Living with Gordon Ramsey and a Toddler

It's only after you've lived with a teenager, one in the middle of exams, that you really understand why some animals eat their own young.

One member of my loving household actually asked me "what is this shit?"  whilst pointing their fork at my new potato-pesto mash combo that I'd loving served up with lemon and ginger baked sea bass and purple sprouting brocolli (I admit that was a little al dente but hey, who doesn't like really crunchy veg!!) - there wasn't a hint of humour in the question - it was said with Ramsey aplomb.

I'll admit my cooking has never hit bakeoff/masterchef levels but it's usually fairly edible if you pick out the black bits.  I grew up on my father's cooking, I learnt that brown sauce makes any meal (fairly) edible and the alternative was starve.  Unfortunately the Gordon in our house has decided that brown sauce does not save a meal and not eating 'shit' is the way to go.

The other member of my loving household regularly shouts at me, slams doors and stomps off.

I am unable to run away. Partly because the bank are more likely to track me down than the police as any movement towards serendipity would mostly involve Hilton and a supreme credit card hammering. But mostly because my knee is still totally knackered and I couldn't run to the end of the road. MRI has happened, I'll let you know how it goes.  If if you hear I've gone, you know it went well!!

So I am resigned to walking my runs.

But walking does allow me to take the time to stand and stare.

To appreciate how lucky I am to be where I am in the world and so fortunate to be happy with the place I am in.

I listen to so many people just hell bent on moving away from 'here' and I generally think that my positive feeling towards here outweigh the negatives.


I stood for a long while looking at the telegraph wires.  The straight line of diminishing poles.  I probably stood far too long looking and thinking how much I liked the clean lines.  A robin sat watching me for a while.















But on a day like this, it's hard for anything to look horrid, even the wood that has had a lot of coppicing recently, looked good.

But then - I do like mud!!

I love squelching through it, splashing it up my legs, inches on my shoes.

Happy as a pig in.

Even if my food is so readily described as "what is this shit?"