My Catering Hygiene Course

So, there I was sitting behind my desk in a wooden hut. Well, I say wooden hut, but in reality it was quite a big wooden hut with posh toilets and an I.T room and I know for a fact it cost oodles cos one of the cleaners had a moan at me while it was being built. 'Quarter of a million,' she roared. 'And I can't even get a ****** new apron.' And then she pointed dramatically at the torn tabard she was wearing.

So, as I said, there I was sitting behind my desk waiting for my catering hygiene course to start when in walked six twenty-something lads. Suddenly I worried I was in the wrong place but it turned out they were all waiters. Now I'm proud to say I'm no fuddy-duddy despite my age. I mean I introduce my own lads to rock bands and take them to gigs and yes, I like to think I keep up with things BUT one of these lads had his waistband slung so low it was laughable. Y'know, showing seven inches of cheap-boxer-shorts-clad-backside. My mind boggled as to how he was actually managing to hold up his jeans because his belt was literally around the top of his legs. I had the overwhelming urge to dash over and pull his jeans up - but thought better of it. I watched him swagger over to a desk at the back. He swung his legs wide like John Wayne after a long day in the saddle, presumably his wide gait was his way of keeping his jeans up.

The course was interesting, I thought I knew everything. Turns out I didn't. I'm now paranoid about cross-contamination and washing my hands about every thirty seconds. But the hilarious dialogue between my tutor and our twenty-something waiters was worth recording. Here are some of the best bits:

Tutor: I knew a man who died when he ate a pie he'd left in the boot of his car over night.
Waiter#1: Well, he bloody deserved that then, didn't he? I mean what kind of idiot eats a pie he's left in the boot of his car?
Waiter#2: I would.

Tutor: How do you feel about eating in a place that has a low hygiene rating?
Waiter#2: Wouldn't bother me.
Tutor: It wouldn't?
Waiter#2: Nah. Cos like when your hungover, right. You don't care if there's a dead rat in the kebab shop cos you're hungry, right. So you ain't gonna care, right. Cos all you want if food, right.
Waiter#3: Yeah, would bother me, either. Cos like all you wanna have is cheap food, yeah. Who care's if it's got low hygiene? As long as it's cheap and you get loads, yeah.

Tutor: Have any of you seen these knives that are different colours so you know which one is for meat and which one is for vegetables?
Waiter #4: Yeah, we got one at our place. Piece of shitty crap.

Tutor: Did anyone see that programme on the television about what goes into a chicken nugget?
Waiter #5: Yeah, proper shit stuff.
Tutor: Oh, so you saw it?
Waiter #5: No. I can mind read. Durrrrr.

* * *

And now you know why some animals eat their young!

Christmas and and me getting all serious.

It's boxing day. I should have planned my xmas break better. I'm bored. Next year maybe I'll get a board game, perhaps a puzzle. Downstairs the men in my house are watching football. The anticipation of the Christmas holidays is far better than the reality. Today people will be waking up counting the cost. Melted credit cards. Debts that will go on and on and with a bit of luck - though probably not - be cleared just in time for next Christmas.

To be truthfull isn't Christmas as meaningless and empty as a cracker. Pretty and sparkly and filled with so much promise and yet delivering so little. Unless you have Fortum and Mason crackers - £100 for six crackers - containing such delights as a silver plated letter opener, bottle stopper and butter knife. Nah, even posh crackers are a disappointment.

Perhaps the fact that Christmas does not fill the basic need of a human being explains why it is so much of an anti-climax. I mean, it is supposed to be about Christ and the season of goodwill to all. But not much of that goodwill was demonstrated when an acquitance of mine was practically rugby tackled by an old-age-pensioner for the last available trolley in the Co-op two days before Christmas. Or the young mother who was loudly berated in Morrisons by an old woman because she had brought her baby with her to the supermarket and the pram was in her way.

And what is Christmas anyway? A pagan festival. The church hijacked December 25th to celebrate Christ's birth because they saw all the pagans having a jolly time and decided to take advantage of it. December is in fact when pagan festivals took place during the winter solstice when the days began to lengthen to celebrate the rebirth of the sun. The Romans had a festival about this time dedicated to Saturn, the god of agriculture. It was called Saturnalia. Eating too much and giving presents came from this festival. But Mithra the Roman god of light was perhaps the one that so-called Christians in the 4th century took December 25th from and made it Jesus Christ's birthday.

Saint Boniface takes the credit for inventing the Christmas tree, but he pretty much got it from the pagan German tribes in the Black Forest who used to dress up fir trees and run around them naked. (Glad that last bit hasn't transported itself to our modern-day celebrations) The Celts used to bring in a log to burn during the winter solstice to celebrate the return of the Sun God hence the yule log. Druids dedicated mistletoe to the Goddess of love. Santa Clause a.k.a Father Christmas draws parallels with the long, white-beared norse god, Odin, who used to fly through the sky with his horse, Sleipnir, rewarding children with gifts and candy for placing food near the chimneys for his flying horse. And by the way Coca-Cola didn't invent that jolly rotund figure in the red suit, it was Thomas Nast.

But for some people, despite the pagan connections, Christmas represents a time in the year when good-will should be expressed to all. A time to get away from work, relax and spend time with family and friends. And some people do genuinely see it as a time to honor Jesus Christ. But whatever the significance, the feelings gendered by the holiday are short-lived. As the Royal Bank of Canada said in an essay entitled 'The Spirit of Christmas' what is essentially wrong with the Christmas spirit is that people do not have it all year round. And perhaps that is why it leaves people with an empty feeling and an even emptier bank balance.Perhaps what would give people more satisfaction than all the trappings of Christmas is to do something good to someone else. To be kind. Thoughtful. To help someone. Not to give them a meaningless present because they gave you something last year. But to really do something positive. One Christmas holiday many years ago, I found myself in a position when I was all alone and had nowhere to go or be with over the holidays. So I volunteered to help at a childrens home because they had staff shortages. It was the best Christmas holiday I have ever had. XXX

The demise of our little shops and markets

It's been awhile since I've felt the need for a real moan but last Saturday I had every cause and so dear blog here it is.

All over Britain there are little shops and markets struggling to make a living. They are run by people who love what they do and want to offer a service to local people. But people just want to get in their cars and rush off to the big towns and cities and buy mass produced rubbish churned out by people working in sweat shops in third world countries. They don't give local traders a chance.

This was very evident in my lovely market last Saturday. We had some truly fabulous stalls selling truly fabulous stuff at unbelievable prices. We had beautiful hand made cards, less than half the price of those sold in shops. We had soaps and bath time toiletries and we had jewellery and home baking and pottery and clothes and on and on I could go. We advertised and advertised. But did anyone give us a chance? Nope. Hardly anyone popped in to see what we had. People are moaning and groaning about the state of the economy and how much Christmas is costing them but they could have come to our market and bought really unusual and individual gifts at a fraction of the cost of big stores. Gifts that would have meant something to their recipients because they were 'different' and 'unique'

It's so disheartening when no one will give you the opportunity to show what you can do and that causes traders to give up. How can you keep going when you don't sell anything? You can't.
But one day, when petrol is sooo expensive that no one can afford to drive their cars, people will have to think twice before they go rushing off to the cities to shop. And they will stop and look at their little towns and moan because there aren't any shops and markets and it will be their own fault. It is them I blame for killing our little shops and markets. And the sad thing is, they won't know what lovely shops and markets they had...until they are gone.

Never say never

In my last blog I ranted and raved (a little) about a job I was offered cleaning a particularly horrible house. Oh I was so never doing THAT kind of work again. Well, sometimes you just have to eat your words because life doesn't always turn out as you hope it will.

I did the job, well, I have started it anyway. It's huge. It's vile. It's just the last thing on earth I want to do right now. I have neither the will nor the energy but nevertheless I must battle on because I need the money. And I need the money because my better half is not working right now due to an eye operation. So bills need paying, car needs taxing and food needs to be on the table.

It began on Monday. It was so overwhelming I didn't sleep the night before wondering if I could actually do the job on my own. But I got stuck in and gave it a go, starting on the kitchen. To give you an idea how hard it was, it took an hour just to shift the grease off the cooker hood. Walls were covered in thick mold. Cupboard tops inches deep in dust. Everything liberally caked in thick black gunk. Years of dirt and neglect.

After hours of work, during which I battled through filth that made me gag and encountered several massive spiders - of which I am truly terrified - I finished the kitchen. Today I worked on the lounge. Shelves pulled out revealed yet more thick black mold and cobwebs as thick as blankets. Sofa and chairs moved for the first time in decades unearthing mountains of dirt and detritus. And so now two rooms are clean.

The occupants have problems - health and otherwise - so cleaning has been put on hold till next week when I will deal with the daddy of them all - the worst bathroom I have EVER encountered in twenty years of running my own cleaning business. I fear I will need breathing apparatus to even enter the room such is the stench coming from it.

I feel demoralised and degraded yet strangely satisfied. The doctor visited the householder today and remarked on the cleanliness of the kitchen and lounge and that was a reward in itself. To think that I have helped someone who through no fault of their own has become overwhelmed with the daily chores of life and found themselves unable to cope. One day that may be me - who knows?

Why me?

'Hello. It's (name with held to protect friend but why I should I don't know)Do you still clean houses?'
'Oh. Hi. No not really. Giving it up. Going to be a mega-star author.' (didn't say the last bit - was thinking it)
'I clean a house for someone once a week, but it's really filthy and it needs a good clean. Can you do it?'
'Me? Why don't you do it?'
'It's too much for me?'
'But it's not too much for me, then?'
'Well, it needs a really good clean.'
'What do you do when you go there?'
'Just wash up and wipe the kitchen sink.'
'How long are you there?'
'An hour a day.'
'It takes you an hour to wash up and wipe the sink? How many people live in the house?'
'Two.'
'Do a lot of cooking, do they?'
'No. Anyway. I can't do it. It's hard work. Can you do it?'
'No.'
'Why not?'
'Because if it's too much for you then it's going to be too much for me, too.'
'That's disappointing.'
'Sorry.'
'Are you sure you can't do it?'
'No.'
'Well gotta go.'
'Oh, so you're not staying to chat?'
'Something on the stove.'
'How convenient.'
'Bye.'

Point is: I know the house in question. I've seen cleaner cow sheds. It's abominable. The only thing that would clean the toilet would have to be something nuclear. It absolutely annoys me when people think I'm a) prepared to clean up anything. b) have the strength of an ox. They just see a filthy hole of a house and think what idiot can we get to clean it? And then get on the phone to me. Well. Take Note. Those days are over.

New York and Ironing Boards

I have been a bit lazy recently when it comes to writing my blog. Perhaps it's because not a lot has irritated me of late -- I haven't needed to vent my feelings with a good old rant into cyberspace. But since it appears I have a follower (yaaaa!!!) I will endeavour to pull my proverbial socks up.

Actually, in my defense, I'm not so much lazy as been occupied elsewhere. I've had a rare thing -- a holiday. I visited my favourite city, New York, with my son and husband, where we stayed in a beautiful, old hotel in the trendy Upper West Side. But was it the chic interior that thrilled me? Was it the fact that Mark Twain and other famed people stayed there that made my heart flutter? Perhaps it was the stylish gym that tickled my fancy?

No. It was the fact that our room had...drum roll...an iron and ironing board.

When your luggage arrives on the airport carousel looking as if it's been chucked out the airplane at 35,000 feet -- trust me -- you need an iron. Especially when we were due to be in the audience of the Good Morning America show the next morning. Sod's law, if we looked like three scrunched up packets of cheese and onion crisps, the camera would seek us out.

So, while the rest of my family hung out of the bedroom window ooohing and aaahing over the Big Apple, I was happily bashing away on the ironing board. I guess it's true. You can take the girl out of the cleaning cupboard but you can't take the cleaning cupboard out of the girl.

Emporium

Emporium - such a delicious word. It's a medieval latin word that comes from the Greek word 'emporos' meaning a merchant selling a wide variety of goods. But it has the ability to conjure up a mental image of shelves, stalls and nooks and crannies crammed with rich colour and shiny, sparkly things. The scent of vanilla, cinnamon, lavender and sandalwood permeating the air. A feast for the senses.

It perfectly sums up the Saturday market I attend each month. Today, an ambrosial smell of cinnamon and lavender wafted over from the next stall. Across the way the sweet smell of wood. Stalls crammed with colourful jewellery, cards, paintings, toys, books, delightful knicknacks and vintage clothes.

This is why I want to hang up my Marigolds. This market, these people, fill me with enthusiasm and zeal. And oh, how I do wish for that day when I can cheerfully tell my customers that this Mrs Mop is no more and oh, how I will have to refrain from telling my most trying of customers that I know a perfect place where they can place their mops!

Suddenly today, with new friends and new ideas - anything seems possible.