Minnie’s Musings

Random ramblings of a middle aged, middle class, middle income woman

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  • Tired but Trumphant

    If one had the energy (which one did not) one would have posted the following last night.

    THANK GOD for McDonald’s. We are forever blessed.

    There is nothing like the sight of the twin Golden Arches gleaming at you on the side of an A road to bring relief to the tired and the hungry.

    Disembarking off the ferry from the island of Texel, one’s Best Beloved uttered the heartfelt question, “shall we find a you know what” or something along those lines.

    We had spent the day cycling around Texel savouring the flattish trails and peace and quiet, enjoying the light breeze whisking through the fields and admiring the small neat farms and windmills that dotted the landscape.

    His Nibs does not allow for pausing and enjoying the flora and fauna of the dunes. This is a shame as apparently there are seals to spot. One must press on at all times.

    Until there is cake in the offing. In this case at a roadside cafe staffed by people with moderate learning difficulties and a very large transvestite (balding fifty something in floral skirt, DMs and a lot of bright pink blusher) weilding some fearsome hedge clippers and a scowl.

    Anyway, Best Beloved had decided that the destination for the day was a town named De Cocksdorp. For no other reason than its name. He is a 10 year old boy at heart.

    I ducked off to the southern coast, not wishing to push my luck and spent a happy hour looking at the sea and listening to the birds, then a less happy half hour scouring the two incoming roads for signs of my boys, only to have them appear stage left as I picked up my bicycle to wend my way back to the ferry in the hope that they would meet me there.

    Suffice it to say that the home run was a trial. Best Beloved and His Nibs kept up some frantic peddling in lower gears while I slogged away in sixth gear (four and five were both slipping). EVERYTHING was in agony, from my toes to my nose. I swear it was up hill ALL THE WAY.

    Time became an imperative as I eyed the sun descending slowly toward the horizon. It is amazing how long and straights road can be, like the opening credits of Secret Army.

    We rounded the bend to see the ferry departing for the mainland. I stared at the position of the sun and assured myself it was the eight o’clock, so there was still hope we would make it back and not have to find accommodation and clean underwear.

    We did indeed make it, though my menfolk overshot the bike hire shed and had to take a complicated detour to find it and yours truly. The terminal cafe was open for snacks and the benches outside allowed us to rest limbs that were determined to seize up at the first opportunity.

    The highlight of the day was His Nibs screeching “Look, look, it’s here!” As his mother said, “Yes dear, it’s the sea” only for the ferry to appear like the Angel Gabriel from behind its docked sister ship. Our fellow passengers burst into affectionate laughter at his excitement.

    Please note that I have made no mention of falling off my bike. For I did not. When I asked my Best Beloved if he had noticed he uttered the somewhat risky “Not that I witnessed” and then made himself scarce. Sensible chap.

    On our return I fell into bed and did not emerge until morning. We have had a quiet day today, waiting for the aches and pains to subside. A dip in the ice cold swimming pool may have helped. The jury is out.

  • Tea in a Mug

    Tea. Or rather mugs. They are an issue.

    Particularly across the Channel.

    This morning – as promised – I shall turn my attention to the size of the European cup.

    It just won’t do. Teeny, weeny, two sips and it’s gone territory.

    So I have taken to making myself two cups in the hope that I can down both without His Nibs pinching one as he did yesterday.

    Best Beloved is taking his from a plastic beaker, smacking his lips and pronouncing it “camping tea” (a throwback to the days when the only way to have a family holiday with three sproglettes was to cart one’s accommodation with one).

    I am reminded of a training course a friend of mine and I did at the girls grammar up the road. A beautiful spread of sandwiches, cakes and fruit was only marred by the provision of those ghastly institutional off white (ie grey) cups and saucers that barely hold a sip.

    This is and was simply not good enough for teachers at a twilight session (an open invitation to go to sleep, if you ask me).

    Anyway we stacked one cup and saucer on top of the other, one forming a heat retaining lid. Genius! I hear you gasp in admiration. Of course, to match the quantity of tea in your average household mug, a third layer would have been necessary but unstable so we were content with a tepid refill at half time.

    I am also reminded of a particularly challenging expedition to San Sebastián in Spain with our youngest. We arrived at the local youth hostel (up a precipitous winding road to a stunning view over the city and bay) to discover zero catering facilities and an extortionate cafe. This was near the end of our trip so funds were short.

    We went back down to the city in a foul mood. No I hadn’t checked when I booked. Why would I? Youth hostels are supposed to allow you to cook for yourself. Arghhhhh!

    Anyway a great deal of stomping around the city centre, muttering and sniping at each other ensued. There was nothing for it. We were in crisis. Youngest was contemplating how she could get back to Blighty should her parents kill each other.

    Then we passed a shop with the sort of random household goods in the window that one just knows will be a treasure trove of useful items…

    I emerged triumphant not five minutes later with a tiny kettle, two proper mugs and some plastic cutlery. Peace was restored. Hearts entwined over the prospect of a proper cuppa and all was forgiven.

    On our return to Blighty, I promised myself that I would bring this set with us on every cross Channel expedition and carefully packed it away for future use.

    Where I packed it remains a mystery, solved precisely once since. C’est la vie.

  • Failing to Learn

    So clearly I struggle to learn from lessons past…

    Repeat after me:

    Though shalt not congratulate thyself on not falling off thy bicycle, until thy bicycle has been safely returned and thy deposit retrieved.

    To do otherwise is to ask for trouble.

    Try as I might I cannot blame either my Best Beloved or His Nibs, particularly as it was the latter’s rear wheel I clipped. I can only congratulate myself for having had the foresight to also hire a safety helmet which, as I may have observed previously, is not de riguer around here.

    As per usual, Best Beloved spent some time detangling me from the handle bars and peddles, only later admitting that he had thought about just hauling both me and skew-whiff bike to upright position as one heavy lump, as this particular mess of limbs and metal was a challenge even to his expertise.

    I have not broken my wrist (as I initially thought and wailed to Best Beloved) but I do have an inch long gash at the bottom of my thumb to further perplex my hand and wrist consultant.

    As we are now several months into our medical relationship – and said (snotty) consultant is beginning to understand that I have greater powers of waiting it out while he tries to wriggle free from treating me as he would his private patients – I am all for getting the most out of him.

    This is the same chap who repeatedly enunciated “rheumatologist” at me as though I were some idiot rather than a grumpy menopausal woman with 9 O’levels, 4 A’levels, an MA Hons and two post grads as well as my driving licence. I was soooo tempted to ask him if he needed help spelling it.

    DO NOT MANSPLAIN TO SOMEONE TWICE YOUR AGE WHO TOOK PUBLIC EXAMS WHEN THEY WERE DIFFICULT.

    Anyway, I am annoyed with myself as cycling is relatively easy exercise with my torn meniscus/osteoarthritic knee and I can hold the handle bars and change gear without too much trouble with my carpal tunnel now I have had steroid injections.

    I am just waiting in the visitor centre cafe as I peddled back to the car on a more direct route. His Nibs and his father are taking a more. Scenic path. What a good idea it was of mine to purchase a second map for just this eventuality.

  • All Things Dutch

    Namely windmills and Edam. Apparently we could also have visited a clog makers but we didn’t.

    So after visiting an extremely picture-sque (my mother always pronounced it thus) set of windmills north of Amsterdam, took a tiny ferry across a zee and saved our pennies with sandwiches we decamped for Edam where they make the cheese. All very pretty. All very Dutch.

    Observation for the day. Younger Dutch people are a little more friendly than older Dutch people. They are as aggressive behind the wheel on a motorway as the average Brit with too much power in his gear stick. But there is way, way more respect between cars and cyclists. This is to be expected. They have cycling infrastructure galore. Everyone is on a bike. To the point that we got a lot of funny looks when we schlepped down to the beach to look at the sea yesterday on foot rather than wheels. The only people walking were those wading through the dunes, through which you cannot peddle.

    A sign of how safe Ditch people feel on a bike is the almost complete lack of helmets. As someone rather prone to falling off bicycles (on one occasion colliding with a lamppost), I find this foolish. As someone who almost got squashed between a BMW and a Mercedes on a Home Counties back road, I find this foolish. As someone who did her cycling proficiency in 1979., I find this foolish. Have these people never heard of brain injury??

    I wonder what all the older cyclists who peddle briskly from home to work think of all the young people whizzing about on electric bikes, occasionally on their phones, usually in pairs and always missing the pedestrians they weave through by quite narrow margins.

    No doubt this is a matter of inter generational spatting. At least I hope it is. I do so want Holland to be full of grumpy middle aged women.

    Europeans always speak the local lingo to him. Not to me, who spends at least three aislesu of a large LeClerc practicing, “Avez vouchers une sac s’il vous plait”.

  • Disney Plus or Minus

    What DID I do in my past life? I ask you with a heartfelt shriek of horror.

    His Nibs has discovered Disney Weddings on Disney+. Every other bride is getting married in front of that b+*^#$ castle.

    Come back reimagined Snow White. A LOT needed to be forgiven but I will cut you some slack for your bland songs and cheesy messaging. Just save me from the “awesomeness” and “most beautiful wedding the world will ever see” (no tautology there) and mascara proof blub fest.

    Okay I may have blubbed too but his mom’s choir turned up to sing for her as she had passed away several years ago. It was such a lovely surprise and he was so pleased.

    Blubbing is a messy habit. I used to cry during Our Song (like YOU didn’t too…)

  • Thank God for Frozen Chilli

    We finally arrived in the not so wild or far flung reaches of Holland and unpacked in the drizzle. Unfortunately we had not stopped off at a supermarket but rather gathered provisions from petrol stations en route.

    Fortunately His Nibs had decided to remove a container of frozen chilli from the icebox and leave it to defrost. Ever the daughter of the waste not want not generation I stuck it in the cool bag carefully wrapped in a plastic bag. Which was utterly ineffective, leaking meaty water all over the bag as it melted.

    Anyway, I digress. We are veterans of the should-have-stopped-at-supermarket game but didn’t because a long drive tends to focus the mind on the destination rather than supper when you get there. And our fridge at home was bare, not a drop of milk or pack of bacon in sight.

    In our defence there was one memorable occasion when we both thought the other one had packed the cold box and helpfully stashed it in the car before a two day drive to the Austrian Alps. Arriving late on Sunday night, I opened the box to discover that it was full of His Nibs favourite cereal and strawberry milk powder. In one of those comic moments where accusation turns to comprehension we went from glaring at each other to glaring at our son who beamed at us with the pride of someone who had ensured that his own essential needs were met..

    Trying to find somewhere, anywhere that sells provisions in the Tyrol on a Sunday evening was a task that did not quite defeat us. Though the large tin of cassoulet that the entire family turned their noses up remained in our larder cupboard for several years before I finally shoved it in the bin.

    Toast and cold meats and crisps sufficed for His Nibs despite a lot of poking of shoulders in the hope of “burger chips”. Ever the eagle eyed hunter, His Nibs can spot the twin arches at a thousand yards. The nutritional value of a bacon double cheeseburger meal and poo-pooing of the fruit bag made the decision to stay put and venture out in the morning a no-brainer.

    I shall fulminate on the European sensibility for tiny mugs and cups that barely contain a drop of hot beverage next time. Be warned I can go on about that for hours…

  • All Change

    Sitting in a queue at Dover, waiting for a ferry that is running late (hopefully late enough to request compensation…) I am using the down time to start my blog.

    This has been in the offing for months, ever since I was forced to take a serious look at my physical and mental wellbeing. However if you are looking for a blog devoted to a lot of self reflection this is the wrong place. This will be about my thoughts as I potter through a significant period of change, observations and frustrations, a bit of humour, grumbling and pondering.

    The first of which is why the screen on my phone isn’t tracking my typing and why the cursor isn’t in the place it says it is.

    My husband has dropped off just as the ferry has made an appearance and is disgorging its load of trucks and cars. Hopefully we will be boarding soon. Clearly someone needs to use the little boys room and it isn’t my husband.

    I wonder if there is a Costa on board serving their new Tiramisu frappe. I like those. And I’m a little obsessed.

    My waistline doesn’t. And it is raising a metaphorical eyebrow at me.

    But – in the words of that 80s singer whose name escapes me – “I don’t care.”

    Now let me see what happens if I post this…

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