Banana tea bread crisis

I’d tweeted a request for a banana bread recipe and tried it the other day but when I tried to find it again I failed.

After an emergency tweet request Steph (aka @NorthNorfolk) came through a second time around.

So, to save the recipe for posterity, having made another lovely loaf this evening, here is Steph’s recipe:

Ingredients:

• 75g butter – softened
• 175g caster (or granulated) sugar
• 2 eggs, beaten
• 225g SR Flour
• 1/4 tsp bicarb of soda
• Pinch of salt
• 450g ripe bananas weighed with skin (about 4 medium bananas), peeled and mashed
• 100g walnuts (optional and I sometimes substitute with plain choc chips)

Method:

• Heat oven to 180 degrees C or Gas mark 4.  Or 160 degrees C in a fan oven.
• Grease and line a 2lb loaf tin.  Or grease with butter and then flour.  If you’ve never done this before you just tip a bit of flour in and swizzle it around a bit until all the inside of the tin has a thin  dusting of flour.  It’s a good idea to do this even if you have a non stick tin.
• Mix flour, bicarb and salt.
• Cream butter and sugar until pale and fluffy.  I use a Kenwood Chef and blitz with K beater on max to achieve this.  Doing this by hand is good exercise.
• Add eggs a little at a time with a little bit of flour each time.  Mix thoroughly.  I give this another full blast mix in the Kenwood.
• Stir in bananas, remaining flour and walnuts (or choc chips) if using.
• Tip into the tin and bung it in the oven for an hour and a quarter.
• When the timer bleeps (and I recommend setting a timer to avoid  the smell of burnt disappointment) check the loaf with a skewer.  If the skewer goes in the middle of the loaf and comes out clean out then the loaf is ready.  This loaf does need a lot of baking and it’s tempting to take it out when the top is a light brown.  This is a mistake because it won’t be cooked properly in the middle.
• Wait until the loaf has cooled before slicing and I cut the loaf into lunchbox size portions and freeze, taking out a fresh slice for the children’s lunchboxes in the morning. 
• If you do freeze the loaf, as mentioned above, then each piece will defrost and be nicely warm after 30 seconds in the microwave.

So thank you Steph, for saving me twice.  And the next time someone asks, feel free to share this link.

#punchdisease

I know. A weird title for a blog post, my first via iPhone (may delete tomorrow).

There's been a lot of tweeting over the last week with the hashtag #kickcancer. It seems to have been popular to use that hashtag whilst encouraging people to retweet.

Well why? Sarah Brown and a host of celebs feel they need to join the bandwagon and #kickcancer has been everywhere.

I hate cancer as much as the next person. Maybe more in some cases. It robbed me of my mother when she was just 58. She never saw me get married or have children and I never got to say goodbye.

What is my problem with the #kickcancer hashtag then?

Let me tell you. It does nothing. It's just words. Cancer isn't an entity that will feel threatened or bullied by the use of this hashtag. It's not going to go away just because we say we don't want it. It's pathetic.

If you want to do something constructive then give to a charity that spends money on researching the disease or that raises awareness about how to obtain early diagnosis. Don't just tweet rubbish.

#kickcancersoharditcantgetupagain

Drugs don’t work

I’m on medication. 

Those of you who know me will have one of two reactions, I imagine.

1.  Yeah.  I knew she was on something.

2.  Nah.  Really?  Nah, she’s not on medication, she needs medication!

Well thanks.  You see drugs and me are not a good combination.

I’m supposed to take these little tablets, one in the morning and one in the evening.  I am not supposed to miss a dose.  If I do miss a dose I need to try and catch up as quickly as possible.

I am useless at remembering.  I have done a couple of things to try and help me remember though.

I have a note blu-tacked to the back door that says “TABLET”.  I’ve also written on the cardboard box containing the tablets.  On one side I’ve written “Morning” and on the other side “Afternoon” to help me remember whether I’ve taken a morning or afternoon dose. I turn the packet so the word that is uppermost is the last dose I’ve taken.

OK so this makes me sound like I’m about eighty years old.  But that’s how I feel because, even with these pathetic memory aids ,I still forget to take this wretched medication.

I would set an alarm on my phone but I know I’d dismiss the alarm and wouldn’t actually act on the alarm.

Does anybody have a foolproof method that I can use, please?

The School of Statistics

It probably hasn’t escaped your notice but it’s been a bit wintry of late.

As we know the UK is a bit rubbish when it snows.  We run out of grit.  The grit we do have isn’t applied at the right time or in the right place.  As soon as there is the slightest hint of the white stuff on the ground then so many people decide they simply can’t venture out of their house and driving to work is simply out of the question.  And I’m as guilty as the next person.

On Wednesday there was snow on the ground in the morning and it snowed during the day.

I’d planned to work from home because I had an inkling that schools might close early.  Sure enough a text came through mid morning advising that children could be picked up at 1:15pm.  At the time I didn’t understand what was so special about 1:15pm but I was glad I’d stayed at home so that I could be around to collect my children.

Later that evening we were advised that the school would be closed on Thursday.

On Friday morning we were told the school would be open for the day, but would close early at 2:00pm.

So what is special about 1:15pm? 

That’s when the afternoon register is taken.  So on Wednesday, despite the fact that most children were collected at 1:15pm, all children will have been marked as present, even though they were in fact absent for 99% of the afternoon.

The same is true for Friday afternoon except that children will have been absent for about 60% of the afternoon.

Am I too cynical, or was the school behaving unethically to ensure their attendance statistics were the best they could be?

For coffee

I quite like coffee.  I don’t like it too strong, sometimes a Nero double shot is too bitter, and I don’t like it too weak either.

My designer coffee of choice is quite dull really because I like a white americano: and espresso shot plus hot water and then cold milk.

A latte is a bit like having a meal and a cappucino is a lot of froth about nothing. (Although I do enjoy the froth with chocolate sprinkles.)

At home we only have cafetiere coffee.  It might sound affected not to have instant coffee in the house.  I don’t mean to be.  Beans go in a coffee grinder, grounds go in cafetiere followed by water that has boiled but isn’t boiling anymore.  Plunge the plunger and then pour.  It really isn’t a hassle.  I don’t know how the cost compares with instant, but I think the taste is better.

Given that this is how I make coffee at home, I don’t really understand why, if you have all of the equipment and ingredients at home, why you’d have instant instead.

I guess you’re thinking that instant means instant and speed is an issue for some people.  The amount of washing up created is also a factor.  I’d buy both of those arguments but allow me to outline another scenario.

I know someone who chooses to put milk in a saucepan, heat it on the hob, add instant coffee and then pour and drink the results, in preference to preparing a cafetiere.

That’s more effort and a worse taste experience.  I don’t understand.

Bored

I got bored.  With myself.  I looked in the mirror and I saw bland.

Just wanted to say sorry really, because I don't see mirrors very often but you guys don't have to look into a mirror to see my blandness.

This week I changed a couple of things.  It's a bit less boring but it's a bit more hassle.

I'm weighing it up in a "Can I be bothered to keep it up?" kind of a way.

We'll see.

Of course appearance is one thing, personality is another.

I'm less bored with my personality.  It just irritates me.  And I know....because I can read it on your faces, that some, many, of you feel the same way.  That's unlikely to change as it requires more effort.

Time

People wonder why I don’t get more done. 

It’s almost half eight and ideally this evening I will do the Tesco/Ocado/Sainsbury shopping online.  I don’t know which service I’ll be using because it all depends which has a spare delivery slot for tomorrow afternoon.

Ideally I will also bake two batches of banana muffins to prevent the waste of the muffins in the dining room.

Also, I’ll grill some bacon rashers to make making a carbonara sauce just a little bit easier tomorrow.

My brother arrives in about an hours time so I’d better type quickly if I’m going to have time to have a chat with him too.

I left the house this morning at 7:40 and drove to the breakfast club.  Having realised my phone was still at home, after dropping the children off I diverted back home.

Traffic was horrendous by this time but I still made it into work by 8:25.

I grabbed lunch at work to save time but then ended up staying at work too long after lunch.

I drove to Brentwood to pick up a reserved item and I also grabbed a birthday card while I was on the High Street.

When I got home I took the tablet I forgot to take this morning and then started tidying, cleaning, ironing and vacuuming.  I made up two beds and printed some documents I need for tomorrow.

I put some (homemade) food which I’d defrosted into the oven and set the timer so it would be ready for the children as we walked in later.  I also got some more food (homemade) out of the freezer for the adults.

I got the karate gear ready and put it in the car, chatted to the builder working next door about access to our garden, responded to a few work e-mails, phoned the council and phoned Lakeside.

I walked to school for 3:15, collected the children, came home and drove to karate.

After karate I drove home and at 5:30 the children were eating dinner after a ten minute blitz of bedroom tidying.

I sorted some washing, did some more cleaning, listened to Ethan read a book and at 6:30 the children were showering.

At 6:45 Dave and I were eating while the children assembled Lego.

At 7:15 Ethan went to bed and I started playing Uno with Hannah until she went to bed at 8:00.

I did some more cleaning and I’m now sat with you and I have a cup of tea next to me and at 8:40 I know that my list of things that should get done tonight is rapidly becoming a wish list.

I haven’t slept properly all week.  I have programmes saved on the iPlayer that I’m not sure I’ll get time to watch.

I’m ratty and irritable and nobody understands.

Shouldering a problem

I had my first ever visit to a sports massage practitioner.  I thought you might know what it was like.

I’d been having problems with my shoulder and upper arm for about a month.  I can’t remember what caused the problem, but if I had to blame anything it’s probably be gardening.

The first step was to expose the problem area.  So top half clothes came off and were replaced by modesty preserving towel.

My practitioner, Mark, explained that he’d be applying pressure and be asking me, on a scale of one to ten, how painful it was.

I’m not very good at explaining how painful something is.  The one to ten scale helped but only to make pain ratings relative.  How can one rate pain at a ten?  That means that it’s not possible to suffer further pain.  Of course it’s mostly possible to put up with more pain.

So with the first attempt I went with a score of four, and tried to score all other pain relative to that first score.

The other thing about pain is that it’s possible to be conditioned to it and, over time, accept more.

Apparently my score of seven has other people screaming “ten” and needing a piece of wood to bite down on.

We did hit a couple of tens but they were only ten relative to the other scores I’d made.  If the pressure had been increased I could have coped.

The other thing that I thought was strange was that a score of eight, after pressure was applied for a few seconds turned into a score of two, without any reduction in pressure.

He didn’t just apply pressure constantly.  Sometimes the pressure was moved back and forth on an area and sometimes pressure was applied constantly and my arm was moved at the same time to change to impact of the pressure.

Mark told me I might be a “bit sore” tomorrow, and the following day, but he also said that my pain threshold might mean I don’t feel too bad at all.

Let’s see how much complaining about my shoulder I do over the next couple of days, and see whether things improve by the end of the week.

Inappropriate applause

When I was young, and yes I was young once, it was deemed inappropriate for one to applaud oneself.  These days it seems to be perfectly acceptable.

I know this makes me sound like a crotchety old woman, but that’s OK, because that’s what I am.

I see celebrities being interviewed and the interviewer will show us, the audience, and the interviewee a piece of their work, maybe a clip from their latest film or perhaps a few bars from their latest single.  Invariably the celebrity will applaud with the audience once it’s finished.

When did it become socially acceptable to lack modesty?

Surely the acceptable behaviour is to modestly smile and maybe nod the head to acknowledge the audience’s appreciation.

Isn’t applauding one’s own work arrogant and presumptuous?  Shouldn’t one allow the audience the job of critiquing one’s performance?

I know, by the way, that some famous people will excuse this behaviour by claiming they are merely showing their appearance for the audience.

Rubbish!  They’re just full of themselves and are trying to excuse the inexcusable.

Gissa job

Our lovely post delivery people, are considering striking.  As a response the Royal Mail will be recruiting 30,000 temporary staff to cope with the work that isn’t being done by those who are striking.

This is the time of year when Royal Mail would be recruiting seasonal staff to cope with the Christmas rush anyway, I think they’ve just upped the requirement because of the planned industrial action.

I know we’re emerging from the economical hangover caused by the credit crunch, but there are still many people who have lost their job and will be eyeing 30,000 temporary jobs and thinking “I’ll have a piece of that.”

I have done this job.  I have worked the sorting office nightshift and I’ve delivered the mail.

The nightshift: This involved standing in front of a grid of pigeonholes and sorting mail into these pigeonholes which were divided into streets, or sections of streets.  It was possible to sit down but the seat that was available was not adjustable and was akin to an uncomfortable bar stool.

Tea breaks were the highlight of the shift because there was a pool table for amusement.  I think there may have been a canteen but the food can’t have been great because I’ve blanked it out.

Delivering the mail: I was dumped on my patch by a van and left, with my mail, not really having too much of a clue about which street was where.  Most of the time the mail had been sorted appropriately for the street and it was a simple matter of mail into letterboxes.

Low letterboxes cause back ache and are not good (Health and Safety take note).  Sprung loaded letter boxes scrape the skin off the back of the hand.  Barking dogs petrified me and the fear was realised when the dog followed up the bark by snapping with teeth at the hand through the letterbox.  Flats are a pain, especially when one has finished delivering to a block of flats and then there’s a letter that has been mis-sorted and it’s for the top floor.  (This happened to me and my response was to pop it in the nearest letterbox.  I know this is wrong, please don’t write and complain.) 

So in case you are tempted by the headline 30,000 jobs, you can submit your application knowing a little more about what you’re applying for.

A cautionary tale

Ethan asked me this evening “Mummy, what would happen if I put a conker in the washing machine?”

“You’d go on the naughty step.”

“For how long Mummy?  How long would I go on the naughty step, if I put a conker in the washing machine?”

“Five years”

“Really?”

“Yes really.  I’d be very, very annoyed.”

Nanny state

I read this today on the BBC website:

“Parents in England who regularly look after friends' children and receive a "reward" for doing so must register as childminders, regulator Ofsted says.

It said most parents would be exempt but those who babysat for more than two hours at a time, or for more than 14 days per year, should be registered.”

It incensed me.

The last time I checked, a full day of nursery costs for one child was about £50.

The staff that worked in that nursery also made themselves available for babysitting at a rate of £10 per hour.

With that kind of cost, it really doesn’t surprise me that people seek cheaper solutions.  One of the most logical solutions would be a reciprocal arrangement with a friend.  Sharing the job of childcare and avoiding the cost.

It is such an arrangement that Ofsted told two detective constables, Leanne Shepherd and Lucy Jarrett, was illegal.  A reciprocal arrangement can be deemed to be a reward.

And if I understand this Ofsted statement correctly, it means that my children cannot be babysat by a friend of mine if we plan to be out of the house for more than two hours and I offer to return the favour.

Equally, when I was a teenager I used to get paid to babysit, sometimes for five or six hours.  This enabled couples and single parents to enjoy the occasional evening out.  This, and the nursery staff that babysit in the evenings to supplement their income, can no longer happen.  It is illegal, unless these individuals register as a childminder with Ofsted.

How puerile.  How utterly ridiculous.  Surely, as a parent, I should be empowered to decide who cares for my children, and if it happens to be a friend or neighbour I trust then that’s my decision.

It might seem strange that I complain about this Nanny State because I rarely go out but it’s the principle that matters here.

Knickers – it gets worse

Update from Hannah.

The knickers weren’t handed to a teacher, but a parent helper. So not only do all of the teaching staff now know about my knickers, but so do all of the mums.

And, the mum she handed them to was her best friend’s mum. This is the woman I often chat to in the playground.

Debbie – can I have my knickers back please?

Knickers

Hannah had her school swimming lesson today and as per usual I asked her how the lesson went.

She started talking about some knickers she’d found.

It appears that when Hannah took her towel out of her swimming bag and started to get changed she found a superfluous pair of black knickers.  She knew they weren’t hers and so she took the only action that a sensible little girl would take.  She handed them to a teacher.

At this point in the story my ears pricked up and I started to ask questions..

Were the knickers lacy or plain?  Lacy.

Were they the kind of knickers that don’t cover somebody’s bottom properly? Yes, Hannah thought they were.  A thong then.

So one of my thongs had somehow got caught up in the laundry with Hannah’s swimming gear and had ended up in her swimming bag and subsequently in the changing room and therefore in a teacher’s hands.

And now they were the subject of great amusement in the staff room no doubt.

If I was the teacher receiving the knickers I’d put two and two together and, being a teacher, I’d get four.  So the teacher knows they are my knickers which probably means the whole of the staff room knows they are my knickers.

The question is, should I ask for them back?  This would clearly be an embarrassing exercise.

The alternative is to just “let it go.” 

Whatever I do I am now unable to look any member of the school staff in the eye without a hot flush enveloping me, and not in a good way.

BBQ – no thanks

Is it just me, or are barbeques a bit of a faff?

Victoria wanted a gas barbeque and was asking for advice. 

Vish was of the opinion that gas was a heinous crime.  The only barbeque one should entertain owning is charcoal.

Lucinda owned up to owning a gas barbeque but that wasn’t her crime.  Her crime was buying disposable barbeques and using the gas barbeque as an attractive platform to support the disposable barbeque.

Whereas others considered this to be a bizarre practise, I thought it was completely logical and actually very sensible.  Although I did suggest that it would be possible to rest the disposable barbeque on a less expensive option.

Barbeques are hard work.

It’s the cleaning I detest.

I’ve been told that barbeques should be cleaned while they’re warm.  How stupidly impractical.  When I’ve sat down to a barbeque meal with a glass or three, the last thing I want to do is to rush to don the Marigolds.

Plus it’s just such a horrible job to do.  It’s filthy, dirty work.  It’s so much worse than a bit of washing up, and of course just because you’ve used the barbeque it doesn’t mean that there isn’t any washing up.  So you have the hideous barbeque cleaning and the washing up to do.

So we tend to leave the barbeque cleaning until the next time we want to use it.  This means that the happy anticipation of outdoor cooking is spoilt by the knowledge that there’s an onerous task waiting.

So, Victoria, my advice is buy disposable barbeques and enjoy the pleasure and avoid the pain.

Camping

I took a risk this week.

I was walking through town with the children and we ambled into Millets and looked at the tents in the sale.

I want a new tent, mainly because our current tent annoys me but partly because I like shiny new things.  I know I won’t get a new tent though because I’m too rational.  Our current tent suffices.  It does the job, not brilliantly well, but it does the job.  I cannot justify the expense associated with replacing it or, as is the case with most things we buy, the new would sit alongside the old as we’re not very good at “getting rid.”

In order to maintain the interest of the children I suggested we could be looking for a tent for them – just for them.  I told them that at Hannah’s age I was allowed to camp in a pup tent which was pitched alongside my parents’ tent.  I was pretty sure we wouldn’t buy the children a tent as we had our old two man tent in the loft that Dave and I had used pre-children.

The conversation gradually moved on to that two man tent and the idea of putting it up in the garden.

Ten minutes later when we were home, that is exactly what we were doing.  Putting up a two man tent in the back garden.

The conversation had also resulted in me agreeing to (and if I’m honest encouraging) the idea of the children sleeping in the tent in the back garden.

In theory this isn’t a big deal except…

• We had badgers in the garden this week
• We don’t have a secure back garden and usually leave the back gates open
• The children would need access to the house during the night which would mean leaving the back door unlocked

We went ahead anyway and whilst the children enjoyed the adventure, they decided they preferred their own beds.

All of which means that two days later we still have a tent in the garden that needs to be taken down.

The joys of dog ownership

I walked to the station today and came across a woman who was enjoying a walk with her Great Dane.

The dog needed to stop and defecate.  It produced a vast quantity of diarrhoea.

The owner (or could have been a dog walker as I was walking past some very expensive houses) started fiddling with a bag that presumable contained equipment for dealing with dog poo.

I walked past and didn’t look back, but I did wonder how one cleans up a mess like that.  And I doubted she was adequately equipped.

So what do you think?  Did she just leave it?

July’s charity

Every childhood dream begins with a vision. At Eye Care For Kids, we make sure the vision can happen.

A non-profit organization, Eye Care for Kids has provided humanitarian aid to more than 20,000 children since 2001. Our program helps visually impaired kids from poor and low-income families get the treatment they so desperately need.

We treat kids in need across the state of Utah, including rural areas and Native American reservations. Here at Eye Care For Kids we see up to 200 children every week.

Our goal is to help restore every child’s vision. Help us make it more than just a vision – help us make it a reality.

“Our Vision… is their Vision.”

Just click on the badge to the left of the Gaping Void cartoon to find out more.

Banter

I’m all for a bit of office banter.  I have to be really given that I’m often the person responsible for starting and perpetuating it.  But even I think there are times when it’s inappropriate.

I went to a Union meeting today. 

Yes I am in the Union and no that doesn’t mean I’m a steel toe cap wearing lesbian who’ll be burning my scab colleagues on a picket line.  I happen to think Unions are a good thing; they provide a voice for the workforce who otherwise could go unheard.  I’m also a woman working in a very male dominated environment and Union membership just makes me feel a little more secure.

The purpose of the meeting today was to try and encourage “the management” of whom I laughingly call myself a member, to say yes to the Union representing them.  At the moment the Union represents hourly paid and salaried staff below management grades.  Our lack of representation means that instead of changes to our terms and conditions being negotiated, they’re just communicated via e-mail and it’s a done deal with no opportunity for recourse, other than the obvious move – resignation.

There were probably 250 people in the room which I thought was a good turnout.  It was standing room only and although the meeting started well I thought that most of the main points had been made early on and there then followed much reprising of those earlier points.  It got to a time where I thought the meeting would end without us having reached the point of a vote so I stuck my hand in the air waiting for my turn to voice an opinion.

I was ignored for a very long time but eventually our man on site did spot me and he waited patiently for the Regional Union Representative to draw breath.  We waited, and waited.  Finally I had my chance and said “In the interest of time, can I suggest we have a vote.”

The Union rep responded “You remind me of my wife, nagging me to shut up and get on with things.” (or words to that effect) and then he said, addressing the audience, “I don’t want to keep the lady waiting.” (or similar) and we proceeded to vote.

Up to my interjection, all the people speaking had been men, and all of the contributions had been business-like and focussed on the issue at hand.  My point, equally, was professional and timely.

Was I right to feel just a tad patronised and belittled by this Union man’s response to me?

If it had been within a small group I probably wouldn’t have noticed, but in front of 250 it just seemed wrong.

Am I being too politically correct?  Should I just “get over it”?

Kids eh…

We took Hannah to the Junior School today to meet her new teacher.  Ethan came along too.

We met not only Hannah’s teacher we met her new Head Teacher too.  He’d given a presentation to all of the parents outlining expectations of children and parents etc.

This next bit you need to know for context.  The Junior School Head is a slim male.  The Infant School Head is a larger, shorter lady.  Ethan and Hannah are both currently attending the Infant School.

When we got back home I was chatting to Dave about the afternoon and Ethan was half listening.  I said “I thought the Head was….” and Ethan finished with “…fat!”

I was actually talking about the Junior Head and went on to use words like “switched on, engaged, interested” but Ethan’s word was funnier.