Grumpitude

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Long nights and short days are bad enough.  Our potentially wonderful transport system is not helping.  I stood beside the N°43 bus timetable (3-7 minute intervals) at London Bridge for a good quarter of an hour on Friday until it occurred to me to check with a N°141 driver whether the 43 had died in the night.  For reasons that aren't immediately obvious, the service now starts at Moorgate, whither Mr 141 driver was happy to take me - and he kindly alerted me when we got there.  In fact I stayed on board as far as Moorfields Hospital in the hope of finding a better choice of buses to take me up to the far end of Islington Green.  Hmm: not a 43 in sight, and the only bus on offer took me only as far as the Angel, leaving me with a lengthy walk, and a late arrival at my meeting.

Better still on the way back.  I went to the usual stop to get a 43 as far as it would take me, and was delighted to see a N°4 indicated as due in 3 minutes' time, since that would take me to Waterloo without the need to change.  Seeing no buses for some minutes, I rolled my eyes skywards, only to see a sign on the top of the post saying 'bus stop closed'.  Information as to the diversion route?  No chance!  At this point I started off for the Angel in futile search of other suitable buses, and to cut a long story short, finished up taking the Khartoum to Cairo express, sardine-fashion, to London Bridge - for the tidy sum of £4.90, if you please!  This is bad news to a tight Scot with a bus pass.

These days, stairs are somewhat tiresome, so it was rather a shock to be reminded of how many have to be negotiated at the recently rebuilt London Bridge to get from the Northern Line to the main line station.  Not to mention rather a lot of corridor.  Still, there are at least lifts at the now rather impressive main line station, so the last lap was easier, and my usual ritual of finishing the first draft of the minutes on the train home helped kill time on the train.

Lovely day on Saturday with Celia, Andy, Dawn and Darcey, three of whom came to lunch.  Martyn had already made the Christmas cake and pudding by the time we decided to decamp over Christmas, so we were already set up with pudding and afternoon tea accoutrements.  I made a starter I'd spotted on line, using some leeks wrenched untimely from the garden that morning, together with lardons, cooked chicken, cream and a spot of Ras al Hanout.  I now have some ideas how to Do Better Next Time.  Main course was a piece of rolled brisket from Tidebrook Manor Farm: I had done it on Friday for hours in the slow cooker, with carrots, garlic, home-grown onions and herbs, red wine, Worcestershire sauce and a few other bits and pieces, and reheated it on Saturday - always best for such a cut.  It seems to have gone down OK, served with charlottes, beans and spiced roast cauliflower.  As I so often say at this point, is it any wonder we're the shape we are?  Darcey, by the way, is a miniature Schnauzer of surpassing charm and excellent behaviour.  She is also a handy guest to have around at the end of a morning's cooking: we've rarely seen the kitchen floor so clean.  Oh, and having served meanly, we have leftovers for a cottage pie tonight.

The good thing about this time of year is the influx of thoughtful greetings from friends round the world.  I posted the first domestic batch of cards this morning, and will give and perhaps receive others at Thursday's art class bash.  We produce our cards in-house, but applaud those who buy cards to support the charities they approve of.  We salve our consciences by highly selective direct debit rather than by buying cards from which the charities derive too little income.

The other good thing about this time of this year is that we have in prospect twelve days devoid of cooking, cleaning and washing up.  More of which anon, as and when we have a Wifie to turn to.  Today's grumpitude arises from a trip to M&S, your obed. servt. having detected a sock shortage when preparing the bag for our forthcoming jolly jaunt.  This is what comes of turfing out thinning socks without replacing them at the time.  Parking at the Mall was somewhat less awful than I'd expected, but M&S was 'orrible.  Queuing for the till is bad enough without the added torture of canned festive crooning over the loudspeakers.  [Snarls, festively.]