An unexpected treasure trove

While on holiday, I rummaged through the books in my father's study. To my utter incredulity, there was an early edition of Irma Rombauer's 'Joy of Cooking'. You might remember it being mentioned in the film Jules and Julia. To find the book at all amongst my father's military tombs was a delightful suprise (my father's not known for his cooking skills, other than his signature dish 'mush'), but once I opened it, I found hand written notes scrawled in the margins by my great aunt. I was entranced.

I hunted on. I found an original Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management (first printed in 1861). This one belonged to my great grandmother. It too was stained and dog-eared and covered in hand written notes, with an overpowering aroma of old book. The spine had long since broken and and the pages were so fragile it was terrifying to touch them. But it was quite possibly the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

As I searched on, I came across a number of equally lovely old cookery books, including recipe files of tips cut out of fifties-style magazines and yellowing newspapers, all punctuated with lots of personal notes about what was good or what needed adapting. Even menus from dinner parties gone by were tucked inside like little vignettes of past lives - devilled eggs and chicken chasseur anyone? It was a treasure trove from a different era.

Having gorged myself on cookery books, I found an small old hard-backed book which had my great grandfather's name printed on the first page. It was called '15 000 miles in a ketch' by Raymond du Baty. It charted the true story of an adventurous young Frenchman who set sail in search of the Desolation Islands. It was a delight, partly because some of his voyage was the same one I did in 2009 across the Atlantic - and it sounded virtually identical in so many ways - but mainly because it was such an honest, funny account. I could barely put it down.

Once I'd devoured that, I was on the hunt for a new read and to my delight found 'Pride and prejudice' by Jane Austen. I confess, I have never read any Jane Austen, but have watched the films. The book was brilliant - not only the story, but the actual book. Brown-aged pages snuggling into a small, hard-backed, blue cover, the perfect size to tuck into your pocket, ready to be snuck out whenever conversation might turn dull.

As if all of that wasn't enough, my father brought out all the old family albums to browse through. By old, I mean some pictures going back to my great, great, great grandparents. Not just pictures but poignant letters, like those written by my father's father, just months before he died aged only 48. They gave a snapshot of lives gone by. Fascinating lives interrupted by the Great Depression and World Wars.

Never before had I felt such a sense of connection to my past. To understand where I had come from and what had made the people in our family what they are today. It was such a grounding yet uplifting experience.

So while the normal holiday pursuits of lying in the sun and walking on the beach and going for a sail were lovely, what transformed this holiday into something truly special was the treasure trove I discovered tucked away on my father's shelves.

Treasure hunts and Christmas inspiration

This afternoon I was on a very determined mission to find the black hole of missing things as the list of missing things has been mounting steadily. I've realised that there's a simple explanation as to why things are going missing: our house is a tip. So the boys were told that we were spending the afternoon having a treasure hunt so that we could find:

- my very expensive watch
- my missing slipper
- my library book
- son 1's school trousers. We're down to one pair. This is not good.
- the charger for the rechargeable camera batteries so that I can actually get some pictures of son 1 in his play next week. The batteries died which meant we failed to capture the our small wailing sheep clinging to his teacher's leg at today's pre-school nativity. Shame really.

Son 2 quickly lost interest in the treasure hunt and decided to run himself a bath instead. As you do when you're 3. He obviously needed a restorative soak in the tub after the stress of his woolly performance. However, while rummaging through the toys in the cupboard under the basin he said very nonchalantly: "here's your watch mummy" handing it to me, before choosing a mouldy submarine to play with.

Fabulous. Tick. Found the first and most important item on the list. So the fact that I asked, begged, pleaded with the boys to let me know if they had stashed my watch anywhere and them denying it emphatically, turns out they had decided my Longines needed to live with some wet, smelly toys. Good.

After that triumph, I set son 1 to work on taking all the shoes, handbags and clothes that have fallen off the hangers and onto the floor, out of the bottom of my cupboard. I asked him to look for my missing slipper and to rearrange the shoes into pairs. He found the slipper. And decided to make a long line of shoe pairs around the bedroom. Not quite what I had in mind, but my lost slipper was found. No more hopping on one foot in the morning. Two quick hits. I was feeling brilliant.

I then rummaged under a pile of clothes that needed to be ironed thinking the missing school trousers might be there and low and behold, the battery charger showed itself. Remarkable. Still no trousers though.

We then set about finding the book. Despite son 1 taking every single book off my study shelf and asking me 'if this is it?' (it never was), we couldn't find it. I shall have to write a novel called 'The mystery of the missing book in the night'.

Anyway, while all of this hunting was going on, I stumbled upon a black, leather bound book that I have used for the last few years to write out my menus for Christmas, New Year, Thanksgiving and other big feasts. Not only have I written out my menus, I've also listed all the ingredients to be purchased in advance and those that need to be bought last minute. Apparently I have OCD and I didn't even know it.

Here's last year's menu for example:
Xmas eve: Salmon canapes (except for me as otherwise my head would have swollen up and exploded), hungarian goulash with braised rice, garlic bread, loose leaf salad and finely shredded red onion, pear cranberry crisp with vanilla bean ice cream.

Xmas morning: Eggs benedicts with salmon or canadian ham, bucks fizz

Xmas lunch: Nigella's super spiced turkey, all spice gravy, gingerbread stuffing, chippolatas in bacon, roast parsnips and potatoes, buttered carrots, green beans with toasted pine nuts, cranberry sauce with port and figs; Christmas pudding with brandy sauce.

While reading this, it occurred to me that Christmas is just 14 days away and I haven't given a minute's thought to this year's Christmas meals. About mid-November I did get my recipe books out and I bought a couple of magazines with Christmas menu ideas in them. And did nothing further. But since then, I've simply had a nagging feeling that I really ought to be doing something about it given that we're hosting people for Christmas eve, Christmas Day, Boxing Day all the way through to New Year's Day.

For new year's eve we're holding a small party with a rat pack type theme, plenty of cocktails, Frank Sinatra tunes, and chi chi dresses. I don't have a party frock. I haven't thought about how to make the house pretty or what cocktails to serve (although obviously cosmopolitans will be in there) and I've got as far as saying that I'll make boeuf en croute. And that's that where my planning has started and stopped.

I don't know what's wrong with me this year. Exhaustion possibly? I just seem to be completely lacking in Christmas inspiration. Normally by now I'd be whipping up batches of gingerbread men for the tree and trays of mince pies just for shits and giggles. This year...nothing.

I'm going to have to do something about this otherwise I'll wake up on 24 December and instead of heading off to the farmer's market for my lovely free range pre-ordered turkey, I'll be heading off to Iceland for some turkey twizzlers and a Kerry Katona £5 party platter of nastiness. I must find some inspiration. I must, I must, I must. Just not sure where to find it. Perhaps it's loitering in the same place as my missing book.

Desert Island Discs

I have been invited by the lovely Katyboo to come up with my Desert Island Discs collection as per the BBC Radio 4 show which invites celebrities on to discuss what they'd take to a desert island. I'm allowed 8 pieces of music, one book (not the Bible or Shakespeare but that's cool because they wouldn't have been on my list anyway) and one luxury item (not to be used for escaping from the island).

I do wonder a bit about the logistics of this. I mean, is it a trick question? You take 8 tunes with you but unless you take your ipod, record player, walkman or gramphone as your luxury item, you might as well be humming the 8 tunes in your head. In which case, why limit yourself to 8?

But assuming they've got the technical bit covered - perhaps the tunes are piped out of a low hanging coconut - here are my choices (note: for your listening pleasure, I've linked each song to the YouTube video of it so you can have it playing in the background - it's all about ambience):

Track 1: Andrea Bocelli - Con te Partiro. Because it's beautiful and moves me to tears whenever I hear it. It would be perfect for watching gorgeous sunsets from my lonely island and weeping for home. Plus I walked down the aisle to it so it's got meaning for me. So that's my soppy choice.

Track 2: Walking on Sunshine - Katrina and the waves. Because my island would obviously be sunny. Probably hot. Probably too hot. But I would endeavour to remain upbeat and optimistic despite getting diarrhea from living solely on coconut milk and would celebrate the sunshine. Plus, you just can't help but get up and boogie when you hear that tune. So it's a good work out number too. And it's important to stay toned and trim as you never know when a boat of gorgeous naval officers might sail past.

Track 3: In your eyes - Peter Gabriel. Because it's a falling in love song that I can never hear too many times. It would probably inspire me to whittle coconut shells into the shape of hearts and then link them together as ethnic jewellery (again, useful for when the naval officers come by).

Track 4&5: Bohemian Rhapsody & We are the Champions - Queen. Because where else could you sing these two songs out loud at the very top of your voice using all the lung power you can muster, with a piece of driftwood as a microphone and a palm frond for a mock guitar without a shred of embarrassment? You know you want to do it now, don't you?

Track 6: Under Attack - ABBA. This isn't one of their well known songs. I could have selected any number of those, but this song has special meaning for me. As children, my sisters and I would spend hours, days, weeks, months practicing a dance routine to this song. Time well spent as I can remember exactly none of the dance moves. But with nothing but time on my hands, I could use the time on my island to reach into the dark spaces of my brain and recall each and every step or possibly make up some new ones. Not only that but I imagine myself wearing a camoflaguey type head band and a t-shirt of the same tatty fabric, tied in a knot just below my breasts which would be remarkably pert given their lack of bra and my diet of coconut milk would display my bronzed six pack. Honestly, I'd look bloody marvellous. And if that isn't enough, then just take a look at the first verse words to show you how appropriate it would be for when my paranoid delusions set in:

Don't know how to take it, don't know where to go
My resistance running low
And every day the hold is getting tighter and it troubles me so
(You know that I'm nobody's fool)
I'm nobody's fool and yet it's clear to me
I don't have a strategy
It's just like taking candy from a baby and I think I must be

Under attack, I'm being taken
About to crack, defences breaking
Won't somebody please have a heart
Come and rescue me now cos I'm falling apart

It's a toe tapper.

Track 7: Under African Skies - Paul Simon. Because it reminds me of home and makes me smile. Not to mention giving me a great chance to show off my infamous butt dancing.

Track 8: Lollipop - Mika. Because it is camptastic and I LOVE IT. Sad but true. But no-one else will be there so no tutting and telling me to act my age. So phhht. (I particularly like the brass marching band bit - I might even whittle a baton from palm tree bark and start marching and twirling. I'd definitely have a palm frond hula skirt to go with it.)

So that ends my musical interlude and I've worked up a sweat typing this as I've been bopping to all the tunes (thanks YouTube).

Onto my book. Tricky one. Honestly and this is terribly, terribly sad but if I could get away with 7 books it would be the Harry Potter collection. But as I'm limited to one, it would probably be 'Teach yourself French' so that on the off chance I ever got off the island (or indeed am rescued by some dashing French sailors) I could sound tres sexy.

And finally, my luxury item. Tricky - do I go practical or do I go pampering or do I take something to eat? Probably a diary (that comes with a pen attached so that it counts as one thing). I imagine the entries would go something like:

Day 55:
Woke up. It's sunny (again). I'm thirsty. And hungry. Coconut milk for breakfast then. Again. Feeling a bit down. Probably time for a bit of Katrina and the Waves.

Day 56:
It's sunny. (again). Didn't sleep due to sprained ankle. Must remember not to dance like a loon nearby long drop. Wish I'd brought soap as my luxury item.

Day 57:
It's sunny (again). Think I might try catch a fish today. Coconuts are just sooo yesterday. Sure I'm allergic to them but what the heck.

Day 58:
It's sunny (again). Turns out I really am allergic to fish. But the good news is that I used my pen to stab a hole in my throat so now I can breathe again. Hoorah. Time for some soul lifting Paul and Peter. Might whittle myself a new heart necklace too.

Day 60:
It's sunny (but there is a solitary cloud in the sky). Today I'm going to have noir de coco for breakfast. My french really is coming along nicely.

Day 61:
It's sunny. There's a surprise. Fab sunset last night though. Inspired choice to bring the ol' Bocelli with me. Just as shame all the weeping dehydrates me so badly.

Day 62:
It's sunny which means I need to have an early start before it gets too hot. It's time for a dress rehearsal for my Big Show. I'm opening with Abba, then doing a bit of butt dancing, some baton twirling, before closing with my two big Queen numbers. My audience is a coconut, my washed up log (I call him Bert), a turtle shell and three stones. I'm pretty nervous. Tough crowd. Wish me luck.

Day 63:
It's sunny. Who fucking cares. Not so much as a smattering of applause last night, much less the expected standing ovation. And after all my effort too. This place blows.

Day 64:
I think I see a ship. Ooh, looks like it's got French men on board. And they're all doing the YMCA. Am sure they'll love my Mika track. Must fly.

Bermuda triangle: the mystery of the missing things

I believe that the Bermuda Triangle has relocated itself from the Atlantic Ocean to our house right here in West Berkshire. It's downsized from making ships and airplanes disappear to more mundane household items vanish in the night.

Two weeks ago on the Sunday evening I read my library book in bed. By the time I got into bed on Monday, the book was gone. There might be a rational explanation. Our cleaner came that day and she might have put it somewhere. Unfortunately, she's gone back home to Romania for a couple of weeks so I can't ask her. I seriously doubt that she took it with her because she can't really speak English so an 800-odd page book might be a bridge too far. Then I thought that perhaps my husband had hidden it. It was a feminist book - the Woman's Room by Marilyn French - and he thought it was making me 'uppity'. He certainly noticed fewer cooked meals waiting for him when he got home since I started reading it. But he swears blind he hasn't touched it.

Next up are the kids. They are very, very good at squirrelling things away, never to be found again. Like the mystery of the missing toothbrush which I eventually found squeezed in between a cupboard door and full length mirror attached to the door. But they assure me that they haven't touched it. And even the promise of a chocolatey reward for anyone who could find it didn't bear fruit. I have turned this house upside down. I have looked in completely improbable places like the freezer, in the loos, rummaged through the bins, all to no avail. It has gone. The mystery of the missing book in the night.

Next my watch vanished. I always take it off when bathing the boys because bathing small boys is a wet experience. I put it where I always put in in the bathroom. But it's gone. Again, rewards have been promised to watch finders. I've been through every cupboard, shelf and squirrelling hole in the house. Nada.

Then with a heavy heart, I decided to return to the library to explain about the missing book and return the other now very overdue books. I looked in my wallet for the library cards. And whaddaya know. The library cards were gone too. Not one, not two, but three library cards. Once again, I uprooted the house keeping my eyes peeled for the library book, the watch and the library cards. And still I came up empty handed.

This morning I have woken to find only one slipper. I have a very cold left foot. I have to hope that the missing slipper is simply lying under a pile of dirty clothes somewhere and that it hasn't been taken to the Portal of Missing Things, where no doubt my watch, book, library cards and several thousand single socks are roaming.

I feel as though my life has become a Famous Five mystery and any minute now George, Anne, Dick, Julian and Timmy the dog will come bounding out through a gorse bush clutching my missing things and handing out rounds of sandwiches washed down with lashings of ginger beer. Until then, I have nothing to read, no way of taking out new books, can't tell the time and must hop around on one foot. I'd appreciate it if the Bermuda Triangle could bugger off back to where it came from and return my things.