I hate waste. Time, food, money – the thought of them being squandered sends me into a tailspin. So – the Girl wears the Boy’s old clothes; his clothes in turn are often hand-me-downs from concerned aghast generous friends; they both eat our leftovers as much as possible (and during the day I eat theirs); I pass around books / dvds so that others can benefit from my Amazon habit; and I beat myself up more or less constantly about whether I’m using free time effectively (the consensus is that I rarely do, but then I reason with myself that those cupboards are unlikely to clean themselves out; it’s fun being in my head - the circus never stops).
So my unwavering attitude to my gym membership – one of, at best, indifference, but more often pure loathing – is a persistent source of bafflement to me. I pay SEVENTY FIVE POUNDS a month for it – madness – and have used it probably ten times since the Girl was born. That’s about ninety quid a visit. At those rates, I could have Tracy Anderson living in my house (I too could look like Gwynneth Paltrow!). Every (wasted) month I decide “I’m just going to cancel the damn thing”; and then I enquire about cancelling it, and the look the receptionist gives me is one of “How could you do this, what we have is so special” (and in any event you have to give three months’ notice – imagine if that rule applied to dating?) and I feel bad, and annoyed at myself, and resolve to actually go, use it, and become the lithe strong creature I like to think I once was. In fact I was so fired up at the weekend that I went – shudder – swimming; but fuck me if I didn’t get chafe marks under my arms from my swimsuit... Obviously I can’t go back again until they’ve healed. And so another month is wasted.
I make up for it tho’ by getting maximum usage from my health insurance. I used to be one of those people who doesn’t like bothering their doctor (“In this bucket? Oh, that’s just my guts; they started to spill out last week, but I thought I’d wait to see if it resolved itself, I didn’t want to take up your time”) but now – possibly since having the kids and realising that if I pop my clogs they’ll end up eating toast for the rest of their childhoods, but more likely the realisation that this is the age when people start getting sick - I’m off at the doctors at the drop of a hat. And if one of the kids is sick, the hat hasn’t even touched the floor before we’re knocking on the surgery door. It’s minimal intrusion to the doctor really – I just go in, explain what the problem is, and demand request a referral. In the past four years I’ve had knee surgery, a breech baby resulting in a c-section, a baby with two placentas resulting in a c-section, a baby hospitalised for pneumonia, the same baby scanned and x-rayed for respiratory problems, and most recently numerous scans and examinations for an undetermined abdominal problem, the professional concern being for ovarian cancer. Holy crap!
There were two particularly bad elements to this (apart, of course, from the obvious). The first was popping into my GP in the first place, expecting it to be a routine referral request, and so having the kids in tow. She’s great – thorough, concerned, considerate – and suggested an internal examination. So there she was, her hand up my nether-regions, the Girl in her pram whipping around to see if she could find anything to eat, the Boy standing by my head, looking in astonishment at proceedings. “Mummy, what she DOO-NING?” he wailed through tears, as she took out the car-jack thingy and shoved it up under the blanket between my legs. I reassured him and he calmed down, although the shock obviously had a physical effect on him because 30 seconds later he was doing his tippy-toe dance. “I need to do a poo..!” “Ok, just wait one minute”; “Mummy......... I reeeeeally need to do a poo!” “I know love, just one more minute, good boy”; “MUMMY!!! HELP! It’s coming OUT MY BUM...”
I highly recommend this tactic to anyone who either needs something to take their mind off the fact that there’s a medieval torture instrument in their fanny, or wants to get a quick consultant’s referral from their GP; we were out the door, letter in hand, two minutes later.
The other mild trauma was having an ultrasound scan; lying in the darkened room with all the beeping machines, I couldn’t help but expect there to be a teeny throbbing blob waving out at me, the thought of which made me feel rather unwell. The only thing which raised a smile was imagining the look on the Man’s face when I told him I was knocked up. Well – deep, heartfelt sigh of thanks - I wasn’t; and several more scans, bloodtests, and undignified pokes and prods later I was diagnosed – provisionally – with... a hernia! Substantially less worrying than cancer, but still – not exactly the glamour I was hoping would usher me into my forties. A fucking hernia. Is this the thanks I get for loafing my two enormous children up and down the stairs all day?
And so more tests and pokes and prods – and guess what? As of yesterday I don’t have a hernia after all. Just some nasty scar tissue and a trapped nerve. And here’s the irony: The only treatment is - Exercise. Going to the gym. As much as I can, with lots of swimming and abdominal strengthening (whatever that is).
On balance I’m not sure I wouldn’t rather have the hernia. At the very least it would allow me to lounge about all day (ha!) catching up on online episodes of the rather excellent Good Cook – Simon Hopkinson’s new(ish) BBC show. This is stolen from him, and changed slightly to remove all traces of the nasty hairy little critters that are anchovies.
Piedmontese Peppers (aka posh roasted peppers)
You need:
- One red or yellow pepper per person
- Lots of extra virgin olive oil
- A clove of garlic per person
- About 6 cherry, or two smallish regular, tomatoes per person.
- Salt and pepper
- Some grated parmesan or a ball of mozzarella cheese to top (optional. If you have the tastebuds of a brave warrier, you can go the SH route and top with - uuuugh - anchovies. Just typing that word makes me shudder.)
Heat the oven to 190c/375f/gas 5
Halve the peppers lengthways (through the stem), discarding the pith (is that what the white bits are called?) and seeds.
Place cut-side-up in an ovenproof dish. Lash some olive oil over them.
Roughly chop the garlic, and sprinkle in the pepper cavities.
Tuck the tomatoes in the peppers (SH recommends skinning them; I think life is too short to skin a tomato, and having to eat tomato skins has never bothered me particularly. If you are fussy, dip the tomatoes in boiling water for a minute, then peel off the skins. Otherwise use the time to drink half a glass of wine.)
Lots more olive oil over the top, some salt and pepper, and into the oven for about an hour – start checking them after 45 minutes or so. If they’re scorched, then remove.
If using parmesan, grate it straight onto the peppers. If using mozzarella, cut into small chunks and place on top of them. I can't write the A word again, so assume you know just to lay them on top. Either way, eat with lots of bread to mop up the garlicy tomato juice which has gathered in the peppers, and red wine – for its health-giving hernia-combatting* properties.
(*not really; although I drink ALOT of red wine and do not have a hernia. Draw your own conclusions.)
