Jammin'...

The husband, in a rare brave moment, declared this week that he was slightly worried as to how quickly I was romping into Upper Middle Age Territory (UMAT).  The trigger for this statement was the purchase of the caravan (which we collect later today, so avoid the A34 around 6.00pm).  In his mind, having a caravan, and the accompanying obligatory membership of The Caravan Club, reeks of 'something old people do'.  These were his words, not mine.  I have wanted a caravan for what seems like the whole of my life, with week-long forays to various sites across the UK and Europe with family and friends being some of my favourite times away.  

So that was the trigger.  Since then, he has had what is commonly known as 'an eye on me'.  Now I don't know if subconsciously I am rather happily swanning towards UMAT, but over the last three weeks, I have developed an unusual urge to garden. Plants have been thrust into my borders, weeding is done regularly, and I deadhead every night (never buying blooming petunias again, that's for sure).

But it is the allotment which has confirmed his fears.  I'm over there everyday, watering, weeding and chatting to my celeriacs (something along the lines of, 'For goodness sake, they're only rabbits.  Can't you just wave your leaves around a bit and frighten them off?' The chat with the pumpkin plant (currently 4 square meters and counting) can be quite threatening and I implore my tomatoes to turn red before some other critter pinches them.

Yesterday I was harvesting blackcurrants to make jam (all of a sudden, I can see where he's coming from).  Every time I have walked past my berry-burgeoned-bushes the guilt of leaving the fruit to wither and die has got worse, so I finally decided that yesterday was the day.  Armed with a large bowl, carrier bag, fork, two schnauzers and a pair of pigs' ears, I spent three hours picking the damn things and de-stalking them over at the allotment. Three kilos later, and a rather dicey drive home (I went round a bend a bit too quickly, and the bowl tilted, recovering itself just in time to stop a full interior valet being necessary).

Armed with a BBC recipe, I then spent the rest of the afternoon trying to find a setting point all without the aid of a thermometer.  Son number two called me as I was in the middle of dragging jam across a cold saucer for the fourth time.  Picking the phone up, I shouted at him, 'I'm jammin'...I'll call you back'.

Knowing me as he does, I doubt for one moment that he thought that I was sitting with a handful of failed musicians, humming 'Walk on the Wild Side' whilst running my thimbled fingers up and down a washboard.  This was confirmed in a later conversation when he accused me of being a redneck.  He followed this up with the suggestion that a piece of straw hanging off my lower lip might fit with my new life style.

But it all came good in the end and I am now the proud owner of nine jars of blackcurrant jam.

I wouldn't mind, but I can't stand the stuff...