Tag Archives: cold

Wintry weather


The weather men have even threatened us with snow. Snow! Yaaaaaaay!


It hasn’t arrived yet though, just a cold and biting wind, lovely frosty mornings and zero temperatures. According to my car it was -4 this morning. My bum certainly knew it was -4 when I got in the aforementioned car and sat on the lovely shiny black leather seat.


Who the hell thought it would be a good idea to put leather seats in a car? Unless they make a bum warmer that knows you’re going to get in the car ten minutes before you actually do it and gets the seat all nice and toasty for your rear end then they should definitely keep away from leather seats. Leather seats? I’ll take the sheepskin, thanks.


It’s been more than a bit parky for my nether regions, they’re wondering  what’s going on, they’re not used to being cold. Bbbbrrrrrrrrrr.


I’ll be investing in a nice fluffy seat cover before too much longer, I think. In the meantime I’ll be putting a nice thick, radiator warmed towel on the seat. Who cares if passers by think I’m incontinent. At least I’ll have a warm bum.








Cold. Warm. Hot. Hotter. Oh my God!

Friday night saw us packing up all the wedding albums, prints, super duper new banner and all sorts of other paraphernalia into the car and sliding our way to Manchester to set up for the wedding show.

At this particular wedding show we need to set up on Friday night for the whole weekend. Then we have to back on our perch by 8.45 Saturday morning ready to greet the punters as the shopping centre opens so it’s a lot of to-ing and fro-ing and a lot of faffing about but for a two day event in the city centre we reckoned it would be worth it.


Our allocated table was between the two sets of doors to the centre. Every time one or the other, or worse, both doors opened, we were hit by an icy blast of air. Combine that with the fact that we were dressed for business and not for outside in the dead of winter and this huge, glass domed roof shopping centre had no heating at all, I think it’s fair to say we were all a bit chilly.

We were chilly to the point that one exhibitor went to buy extra clothes to wear, Boofuls and me were holding on to the lightbulbs on our display to try and get a bit of warmth from them and the poor girl next to us kept coming onto our  stand to do the same. her poor lips were blue with the cold. She spent more time handing out our information than hers but she thought it was a small price  to pay to avoid hypothermia. We did little dances on the cold marble floor to keep warm when no one was watching, well, when we thought no one was watching, and we spent a lot of time blowing on our fingers and nipping into shops for a quick warm. A couple of hours wouldn’t have been too bad but we were there from 8.30 am till 6 pm.

The trouble with that kind of cold is that the brain and the mouth both cease to function properly. Everyone was tripping over their words and generally having a rotten day. I can only imagine how the poor models felt having to get undressed and then float around in strapless dresses.

On Sunday morning we dressed in a few more layers and Boofuls had the brilliant idea of taking our little fan heater with us to stick under the table to at least keep our feet warm. The lady on the next display stand came and placed herself behind our table, happily handing out our leaflets and chatting about our albums, she was doing a fantastic job. She seemed so happy to be there that I didn’t have the heart to move her on and back to her own display.

Just after the second fashion show of the day had finished, we had a little flurry of activity at the stand. All three of us were engaged in animated conversations when suddenly, POP! All the lights and the slideshow on the display went out.  Oh bugger. Everyone stood and looked at each other for a moment but too busy to investigate, we carried on chatting. That was a mistake.

Within a minute there was the acrid smell of smoke in the air. Oh no! “Boofuls, I can smell smoke.”

“No, no, It’s alright”, he replied.

“Seriously, Boofuls, I can smell smoke.” “So can I”, piped up the woman I was chatting with.

Boofuls took a look under the table and discovered that our large extension lead was pouring with smoke. Oh my Gawd!  It was quickly removed out of the building where he discovered that the wires had burnt right through and we’d been lucky not to have a full scale fire on our hands.

Bloody fan heater!  It had overloaded the circuit.  Next time we’ll just have to freeze. Oh the joys of exhibiting. Ooh, we get to do it all again on Sunday!

Are you sure?

Bit of an unusual day yesterday in that I had the urge to do some baking.

That’s unusual on it’s own but even more so due to the fact that I’ve had a major dose of lurgy (thanks for that, clingon no.1 ) and have been miserably sneezingly and coughingly, (quite often at the same time), splutteringly, freezingly, boilingly, headachingly, eardrum itchingly (is that only me or does anyone else get it as an early warning signal?) nose runningly, cotton wool brainingly  and sore throatingly struggling through the week.

Most of yesterday I spent weak as a kitten on the settee, groaning and waiting to death to release me before my 4pm appointment with a wedding couple.  Lemsipped up to the eyeballs I managed to get through that meeting without being too obviously ill.

We’d made plans for Lashes and Len to come over for tea (dinner, to you posh folks). My common sense head told me it was a stupid idea but my over ambitious, lemsipped brain whispered, ‘Nah, go on, it’ll be ok.’

So this is where the baking comes in. “I’ll make some brownies for pudding, that’s a nice easy dessert.”

I got a recipe from the internet, gathered all the ingredients together and set about weighing.  Oopsie. My brilliant retro scales that I got at Samlesbury Hall last year measure in pounds and ounces and my recipe was in grams.

I know it’s an easy conversion, even for a mathsophobe like me. 28 grams to 1 ounce. Round it down to 25 grams and Bob’s yer uncle. Easy, everything works, right?


I stood and scratched my brain trying to work it all out, writing it down and getting Boofuls to check my conversions were correct. Yup, I know I could have looked on the internet or got a calculator- cotton wool brain, remember?

Boofuls, ‘Mr Maths is is fun’  looked. Scratched his brain trying to work it out.

It just didn’t seem right. 65 g flour, 250 g butter, Huh?  360 grams sugar 360?  Hang on 360 g that’s …*works out on fingers, not enough fingers so removes shoes and socks*…..That’s over 12  ounces! That can’t be right!!

We worked it out again. And again, And again.  I double checked the recipe.

That’s correct.

Bloody hell! It’s all fat and sugar!

Oh well, I’m bored with it now, let’s go for it. Mixing it all together and shoving it in the oven I had no high hopes of it turning out nice at all but I was really past caring.

What I expected to find when I opened the oven door at the end of the prescribed cooking time was an unctuous, claggy mess of greasy, chocolatey goo.

What came out of the oven was a crispy on top, gooey in the middle dish of chocolatey goodness. I couldn’t believe my eyes – if only I could taste anything I’m sure it would have been delicious.

The hhhm’s around the table when I served it were a good sign. None got left.

So, now that I know exactly what goes into these things I most definitely won’t be making them again. They’re tasty  little squares of obesity  and heart attacks waiting to happen!

What happened to the good old formula for cakes we learnt in school. 2 z fat, 2oz  sugar 4oz flour. That I can handle.