Unsure of the meaning of lettuces

Half term took us to the in-laws, for a day of two of bingeing on wine, Mr Coffee's childhood Lego, and gorgeous food that had been cooked by someone else.

Eventually we tore ourselves from the sofa and, after one of those half-hearted mopes around Ikea that never should have happened, we ventured out to a gallery.

I don't adore David Hockney. I'll admit it. But a huge dressing up box, a spinning wheel, a roomful of stories and lots of space sent the Lattes into an imaginative frenzy which allowed us time to think. We were allowed to look at the pictures and flick through the storybooks, pausing only to read letters that the Lattes had composed to the Fairy Tale Council complaining about how boring being a princess was and requesting fresh supplies of handsome men.

For anyone who is interested, Hockney's images for Rapunzel can be found amongst these. I particularly liked the picture of Rapunzel's mother watching the witch's zen-like vegetable garden from a tower of her very own.

I love reading about fairy tales, partly because of how open they are to wild interpretations - are they sexual metaphors full of deep cauldrons and sharp objects? Or celebrations of the solar cycle? Another great thing about them is that often they make very little sense whatsoever.

I've mentioned Disney's new Tangled film before now, and though there is absolutely no love lost between me and Disney, I'm rather relieved that they gave the wicked witch a better reason to lock a child in a tower than that bonkers plot about a father-to-be stealing some lettuces. Magic hair that makes you young? You've got to give it to them, that's a good reason. Even bearing in mind my insatiable desire for lemonade whilst pregnant, I find it very hard to believe that a woman might die from being denied a salad.

(Besides, even the Grimm brothers rewrote their own stories. How many people now tell the version where the witch discovers Rapunzel has been having it away with a handsome prince because her clothes are getting tight?)

And I bought a new mug in the gallery shop. To remind me that sometimes when you're low, you shouldn't look at Swedish lamps that you don't even want. You should try to use your imagination.

Love in tissue paper

My darling Valentine

It had been my intention to buy you flowers. But when I picked the Littlest Latte up from school and told her we were going to the florist, her face crumpled. She began to cry. She had had a hard day - so much writing, so many phonics. She was just too tired to make the trip. Couldn't we go home and do craft?

And so my only option was to get the tissue paper out.

It was only later - too late, in fact - that the mistake was discovered. Littlest had heard the word forest - not florist - and pictured an exhausting afternoon looking for wildflowers.

I don't think, on a windy, rainy February day, that even my love was strong enough for that.

(Tissue paper flower tutorial from here.)

February

On my desk in one of my offices (oh! the joy of my 'portfolio career'!) I have somehow inherited a calendar with a motto for each month. February says: "Approach love and cooking with reckless abandon".

Okay then.

 

How I love my cupcake stand! Tacky as hell. Six quid. What more could a girl ask for?

I must admit to a flicker of envy when I read Alice's post about how she had just discovered Bill Granger. I remember those heady, exciting days when we started out together, and everything was a whirl of glazed broccolini. After a few years though, Bill and I have settled down, become more comfortable with one another. But he can still surprise me - as evidenced by his shortbread kisses, above.

Add friends and fizzy wine, and we were good to go.

Several blog posts I never actually got round to writing

1) A post about how I have started reading any old book that takes my fancy, rather than waiting only for the Perfect Novel, and how now I am reading children's fiction, non-fiction books on subjects like psychology, the Holy Grail and feminism, and novels which sometimes utterly enthral me but which I wouldn't usually choose. I had planned to mention  how constantly inspired I am by the reading blog written by the writer Paul Magrs. I am also pretty indebted to Ali Shaw, author of the stunning novel The Girl with Glass Feet, for his blog post Thoughts on the Pleasures of Half Understanding, which has made reading non-fiction a lot less like chewing through wood.

2) A post about my traumatic morning with the Lattes watching Tinkerbell and the Great Fairy Rescue at the cinema, which left me in a complete panic about bringing up two daughters, a state which was not helped AT ALL by just having read Natasha Walters' book Living Dolls: The Return of Sexism. Tinkerbell's every movement suggested a lifetime in training for jumping out of a cake at a stag night. I spent most of the film muttering to Eldest: "Tinkerbell's outfit is completely unsuitable for garden work" and seething about the idea that the only way for a scientist to bring up his daughter is to give up his job and eat picnics in the park with half-clad imaginary creatures.

Who is funding these picnics?

This was a U-rated film, for goodness' sake. Who is Tinkerbell aiming to please? Mary at Disney Princess Recovery may have decided to give Disney's Tangled film a miss, but I'd say it was a feminist triumph after this one. At least the girl was wearing an ankle-length dress, and could knock a bloke out with a frying pan.

3) A post thanking Pings and Needles for listing me as one of her favourite blogs with under 300 subscribers. I'm supposed to highlight three other blogs of my own, but I'm not sure what I do with blog awards and after reading Sue's post at The Quince Tree I'm even less sure. But hang on. There are four blogs here already. They qualify. Let's go with those.

Better late than never

Can you hear the screeching of tyres? That would be me, rushing to get here in time for Silverpebble's Splash of Colour week.

Right. A blossom tree, made by a Latte at local workshops to celebrate Chinese New Year.

(Here you must imagine a photograph of vibrant red and gold Chinese lanterns, taken in the Chinese supermarket on my phone, which didn't come out very well at all. I'm sure it will be better in your imagination.)

A parcel of cupcakes and honey arrived from Rowse Honey, who were hoping it would sway me towards telling you about their new advertising campaign and how you can go to their Facebook page and get free honey yourself. What were they thinking? That I'm the kind of woman who can simply be bribed with cake?

It seems that's exactly who I am.

Hama beads. (Well, the Ikea version.) I bought two tubs of these about four years ago and we have barely made a dent in them despite many desperate attempts. I am convinced that they breed in the dark, creating new little tubes of joy for the vacuum cleaner to savour. Most of them go on the floor anyway.

In our future, I see many more bead princesses. But not bead horses, because I managed to over-iron this one and melted most of the pattern board.

Fresh mint tea, in a favourite mug - an idea I stole from a restaurant I visited with a friend. At home, it was not as good as I hoped it would be - not enough mint left on the plant, probably, or the wrong kind of mint, maybe. It looked gorgeous, however. And I hear you can also put honey in it...