its worst sense. I mean consumed as burnt out by a working treadmill that saw me running and running, even at weekends, never stopping to notice anything. Only once did I go to the roof terrace and sat down, taking in the sounds and the beautiful view. Only once did I actually notice Big Ben chiming. I may have taken a couple of pictures of it, but I cannot be sure. 

It's exactly ten years later, and I am, once again, in this marvellous spot of London, watching the full trees swing in the wind, the tourists stopping by to take pics, the river curling up in thousands of creases. A lot has happened since the summer of 2001, and a lot has not happened, despite the plans (they really are for little schemers) and the striving (don't, ever). 

I've recently started reading the blog of an American artist, this one, who lives in Brooklyn. She often talks of what she does downtown and I always smile as she mentions places that I know so well and that are so dear to me. If truth be told, I swoon a little. Then today, back from the copy room, I caught a glipse of the Thames and, for a change, I stopped. It's a fabulous day in London, with a pale blue sky and clouds scattered across it. As I take it all in, after a period that has been traumatic to say the least, I realised that I am living the dream. For a change, it ain't just somebody else's dream, the dream of someone who may be reading this, swooning like I do over Summer Pierre's site, but my own dream too. This time, I want to stay in the dream, I want to record it all, I want to enjoy it all. This time I am the one actually living it. 

Dark And Stormy Days

Since I last wrote, we’re  expiating the splendid weather that graced my part of the country during April. Instead of April showers we are dealing with May showers and with the only exception of my working in London last week, up here it has been nothing but very dark clouds and rain. I find something immensely appealing though about this state of the sky because my garden is completely out of control in the green department, with tall, tall grasses and the trees resplendent with glossy new leaves against this backdrop of dark grey. You wouldn’t believe how that sets them off!

But, of course, the first time it rains after a few weeks really is the very best time. I love the smell of the soil and the grass and there is little that I find more uplifting than writing early in the evening during the summer, when the rain is lashing down and birds are still singing on the branches. Have you ever noticed that? Birds sing in the rain, they are not at all like us, begrudging the weather and complaining about it. They have little parties out there, they tell one another stories and they don’t care at all that it’s raining. And they don’t even have brollies. We could learn a thing or two from observing birds in the rain. 

And, ah yes, London. I’m currently scheming to return to work there and, all being well, that’s precisely what I will be able to do very shortly. While this is appealing in many ways, I am not that thrilled to leave Victoria during the week (or William, but she is the one needing some special care at present). Yesterday I saw François again and I will most likely have to take her back to ensure that her ear is healing appropriately. The girl is fine but the new tissue within the opening is struggling to seal up properly. I’ve been kicking myself for the past day because I should have taken her back when I first found her with her paw in her ear two days after her operation. She ripped five stitches out then and it all went a bit awkward on the healing side of things, even though she is not bothered by anything. More on this as it evolves.

Victoria and Vet François Guillaume Saulnier-Troff

I think that the web is a very practical, helpful tool. Within milliseconds, you can check out all sort of data and if you’ve had a bad customer service experience, you can go on a forum and warn everybody and his uncle about it. Herein, in a sense, lies my concern dear reader; while people have short memories, the web’s memory isn’t short at all. 

When a few weeks ago I Googled the latest vet I was dealing with, a certain François Saulnier, I was flabbergasted that pages and pages of entries (and especially the most important few at the top) were all about ‘disciplinary hearings’, ‘unprofessional conduct’, ‘full charges’ and, the worst of all for me, ‘dishonest vet’. Dishonest vet? What? My François? Who the hell were these articles talking about? Why were they even there?

I am writing this enormous post for two reasons:

1. These details will benefit any dog owner who is seeking an in-depth account of a benign canine ear tumour from the owner’s perspective; AND
2. If you’re in two minds about taking your pet to this vet having read certain information available online, you may welcome the view-point of a very happy owner. 

Victoria’s Ear Polyp – How It Started

Victoria (background) playing with William

At the very end of March, I noted that Victoria’s left ear (Dalmatian, nine years old, spayed) was producing more and more wax despite my daily cleaning routine. She had always been a little precious about her ears and, up until Christmas 2010, I had never quite managed to clean hers as effectively and as often as William’s. When I noted that my efforts were paying off in the right ear but not the left, I began really to stick my hands and nose down there. I noted a smell that none of the other canine ears was producing and the wax that I was cleaning out of it did not look that waxy either, but rather resembled a discharge and was more liquid in consistency and far darker too. As I was massaging the cleaning fluid into the ear, I also noted an odd, squishy sound, as if a tiny sponge soaked with water were lodged in the ear canal. When I shone a light in it, I saw a white protuberance that completely occluded the canal and was, seemingly, growing out of it. 

Regular readers of this place will know that I am well-versed with many canine illnesses, ailments, accidents and disasters, but I have to tell you that even I got alarmed when I saw this thing (being disastrously hypocondriacal doesn’t help either...). Even though the growth did not look like a carcinoma (or at least not a carcinoma in its advanced stage, when they can be red or black, yikes), but was white and squishy, I was really worried that it could be the beginning of a malignant ear cancer, when the patient may still not show any symptoms. The day after, Victoria saw one of my local vets who confirmed that there was a growth in the ear and who booked her in for a biopsy two days later. 

The result of the biopsy indicated a ceruminous adenoma, which is a benign tumour that, although rare, tends to affect the skin inside feline, rather than canine, ears. Regardless of its rarity, Victoria appeared to have one and as sure as hell that thing had to come out, for it completely blocked off the ear canal and, consequently, its ventilation, potentially leading to infections with all sorts of dire consequences. Because the adenoma isn’t filled with liquid but is made of solid tissue, the biopsy could not reduce its size, neither could the vet move it in order to check the horizontal canal leading to the middle ear.

While discussing surgery, however, it became apparent that my local vet hospital, although rather stellar in many ways, currently does not have a soft tissue specialist. I remember feeling my stomach back-flip when the vet said this, for she indicated that there was a vet who could do the surgery but wasn’t yet fully qualified to do so. And who wants to do ear surgery with someone who is not yet fully qualified to do so? 

It then immediately occurred to me that the ChesterGates Referral Hospital, where I’ve been with William many times for his epilepsy when it was still the Cranmore MRI ten years previously, had expanded into a superb, snazzy hospital with all types of specialists. I suggested we asked them whether they had someone who could perform this type of surgery and later that day Victoria was booked to be seen by François Saulnier the following week.

Victoria and François 

When I met him I was as tense as a guitar string and, most likely, I may have come across as a monosyllabic idiot who did not really understand what was being said. In reality, I had barely slept since I had seen the growth inside Victoria’s ear as I was gripped by an anxiety I had never known before. While William always had me sitting on pins thanks to his epilepsy, health-wise, Victoria’s nine years had been as uneventful as a weekend in the Welsh countryside. To be talking about a potential total ear canal ablation and of the post-operative pathological report that would follow in order to ascertain what exactly had been going on, brought home the truth that, however obvious, had never quite crossed my mind before: she will not be around for ever. 

Even though I was invited to sit down, I stood like a fidgeting lamppost (if lampposts could fidget, that is) and remained pretty much silent throughout. François proceeded to draw a section of the canine ear and to illustrate the scenarios he could find once operating. 

1. The growth could have been near the top of the vertical ear canal only, therefore requiring a partial ear canal ablation (the vertical one) and a clean up of what was left below.
2. The growth could have been originating from the horizontal ear canal, therefore requiring a total ear canal ablation.

In scenario 2, there was also the possibility that the middle ear, which is the deepest part leading to the hearing apparatus, could be damaged to various degrees. Because the polyp lodged into the ear was blocking it completely, and the right ear was completely clear, it was hard to tell whether Victoria’s hearing had been affected in her left. As far as I could tell, she was behaving normally (and, crucially, she was not scratching her ear or shaking her head at all) and could hear me just fine (except for that ever-present ailment known as Selective Hearing, whereby ‘Come!’ in isolation does not work, but ‘Gravy bone!’ does). 

François then also spoke of possible outcomes as well as complications. The facial nerve could be affected if the polyp was deep inside the canal and had started impinging on it. A partial facial paralysis (affecting the eyelid, for example) or a loopsided look are possible, depending on the extent of the damage. Ear canal surgery that is not performed by experts may also lead to a facial abscess which will then need to be drained. If at all possible, hearing should be preserved, but the priority was to open up, remove the blockage and take it from there. The upshot was that only 1 in 1,000 dogs die under general anaesthesia and that a very healthy and fit, if slightly senior, dog like Victoria should be able to go through with it. 

I didn't really feel like I had a choice, dear reader. I wanted that polyp removed there and then, so I signed all the forms and left her at the hospital with François. 

When I left, although worried sick, I also had an underlying, if vague, good feeling about it all. Unlike William who has been prodded, pricked and poked by vets since he was a puppy, Vic has always lived the yearly shots as some dramatic absurdist pièce de théâtre in which she played the tragic heroine. The day before I left her with François I had a little cry because I thought that she won’t understand what’s happening to her and she will be scared to death and I won’t be there for her. In reality, she immediately seemed at ease with the guy, and quite happily sauntered off with him as I left (this is unheard of). I think that she had caught a whiff of a good vibe much more strongly than I, even though she probably paid no attention to the raft of thank you cards in his office. I did though. 

I sat on pins all day, knowing that the surgery itself would most likely happen in the early afternoon. In fact, François called as he started the procedure to say that the growth was quite big but seemed only lodged in the vertical ear canal. He would therefore most likely proceed to a vertical canal ablation. 

For three hours I heard no updates and I must confess that at that point I thought she was dead. I was imagining François sitting in the office with the fabulous Mr Skerritt, shaking his head and saying, ‘I did all I could’, with Geoff replying, ‘Yes, I know son. These things happen, I’ll call her’. I was this close to cracking when I called at something past 5 pm and spoke to reception. When the lady told me that Vic was fine and recovering well, but Francois could not yet call me because he had an emergency and was still in theatre, I almost put the phone down on her, so that I could have a good cry. Instead I blabbed something like ‘Oh she is alive then’ adding a little bit of hysterical laughter for good measure and rang off. Then I cried. 

Vic back home straight after surgery

I heard from him at 7.30 pm. He seemed slightly tired but upbeat, telling me that Vic was awake and fine, she was, in fact, looking at him with a bit of a wag going on. The polyp was indeed as extensive as we had expected it, but only just reached the curve where the vertical canal leads into the horizontal one. So he had removed the vertical canal and preserved the hearing function. Her bandages would be removed the morning after and she would likely be able to come home that evening. Again I hardly spoke (I was, in fact, struggling to breathe), threw in a couple of minor hysterical laughs, and that was that.

Post-Operative Developments

The following morning François called at 9 sharp to let me know that the bandages were off, that it all presented itself as it should, with a bit of side swelling, but nothing too drastic. He would monitor Vic through the day to ensure that no complications arose but I could go and pick her up that evening. Dear reader, I was thrilled out of my wits and surprised myself thinking, what a nice guy! A vet who calls you back when he says he will is a rare thing, trust me on this.

When I turned up in the evening, I was horrendously late (and I am a Virgo and I drive a Jag and I am never late) but François waited for an age so that he could give me more information about the operation. He did so by drawing once again the section of the ear canal and indicating exactly what he had done and where the new opening would be. He seemed really pleased to have been able to have preserved the hearing, as was I. But when Victoria arrived, and this will be of interest to those of you whose dogs may need the same procedure, she looked... well... terrible. She seemed to have turned into skin and bones overnight, her head was obviously half-shaven (well, at least she is a Dal, imagine how weird a half-shaven Afghan Hound must look) and I could tell that she had barely slept. Her ear presented itself well-cleaned if only ‘a bit odd’, as I said at the time, for the section underneath the pinna (=the ear flap) looked a bit swollen and, for lack of a better word, weird. 

Of course, I was the problem; I had never seen a post-operative ear canal ablation and could not compare it to anything I knew. François explained that the swelling was normal, and was already reducing itself. I could see the ends of the stitches which were in place in order to facilitate the inner healing but especially to ensure that the new tissue would not close the canal completely, as that’s the tendency of these wounds. I continued to ask moronic question after moronic question (‘Are you sure she is ok like this?’ being a prime example), but Francois didn’t seem to notice the idiocy and answered each and every one and then some. I left with the provision to return after ten days for the removal of the stitches but I was welcome to call if I was worried or had any questions. 

Unsurprisingly, Vic slept like a stone that night and most of the following day. She was eating but wasn’t excessively interested in food. She wasn’t bothered by the satellite dish she was wearing around her head and pretty much kept herself to herself. William barely took notice she was back (for all intent and purposes they may be boyfriend and girlfriend but he rather cannot stand her). 

Vic's ear two days after surgery, starting to look not that great

The (minor) problems started the following morning after the feeds, when she was obviously feeling more normal and bouncy and wanted to take good care of her wound. When I took a thirty-second detour in the porch to fill the water bowl, I returned to the cone burst open and her left hind paw stuck in her ear. I sorted her out but noted some liquid seeping out of the wound and down her neck. The stitches appeared in place but I was unsure and could not really see inside for fear of pulling something off, so I called François who told me to keep an eye on her without worrying too much. Of course I was welcome to take her back for a quick check, but in order to do so he would have to sedate her and he would prefer to do that only when the stitches were due to come out. So I cleaned the area as best as I could and tried to ensure as much as possible that she would not open the collar. But it wasn’t just about that:  I caught her throwing her head around in her bed and crushing her ear to the side of the collar on a few occasions. In other words dear reader... if there’s a will to scratch, there’s a way too, whether your dog is wearing a satellite or not.

Vic enjoying some time in the garden barely one week after surgery

Days passed rather uneventfully on the way to Easter, with Vic behaving more and more as normal. I would occasionally remove the buster collar so that we could sit in the garden together and she never once tried to scratch her ear while the collar was off. In fact, I think she rather liked the return of her full field of vision and the breeze gently flapping her ears.

Winking at me but not too pleased by her satallite dish

Meanwhile, François had called me again to let me know that the pathology report had confirmed that the growth was a benign ceruminous adenoma, as indicated by the biopsy, and that there was no (cellular) indication that anything more sinister had been afoot. I was growing slightly concerned by the pus-like, sticky discharge that was oozing from her ear though, hence we decided to book Vic in for the removal of the stitches a couple of days later. All was well in Steph’s World until I decided to do some online snooping to see how good this fantastic vet was. 

That’s when I landed on Google and found little other than upsetting reports. I just could not believe that what was deemed, in an attention-grabbing headline (it worked, for it surely grabbed my attention), a ‘dishonest vet’ was the lovely guy whom ‘everyone loves’, as one of his colleagues had said to me while I was in the waiting room the week before. There’s no need for me to resume past events; you can find out about it as easily as I did. Suffice to say, I was so flabbergasted, my heart plummeting to my ankles, that I decided there and then that, while it is human nature to report on dishonesty, betrayal, un-professionalism and more, I would make a point to counter-balance what I read about this vet with my own account of a very successful turn of events where he consistently acted not simply professionally, but humanely too. 

I’ll never forget the vet who told me, ‘Come on, get hold of yourself’ many years ago when I was crying about William whose continuous epileptic seizures and lack of control and non-stop overnight pacing were running me into the ground. Now that’s not what I call a professional, let alone humane, conduct. François, by contrast, has never been even remotely short, or too hassled to deal, with me, even after a 13-hour day spent in the operating theatre. So much for dishonest and unprofessional, dear reader.

What would I have done had I actually come across those reports before taking Vic to him? I wouldn’t have taken her, plain and simple. Doubt is a powerful agent and one that can stealthily destroy the most unshakable convictions, let alone our expectations of someone we've yet to meet. If you’re reading this because you’ve Googled him and you’re not quite sure, please reconsider. The guy is kind, unassuming, helpful and has plentiful experience to do a good job on your pet too if you've been referred to him. By the way, you may not find this information readily among those headlines, as most of the articles required a login, but the charge was then dismissed.

When Vic went back to have the stitches removed, it emerged that five out of the eight had already been ripped out but that, despite this, the tissue was healing just fine, even though a stricture had created itself. This means that the little outer hole (the new way in to the ear canal), was smaller and tigheter than it should have been as the tissue grows and tries to constrict itself around the wound. François therefore removed what remained of the old stitches and put another four in, this time length-wise so that the canal would be kept as open as possible during the healing process. After this procedure, which required some sedation, the seeping out of the ear ceased within two days and the area remained slightly scabby, but otherwise clean, with the ear at large soft as normal. The week after, the stitches were removed (two left... there’s just not keeping a bad dog down, is there), and the ear cleaned again, but François suggested that the collar should stay on for another week in order to minimise rubbing and scratching. The outer corner of cartilage near the ear canal was red, although it did not seem particularly sore, and I was now to apply Vaseline to the area three times a day for the following week. Before the time elapsed though, the cone was off, the ear clean and Vic was not interested in scratching at all.

The last meeting took place in order to have a final once-over. François had suggested that I may want to go to my local vet for this, but I was not so inclined. I do not think that a vet who does not have an in-depth knowledge and experience of ear canal ablations, whether partial or total, is in the position best to spot something even remotely awry when the new opening wasn’t even visible underneath the short hairs. 

A nice neat new little hole just above my index finger is what remains

So I went back, and I’m glad I did, because, not only did he clip the hairs around the opening so that I could see exactly where the new entrance to the ear is (believe me, not as obvious as it sounds!), but he also showed me how to clean the ear with a cotton bud. This had been a concern of mine since the beginning, as I had figured out that removing the vertical ear canal would have meant being much closer to the bulla when inserting, however carefully, the tip of the cleaning agent bottle or a q-tip. I needn’t have worried dear reader; cleaning is much easier this way and flushing is more simple now that I’m already half-way there. I should continue to clean the left ear daily for ten days and should also clip the hairs around the opening once a month to facilitate ventilation. Victoria is as good as new and is currently snoring softly in her bed.

If you stumbled on here because you were looking for further information about François Saulnier-Troff, I hope you found this account helpful and, hopefully, a little bit reassuring. The guy’s great, he has even given me his email address. What vet or, God forbid, GP does that? Lucky is that pet which is in his care.

Betrayal At The Park

I always go to great lengths in order to avoid paying a visit to Tatton Park without my dogs. It’s the highest level of doggie betrayal, isn’t it, as Tatton is their favourite place. In actual fact, it’s mine too, whether it is copper and crackl-y, blossoming and breezy or, my favourite, foggy and iced.

Today, though, the weather was yet again spectacular and I did take a very small detour into it from Knutsford, while the guys were at home. I am currently running  a canine geriatrics hospital, with Victoria still perambulating with a satellite dish around her neck following her ear operation and William in high spirits but with very wobbly back legs awaiting his first physio session. I cannot wait to be back with them both. 

Spring Tales

I don’t remember a shower-less April, except for this April. With the only exception of Monday 4, a day which I remember clearly because Victoria was in hospital for a biopsy, I needed no heating on, no pashmina at all hours, no thick socks. If truth be told, it’s been a bit of a revelation. Spring around these parts is so ostentatiously wet and bad that anything other than comes as a bit of a shock. I just didn’t know what to wear, and I never not know what to wear.

I pointed my iPhone at everything that moved and didn’t move, taking pics of birds and trees, flowers, shoes, magazine covers, food, lattes and cappuccinos... the usual stuff really, but everything looked better in this light and especially with a backdrop of often very blue sky. From Easter to today, including the day of the rather stellar Royal Wedding (I love a good wedding me), everything was just perfectly full of colour and life. Good job I don’t have a job because that would have really thrown a spanner in the works, wouldn’t it? Imagine being locked away in a window-less office while it’s all crisp and green outside... Much easier to be at work in the depths of winter (provided there’s no snow, because if it’s snowy one must certainly wish to be playing outside in it). 

Still

Websites, mags, news outlets, books and even the rags often talk about our fast-paced lifestyle. Well, mine isn’t fast-paced and hasn’t been for a long time, but over the past few weeks (I’d say since mid-February), it has slowed down to unadulterated, calm stillness. Don’t get me wrong though; I still feel like days turn into weeks turn into months far too quickly for my liking. It wasn’t long ago that there was snow on the ground and already we’ve hit the end of March. But I’ve started living differently and that difference is stillness. 

Gone is the pressure to do things as others expect me to do them and gone is also the burning need to hit imaginary deadlines. Yes, I did want to write a bit on here about pancake day and what I cooked for it and how good it was and also about Victoria’s ninth birthday but, you know what, it doesn’t really matter that I did not. I am creating in my lab these days. I’ve finally started the art journal that had been percolating in my mind for many months (if not... years). There is colour, lots of colour, and a lot of uncharted possibility in my going-ons lately and I love it. 

Meanwhile, my dogs are spending more time outside, the garden is waking up and today I got a fantastic pair of shoes. Oh, and my local Starbee is open again. What more do I want? 

You Haven't Seen The Last of Me-e-e

Enjoy this dear friends. It turns out that there is one thing that this accomplished director/actor/writer/model/artist can't do. There's hope for the rest of us after all. [No image, just audio]

Potato Patties

In Nigella's Kitchen there's an entire section dedicated to leftovers. Naturally, it's a bit odd to be giving someone a recipe in order to have leftovers because that's anathema to the very reason for recycling food we've cooked the day before. So today I am going to share a super-quick recipe to use up leftover mashed potatoes but I will be breezy insofar as quantities and whatnot are concerned. After all, only you know how much mash you have left and how many people you think you can make patties for.

I make my mash with a bit of sour cream and butter but, of course, if you really want to get a mash out of this world, you really ought to add lots of Parmesan and I really do mean go for it generously. Store in the fridge overnight and take it out about an hour before you're ready to make your patties.

Warm the oven to 180C and get going with eggs (two-to-three whole ones, depending on how much mash you're working with), peppers (one I'd say, make it red) and shallots (again, two-to-three). The aim here is to cut finely both pepper and shallots, then to add them to the mash and the eggs. Incorporate them well with a spoon and taste for salt, although you'll probably find that you won't need any if your mash was satisfactory to begin with. 

Spoon the potato concoction (aim for four or five spoonfuls) on a non-stick baking sheet and lightly press each patty down so that it looks burger-size or so. Stick into the oven for 45 minutes and enjoy nice and hot. They don't look like much, but they taste really great. 

February is Winter

A couple of weeks ago, that Phil guy decreed that spring was just around the corner. Well, I believed him. For a couple of days it even looked like he was right. But apart from an isolated and freakish occurrence of +12C one afternoon, Mr Winter has certainly come back here where I live.

Last Wednesday it was my wedding anniversary and I spent it in the city, where the sky was blue and everything looked beautiful, but it was also windy, and deadly so, and it felt more like a bright November day, not a February one. Then again, February is in winter, so I don’t really know why we insist on looking for signs of spring when it’s still so cold outside. It’s a bit like hankering after autumn in the middle of August (ahem… that’s something I do, I know!).

Parts of the East Coast of the USA woke up to a fresh snowfall today and I cannot imagine a better way to spend Presidents’ Day. In fact, I am hoping that next year I will be there around about this time and that instead of fending off cold drizzling rain, I may well be strolling up and down Madison Avenue under a crisp sky, preferably somewhere way below zero. Meanwhile, my friends from Australia speak of incredibly tropic temperatures and of air con whirring away all night. Gosh. It’s unthinkable for me to live in such a climate. After all, if you’re cold, you can always cover up, but where the hell do you go when it’s boiling hot?

Ugh!

In other developments, things shall be spruced up soon enough around these parts and I shall eventually return to chronicling my daily endeavours more frequently than I have done for the past year. While my other site still takes up most of my time, I am inordinately attached to Domestic Miss and I have racked up lots of recipes I would like to share on here. And I’ve got to tell you about movies I’ve seen and books I’ve read and things I’m doing and… more.

Eighteen-One-Twenty-O-Eight

Three years ago today, at this precise moment, I was almost in Chicago. I was there for work yet again, but I had taken some days off beforehand, so that I could have a gander and enjoy the magnificent city, its blue sky, the iced lake, the very brisk -20C or thereabouts and the generous sales. I had only just started this online diary and I certainly regret that in its first few weeks, I was not that forthcoming in updating it. I could have written so much during my days in Chicago, but I was wrapped up in work and in the PhD and I had not yet discovered the immense value of recording one’s life, even the plain, the mundane, the painful.

So much has happened over these past three years that I cannot quite believe I really am talking of three years. On second thoughts, it’s not what has happened that strikes me as incredible but rather what has changed. I still live in the same house and wear the same clothes (more or less… but it so just happens that today I was out in exactly the same knitted dress and puffa coat and long boots I wore in Chicago on this day), but I am a different person. I don’t think anyone who knows me can quite tell the difference, but I can, in that subtle way in which we look the same in the mirror every morning but pictures from weeks before look immensely different to ourselves.

The most remarkable change is one that has nothing to do with the way I look or feel though. I am different because I’ve learnt about the importance of keeping track of my everyday doings. I have a paper diary, as usual, this site and another site as well, and now that there are so many applications for the iPhone, it’s remarkably easy to keep track of every single little thing that catches my eye. So I am a little despondent about my last trip to Chicago, when I was so sparse in the cataloguing side of things, but as my key word for 2011 is FORWARD then that’s what I should focus on. And next time I am in Chicago, I won’t skimp on recording everything.

Depths of Winter

The day started late, as it’s been customary since Christmas. I go to bed early enough in the evenings, but I can happily snooze until 9 am. The hot duvet is such a comfort when it’s cold and dark outside that I’ve got no reason, nor need, to throw my legs out of the bed any earlier. William and Victoria too enjoy these sleep-ins. When I first checked the time today, I heard William’s soft snoring from his corner of the room. That’s a sound that always makes me happy.

I find January 17 a peculiar date. It’s usually the day when I feel like the new year isn’t new any longer. I feel like I am hurtling towards month number two, and that in the depths of winter (we’re barely four weeks in), things spring eternal. I was scouring the soil at the graveyard in Knutsford on Saturday, but saw no snowdrops yet, nor the promise of them. On my window sill, on the other hand, cyclamens are pushing through valiantly, even though the new guinea is as low-key as it has been since I bought it many months ago and the azalea looks pretty much dead. I think they’re just… sleeping. Just like me.

Yesterday I had a gander at my local M&S and my heart skipped with joy as I saw the first of the Valentine’s tack that will take over our shops for the next few weeks. Oh, how do I love this non-holiday! My wedding anniversary is only two days later and there is nothing I prefer than to celebrate how lucky I’ve been in love for so many years already. And before then I’ll watch Groundhog Day again (disclosure: actually… I’ve already done…) and will hole up in the house and enjoy winter. God I wish I could stop time. Or maybe I wish I could slow it down. Yes, slowing it down would do just fine.

Au Revoir Mes Amis – Part IV

January doesn’t really start for me until I put away the Crimbo decorations. It’s a process that I’ve always found bitter-sweet (or... sweat-and-sour, I should say). Part of me is usually thrilled at the prospect of novelty that January has always brought into my life, and this is especially true this year.



Yet, another part of me, the larger one, I should add, is not at all thrilled and treats the unhooking of glass baubles and detaching of twinkly things and lights as a little death. If I am spending the first day (or most of it), after such process at home, as was the case today, I end up walking around in a daze, my eyes searching the comforting glow of the lights on the tree, and finding only a dark, empty corner.

I think it’s symptomatic that I’ve wanted to write of these things each year since I started my online diary. In fact, I think that my first post ever was the very first Au Revoir Mes Amis in 2008. Let me check. No, it was my second post ever. Then I repeated it in 2009 and in 2010 and then today.

Today was a dark day. It rained for a while, although I am not sure those spits actually qualify as rain. I had a couple of errands to run, stuff I had forgotten twice over last week. After those, I sat in Starbucks, determined to crack open my new diary (the paper one). And I did so, except... I didn’t know what to write, which is a bit unlike me. I think I was suffering from New Diary Syndrome, that odd affliction that catches most writers out when something new and papery falls open on the table.

A new diary or journal is full of promises, of unwritten adventures, of new hopes and starts. I felt extremely hopeful a year ago, but the result was disappointing. Now I’ve got novelty served on a platter, and I am fearful of it; I am fearful to go after what is righteously mine. Hence I soiled the new diary with an extremely self-conscious page of tentative prose which was neither here nor there, really. But I ended that page by talking about my journal, the one I’ve wanted to start since October 2008 (I kid you not) and the one that I am starting tonight. By the time I will put the decorations away again next January, I will have a journal full of drawings to leaf through and that, in itself, is already uplifting. I don’t know why we treat our journals and diaries as if they were repositories of our pains when, really, they should exist to blunt them, not reflect them.