Why?

There have been several incidences in my life that seemed like a fantastic idea at the time but turned out to be a nightmare of epic proportions (like the two 'Shirley Temple' perms I had in succession during 1987).

Spending four days recreating the periodic table in cupcake form is getting added to that list.

A step closer to zombie-free living

I’ve started reading Simon Pegg’s excellent autobiography Nerd Do Well and was struck by an anecdote which very closely mirrors one of my all-time favourite topics of conversation - what to do in the event of a zombie* apocalypse.

I’ve spent oodles of time considering how well RCC would fare against a marauding zombie invasion. The house was deemed reasonably secure with plenty of opportunities to batten down the floors one-by-one before ending up in the loft conversion and if needs be, escaping out of the skylight before fleeing to safety over the rooftops of Addiscombe (with the cats in our backpacks - I’m assuming the hens would have been finished off by this point). The Achilles heel in my master plan was the garden fence. None of it was more than four foot high and it was so knackered that even the most inept of our respiratory challenged foes would consider breaching it a breeze. This significant landscaping oversight has weighed heavy on my mind for some time now.

Ha! Well, think on zombie scum because I’d like to see you get through RCC’s lovely new fence in all its six foot glory. (At this point i was intending to insert a photo of said fence, but my  iPhone’s having one of its 'special moments' and refusing to email or text images - i feel another Steve Jobs rant coming on. Trust me; as fences go it’s pretty awesome).

Guess now all that’s left is to source a generator, weapons and emergency rations (some green and red herbs?) and we’re all sorted. Perhaps as autumn is upon us I should turn my attention towards what to do in the event of a killer fog? There’s quite a gap under the front door....

* I don’t mean those sprinting, manic ‘infected’ things from 28 days later, more the bumbling, gentler paced flesh-eaters from the George A. Romero school of the undead.

The case for autumn

Around now most people start having a right old moan about how rubbish it is now the days are getting shorter, etc, but not me. Autumn is by far and away my favourite season and to silence those naysayers I’ve put together a compelling case for support in the form of my favourite medium, the list:

Why autumn is awesome

1. Everything (even Croydon) looks prettier with a scattering of burnt orange and burgundy leaves around the place

2. The telly gets better

3. Following on from point 2, River Cottage is back on (although not sure what Hugh’s playing at starting with an episode on meat, followed swiftly by another on fish)

4. Spending an entire Sunday lying on the sofa watching The Good Life seems almost compulsory rather than a guilty pleasure

5. I get to make a Christmas cake then stuff it full of brandy for 10 weeks

5.  No need to religiously shave your legs

6. Jumpers hide a multide of sins

Hmm – reading that back it’s less of a compelling case than anticipated, more a revealing insight into my televisual and personal grooming habits.

Nerveless, autumn is upon us. I suggest you embrace all its glory and count your blessings it’s not winter yet.

Crimbo cake

On Friday i received an email warning it was a mere THREE MONTHS UNTIL CHRISTMAS. Bloody hell, down-tools everyone and start decking those halls! I’m not going to descend into some 'Christmas starts earlier every year’ rhetoric and although a twelve week warning may on the surface seem a tad melodramatic, some of us do need to start thinking about Christmas sooner rather than later.

Why, i hear you quite reasonably ask? Quite simply anyone keen on home-made, booze–laden crimbo delights (essentially everyone brought up on a heavy diet of Delia Xmas specials) needs a decent stretch of time to get the required volume of brandy into the Christmas cake.

I’m ashamed to admit this year is my first foray into Christmas cake baking. For years I was forced like some child slave labourer to bake and ice the family Yule log, having stupidly made a decent stab at one in Domestic Science at the tender age of 12 (note to pre-teens: never make a good job of anything, you’ll immediately be assigned that task until you’re old enough to flee the County, divorce your parents, or both). I believe it's the lasting memories of this endeavour that's put me off Christmas baking until now. It probably also explains my deep rooted fear of plastic robins and holly leaves.

Note- this is not one of my actual creations, but it's a fair representation of the sort of crap i used to churn out (apologies if by some strange blogging coincidence this is a photo of your Yule log.  It's lovely).

Tonight i will be baking RCC’s first ever Christmas cake with help from my Mother. I’m extremely grateful for her assistance; proving once again that no amount of recipe book reading can beat four decades of home baking experience. Yesterday she kindly pointed out at least a dozen things wrong with my Victoria sponge technique. Quite an achievement given there’s less than twelve steps required to make one.

Anyway, i digress – back to the Crimbo bake. We've carefully considered the many available recipes and have opted for Nigella’s ‘How to be a Domestic Goddess’ version, mainly because we could source all the ingredients from the shop at the end of my street.

In preparation, over a kilo of dried fruit is currently marinating in a vat of brandy on the kitchen counter. Max and Eli look a bit worse for wear from breathing in the resulting fumes and I’ve had to open the back door to prevent the entire household passing out in a drunken stupor.

If we manage to keep awake long enough to get the resulting mixture in the oven it will be a miracle. I’ll keep you posted..

Chicken sitting for the old women

It occurred to me while i was  just in the middle of making  plum jam (in the microwave of all things) that i promised you a post this weekend.

I feel slightly fraudulent offering you the ramblings below as it's something i wrote on return from my epic week in Shropshire which has languished on my desktop for nearly two months. Still, reading it again did make me chuckle, especially as it starts with my usual grovelling over the length of time between posts. Perhaps i should rename the blog 'Apoligies from River Cottage Croydon’. Anyway, enjoy.

Howdy. Apologies for the delay in posts, blah, blah (can’t even be bothered to summons a decent excuse).

Oh, hang on – I’ve got one. Apologies for the lack of recent posts but I’ve been in the absolute middle of nowhere house/garden/chicken sitting for my mother. Yes, I’ve survived my week living in the grounds of Hodnet Hall, returning to the bosom of River Cottage Croydon to report on my expedition.

There are very few people, for whom I’d sacrifice a week of my holiday to get up every day at 6am to tend to a ragtaggle bunch of chickens, but my mother is one of them. A week living in the grounds of a bona-fide stately home (isn't it beautiful?) has certainly been good for my stress levels and my education in all things outdoorsy. Here’s a summary of my main learnings from a stint in the Countryside.

Hens can kill mice. Really, they can - I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Kill them stone dead with a single blow to the head. Left alone with the murine corpse for any length of time they will peck its little body into an unrecognisable pulp. Extrapolating the carcass from said hen is not for the feint hearted. Also, best not done in the dark.

Toads like living in the shoes you keep by the back door. ALWAYS check before sliding your feet in.

Mum's garden is so vast you can listen to the album  'Contra' by Vampire Weekend twice over whilst watering it. 

It is a fallacy that mommy birds reject baby birds touched by human hand (thanks RSPB website). However, it is a truism that any fool trying to return a baby bird to its nest using a decrepit stepladder on uneven ground is in for a big surprise.

One sunburnt ear is never a good look.

Not dead yet

Just in case you thought I’d deserted you, fear not! Huge apologies for the lack of posts over the last couple of months. There's been so much going on i don’t even know where to begin. I'll pen a proper update for you over the weekend but (in no particular order) here's some potential blog titles heading your way:

• Shambles O’clock sewing club
• Eli and the gigantic grass seed in eye debacle
• Chicken sitting for the old women
• The two grand fence fiasco
• Massive veg fail

See you in a few days. L

Back from Chelsea – quick match report

What a wonderful day. I’ll report back in full later but thought you should know how i got on following my own advice from earlier this week.


1. Get there early A+, gold star, etc. Was at the entrance at 7.55am, programme in hand.

2. Play BBC presenter Bingo. Not bad. Managed to spot the holy trinity – Alan, Joe and Carol. No bonus points for parallel sightings.

3. Pack your own lunch. I packed my own breakfast, does this count?

4. Splash out on a glass of Pimms. Failed – had a few glasses of prosecco last night and didn’t fancy hair of the dog.

5. Control your impulse to buy multiple bits of gardening tat. Fail, fail, fail, fail and fail again.

Purchases in no particular order:

• Wicker grow bag fencing
• Two bone china mugs
• Tin for holding string (with string)
• Two metal life-sized cockerel garden ornaments (One for Mum)
• Two robin garden decorations on sticks (both Mum’s – brought to order)
• Dibber for planting seeds
• Garden utility belt (like Batman's, only better)
• Two keyrings – for ‘shed’ and ‘back door’
• Three leaf bags (turn leaves into mulch over time) – annual Chelsea purchase
• Seeds from Heritage seed company

I’m sure I’ve missed about half a dozen items off. Mr Swift is going to have a coronary when he gets home.

6. Take change for seed catalogues in the Pavilion. Pass

7. Take lots of photos and ask lots of questions. Pass and pass (sorry to the man on the South African exhibition in the Pavilion. I bet you didn’t think one person could have so many questions about Aloe)

8. Finally, get a cab back to your main transport hub Another massive fail. Walked with my multitude of purchases to Victoria. Officially the longest mile of my life.