Irish Blood

No, not spilled over the driveway. I have some. In me. Still. Of course with genealogy if you go far enough back you can find relatives anywhere. Apparently my haplogroup is H3 which makes me predominantly Basque. Yip - some of those separatists running around terrorising France and Spain are my rellies.

That got off-topic quick, didn't it?

I mention the Irish blood in me only because of my deep love for potatoes. I've given up on much of the gardening I took up with wholehearted enthusiasm about 6-7 years ago - most of my garden survives only because it thrives on neglect - but I still love planting out potatoes each year.

For the past three years I've been particularly obsessed with Pink Fir Apple potatoes. Don't know where the Fir and the Apple came into it, but I can verify that they are definitely pink. They're also the best waxy potato in the world IMHO. Sometimes I can even be tempted into eating them as a potato salad, and I'm a salad averse woman.

On the whole though, I tend to scrub them down, boil them up, and slather them with butter. Does adding butter to things make it a recipe? If so, I have a lot of recipes. Maybe enough to write a cookbook. Katherine's guide to cooking with chocolate and butter. Guaranteed bestseller.

Today was my second mounding of the little darlings. One more and then I can leave them alone to flourish. Truth be told they're not the type of potato that does flourish. Not like the urinika potatoes that I planted once six years ago and have decided they'll live here until I die. They'll probably live on after that, but at least I don't have to see them.

I still love the bright purple colour of those potatoes, but my palate is never going to get down with a fluffy potato when there are waxy potatoes lying around, or being forced encouraged to grow.

And now onto the blog tour.

HA-HA. That was a trick. It's the weekend so there ain't one. Feel free to peruse the blog links out to the side to catch up on old stops, or see the ones I'll be appearing in shortly.

Thank God that's over

There are some weeks that speed by, some weeks that drag, some that pull you into a dark pit of despair. And then there was this week.

This is about work only - my home life is sweetly predictable. Apart from the wireless on my laptop suddenly deciding to disconnect itself for a couple of hours there was nothing out of character. And that was really quite well timed because I needed to swear a lot and it's nice to have an excuse.

The only blessing out of the sorry mess is that I actually like the break of the roadshow despite all my earlier protestations. It got a little slow in places, but turned out to be quite interesting. I learned a lot about some people; the best ones were the things that I don't think they would want me to learn.

I now feel like a bus has run me over, then picked me up, sat me at the bus-stop again, and made me wait another two hours for the next bus.

Or I think that's how I feel. I'm not willing to try out the experiment to test it all scientific like - but if you're game let me know how you feel after and I'll compare it legitimately. Where legitimately means to continue to hyperbolate the hell out of it.

Well that's my moan over. It's now the end of the day on Friday - yes I know it's not yet eight-thirty but some of us haven't slept this week because our little brains have been turning little conundrums over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and hello it's five-thirty - and I'm winding down to go to bed for a change instead of winding myself up.

Tomorrow at the supermarket I might buy a few little bits and pieces of things that I probably would live longer not eating but would live unhappier not eating and mix them up into a pre-Christmas treat. That's the sort that you mix up at the beginning of December to test out and make sure it'll be okay for Christmas day but then you end up testing it so many times that you get sick of it and end up bringing something else.

And what wondrous recipe am I going to whip up tomorrow? Vanilla Ice-Cream, Lemon Curd and baby Meringues. Lazy woman's summer lemon meringue pie. Mmmmmmmmmmm.

On that note it's time to catch up with Ye Good Olde Blog Tour.

First up we pay a visit to Nickies Views and Interviews which is ironically not doing a review or an interview, before heading onto the foreign shores of Italy with Libri Amori Miei who is.

Visit them and I'll catch you up again in the beautiful release of the weekend. Saturday, here I come.

EOM Accounts

Since starting my online business (as I refer to my book being available on Amazon) I have been keeping to a strict regimen of end of month accounting to keep track of my income losses.

It was going great guns at first - I put in a cash injection to get the whole show rolling so was immediately in profit. I just needed to sell a few copies here and there, and I could legitimately claim success. Then I decided that I wasn't generating as many sales as I thought were warranted (damn you competitive streak!) so instead of investing in more physical stock to flog around the office, I would start to advertise.

The downfall was sudden. That s**t costs money you know. And you'd be amazed at how high a figure you have to reach before you're due a royalty payment. And then you'd be amazed how long the retailer can hold onto a royalty payment before remembering that it belongs to you and sending it along.

It's hard to say that you've earned out your investment when it's still three months away. But when I get it...

So every month I sit down to the grim news that there is much bill and little no income. If I was running this as a legitimate business instead of a wouldn't-it-be-nice-if-I-could-make-a-success-of-this-hobby business I'd be sorely disappointed.

Luckily you expect to tip a never-ending supply of funding into your hobby because it's what you enjoy. And on that score I'm definitely a success.

Another drawback to this soul-destroying hobby of mine is that I spend a portion of every day looking at work accounts. That means when I do accounts at home, even though theoretically it's part of my play-time, it feels distressingly like work.

Still, when it's your time of the month, it's your time of the month.