Pursuing Domesticity (Part One)

"Spring Cleaning" - the two words that sent a thrill of terror through me every time my Mum spoke them, which was, without fail, every Easter break. Spring cleaning meant absurdly long-handled dusters with parrot-coloured tops, confronting spiders under beds, endless boxes of last year's summer clothes which need cleaning and folding, scrubbing floors, other things which I've blocked out involving an outdoor toilet and caterpillars...It's not cleaning per se that bothers me; I do plenty of it, and I find it hard to sleep if I've left the kitchen a mess. But there's something about adding the word 'spring' to it that creates a sudden need to clean all the things we never usually do, and to an impossible standard. Doors which were perfectly functional suddenly need oiling; fences with minimal wear and tear need a new coat of paint, and before you know it, you're spending half the school holiday in B&Q. I'm pretty certain, looking back, that there must have been some kind of ulterior motive - what was my mum up to while the five of us scrubbed like crazy at bathroom walls and reinvented our wardrobe-packing system? My parents could have thrown a wild party every night without us knowing, we slept so well afterwards.

So I was trying to explain to myself why, ten years later, I was voluntarily on my hands and knees on the bathroom floor, scrubbing at mould. My inner anti-ick was screaming, but the clean-freak had triumphed, partly due to a serious damp problem. Seeing as I don't know how to install an extractor fan, and every shower turns our tiny bathroom into a sauna, I'm clearly going to have to deal with the results until some more able fan-installer comes along. There's no time like the present, to beat an old cliché over the head, so there I was, my whole Thursday given over to the dreaded spring clean.

Mould-scrubbing is not fun, or glamorous, but as we all have to do things which are neither fun nor glamorous every day, we might as well have a bit of fun while we're at it, no? This is why I came up with an ingenious plan: to create a mood-lifting side-activity for each of my cleaning jobs. That way, I could come out with a lovely fresh home and a smile on my face; I wasn't going to be one of those women who swapped one for the other.

The plan got off to a happy start. As I scrubbed the bath, I tried to mentally list all the bath toys I'd had when I was younger. This was quite good, although it did leave me wishing that a grown adult could go out and purchase a Winnie-the-Pooh model house with working slide and bubble-blowing chimney without having a child to give it to. Next, as I went for the floor, I went over all the bits of Mozart's Requiem that I could remember from when I was in a choir three years ago. This was supposed to be a fairly quiet activity, but it's difficult to hit the top notes of 'Rex Tremendae Majestatis' at anything less than 80 decibels. It was a bit late, by the time I realised I had the window wide open, to warn the neighbours.

I decided that if I was going to sing anymore I should at least have someone decent to accompany me, so as I moved to tackle the kitchen, I brought out one of my guilty pleasures: a Roxette Hits CD. The hubby is not a massive fan, but he was out playing golf (I know, I know, I might as well don the fluffy pinny and house shoes and have done with it). Suddenly the washing up and recycling-sorting didn't seem so overwhelming, and if the aforementioned neighour had been putting out her washing, she would probably have been confused/bemused by an unseen voice repeating enthusiastically, 'Hello, you fool, I love you!'.

As I still have the vacuuming and more dusting to do, I'd better go, but if I have any more domestic adventures I'll be sure to share them. Someone out there must be finding it funny (she crosses her fingers)...

Four of Seven - Little Women

So my 200-word book-a-day challenge has been a little harder to stick to than I anticipated. I guess that's often the way with spontaneous resolutions; they seem like a great idea at the time, but we haven't thought through how we're going to keep them. Well, that's how it works for me anyway. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately) I can't afford to get too slack on my resolutions, or come summer I'll still be unemployed and embarrassed to wear a swimsuit which, let's face it, wouldn't be fun. So if I seem a bit too persistent with this book week challenge, please forgive me -I'm using it to remind myself to be persistent in my other endeavours.

Speaking of persistence, today's book contains one of my favourite every characters: Jo, whose dream to write a book requires all her staying power for several years. When I first read this book (and the others in the series) Jo was my heroine, because unlike so many other 'artistic' characters I had come across, she had genuine flaws and struggles that I could relate to, and she inspired me to work hard at the things I loved, especially writing. It's amazing how much you can be influenced by a fictional character, and the ones I read about time and time again as a child are the ones who have stayed with me the strongest.

Today, I thought I'd try my hand at some acrostic jibber jabber (fool!) (Sorry about that)...

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Louisa May Alcott's story of the March family
Is set in New England during the Civil War.
Their father is away as a chaplain in the army, and they have very little money, but
The girls, Meg, Beth, Jo, and Amy, are raised by their mother to be charitable and
Live in contentment. They stage home theatricals, look after neighbours, and
Even give their Christmas meal away to a sick family.

When Beth contracts smallpox from a dying baby she is looking after, her
Own life is in danger as she is so weak. The sisters nurse her to health, and
Meg becomes engaged to the neighbour Laurie's tutor, John Brooke. Laurie, in turn,
Eventually realises he is in love with Jo, but she is too busy planning her novel to
Notice. Their father comes home from war, and the stage is set for the next book...

Three of Seven - Reviewing Sabotage

Happy Thursday, everyone. I don't know about you, but I've become something of a fan of Thursdays lately; they're far enough into the week for the weekend to be within view, but not so far that I have to panic about getting everything else done before it arrives. This has come in particularly handy today, as due to technical difficulties (i.e. a laptop in bad need of a complete overhaul) I was unable to write yesterday, and now I'm bound to do two of my 'challenges' in a row! So here's the first; a review of Joshua Furst's novel The Sabotage Cafe, which I read at university.

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'These things are hard to say. I'm not sure what's true and what isn't,' opens The Sabotage Cafe, Joshua Furst's tale of a dysfunctional family relationship born of painful memories and mental illness. Welcome to Dinkytown, Minneapolis, scene of the 1980s punk rebellion from which Julia has escaped, and home still to an underground world of narcotics, anarchy, and tempestuous youth. Into this melee runs Cheryl, Julia's 16-year-old daughter, escaping the confines of suburbia and her mother's oppressive presence.

As we are drawn into Cheryl's world of drugs, sex, and squalor, mixed with hashed-up ideals about the demise of 'the establishment', we also journey into Julia's past, picking up the pieces of a life diverted and damaged. How much of Cheryl's experience is real, and how much is imagined by the fearful and delusional Julia, remains unclear, as Julia's disturbed mind produces illusions which are increasingly difficult to distinguish from reality.

Furst brilliantly portrays through projected emotion and internalised argument the lonely struggle of each character to find or to deny meaning in their situation. The bravado of the boys Cheryl ends up with is nothing more than a front for their insecurities, the outcome of youth burdened by their parents' blunders as well as their own. Furst's blunt and epithetic manner shocks rather than drawing sympathy, but his vivid style vividly creates the hopelessness in which his characters dwell, empty and needy, clawing into each other's lives as if some solace can be found by living vicariously. His compassionate exploration of life in the grimy fallout of a failed revolution and the desire to obliterate the self is a first novel to be proud of, and to provoke.

Two of Seven - a Little Precis

Day Two of my book week challenge, and already I'm reverting to childhood. It's been a strange morning - I woke up to a Jedi looming over me (it turned out to be the hubby in his new dressing gown), holding a teddy bear which I really didn't remember taking to bed. I then ate coco pops while watching a Pokemon episode. I think it's fair to say that my adult sensibilities didn't kick in until midday, when I found myself on the laptop contemplating today's challenge. Given the morning's activities, I thought it was only fitting to go back to an old favourite, and - you can pat me on the back if you wish - this time I kept it to under 200 words! So here is my brief re-working of Chicken Little.

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A newly-hatched member of the poultry family, having been Isaac Newton-ed by a nut of the genus Quercus, becomes convinced of the imminent collapse of the atmospheric barrier that protects earth from outer space. On a madcap dash to inform the head of monarchical feudatory in which he lives, he finds and attached to his party numerous other creatures with heavily contrived rhyming names. These creatures display a distinct lack of curiosity as to the evidence for the youngster's claim, and, rather than conducting any scientific research, rush headlong down the road toward their stated destination, which one presumes is a palatial dwelling of sorts. When the party, consisting entirely of edible fowl, nears its goal, who should come across their path but an omnivorous mammal with a long snout and bushy tail? At this point, discerning readers of Aesop's Fables and other cautionary tales featuring members of the animal kingdom will become aware of the imminent tragedy as the proverbial wolf in sheep's clothing leads the aforementioned fowl to its den. When the feathers have settled, one is supposedly reminded of the necessity for deductive reasoning and investigation. Alternatively, one could simply ignore the claims of talking chickens.

One of Seven: a Loving Parody

Hi y'all! I'm watching an American programme, hence the expression "y'all" - there are some Texans in it. Anyway, a little birdy told me it was National Book Week, and while I have as yet been unable to verify whether it is indeed this week or I've missed it by a couple, I made a rash promise on facebook that I have come here to fulfil. And that rash promise was as follows: I intend to review, parody, or precis, in 200 words or less, seven books over the week.

Now, I may have bitten off more than I can chew. Goodness knows it's hard enough for me to keep anything to 200 words or less, even a birthday card message. But, a promise is a promise, so here we go: my first effort. This is a loving parody of the work of one of my very favourite authors, and I'm cheating slightly by taking it from something I wrote during my time at uni; however, I promise everything else will be original! You might enjoy guessing who it is and what book is specifically referenced (I'll give you a clue: VW), but please don't tell on me if I go over my word limit...

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Do I have an R to reach? Amber ponders the questions, thinks of Mr. Ramsay's life, how 'the father of eight children has no choice,' how his family has disrupted his career, how he needs constant reassurance that what he has given the world already is of some value, how he is determined and yet unable to attain the next letter. She already has G, and L: I have an F, she thinks, if only I can do this essay and the next one and the next one and so on at a good enough standard... and I probably almost have an M, she thinks next (if things must be sequential, but in reality she would rather have the M though it isn't meant to come first) as Stanley in his oversized tuxedo once more comes into her mind and she smiles, smiles and plays with her ring. Oh, and then I suppose C, the big C which all women are supposed to be after these days, and B, what most of us instinctively want even though it disrupts C, and goodness knows what else - must I have it all in mind now? Can't I let G, which after all came first, determine the rest? And right now - right now, she ponders, as the room grows steadily darker though it's only three in the afternon (and the essay due at eleven tomorrow!); right now, she puts her little finger in her mouth, turns her head and reads, 'vanity and self-sacrifice'; 'marriage pressure'; 'unity, absorption; right now, this is what I need. I need E. I need E! On to E, once more. E...

Things I Have Learned From Making Marmalade

There's no help for it - this is destined to be one of those posts full of clichéd and clueless pseudo-moralistic phrases based on trivial observations which I have scraped from the barrel of recent experience. Because, in my quest for housewifely perfection a la the 1940s (I'm in the market for a frilly apron), and to stave off boredom between job-hunting sessions, I've been making marmalade. Well, trying to. Thirty-two jars, four nets of Seville oranges, and way too much sugar later, I have laboured through burnt fingers to bring you these observations. Berate me for unoriginality if you will - just finish reading first?

1. Preparation is boring but necessary

Pity the girl who has no slicer-dicer-peeler-blender appliance - she will have to do it all by hand. Now I know what you're thinking: how hard can it be? Trying to find ways to make slicing, dicing, squeezing, juicing, and de-pulping oranges less tedious was my first challenge, and after a few aborted attempts at amusing myself with Disney songs (it turns out I don't remember enough of the words), I hit upon - radio!

As I see it, radio is the perfect accompaniment to any solitary about-the-house task. Radio doesn't judge me if I can't remember the lyrics and instead babble mindlessly over the music. Nor will it complain that I sing along too loudly. Nor will it judge my orange-slicing skills, or point out that I've "accidentally" binned half the orange peel in a desperate bid to stop the preparation process from dragging on any longer. Radio is my new best friend; so much so that when the Ipsos Mori man appeared at my door, I didn't hesitate to accept his invitation to keep a radio-listening diary for a week. Now I have a confusing mess of marmalade AND a minutely detailed radio flow-chart to deal with. And it still takes me just as long to cut the oranges up.

2. You can't rush something if you want it to work

This is an old staple our grandmothers/grandfathers/teachers came out with on a regular basis, but however many times we hear it, we still believe in short-cuts. Why else would it be possible to buy ready-chopped vegetables at the supermarket? Or spray paint for garden fences? However, in marmalade world, the rule of short-cut does not apply. Otherwise the stuff never sets. Two and a half hours is a long time to have to stay indoors waiting for your marmalade (at this stage just chopped rind and water, with a muslin bag full of pith and pulp in it) to boil down sufficiently. Trying to cut the time, however, I ended up with a first batch that was more syrup than anything else - a thin syrup with appetising bits of orange peel floating in it. It was back to the drawing (or chopping) board for me, then. It seems that when it comes to things like marmalade, grandma knows best.

3. One little simmering pan makes the whole house smell of oranges

Did you ever watch the Australian 80s classic, Strictly Ballroom? Apart from the histrionic mother, stereotyped Spanish family and outrageously garish dance costumes, I loved it for the President Fife character, who was the king of mixed metaphor. Did you know that one bad egg can rot the whole barrel? Exactly... Anyway, I think it's only fair that I inform you: the smell of oranges has almost the same linger-ability as your average fish pie. Long after the muslin bag was squeezed and the jars were sealed, the whole house smelled like an orangery in the heat of a Mediterranean summer. I won't insult your intelligence by pursuing the obvious corollaries of this imagery, so, moving on...

4. Sugar is very sticky

Now you might be thinking that I may as well return to primary school if this fact has come as a surprise to me, and I have to be honest, I'm ashamed of my ignorance. Somehow, despite years of baking and the kind of mucky-pup childhood only four younger siblings can give you, I embarked on the perfect-marmalade quest blissfully unaware that I might as well have given up my home as a molasses factory. It wasn't long before the kitchen was as sticky as an over-indulged three-year-old's face on Easter morning, and my long-suffering husband was staring bemused at his syrup-clad cereal bowl. Half a bottle of Dettol has still not eradicated the plague.

5. Some things need constant supervision

Four words: molten sugar, ravaged saucepan. Wii Fit Plus is all well and good, but for goodness' sake don't leave things on a hob unattended, even if the recipe says you can. It's just not a good idea.

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So, en conclusion, I will not be making any more marmalade any time soon. The sense of achievement is wonderful, and the end product does taste good, but frankly, I'm not sure the clean-up operation is worth it. Besides, I had almost as much fun decorating the labels. And if I have to drag any more moral clichés out of my kitchen experiences, I may give up on cooking altogether. But then again, that last one was my own fault. Some people never learn...

Harlech Castle

In Wales two weekends ago, the misty days broken with sun and the streaming river currents were almost exactly what I had expected, but better. There were fewer sheep droppings, more mountains, and an air inspired by something I couldn't put my finger on - something between recklessness and freedom.

We visited the ancient fortification of Harlech Castle, on the west coast, and it made me write this.

Harlech Castle

On the high wall
Salt wind pulls hair across my face
And jumps down my throat,
Forcing the taste of the sea past my tongue -
I open wide to let it in.

Snowdon tugs at the blanket cloud,
Pushing a hole which tears slowly
Revealing the distant peak, proud, and dark,
A lord standing over the valley he owns.

Gulls are rising from the ramparts,
Cries lost over the winding town
Drowned in the rush of waves on the sand beneath

And I am a speck -
A tiny thing, with arms, a heartbeat,
And muddy shoes, balanced on a rock.