Wee Scoops

Measure for Measure

My Life on the Run

I have watched a lot of “Hunted” of late. I think I would be amazing at it. The trick is to not phone anyone. So, that’s me. It’s a win.

I imagine I would love it. All I need to do is to wait ….. (parallel universe)…. and then go to Tiso, buy myself some wild camping kit, apply to go on the show and then … go on the show.

I would run, run, run off grid to places I had never heard of and hunker in bushes for a month, then pop up, get on a helicopter and win.

What makes me the perfect contestant for this show? Well, I am hardly likely to phone anyone, am I? I hate phones. Then there’s that achilles’ heel they always look for – that someone can’t go a month without touching base with a spouse or a kid…. Then there’s that thing where in the last week of the show they all start homing like daft pigeons.

Just don’t go home….

So, as you can imagine, when the daughters suggested we camp out in the garden, this was right up my street. In my garden, in fact. Anything to break up the lockdown monotony. We could kid on we were away the weekend or indeed on the run.

We had just watched a Toff and Stanley on the run episode and then we piled out into the tent to avoid the Hunters.

Birdsong, traffic and a light breeze. Toff and Stanley flickering through my subconscious with my shopping list for Tiso. Me, not phoning anyone. Running to the extraction point. I’m going to win…

After not very long, I wake up needing the toilet. But I don’t want to wake the daughters. I go back to sleep. I wake up again. My right hip is aching like I am in the third trimester. It’s weird though – I am on an actual mattress. I shift about a bit, careful not to annoy my bladder. With hip and bladder out of harm’s way, I drift off again.

A wee draught gets into my sleeping bag. The zip is broken. Don’t know why I picked this sleeping bag – after all, this is the one that nearly killed me by being sadly inadequate in sub zero temperatures at the Grand Canyon in 2001… I shiver and drag myself back to the present with my regrettable sleeping bag, my aching hips, my aching back and my aching legs. How rubbish is this mattress?

At 5.30, everything was in pain. Aching from head to foot, I gave up and rolled out of the tent and into the house, got myself some tea, toast’n’chocolate spread and settled down to some BBC News 24.

My whole wild-camping strategy is now somewhat in tatters. I am arguably too old and decrepit to sleep in a tent. Maybe even Stanley Johnson could give me a run for the money. Unless the key is to go to Tiso with a bigger budget than I imagined, for a hip-friendly belter of a Therma-rest Self-Inflating mat.

So, we finished all of the “Hunted” and “Celebrity Hunted” shows last night. One star of the show is the psychologist Donna Youngs, who can read the competitors’minds and predict their strategy and reactions, just by scrolling their social media.

My daughter has pointed out, that by writing this post, I have become very easy to catch.

But then, just like the most predictable contestants, I am, of course, at home.

 

Lockdown Life 2020

Everything I could hope to say or describe has already been said, has already been described or is already a meme. I have nothing to add. I am a living cliché, like everyone else.

Catapulted into lockdown life, I turned to Zoom and banana cake like the next person. And online church, and working from home, and online fitness and a brief flirtation with the Houseparty App before deleting it in distaste. Checking in with friends. Finally finding time to moisturise my feet on a daily basis.

It is certainly preferable to the last few weeks of life before lockdown, when the inevitability of the impending lockdown was all around us – in the scarcity of hand sanitiser and the ever-growing unease around other people. The slow slide into dystopian doom was stressful – and all we wanted was for the government to say “Stop!”. And while we didn’t want all our fun plans cancelled, we knew that they were already not going to happen.

And then we all went home.

So, like the next person, I watched “Tiger King”. Then, like the next person, I tidied out the cupboard under the stairs. I cleared the playroom so that it could become an isolation room if necessary. I filled the attic with everything I wouldn’t need in lockdown. I cleaned the whole house.

The house was clean.

I read a book.

I watched back episodes of “Hunted”. I read some more. I laundered and laundered. The sun was shining every day. I watched sunsets and saw Venus. I watched BBC news on loop.

Here is a regular day in lockdown:

Early, my daughters and I do an online fitness class in the garden. It is never raining. After that we are buzzing for the day ahead. We watch some breakfast TV. Naga Munchetty’s jumpsuits and footwear are a source of joy. She chooses something glorious every day. After breakfast and a shower I log into work. I tweet a thing. I check my emails. I update my online content. Then the system starts to slow down as the rest of the world logs in and I give up and have lunch. It is lentil soup.

Afternoons might involve a walk or some reading or housework or something child-related. All the while I am checking work stuff to see if it is working or if it is buffering buffering buffering…

Then at some point in the afternoon I will think that filing, reading, writing or research is a good idea, then I will fall asleep and then wake up wanting a cup of tea. Pretty much then there is the covid update from the UK Government that I may or may not watch. And the Scottish one, I don’t seem to catch, except later on twitter, with a voiceover.

Dinner might be a delicious thing that took ages to make or a total fail that I couldn’t be bothered with. Or a total fail that took ages to make. Or a delicious thing that I couldn’t be bothered with.

Then the evening comes, accompanied with an impressive sunset. And I read things, watch things, listen to things and eat things.

So, I just wanted to record that here in case a grandchild someday has to interview me about 2020. Hopefully, now that all of that lockdown normality is out of my system, I can focus on fascinating and pithy observations for future posts on WeeScoops.

Stay safe, stay home.

Palm Sunday 2020

I wish I had managed to find my green paint today. I would have made a big palm leaf made of palm prints and put it in my window for Palm Sunday. I could only find orange and pink paint though. And that wouldn’t have looked right.

Not only was it Palm Sunday, it was Child#3’s birthday today, so we began with our usual birthday morning celebrations and then an online fitness session, a family zoom and a cooked breakfast. Next up was online church.

The online church and the online fitness are weird. For once, our fitness instructor gets to “mute all participants” while at church, where we are normally pretty mute, we get to comment amongst ourselves while the service is going on.

In both, it is weird but nice to have people pop in from all around the world live.

Palm Sunday, against the backdrop of the COVID, is different to normal Palm Sunday. Firstly, the increase in the usage of “palm” in relation to one’s hand-washing technique makes you want to find your green paint. Then there’s the fact that Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem would perhaps have been a damp squib in 2020 as there would have been no one there.

Although that wouldn’t have mattered. It turns out…

It’s one of my favourite details from the story (that I wrote a poem about a few years ago: “Stony Silence”) that there are stones there, that would have burst into praise if the crowds had been absent. (If a tree falls down in a wood and no one is there to hear it …/ If Jesus arrived and no one is there to shout Hosanna …)

When the religious leaders moan about the noise and lack of social distancing going on, Jesus says that if people weren’t shouting out, the inanimate stones would have to take over and do the shouting in lieu of the crowds. Here’s the passage:

 When he came near the place where the road goes down the Mount of Olives, the whole crowd of disciples began joyfully to praise God in loud voices for all the miracles they had seen: ‘Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!’; ‘Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!’  Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to Jesus, ‘Teacher, rebuke your disciples!’; ‘I tell you,’ he replied, ‘if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out.’

From our current perspective, and for the first time ever, it is striking that there is a “whole crowd” of disciples – and even the “loud voices” are not really part of my experience at the moment. The religious leaders didn’t have a button for “mute all participants” and they didn’t have “stay at home” restrictions in place. Like we do.

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So, we stayed home all day. We had a zoom party for my daughter’s birthday against the backdrop of Catherine Calderwood’s Facepalm Sunday. While we had chat and chocolate cake, she had to apologise to the nation for taking the ‘Do as I say, not as I do’ thing to a new level. Awkward. She probably wished she could “mute all participants” too.

However, on the day of Jesus’ arrival in Jerusalem, there was a lot of shouting, but in a good way, and the stones didn’t have to break into praise.

I am sure they would have been crystal clear, even if their voices were a bit gravelly. Maybe they would have been a bit boulder than me. Yes, I’m sure they would have rocked.

Best Laid Schemes and Life and Death #stayhome

Back in August, I woke up with my usual ironic excitement with the start of a new academic year.

I reached out of bed, grabbed my phone and hit on Bible Gateway’s “Verse of the Day”, to see “what the bible gateway verse for the new session would be”. The verse was Romans 14:8:

If we live, we live for the Lord; and if we die, we die for the Lord. So, whether we live or die, we belong to the Lord.

In my Facebook status, I shared the verse and commented: “It’s a win, no matter how it pans out. I think that’s what it’s saying.”

And how it panned out, it turns out, was the pandemic.

That verse, that I took as my text for the academic year, then turned up again.

At church we are working through the “New City Catechism” and the first “question”, that we covered – I think – back in January, relates to that verse:

Question 1: What is our only hope in life and death?

Answer 1: That we are not our own but belong, body and soul, both in life and death, to God and our Saviour, Jesus Christ.

The verses that accompany the question are Romans 14: 7-8. You’ll recognise the second half despite the version being a wee bit different:

For none of us lives to himself, and none of us dies to himself. For if we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord. So then, whether we live or die, we are the Lord’s.

Then, in early February, not long after Burns Night, I was asked to speak at a Coffee Club for older adults. I decided to go in tartan and play some Burns tunes on the fiddle and recite “To a Mouse”. I also delivered a very short reflection on the meaning of the poem and my perspective on the issue it raises.

Having inadvertently destroyed the mouse’s nest, the poet farmer observes:

But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane,

In proving foresight may be vain:

The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men

Gang aft agley,

An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,

For promis’d joy!

The poet understands that the mouse is not alone in having to deal with the unexpected. Despite careful planning, the mouse was unable to anticipate or deal with the plough crashing through his home. He was expecting to be able to get through the winter in his “cozie” home but was left with his “best laid schemes” going wrong and being left with “grief and pain” where he had planned joy.

The poet sympathises – both “mice and men” can have their “best laid schemes” destroyed by unforeseen circumstances. The poem concludes with the poet suggesting that the mouse is better off than men:

An’ forward tho’ I canna see,

I guess an’ fear!

The poet here suggests that man can perhaps anticipate things going wrong and when he looks at the future, he worries.

After describing the poem’s message to the members of the Coffee Club, I talked through that verse from Romans, about how, for those that belong to the Lord, the future – although uncertain, does not necessitate the fear that Burns alluded to in the poem.

If we live, we live for the Lord; and if we die, we die for the Lord. So, whether we live or die, we belong to the Lord.

Any amount of best laid schemes have gone “aft agley” that’s for sure – for absolutely everyone. My 2020 diary already feels like a weird historic artefact with dates and flights and events that just aren’t going to happen. I am sure yours does too.

We are just going to stay home and see what happens.

(The mouse, of course, couldn’t stay home…)

My original reading of the verse back in August might seem flippant or naive. I don’t think a pandemic can be classed as a ‘win’.

However, whether I live or die, I belong to the Lord.

Weirdstalker #ratracer #mightydeerstalker

This event got away with happening by the skin of its teeth. One day away from gatherings of 500 people being banned. So, it was weird. Can’t say I saw anything like 500 people though.

It was going to be weird anyway. But I am very glad I went – very thankful that I was able to run for two and three quarter hours on varied terrain through varied weather in a variety of qualities of light.

As for social distancing – it was social, there was distance. Plenty of hand sanitiser and space and fresh air.

And so we set off…

I decided to be brave and take no water with me – I just secreted a few Bassets Sports Mix about my person. In the first water obstacle I managed to slam into a rock with my shin, so that was good. Really set me up for the first vertical climb.

I didn’t try to run the first hill. Weirdly, no one seemed to be trying to run it. It was all very civilised and socially distant. It was also bizarrely light. The start time was 17.20 whereas I think in previous years I started at 6.30 so that was weird.

Getting to the top was roasting, but not as roasting as the last time I did it when it was a balmy 13 degrees. This time it was an ideal 7 or 8 degrees.

At the start I was thinking that I was probably the only woman over 40 doing the race, but I was overtaken by at least one woman older than me. Most of the people I let through were men in their 30s wearing Power Ranger morph suits and the like. So that’s okay. If I was competing, it wasn’t them I was competing with.

The first main descent is always fun. Hurtling down through semi darkness like a pinball amongst the trees. Then down along the Tweed into the village. This was the weird bit.

I think, as a social distancing thing, we didn’t showboat our way raucously through the village and the river as usual. We stuck to the back lanes and kept out of the villagers’ way. Some lovely villagers were undeterred though – offering individually wrapped wee bags of jelly babies. I declined, secure in the knowledge that I had my Sports Mix for use in emergencies.

Then it was the second hill which was its usual fun self. Very tricky and slippy and skitey. But we got to the top, then it was pure windy and slippy on the way down. The reduction in numbers made the abseil section less stressful than usual. The last bit along the river was quite tricky as the river was encroaching on the path quite a bit.

Very muddy incline back to the village and then we were on the home straight. I was relived that the bit in the tunnel was not as deep as in the pics of last year, but it was still good to sound my barbaric yawp nonetheless.

My batteries gave out for the last quarter of a mile, but I used herd strategies, speeding up when anyone came by with a brighter light until I reached the finish line.

Again, there was good social distancing – you had to put your own medal on, plenty of hand sanitiser, good snacks and lovely tea.

A striking feature of this event was the particularly lovely stewards and volunteers. Absolutely top marks for kindness and encouragement throughout.

As a birthday treat to myself I had booked a room at a hotel and so was able to drive straight there and run a bath and wallow in it, and look at my bruised shin.

Shivery shivery shivery I went straight to bed with some chocolate milk and roast chicken and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps.

All the while, Coronavirus was in the background, forcing consideration of questions about the wisdom of running the event at all and the impact on the local area in terms of health and the economy.

I am thankful that I am fit and well today and was fit and well and able to enjoy a long and difficult trail run. I hope to be able to keep on running and training in the days to come.

My mother was telling me about some verses in Habakkuk, in relation to having peace in the face of the pandemic:

“Though the fig-tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my saviour.”

Not that she’s had trouble with the antisocial purchasing patterns of the sharp-elbowed,  it’s just the idea that if everything us taken away from you that you would normally depend on, but you have God, you can have peace in adversity. The very next verse  in Habakkuk is one I have gone to before, in relation to such events as the Deerstalker:

“The Sovereign Lord is my strength, he makes my feet like the feet of a deer, he enables me to go on the heights.”

So, the Deerstalker was the Weirdstalker this year, but I think everything is weird for 2020.

Keep rejoicing where you can!

 

The Interview

I wobble to the interview room in my game-changer shoes.

I’m wearing a smart black dress that I got last year from a charity shop. Despite there being a polystyrene cup full of water awaiting me, I take my camelbak bottle with me. I am glad I did not cave in on these two points. I also hadn’t had my nails or hair done. I had however had a go with the make-up as I believe it is only polite in these circumstances. Desperately trying to be appropriate.

I have prepared my answer to the first question. I have a million things to say. I say them.

The next question is a trick question. I’d like to know the answer to it too. I manage not to pun. I do mention flapjacks. I didn’t particularly mean to.

The next question is the curve ball. I think of two, terrible responses, then stop.

I recover with the next one. I recover a bit too well. I had practised for this exact question the day before. The answer spilled out of my mouth, still wrapped in jargon. I even used the word “robust”. Oh please.

The last question was okay. And at least I had an answer.

Then it was over.

I didn’t get the job.

(I’d have been amazing. It would have been a great and glorious era.)

So the weird thing is, I got nervous AFTER the interview. Thrashing around in a cold sweat panicking, once I had realised what one of the questions ACTUALLY meant. What did I say?! Why didn’t I THINK? Duh!…

So, we are a week post-interview and I am still chasing my tail. Too much studying led to not enough laundry  – and after a great and glorious year of folded clothes, my Marie Kondoing crashed and we are back to a heap of unsorted-but-clean washing.

Throughout the process I was pleased to note that my self-esteem is absolutely in no way touched by this experience. I wasn’t trying to prove myself or earn more money or check how valued I was. I really thought I was the best person for the job. And the job needs doing. But I won’t be doing it. Which will save me a lot of effort.

I will put the game-changer shoes back under the bed and revert to normal life.

 

Shall we begin?

Eventually the chairs did in fact arrive. Here’s my new view:

The interior of the church building has gone all minimalist. It took me a minute to realise that all the banners had gone and the dodgy wee radiators had gone. It all looks very fresh and clean. And it all has a blue hue as a change from the previous green. Very nice.

So, what of the chair configuration? Probably very wisely, they have gone for the uber-traditional two massive blocks of chairs with an aisle down the middle. Unlikely to generate an intolerable number of complaints on day 1.

It was quite a busy Sunday. Lots of Guides, Brownies and Rainbows boosting the numbers on the back of Thinking Day. So much so that there was a frisson of agitation amongst those who arrived a smidge later than would have been optimal for securing their dream location.

I mean, Sunday was the Sunday to stake your claim – to shimmy in, trying not to look too territorial while trying to judge where your old seat was and get it, sit in it and check that the distances from the front and the windows were right – that your coordinates felt aligned and that all would be well with the world.

People did pretty well, although the youth weren’t sufficiently on it and their row lacked its usual clear definition. They usually have to squish along to fit extra people in; that won’t be happening in the great and glorious future, as the number of chairs in each row is finite. Terrifying.

So the weird side-effect of the new chairs and the new flooring was… eerie silence. For the past 30 years I must have been subconsciously blocking out squeaks, creaks and shuffling. It was very… quiet. Pin drop. Or maybe people were just listening in an absorbed manner as the carpet absorbed any ambient sounds – rather than the wood reflecting the discomfort expressed physically of everyone internally cursing the pews.

Is everyone sitting comfortably?

This is just the start, though. With 300 people, each with their own seat, we have – literally and metaphorically  – 300 different perspectives. How many aisles are optimal? Should the rows be straight or curved? How much legroom should we allow? What about a sideyways aisle as well as a straight down the middle aisle? Should the rows be different lengths or uniform? (This is only an issue for us because our building is unfortunately and inexplicably ROUND. If you are ever designing a church space, may I suggest that you find anyone that thinks that a round building is  perhaps a good idea  – then come out from among them and be ye separate, as it were…)

One of the suggestions that is gaining traction is the one about having the tea and coffee in the actual main building, rather than having it in the hall, now that we have created space for sociable milling. It’s all fun and games until someone SPILLS THEIR TEA ON THE NEW CARPET!… I hope it’s not me. As long as it’s not Irn Bru….

My favourite layout suggestion is that it’s set out as a labyrinth. You think you can see the way to your seat, but there are dead ends and wrong turnings, and you end up in the front row…

The front row is an issue in itself. Given that each chair cost just shy of £100, it seems a bit of a waste of money to have a front row of empty seats – but you just have to have a front row. It’s just like how the last day of term is daft as no one attends (ahem, in some establishments in some (other) local authority areas, I believe) – so you might as well not have it – but if you did that, then it would just be a different day that would be a waste of time, and the term would just get shorter and shorter….  I wonder if we should make some pretend, paper chairs for a kid-on front row so that it’s not a waste of money if no-one sits on them. We need some front-row incentives. And we should definitely ban the back row. Come on down, people. The last shall be first and the first shall be last.

If the semi-circles of doom ever happen, I’ll be sure to let you know.

 

 

Pews news: chairs in the church

We are getting chairs in the church. Pews are old news. It’s not as if we are ripping out lovely antiques though; we are ripping out a good deal of THE MOST UNCOMFORTABLE yella-pine 1970s benches that a congregation ever had to slide their butts along.

I however, after a couple of decades, managed to escape them. For the last nine years or so I have been sitting in “the band”, where you get an actual chair with a bit of cushioning. Just as well. It is only every so often, when there is an excess of violinists, that I have to sit in the body of the kirk and then you realise JUST how bad it is. We have all learned a lot about patience and perseverance. And numbness. And pelvises and coccyxes.

From a lifetime of wishing away the pews, we now turn to a week of wondering how it will be, in the great and glorious future of chairs in church…

My one anxiety is the likelihood that the chairs will be hooked together. We will be trapped. You might think we were trapped before – but you could always glide to the right, slide to the left a bit – if there was anyone too tall in the way. With a fixed seat, you spend the whole time wishing it was free, just to get joogling it one way or the other, or to angle it your own way, just a degree or so.

Then there’s the undoubted attempts we will have to set the place out “a bit differently”. Eugh. We will have weird semi-circles, weird circles, weird groups. And then, after a while,  we will put them back into rows so that we know where to sit. And then we won’t put them “a bit differently”, apart from when we forget how annoying that is.

I always have to put such thoughts through my “medium is the message” thing. Is my desire for free-floating autonomous seating indicative of an unhealthy self-concern? Should I not relish the opportunity to be equally yoked with other people? Do I dislike the ideas of circles or semicircles in case I have to make eye-contact with other human beings?

No, it can’t be that. From my vantage point in the band, I can always see people. I can see that they like to sit where they like to sit. They like to be able to have their own desired distance from the front. Some like to be in the middle of a row. Some like to be on the end so that they can slip out to do readings or prayers or to make coffee near the end or maybe there are some who would just feel uneasy not being “by the aisle”, when there are very few “by the window” options.

I think that in a church with our theology, it is okay to have rows facing the front – we are wanting to hear what the Bible says; we are not wanting to look at each other. As for comfy seats, they are not terribly scriptural – however, if you are thinking more about how uncomfortable you are rather than how good God is or how interesting and life changing the message is, it’s time to walk the planks.

I am wondering if I will get sentimental about the pews. Will I wish I had saved one? I really don’t think so. They were a truly terrible design decision. So bad. Unless you were there for a long band rehearsal, when they were quite a good height to do tricep dips in the breaks. They were so HARD. (The pews, not the tricep dips). The number of times I have winced when various mishaps have resulted in near misses with heads and the shelfy bit. No, I won’t miss them. I won’t pine for pine. The old have gone, the new have come and all that. Or they will have by next Sunday.

Maybe the message that this new medium is giving is that we actually want people to be able to be their part of church, whether the chairs are hooked or free, in rows or in some experimental configuration.

Hopefully people will meet with God and each other and the last thing on their mind will be the chairs.

Park Prayer

72617428_3391137677594025_6054874413763919872_oOctober.
The park is at its peak;
sun slants in
rays radiating at eye level.
The pond is silver in the sunshine;
dazzling.

I’m caught up in autumn.
Leaves in light and shadow
fall
as they should.

A breeze releases the leaves
spinning lightly down
as I run –
golden confetti
paving the way.

God, I thank you
for all that I feel now –
the fact that I feel –
that my physical self is alive.

Clear October air
in my lungs
in my blood
in my heart
and my arms
and my legs
and my feet
and I run and I run.

Joy swells with thankfulness
for this urban Eden
and its trees and its paths
and its grass and its mud
and my running companions
behind and before me
each running their own way
and with me.

God, thank you for
each hated hill sprint
and the long, slow climbs.

Thank you that our hearts
and lungs and legs
make it to the top
gasping, grasping
the moment to breathe.

I praise you for the park:
this great green garden
in our Dear Green Place.

We are spent.
Mud has splattered up our legs.
We are sweat-soaked,
stretching in the sun.

And glad we came.

Summer of Swaps #2: Plastic to Glass #zerowaste #plasticfree #food

Overall, this has been a very easy swap.

The plastic Hellmann’s Mayonnaise bottle was a terrible design anyway. It always managed to get the top/bottom thing cracked or smashed; when you squeezed the mayo out, the air couldn’t get back in, so the whole bottle went kind of concave and then would lose its balance and fall out the fridge. The glass jar is all good, although one does tend to come into contact with the mayo between the jar and the food, but never mind. Having a spoon with a decent length of a handle is key, I find.

The switch to glass ketchup is more annoying because the glass bottles are tiny and we go through ketchup like water, so a mahoosive glass bottle of ketchup is what is required. It is vastly more expensive per dollop also.  And you are also triggered back to the 80s when all the ketchup bottles were glass and the whole shoogle shoogle shoogle sudden-woosh thing happens. We are still perfecting our getting-the-ketchup-out-of-the-bottle strategies. I think it would be good if Heinz had ketchup come in bottles like the glass jars of Hellmann’s. That would solve it.

Salsa, olive oil – easy swaps.

Wine in bottles might not seem like a swap, but I was a fan of boxed wine because it keeps forever, but the bag inside isn’t recyclable although the box obviously was.

It’s not glass, but a similar swap was from plastic golden syrup bottles to the original lovely tins. I am going though a lot of syrup these days as I am trying to perfect flapjacks with seeds as a less-waste alternative to the wrapped cereal bars I take to work for my morning coffee. I have made one perfect batch and countless disaster batches. They are all delicious though, because of the butter, syrup, sugar etc, so it never really matters. We have also learned how to make brownies this summer, so we have not bought cakes in plastic boxes from Morrison’s for months now. All good.

 

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