In the course of moving things about to accommodate several groups of guests, I’ve become aware of a number of largish objects which are cluttering up space in our house without too much in the way of useful returns.
One is an exercise machine. It was bought at the time I started the sedentary life of a novelist – for a bargain price, I might add, as befitted my new impecunious way of life. The perils of working at a computer, at home were obvious – and steps should be taken to counter them from the outset, I reasoned. Initially I energetically increased the numbers of pushes and pulls on a regular basis … acquiring a perky sense of smug self-righteousness as I huffed and puffed and increased my cardiac output … well, until the novelty wore off, that is. Imperceptibly the hefty machine metamorphosed into a white elephant.
When a crowd of 12 visitors simultaneously descended for a week-long stay, I popped the said cumbersome object out of the way, and somehow it didn’t come out again when I reclaimed my territory. Layers of dust gathered. This week another general reshuffle associated with guests (is there a theme emerging here?) inspired me to move it back into operation. It has now graduated to a space beside my desk in the study. The plan (in my head at least) is that I hop onto it periodically to get the circulation going, and tone up the flab. Hmmm. Let’s see how long it takes before it merges into the background and becomes invisible again.
And then there’s DJ’s trombone. The offspring – for whom he’s an ongoing problem in the present department – picked up on a verbal if casual declaration of interest, and kindly treated him to one a few Christmases ago. For weeks he fiendishly practised In the Bleak Midwinter until he was technically (if not artistically) competent. He performed once in public. And since then this gleaming piece of brass elegance has remained locked in its case, still loved but remarkably uncontaminated by recycled breath.
But I’m certainly not one to judge. At the height of my earning potential I treated myself to an overlocker, an expensive luxury for which I’d yearned for decades. (In case you are one of the many who aren’t into such gadgets, it’s a form of sewing machine that over-sews the edges and seams of things to create a beautifully finished edge.) I used it to give a professional touch to the wedding dress I made for my daughter eleven years ago, and nearly gave myself a nervous breakdown grappling with all those threads and intricacies. It has since tormented me on a couple of other occasions, but over time a degree of animosity has built up between it and me to such an extent that I eventually decided to give it away. My daughter would be a much safer custodian of it than I. She is now overlocking with gay abandon, scoffing at my dismal failure to apply myself intelligently to such a ‘simple’ task. But this story has a happy ending. When I need anything finished off now, I simply hand her the garment and back it comes beautifully complete. Not a bad deal, huh?
I’m sure there’s a moral lurking in this somewhere and it relates to … use it or lose it, or something of that ilk. The same thought came back to haunt me again this week when I handmade (as opposed to machine) a batch of bread rolls using fresh yeast for the aforementioned guests. Now, I should confess that for most of my married life (40 plus years) I’ve made my own bread, but then six years ago I sank to buying a breadmaker – just for a change … occasionally. That was the thinking but then the results were so good that imperceptibly it took over; I became more and more lazy. Something about having a dog and barking yourself springs to mind. But ahah! Visitors staying this week? Yes, of course they’d love freshly made, REAL bread for breakfast, wouldn’t they? The recipe was indelibly etched on my brain; indeed I’d never bothered to write it down since it was in constant use. The dough rose beautifully … the shaped rolls browned perfectly … tasting time arrived … alack and alas, the finished product looked wonderful, but it was sadly under-salted. Pride forced me to make a second batch. An unheard-of occurrence. Yes, you’ve twigged. Failure to keep the skill alive meant I nearly lost it.
I guess I’d better keep scribbling …!
Oh, just so you’re in the picture, the launch of Remember Remember is finally happening on Friday 11th – the day after this post goes out – so more of that next time. I’m busy baking titbits for it in between thinking about what I might say. Do I smell burning …?
Tags: breadmakers, Remember Remember, sewing machines, trombones