In Praise of (Almost) Nothing…
A great partner, knockout friendships, good health are the big ticket items, the things we all hope for. But let’s not overlook the fact that life is also about the tiny, the small, the reduced. Those little things that are easily overlooked, and might even sound trivial to someone else, but that can really make your day. You will have your own list – if you haven’t already written it down then I think you should. Right now. It’s always good to know and to have to hand what can make you happy, even just in the short term, on a Tuesday in February when you think you might be coming down with something. While you’re thinking about it, here’s mine …
A GREAT OMELETTE
You can have your fancy towers of sea foam, you can queue for an hour for extraordinary brisket. You can jump up and down if you’re going to a place that has the word ‘gastronomy’ on the menu. But when all is said and done, the best meal on earth is egg and chips. That’s just a fact, end of conversation, new paragraph.
If you want an alternative (mainly because it’s impossible to make great chips at home), can I strongly suggest an onion and cheddar omelette with crispy new potatoes? I know, I know. This wasn’t supposed to be a cookbook but if I didn’t include this recipe then frankly what good is any of it?
First off, get miniature new potatoes and put them in a really hot oven after covering them with oil and salt. Don’t dribble anything: pour. Fry the onions extremely slowly, like there’s no rush (there’s always a rush but don’t hassle them, pretend you’re cool about them taking ages – you do you, onions, no bother) and then whisk at least three eggs in a glass or bowl and add salt and pepper and pour this over the super-soft onions. Add chunks of mature cheese (grate if you don’t find it painful – I find it painful) and then grill (if you can be bothered) or flip it over in the pan (though this will be messy) and eat with the potatoes straight from the oven. If this doesn’t make your heart skip a beat then you must never call me.
NEWSPAPERS
I don’t know where I’d be without the papers. Lost probably. The weekends are great because they’re weekends but my highlight is racing round the corner and coming back with the papers. I’ll start with this section, you take that. OK, now let’s swap. I inhale every bit even though I know absolutely nothing about business or property.
Journalists or newspapers are easy to poke fun at, or complain about – all they do is fixate on who’s going out with whom, right? They’re so keen to give us their point of view. We’ve got the internet now, not sure I need a paper. Wrong.
Sure there might be stuff about J. Lo’s abs or Tom Cruise’s body. They’re filling space and I don’t mind it. This book might be reviewed (hopefully not) and they’ll tear it to pieces or I’ll wear something disgusting on a TV show and will get laughed at. I get it.
Of course newspapers assume different positions on the political spectrum, but you can choose which suits you and read that paper. And also – perhaps even better – you can choose to read one that’s on the other side. You’ll be alarmed, you’ll be raging but you’ll know what you’re up against.
Investigative reporting is so important, it’s absolutely vital for now. Holding truth to power is essential and we’d be lost without it. Journalists get behind the story, they check underneath the curtain. They are the people who are ensuring that those in authority are doing what they say they are and who hold them to account when they’re lying.
I promise I’m not just adding newspapers to this jaunty list because my mum worked on Fleet Street, though she did used to tell me when I was little ‘we’re just trying to find the truth’. When I was really small I never knew what that meant but as I grew up and I saw her tussle with those in power, encouraging brilliant writers to find out who was untruthful and who was doing the right thing I realised how important it is. The papers – absolute highlight of my day. They cost a quid (and are excellent with a cheddar and onion omelette, see previous page).
SAYING I DON’T KNOW
‘Actually, I don’t know. I haven’t made my mind up yet. I need to read more on the subject.’ I’m so pleased when I hear someone say this. It’s fine, admirable even, when people don’t know.
When did we have to become all knowing? When did we begin pretending to have all the answers? Why can’t we admit we sometimes have no idea? Try it when you next have a chat with someone. You’re at a dinner and everyone has a strong opinion. What do you think about such and such? It’s definitely this, it’s definitely that. They get worked up, heated, they absolutely know they’re right about something.
It’s the same on Twitter, no room for nuance. It’s this – no, no, you’re wrong, it’s definitely that. In real life it’s absolutely OK to say ‘I’m not sure’. It doesn’t sound thick – quite the opposite.
ORANGE
If you are naturally pallid with a soft blue-like tinge like me then you might believe that pale is more interesting. I get that you might find fake and fluorescent a little disgusting, a bit cheap, a bit obvious. I can pretend I’m like you, that I want to be chic, but the truth is I am a massive fan of bright carroty faces and limbs.
I fell in love with looking like I’d washed my face in Minute Maid when I was fourteen. I was extremely pasty (I still am – left to its own devices my skin is transparent) and I tried my mum’s Ultra Glow (a very 80s product – think bright orange powder in a pot). There was a ginormous brush and a large palette of sparkly russet powder just next to the sink. ‘I’ll have a bang on that,’ I thought. I played and played and when I heard the call for lunch – ‘It’s mulligatawny soup, come’ – I entered the kitchen and everyone fell off their chairs screeching with laughter. You know George Hamilton? Yeah, double that. And then times it by 100.
It didn’t put me off. I felt healthy, glamorous, like the girls in the ads, like the models on the beach in the Next catalogue. So shimmery, so dewy, so grown up. From then on, I would use anything to give me the glow (my mum quickly hid the good stuff). I’d use old tea bags to give me what I was after, I would ask for fake tan for Christmas and birthdays and never got over the addiction. If I feel at all down or slumpy (spellcheck told me this is not a real word but I’m sticking by it) a hefty whoosh of bronzer perks me right up again. I’m like a plant who needs the sun, only I don’t need the real sun, just cream or spray or mousse that will slowly dye my skin. Gravy granules are a good alternative if you’ve run out of blush.
Loads has been written about how to get rid of the lizard bits when the tan starts to fade, but don’t worry about expensive erasing foams and loofah sponges. Just put some table salt in the bath water, have a soak and use a pot scourer on your feet, elbows, hands. Get out of the bath, dry and reapply.
HP SAUCE
Ketchup is sweet but a little bit meh.
Mustard is good but not all the time.
Salad cream is perverse.
Mayonnaise is often … just too mayonnaisey.
HP, then, is the king of all condiments. If you don’t believe me then put this book down and immediately walk to the butchers to get some sausages. Cook them in the oven with a bit of salt and honey and then dip once scorched.
See?
SCENTED CANDLES
If there’s a single item that illustrates we’ve all gone completely tonto then this is it. Yes, they’re just wax cylinders that smell of musk/fig/roses. They’re literally just coloured glasses full of scented paraffin. We could get a tea light, a fake candle, we could dim the lights, we could turn the hob on for that fairylike flicker but we don’t. Instead we spend a week’s wages on globules of scented wax. I’d love to say I’m above it but I can’t – I’m afraid I’m a full convert.
When they started appearing in fancy shops and people got excited, sure, I thought it was absurd. But then I went to a house that smelt of a flower stall and boof, that was it. I was won over. If you’ve had an odd day, if you’re trying to control the noise in the kitchen and in your own head and you want to make yourself feel better then light one. This can just be for five minutes (I will never comprehend the people who light them for four hours, I mean, just stick 20 quid in a fire, love) and the room smells fantastic and suddenly you feel very civilised, very grown up, very in control, very modern.
‘Babe, what are you doing?’
‘Well, I felt like crying or having a shot of vodka and I’ve lost my phone and the keys and the kids are arguing and I forgot to cook the chicken yesterday so it’s gone off.’ (beat) ‘But everything is sort of fine now because the place suddenly smells of cinnamon and amber.’
NEW PYJAMAS
When was the last time you bought a pair? I did a ring around (let’s call it research) and none of my friends, not one, has bought anything new to wear to bed in the last twenty years. We all wear the same t-shirt, the same nightie, the same old tatty thing. We might get into bed naked (though this usually stops at 40) or we might just wear the nearest thing we can find after a long day – some Minnie Mouse shorts from our daughter’s laundry basket and his vest because we never, ever buy ourselves nightwear. You might have got a new massive white tent for the hospital birthing room (I wore my mum’s that she wore when she had me, this is either disconcerting or lovely – you decide), but in terms of buying something specifically for the purpose of wearing it to bed – nope, we don’t do it.
So can I casually suggest going into M&S and getting yourself something new to wear at night? I did it last year, it feels massively extravagant. You’ll be excited about getting under the covers daily. Go silky if you want; I’m a fan of anything flannel.
DISABLING YOUR VOICEMAIL
Right then. This small thing, this work of seconds is a game changer. That notification ‘you have three messages’; the text that keeps reminding you that you have a new voicemail and you tut, turn the phone over and put it off. You finally have a listen, but you can’t delete it until you’ve heard three seconds. Come on come on. Still going. This message is from last Thursday and it’s from my husband asking if I want something from the supermarket. Well, yes, right this second I want some lettuce for the tortoise and some eggs. Getting this now, however, four dates later, is not useful. Disable your voicemail this second.
Someone rings and can’t leave a message. Guess what? They’ll text, they’ll email. You’ll see a missed call. Let’s get rid of the clutter, let’s throw out the extras, let’s free up some time. I did this only yesterday and if I didn’t have a dodgy knee, an old back, glasses constantly on top of my head as well as on my face I’d do a cartwheel. Voicemail is so last decade. It’s time to move on.
BABY GOATS
Have you ever met a baby goat? A real live one?
I met four in 2015.
We were on a hill in Switzerland (true life) and these tiny little creatures came up to us. I’m a fan of small animals generally and can talk for hours about my adoration for baby otters, small puppies, newborn owls (seriously) but can I suggest that when the day takes a turn, when the world feels a little dark, immediately get onto a search engine and watch baby goats gallivanting about in a field.
More uplifting than a massage, a sound bath, a glass of wine or a deep breathing exercise.
CARPET
Yes, I know floorboards are fashionable and I know they look good.
‘Oh, you got new floors. They’re very nice. Aren’t they pale? Aren’t they dark? Yes, very chic.’
‘I saw them in that interiors magazine and here they are. We look after them really well, they have a special polish. Here, smell the polish.’
Cool, great. When we’re done with congratulating ourselves on our artily distressed or super-polished woodwork can I just praise the majestic carpet?
You get out of bed at 7am in November. You know what you want to put your feet on? Correct, fluffy floors. You pad around the sitting room before bed looking for the book you started and have now lost. Want me to tell you what will make the search more fun? Correct: cosy, furry flooring. We can all be cool when we’re out (shades, lipstick, visible bra strap, drinking shots) but what we want to come home to is shedloads of carpet. (Quick note: sisal is absolutely not carpet, it’s like Weetabix on your feet.)
LEFTOVERS
I love restaurants but I fear they’re missing a trick. Nice clean dishes, freshly plated food, a perfect chicken breast, some green fronds, a side order of broccoli. All delightful, all to be admired. There’s been a lot of shouting in the kitchen, ‘Yes chef!’ and ‘Two chickens, one beef and one lasagne for table four’ and I absolutely love them for doing all that and bringing it to us. But I think we are all aware that the best food is the stuff kids leave on their plates. A half-eaten fish finger, some corn that didn’t quite make it in the mouth, some sticky pasta sauce and some only-glanced-at cauliflower cheese.
The restaurant I’d like to go to would be just that. You arrive and pick your kid – ‘I’ll take Max please, table three.’
‘He’s been given fish pie, some peas and carrot sticks. If you just wait here, Madam, he’ll be done in about three minutes. He’s had a good go on it but now it’s time for him to go to the soft play area. And your friend here, will he be interested in Lucy (spaghetti and meatballs and a Shirley Temple) or Frank (a kid’s roast, hold the bread sauce). Ah, Lucy, fantastic. We’ll seat you in ten.’
And that’s it. Their plates are taken from their high chairs and brought over with great pomp. Who ordered the Mary? Right. Here are some chipolatas and gravy and she didn’t touch her mash. Enjoy your meal. This would be my dream restaurant and if someone could sort it that would be excellent.
So there you go. That’s my list. Just a few generally underrated things that make a difference to me. I hope your career is going well, that your toddler has finally stopped screaming every time he is put in the high chair, that your mum is on the mend. But if it’s not, he hasn’t and she’s still under the weather, then can I suggest consulting your own list and perhaps just enjoying something that makes you happy on a small scale for five minutes, an hour? And if all else fails, well, all I can do is say it again: baby goats, guys, baby goats.