It's not as if my poorliness is particularly life-threatening, but unfortunately in the life of a singer, if you have a cough or a sore throat, you're rendered completely useless. The only thing you can do is go home and not sing and take good care of it until it goes away. So yesterday and today sees me once again holed up in my flat, this time humidified as per the pharmacist's request - she had me at the words "dust in the mouth and throat" and I was back home with the flatmates in a flash to put a bowl of water on the radiator, after having been given special throat-numbing magic pills.
It's the boredom that's been getting me more than anything though. That and when my cough gets so bad it's a struggle to breathe. So I woke up late yesterday, faffed around on the computer and came across a recipe for cinnamon swirls. I immediately fell in love with the idea, having watched my two Italian flatmates cooking and baking for their boyfriends and brothers since the day I'd arrived and always been very jealous but too lazy (or should I say busy...) to do the same myself.
I pulled my socks on and my big fluffy boots, wrapped my scarf a hundred times around my neck, popped on my Dad's old Barbour coat, fetched my bike and off I cycled to the supermarket to fetch some baking ingredients. I was surprised to see that even on a Monday (the Brits' most feared and un-wanted day according to The Boomtown Rats) the town here still seems empty and void of life.
As I cycled down the long road bemused at the silence, I wondered if my coughing had rendered me slightly deaf, but abandoned that idea when a passing car honked really loudly in my ear. I instead decided that the November fog, slowly making itself known, had stolen the sound.
After wobbling about on the journey back (having bought too much of course, and having found real Scottish biscuits here - Shortbread!!) I returned, switched Buffy on and waited for Meg to arrive.
We then passed a lazy afternoon complaining about fictional vampiric or vampire-boshing characters, drinking hot water, whisky and honey (good for the throat, people tell me) and turning each other into vampires through the wonders of photo-editing. I was glad to have found a friend like Meg, who never fails to remind me of Englishness (or Welshness come to that) and who turns being bored into an art form. We finally remembered that we'd invaded the Kitchen table with baking ingredients so began to set to work mixing and 'measuring'.
We adapted the recipe a bit, as I was keen on adding sultanas to the mix. We were actually quite lax with all measurements and ingredients to be perfectly honest... Also, the types of flour they have a different here. So I spent many a long minute in the supermarket trying to look for some sort of clue as to which flour to use. I think I got it wrong, so was very surprised by the end result!
Although they may not be quite Nigella-worthy, or picture-perfect, they nonetheless filled the appartment with a glorious scent of Christmas (which was almost going to be the smell of Curry as in my hazy ill state, I accidentally started shaking the wrong spice container over the flour mixture...) and gave me and Meg a sense of pride as we gazed upon our creation. We even evoked positive reactions from both my flatmates, them seemingly approving of my English style of baking. I didn't have the heart to tell them that the English/British way is, of course, the best way.
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