"Creole Lady Marmalade..."

".....Giuchie, Giuchie, ya ya dada...
"

Been singing this since the annual Making of the Marmalade began last night. Having secured 8lbs of Seville Oranges (which are rarer than hens teeth in these parts) I set off following Delias jolly good recipe.

All was going well too until had to nip out after work today to get some chook food from local country store and came back to find my carefully scooped orange peels (set aside for cutting into bits later) had been tidied up by the OH and Jnr H. Tidied into the bin to be exact. "I'll get them out and give them a wash" says he after I pointed out his potentially fatal mistake. YUK! OK, they were the only thing in there but still. This highlights yet another fundemental difference in the sexes. Men, as far as I am aware, will eat anything from anywhere if left to cope on their own. Leave a woman on her own and she will likely knock up a nice little starter and main course for one. Or maybe its just me?

Anyway so now we're going to have to have orange jelly instead of proper marmalade. This is going to upset my mornings. I need thick cut marmalade on wholemeal toast with proper butter and proper tea, alone, whilst listening to Radio One and checking my emails in the morning otherwise I am a complete nightmare.. I realise its slightly childish and completely antisocial of me and I also realise that having a morning routine which cannot be interfered with, for fear of unleashing my inner demon, is the first sign of impending old-agedness but well hey, I'm having to embrace my senior years anyway. My kids now look at me funny if I dance to the radio or laugh at Chris Moyles. They tsk when I roar with laughter at Top Gear. My daughter scolds me for wearing unsuitable clothing (jeans, fleece and t shirt?!?)and the OH makes constant reference to the 5 year age gap between us. He's younger. Even my boss told me that he liked to hire the more mature person as they get on better with customers.

Mature? MATURE? I'm thirty-bloody-seven!! Everyone and everything around me seems to be conspiring to make me feel twice as old as I am at the moment. Even my skin is ganging up against me. I'm fairly er....sallow skinned. In a healthy way. I prefer to think of it as 'exotic' however this past 6 months I've noticed a distinct drying of the skin on my hands despite copious amounts of *gunk* from a bottle proclaiming to contain the elixir of youth itself. When I look in the mirror I still see me. In fact I think I look a bit bloody better than I did ten years ago when I had a god awful bleach blonde hairdo and weighed in at 7 stone BUT there is a discernable feeling of 'getting on a bit' in the air. I keep checking that my tits aren't round my knees and that my arse hasn't sagged completely. Is this perhaps something I am loading myself with or is it a forewarning of things to come?

Anyway. Something did cheer me up this week. I entered a writing competition on UKClimbing.com about 8 weeks ago. The subject was 'My First Lead'. I didn't write about my actual first lead but my first multipitch. Anyway, I came second! Hoorah! My prize is to have my essay read out at Llanberis Mountain Film Festival and a hundred quids worth of climbing gear from DMM. I'm passing on the gear and donating it to Braemar Mountain Rescue as its just about the 7 year anniversary of my mates rescue off Lochnagar so.... anyway, having it read out at Llanberis is prize enough for me. Obviously now I'm wandering around 'artistically' and musing over possible themes for my next literary adventure whilst adjusting my straw hat and sipping on a sloe gin. Dahlink.

Right enough waffling from me, back to the marmalade....jelly...stuff..

Oh, whatever.