Woman’s Hour, pumpkin soup and teenage boys


pumpkin

Good Thing no.1: Woman’s Hour, Twitter and ‘The Curse of Lovely’ In these past weeks while I’ve been off work, it’s increasingly seemed as if Woman’s Hour and I are engaged in some kind of counselling process, with the editor evidently having a hotline to my ongoing musings about quite how I’ve found myself here. Yesterday’s feature – ‘The Curse of Lovely’, with the tag ‘are you just too obliging, too decent, a bit too lovely? It can be a problem’ – had me launching a tweet into the twittersphere and, to my amazement, finding myself on the receiving end, not of the notorious Twitter Lynch Mob, but of several lovely, yes lovely, tweets, all being supportive and kind, offering advice, and some even advising I hang onto the ‘lovely’!
‘Lovely’ was quickly rescued from the curse of any wicked witch, and transformed into a thing of strength and comradeship. It’s only a curse when others exploit it.

Good Thing no.2: Cooking home-made pumpkin soup just for me for lunch.
Filling the house with the smell of onions frying, admiring the orange gleam of pumpkins doused in olive oil, more than compensated for the fact I managed to burn the onions, leaving me with a decidedly brown pumpkin soup. Still, it was edible.

Good Thing no.3: Teenage boys and dinner-time conversationsSon no.2 has taken to reading at the table while we eat. Husband frowns, but quietly I enjoy this habit, because it reminds me of myself when I was a kid. I read everywhere I possible could. And what’s great about his reading habit is he can’t keep a single thing to himself, so we found ourselves – following an anecdote about his history teacher warning him and his friends NOT to come dressed as ‘boobs or purple dildos’ for Comic Relief on Friday – being presented with a question. He was reading the G2 – can’t you just tell how middle-class we are?! – and had landed on the health page. He appeared to be reading Dr Dillner, but suddenly looked up with a puzzled expression on his face and asked, ‘What’s a foot job?’. Son no. 1 choked on his rigatoni, husband put his head in his hands, while I puzzled over the images which arose in my head as I tried to form an answer. Thank you, Pamela Stephenson.

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