Home is where the heart is...

As much as one might enjoy home cooking, there are occasions when eating out is just soooo good. I must declare the reason I enjoy eating at home is because I know exactly where my ingredients are sourced. So if I do venture out, I want to ensure that the experience will be memorable on the food front at least. I have yet to be disappointed with the menu on offer at pick more daisies in Wimborne. The staff and service is faultless, the food stunning and the surrounding a bit quirky and reminiscent of the best type of clean hippy offerings available in Bristol, Camden or Glastonbury. Honest food served with imagination and flair. Check it out.

http://www.daisiesrestaurantwimborne.co.uk/dinner.htm

Sometimes simple is best. Well sourced food, perfectly cooked, well presented, just makes for a wonderful experience. Pick More Daisies has to be one of my most favourite local places to indulge in good food, friendly service and remarkable prices. Again this year I will be ordering the Pinenut tart to take to our foodie reunion in May, near Rye.

Divine, simple, good food, Scandinavian shaker charm.

Another day in the life of...

Soil pipes, waste outlets and mangleworzels

OK, OK... so I'm making up for lost blog time, by incorporating a few images from Christmas at the Jones's household, into a collage of daily life as it is now.

I am using Christmas as the landmark because this was the date when I should have been able to relax in a candlelit bath while contemplating world events at the same time as my Christmas shopping list, sipping champagne and placing my loofah in areas privy only to me. (That doesn't quite sound right, but you get my gist).

Work on the downstairs loo begins in earnest next week, so hopefully by the end of the week guests visiting the smallest room in the house will no longer have to risk, nay choose whether to exfoliate their cheeks on the roughcast bricks or play Electrocution Russian Roulette with the hanging light switch. From this moment on, they will be able to sit and contemplate life at a leisurely pace or read one of the many publications in a well lit space; in fact, I'm hoping that the space will be so inviting that even I might use it on the odd occasion. Of course the choice then continues, whether to house my collection of film awards in there too. The Oscar, the BAFTA, the lifetime achievement award, there is only one drawback, I have none, so a visit to the fancy dress shop to pick up my golden Oscar to sit alongside my copy of the BAFTA nominations brochure from 2005 and my clapperboard, will have to suffice for the time being.

The good news is that once this is finished, then work on the bathroom will commence on the following Monday. Ten days of upheaval and mess should then find me the other side of hell with my longed for bathroom of tranquil calm, scented candles and a toy boy to help me with my loofah... sorry, I was daydreaming.

After a mixed up year peppered with ill health and upsets, my daughter and her fiance will be taking a well earned break, leaving me in charge of my grand dog for five days. I am girding my loins for the onslaught of twice daily walks, regular meals and a routine to abide by, I sense five nights with a turn in time of 9.00pm and no social life await me; no change there then. Actually, I am hoping that the dog, no doubt exhausted from his walk, will sleep peacefully at my feet while I get on and finish the synopsis, tighten up the treatment and edit the script of Love Shack before I can finally send it to my producer friend (Paul Sarony) who has generously offered to read it.

The top three finalists of the Sequel to Cannes Short Film Script Competition, will be announced on 14th February, after what has been a lengthy but worthwhile process. I just hope that Level Films is interested in turning one of them into a short film, we shall see in due course.

Until next time... Hugs and Peace. from Rosie x

OMG 6th November was my last posting

I know it has been an age since I last posted when:

* I forget my login information

* I have too many photo's stored and saved that need uploading

* I can post images of my birthday meal with Paul from back in November

* I have photo's of Susan's stay which was also back in November, showing the Christmas lights in Shaftesbury

What have I been doing you ask? Or not, if you couldn't give a toss.

*WARNING* Major Rant! The following cannot be considered slander as it is all documented and I intend to keep to the facts.

I have been stewing over the will it won't it non-arrival of the bathroom furniture from Wickes, which was promised to have been delivered and installed before Christmas.

The bathroom furniture and installation was ordered and paid for in full on 13th November, 2009; I should have known by the date of the order that for some the 13th is unlucky, however, positive and confident that for me and a certain acquaintance in the Midlands the thirteenth is often a lucky date, I went ahead undeterred. Finally, the furniture arrived, not yesterday as promised for the fourth time, but today... 22nd January, 2010, around 50 + days later in total. When did I discover that it wouldn't turn up? Yesterday, when I phoned in the afternoon to find out where it was. When would it be delivered? Between 7am and 1 pm Today. Fifth time lucky!

Thankfully, on the advice of the very informative information sheet that comes with your congratulatory order message and delivery instructions, not to mention the rather fetching yellow balloon that you are advised to tie to your gatepost, I did not have the bathroom stripped and prepped; as the thought of going native in the toilet department for nearly three months would have been a step too far. Furthermore, when the yellow balloon had long since been burst and shrivelled into a bundle the size of a dead canary, it would have lost all significance, as the delivery men would have been able to have found me by the stench and odour wafting from the Bear Grillys (?) type earth pit at the bottom of the garden next to the overhead watering can swinging perilously above; where I am sure I could have been found holding onto the yellow string complete with Gung Ho attitude and a vague hope that a delivery would turn up this decade. Let me tell you, my balloon has since been well and truly burst. Four abortive deliveries later, due to several incomplete orders, I am now the proud owner of a full set of 13 boxes. Installation? 8th February... maybe... or maybe not.

Watch this space for the latest updates as to whether the Wickes installation team will appear to carry out the one week preparation followed by the ten day installation of said thirteen boxes. Yes, this isn't poetic license, it actually does state 13 boxes on the delivery note.

On a more pleasant and positive note, back in November I spent a wonderful evening in Wareham at The Priory (the restaurant not the retreat) with Paul, a good friend and my guru on all things IT. We share a birth date within a day of each other albeit more than a decade apart, so in true Scorpio style, we gorged on divine home made canapes, followed by a robust three course menu loosely based on French cuisine.

For the foodie fanatics it went along the lines of:

We both chose the same starter and dessert, must be a Scorpio thing; smoked duck and pigeon breast terrine, followed by my choice of Fillet steak on a bed of rosti with a truffle and Madeira sauce and Paul's choice was a Pigeon breast served on Jerusalem artichoke mash, with a raspberry jus and spinach. Dessert consisted of a chocolate pecan tart with vanilla ice cream followed by a truly aromatic blend of black coffee and an urgent appointment with the cholesterol clinic.

Highly recommended, with astounding customer service, amazing sumptuous food in a perfect boutique style medieval cellar setting, with sparkling company that found us enthusing over the blend of food flavours, laughing at the strangest facts and figures, exploring the world of science, that boy does know some amazing little known facts and teetering in heels back to the Silver Fox... me not him.

I must go lay down as the shock of the furniture finally arriving along with the planned mammoth blog (I said blog not bog), has surely zapped today's injection of energy.

Breakfast at Tiffany's...

Well Rosie's actually, with James... Oh the anticipation of the gossip the laughs and the endless talk about writing and life...

Seeing at is it so close to my birthday, I could have said Breakfast with an old Banger... but that would be rude... and anyway my therapist tells me not to talk about myself like that.

From these images, you can see that we were enjoying a true British tradition, the classical concert in the Park with the BSO in SUMMERTIME... Yes Summertime. I could hardly press the 'take' button for the thickness of clothing surrounding my upper torso and forcing my arms outward like a character from Royston Vaysey. The photo's don't do James justice, for he is Peter Pan, and my only regret about this Saturday's breakfast is that Graham his other half, won't be able to be with us, because he will be far too busy with his own performance and version of 'On the Buses' and my daughter is playing in a hockey match... Maybe next time around.

Secretly of course, I shall be more than content not to have to share James on this occasion... Bring it on...

The day finally dawns...

No images today, maybe later.

The moment of departure has arrived. My dear old car traded in for a much younger model. I feel like a disloyal friend who has found someone new to play with, but the truth is I need something more reliable; this means the old friend will have to retire in the playground where old motors go to pasture. It is my romanticised notion that the car will live out it days in a field somewhere, housing nesting birds, or homing forlorn foxes from wind and rain during a night of foraging for fancies. I cannot bear to think of the reality... stripped and dumped like a hooker outside a Loveless Motel...

10.30 and the deed will be done, adoption papers to the new owner, a fond farewell glance and a final outstretched finger to trace along her once sleek lines, like a mother relinquishing her treasured offspring... these are the emotions that will act as the catalyst for understanding, if not in a lesser way, the wrench a mother may have felt at having to give up her child, seduced by the promise of a better life. A writers' toolkit of emotion, stored in a brownie tin for resurrection another day, a faded memory, an act of final separation.