Knee Trembler

It is amazing how long a weekend can seem when you are free of the shackles of domesticity. Time normally spent making meals, arguing about eating the food, clearing up, and then making the next meal, can be spent on far more agreeable pastimes. H and I were away from the kids for only one day and night, and yet we crammed so much into that short space of time, it felt like we had been away for a week. Even the weather was complicit in this wild fantasy, by staying dry for the walk during the day and turning sunny for the Saturday evening party.
My new walking boots were fantastic – robust, flexible and reliable, which is more than can be said of the person wearing them. My friends and I started our heroic hike with a visit to Chesters at Skelwith Bridge to talk strategy, between mouthfuls of cake. The unanimous decision was to walk up to Stickle Tarn in the Langdale Pikes. This isn’t a difficult walk, but it is steep, and took us over three hours. By the time we got back to the car park, my knees were trembling so much that I could have been a teenager in the side alley of a nightclub.
A hot bath sorted me out, and within a couple of hours I had morphed from hearty hiker to party princess (or merry matron, depending on your perspective).
Any meal which starts with Taittinger on the terrace is going to be good, and the spectacular views over Lake Windermere were an added bonus. There were plenty of tasty little ‘amuse gueules’ which certainly amused this girl. I ate so many of them, there didn’t seem much point in going inside for the main meal. I was only persuaded to do so by the promise of a French white (Lamy St Aubin chardonnay) and a South African red (Meerlust Rubicon). Obviously I felt the need to sample them both, several times over.
Strangely, the more wine my fellow walkers and I drank, the more our ramble to Stickle Tarn took on the dimensions of an epic mountain adventure that would have had Sir Edmund Hillary begging to turn back, claiming lack of experience. By the end of the evening, one of my friends was slurring so much that we felt sure her jaw was displaying the early symptoms of frostbite. The other was having dizzy spells and kept falling over, so she was obviously suffering from altitude sickness.
Back here in the kitchen it already seems like a long time ago. I want to recapture that heady romantic feeling of being on the hotel terrace, without having to shout ‘Come away from the edge!’ to a lively child every five minutes. Perhaps I can re-enact some of the glamour with this chilled La Prendina Estate Pinot Grigio Rosé (M&S £5.59). Its crisp fruity flavour makes me think of strawberries and raspberries, and warm evenings where the glow from the setting sun is reflected on the dappled surface of a lake. Sadly, the only water I can see from my kitchen window is a fetid pool of stagnant rainwater which has collected in the yellow plastic lid of the sandpit. Not quite the effect I was after.
I think I will just sit down at the kitchen table, pour myself another chilled glass, close my eyes and dream. I can already feel a bout of altitude sickness coming on.

Do I Look Phat In These Jeans?

Just before we left for school this morning, I reminded my youngest that he was due to have a little friend over for tea. He went into a mild panic, and appeared to start tidying his bedroom. By the time I had scooped my lower jaw off the carpet, I realised that he wasn’t actually tidying, but feverishly hiding anything that might be considered ‘babyish.’ Teddies, Thomas stuff, and any vaguely ‘pre-school’ toys were dispatched to the cupboard with a ruthless efficiency that would have made Alan Sugar uncomfortable.

This is not the first time that I have witnessed one of my children go through such a Judas-like betrayal of old favourites. Yet again, I had mixed feelings about it. Like most parents, I want my kids to have the courage to ‘be themselves’ but I know that like most children, they just want to fit in and be like everyone else. Still, I had to restrain the urge to throw thirty pieces of silver into his bedroom.

It seems that his classmates are very quick to castigate anyone who hasn’t moved on from one set of heavily marketed merchandise to the next. It’s dispiriting, but maybe it isn’t so different for adults. You only have to look at those misguided fashion-slaves whose stumpy legs were far better served by last year’s comfortable boot-cut jeans than this year’s skinny cropped ones. They have obviously had to ease them on with a warm spoon, but presumably their desire to fit in with the fashionable crowd is stronger than their desire to fit in their jeans.

I am breaking with a long standing Friday night tradition by not opening a bottle of prosecco. Instead, in homage to the balmy summer evening, I have a glass of La Gioisa Pinot Grigio Blush (£4.99 Tesco). It looks gorgeous, and tastes rather satisfyingly of strawberries.

I have something of a love-hate relationship with rosé wine. It frequently leaves me with a headache, but that may have something to do with drinking too much of it while sitting in the sunshine. I have fond memories of picnics in my late teens, when my friends and I would cool a bottle of Mateus Rosé in a nearby stream. I wonder if it has now become fashionably retro to have empty Mateus bottles as candle holders, dripping with melted wax. About twenty years ago, no self-respecting trattoria was seen without them.

As someone who appears more fat than Phat in her jeans, I am likely to be considered retro rather than cutting edge. Last week, I inadvertently referred to an ‘LP’ instead of a CD, in front of some Bright Young Things, causing gales of mirth, and instantly reducing my status to that of dinosaur. I should have added that if we put the wireless on, we could listen to the Hit Parade.