I haven't been well.  On Sunday I had cystitis which, by mid afternoon, had turned to blood in my wee, and by evening a bit of wee in my blood, and a whole world of pain.  So off to A&E who were good enough to supply sympathy (really!) and antibiotics.  And a diagnosis of roaring kidney infection

So I've been phenomenally tired.  I have slept a good 18 hours, each of the last 4 days.  And still I could sleep.

Today, though, I have taken a bona fide day off sick.  It's quite sunny, outside my bedroom window, with a slight (chilly) breeze.  I thought I'd be brave, and *do* something, so I went and made a block of the red quilt.  And got two more blocks three pieces together.  Once they're finished, that's the end of the piecing for that quilt, I think - just some sashing to do and it can all be slung together (oh no!  I've just remembered the block I don't like, which will have to be remade.  But that should be straightforward).  The problem is, I have no idea how I want to quilt it.  Quilt it??  I have no idea how I want to back it!!  I have a vague notion that black and white might be nice, with the usual row of scrappy pieces, but I can't find any black and white fabric that's mostly white....  Any pointers gratefully received (any evidence of readers at all, actually!)

So then I fancied toast.  With marmite.  But there's no bread, so I wandered into town, and provisioned us.  And came home and felt tired, so have been in bed ever since.

I really want to crochet, but if I start anything new with the red quilt still incomplete, there might be trouble.  I have my eye on the babette blanket.  And there's an impending baby at work who could use a little crochet blanket like Joe's...

I'm watching some workmen instal a netting roof over the five-a-side football pitch in the park, opposite, and trying to convince myself that the dogs are *only* farting, and there's no need to pad around the house in case that horrid smell has a physical source.  And thinking about going back to sleep...

In the end, I did none of the solipsistic, moochy things that were making me so despondent, and gardened instead.  I found some poppies on special offer in the garden centre (I only went for a bag of compost) and so bought 3.  They're very beautiful, so I had fun on Monday morning, taking photos of them.

I love how my camera captures each hair on the stalks and buds.  The opening bud is still trying to shrug off its little cap, today.

Then I decided they were so beautiful I wanted to make one, so I spent half an hour in the shed with various bits of mulberry bark, crepe de chine and velvet, before admitting that the creative spark seems to have left me for a while.  Oh well...

 I also seem to have picked up one of these.  It's a bit of a triffid, with largish leaves and this lily-like flower.  I can't remember what it's called, but there was a hole just the right size for it at the back of the bed.  Which is no mean feat, considering just how little bed there is, in this garden.

So then I tied back the daffodils, and planted the bedding plants.  These are begonias, which the snails are enjoying very much, thank you...  There were also sweet williams, snapdragons, and marigolds.  I expect the snails will enjoy the marigolds, too, when they've tired of the begonias.  Oh well, I never was a huge fan of begonias.

I filled various tubs, window boxes and stray pots with geraniums.  I do like a good geranium.  And a couple of straggly tomato and strawberry plants went into the bottom of the tub with the clematis in.  I don't think they'll survive -they got rather too dry in their little plug plant pots - but it's got to be worth a try, right?

And then the aquilegia, which is actually rather coming to the end of its season, looked so stunning in its shady corner that I took a sneaky picture of that, too.

And after that, it was just a question of throwing some alpines in the front (which was just a series of gravel beds, and now has  fig tree (with 3 figs) in a large tub; some window boxes of peas, beans and tomatoes, and an extensive alpine bed.  Looks less ordered, but much nicer.

In the early mornings, I belong to old men.  I leave the house at 6.30 (must remember to bring my insulated mug home), to walk to the station.  The first person I talk to, most days, is the elderly gentleman round the corner who's just taking his dachsunds for a walk.  They are beautiful dogs: miniature, long-haired.  The older one is black, with a delicate curl to her fur and limpid eyes which blend into her coat.  The younger, more excitable one is brown, with black tips.  She's inquisitive and bright, and always thinks she'd like to say hello to me.  After a sniff or two, she remembers I'm a stranger and barks.  Between the impulse and the memory, her owner and I share How Are Yous.

Then, two corners later, there's the singing alarm clock man.  I overtake him and his wife on the final stretch, these days, but they both Good Morning and smile.

Some days, there's an Asian lady, scurrying over the road with a mug of tea, chatting and giggling for a few moments.

Weekends are altogether different.  There's no imperative to get up, but the puppy sneaking onto the bed makes it unpleasant to stay there, and disruptive to fight him off.  So mostly I'm up by 8 at the latest.  Which does constitute a lie in, admittedly.

This morning, coffee and poached eggs and a snuggle on the sofa with my young son.  And here I am, be-dressing gowned, waiting for the bathroom and wondering what to do.  In fact, there's nothing *to* do.  Well, there's a quilt in the making, and a bit of work to finish, but neither of those are speaking to me at the moment.  I suspect I shall browse T K Maxx for a ball dress I don't need until next month, and go to Boots, to find the wherewithal to remove my moustache.  I harbour fantasies of weekends spent in shared endeavour; children and partner and I all wrapped up in mutual delights, and so I can't help feeling a sharp sense of anti-climax at the prospect of shallow, solipsistic mooching.  But the children are of an age where they don't want to be with their parents in public, and the partner doesn't mind sharing the bed with the dog. 

So in the early mornings, I belong to old men, and at weekends I belong to myself.  It's a strange discipline!

It's a funny thing, applying makeup on the train. The first few times, you are focussed on the motion, the gentle sway interrupted by arrhythmical lurches. You have to learn to balance your arm as if on a gimble, so that the lurches don't result in interesting streaks of mascara down your cheek, or a quick stab of eyeliner. That takes a couple or three repetitions.

Once that's mastered though, there's really nothing to it. But it's an odd sensation, and you sit quietly at the back of the carriage, in an airline style seat which you've carefully picked out because its twin is unoccupied and there's nobody across the aisle, either.

Five weeks in, and I am sitting this morning in a face to face cluster of 6 seats. The airline style seats  over the aisle are all full, and facing me, but there's nobody else in my pod. I settle, tucking my briefcase behind my legs and my handbag on my lap, and rummage in the side pocket for my glorious  makeup bag. It balances neatly on the opening of my bag, and I unzip it and begin the familiar routine: lid off the eyelid foundation, finger in, a quick slick across each lid and blend into the brows.   Somebody over the aisle rustles, loudly. I am not distracted. Lid on one pot and off another. Dip in the  brush, and spread the powder that's supposed to neutralise the shadows under my eyes. And then spread a bit more, because it has an increasingly uphill task, these days. Brush back, lid on, reach for  the crayon pouch. As I slide the first crayon from its holster, my eyes rise and flick round the carriage. I am gathering an audience. Over the aisle, one glance retreats hastily back to its laptop, one book is briskly raised, and the chap looking slightly over his shoulder is too late to disguise his gaze, and shifts slightly in his seat. I twist the pearly crayon out of its case, and, resisting the temptation to run my tongue over my lips, rub it over each eyelid. It's quite difficult to spot against the shadow neutraliser.   Next is the black crayon. I steal a glance across the aisle, and wonder whether they'd be less shocked if I went for the full Marilyn Manson rings.  I do my usual smudgy corners.  Mascara next.  The tension  mounts, but I manage not to smear it everywhere and, with a flick of the blusher brush and some judicious blending, job's a good'un.

I can't decide if my audience is thrilling to the delicious risk of a poke in the eye, or whether they're just surprised to see a woman so publicly at her toilette. So I look again. The book is being read, and the laptop judiciously tapped. But Mr Over The Shoulder has an expression of incredulous disapproval. I might as well have been hooking up my bra.

I mentally shrug, and settle down to read the paper over my new neighbour's shoulder. Why is it that, even in tight spaces, men must sit with their legs splayed?

And the man over the aisle has an iPad.

Sent from my iPhone

This, mes petits choux fleurs, is amongst the coolest gifts I have ever been gifted.  "Why is that?"  I hear you cry.  Well just look at it!  It's a Billy Bragg (I don't want to change the world, I'm not looking for a New England, are you looking for another girl?) autograph!  Not only is it a Billy Bragg autograph, but it's a Billy Bragg autograph written on an SWP leaflet, and collected at the Make Votes Count rally outside The Work Foundation this very afternoon.  How perfect is that?  Only very perfect!  How many years does that take you back?!  And who would give me such a perfect gift? Well, only my beloved who chose to go and rediscover his activist youth, this afternoon.  Yes, he went in search of his youth and he found Billy Bragg.  So many metaphors...

I am going to frame it, and hang it in my office, thereby firmly establishing my credentials-by-proxy.

So we went to Epsom, yesterday, to the family party.  It was one of those large events, 50 odd guests, designed to show how well my father is coping with my stepmother's new circumstances (mobility issues, dementia, high dependency and so forth), so high on emotion, tension, and stress.  It went remarkably well, but poor Dad was really struggling.

Lots of lovely people there, though - my favourite aunt and uncle; my sister, her husband and two small nephews; the dotty next door neighbour. 

In other news, a friend writes "am sure you must have more hours in your day than anyone else - which isn't fair!  Or perhaps you don't waste as much time 1) drinking 2) watching mindless tv 3) shouting at small children 4) drinking!"  So you might like to know, friend of mine, that I am sitting in front of The Daily Show (Global Edition), with a glass of wine beside me and the laptop on my lap, arguing with Daisy about whether she can stay up a bit later if she uses the time to have a shower or whether bedtime actually means bedtime NOW.  I'm just very practised at looking sober in type...

Look what I found today, in my lovely kitchen shop!  Aren't they beautiful?  They had to be tested, though, immediately.  The only recipe I could find that needed lots of mixing bowls was, unfortunately, for banana and golden syrup muffins.  So  I mashed bananas and beat eggs, and creamed butter and sugar to my heart's content. 

They didn't last very long, though, so I might have to try it again.

In other news, it has mostly rained today, and I either have a stinking cold or stinking hay fever, I can't work out which.  So I've blitzed it with lemsip and loratidine (?) and still the sneezes keep rolling in...

We have all stayed indoors, today.  My beloved has rigged up a television and freesat in the front room, so I have curled under a rug watching rubbish films on the satellite channels.  My poor son is being copiously and violently ill.  I rather suspect a migraine, but since he can't keep anything down I can't even offer paracetamol. 

Tomorrow, we have to go to my stepmother's birthday party, which will be trying.   And is a long journey.  Perhaps if small son is still copiously ill, we won't be able to make it...

So.  The apron.  It's delightfully fifties, and reversible (the other side is a white, floral Alexander Henry fabric which I will show you another time, the camera being almost as big as the photographer, today).  The ties and bodice top and waist strip are made from a lovely Alexander Henry day of the dead fabric, which there wasn't quite enough of to make the whole thing... but I love this pattern.  It's almost good enough to waltz around in wearing nothing but lingerie and high heels underneath...

And on that salubrious note, I'm going to go and cast my vote.  Do the right thing, people!