The river was cold this morning, although my leggings are thick enough that I didn’t realise until I was rib-deep, by which point I had to start swimming as hard as I could back and forth across the river while the others got in just to keep the blood flowing to my hands. Neoprene gloves and socks will be needed soon, sooner than we’d all hoped, I think. But I don’t mind that cold yet, when we pay that to enjoy silent herons overhead, a still dawn, and ducks beside us, unseeing of their company until a dog runs by on the bank and they flap away, naark naark naark. 

I found a chunk of Richard Hoggart’s The Uses of Literacy when I was tidying my room recently, and he foresaw so much of our current cultural situation – TV and film and music and books as comfort, as trash, as distraction, as manipulation – that I am forcing myself to be a tougher reader, viewer, listener. I can’t bewail the kids liking Pokemon (fucking Pokemon) (…*Pokemonnnn*) but then watch only those things that make me feel safe and amused, never challenged or horrified or upset. I mean, as with everything, it is grey areas, and middle grounds, but I can’t live forever in a Michael Schur-flavoured cloud of good faith and optimism, however vital I believe those to be. I also need to absorb and contain those truths which are less pleasant, because that’s what all of us need to face right now, to be able to think about, and talk about, the hard work we can do to right those wrongs. 

Speaking of which, this excellent old episode of Desert Island Discs was repeated on my feed recently, with Judith Kerr. Her story is devastating for what she escaped, for how narrow the escape was, for her remembrance of all those who weren’t as lucky, for her gratitude and positivity after everything. I tried to sing along to her choice of Bud Flanagan’s Who Do You Think You Are Kidding Mr Hitler as I made a packed lunch for school this morning, but I started crying halfway through. How are the children not used to my collapsing weeps, yet? It’s a wonderful episode, though, with wonderful music. And (I think) I want to know what makes a country fall to fascism and what makes a country fight it, and welcome in refugees with genuine open arms, not imprisonment of children and exploitation of adults; what makes our better impulses stronger than our worst ones. 

And speaking of that (and Michael Schur, actually), as part of my ‘making myself read things when even the headline terrifies me’ campaign this is very good: “The End of the Roman Empire Wasn’t That Bad”, in which James Fallows discusses how when governments fail to function as they should, community government often picks up the slack, helping people around them on a day-to-day basis to access homes, education, healthcare. One interviewer “suggested the situation was like people fleeing the world of Veep — bleak humor on top of genuine bleakness — for a non-preposterous version of Parks and Recreation.” So that’s nice? 

Finally, speaking of things that make me feel safe and amused, I got up this morning with actual intercostal pain from how much I laughed at Stath Lets Flats most recent episode last night. (I had tried to watch the series before and hadn’t even lasted through the first episode. We watched the whole of the first series in a couple of nights this summer at my second attempt, and my GOD it’s brilliant.) If you watch them all, and don’t find the closing line of ‘A Battle of Our Lives’ funny enough to make you laugh through the whole credits, and then again every time you remember it, then please find something that does because it’s such a great feeling. 

1. The Uses of Literacy here – staggeringly, written in 1957 and as searing as ever. Perhaps writing something about it in October will be my reward for meeting my big September deadlines.  

2. Sue Lawley talks to Judith Kerr on Desert Island Discs here. 

3. “The End of the Roman Empire Wasn’t That Bad” here, which is genuinely worth reading before you gather your spirits about you and sashay into helping people locally, however you can. 

4. Stath Lets Flats, which, truly, is the gift that keeps on giving (and this review, while it does describe many of the best jokes, also captures much of what makes the programme so very, very excellent.) CLAP, YOU BLOODY EGGS

I promised to share the arancini recipe from a while ago, but of course we were all too busy eating it for me to remember what I’d done. In essence, I had some leftover squash risotto (roast the squash while you make your risotto – lots of butter in the base of the big saucepan, whatever wine is lying around, salt, etc etc, roast the squash until it’s soft and crispy at the edges), some mozzarella and a strange sudden craving. 

Beforehand, pull the mozzarella apart until you have half-thumb-sized pieces, and chop some sun-dried tomatoes. Beat an egg or two in bowl; a large couple of puffs of flour in another; a good few handfuls of breadcrumbs in a third (I just blitz some heels of bread in a food processor or equivalent). 

Coat your whole palm and a tiny bit of the base of your fingers with a large tablespoon of cold risotto. In the centre of the spread, put your thumb-sized bit of mozzarella and few snatches of dried tomato, then slowly close your fist and seal the whole thing up with pure skill. Make all the balls. 

While a big, heavy-based pan full of vegetable oil is heating up (you want the oil to be an inch or so deeper than the diameter of the balls), dip each ball in the flour, then the egg, then the breadcrumbs. When a cube of bread (leftover from the blitzing?) cooks fairly swiftly in the oil, without burning or lying there absorbing oil, you can start putting in the balls, 4 or so at a time. Turn them occasionally. It won’t take long. Five minutes? I can’t remember, but I know I had to keep from picking them up from the boiling oil with my fingers, they looked that pleasing. 

Once golden brown all over, remove not with fingers, but with a slotted spoon, then cook the remaining batches. Serve with some kind of sauce, if you like, or not, also delicious. I love it when a recipe goes as well as I’d like. 

Summer continues to be good. My 4,000% healthy obsession with this old Lip Sync video has given me a new hobby (bicep curls, just like I always dreamed as a little girl) and we’ve swum outside enough for me to be on first name terms with several herons and most of the local midges. Friends teach me about local trees and plants, and the water temperature tells me so much more about the turning seasons than any calendar. We pick brambles, and apples, cherry plums and an enormous cucumber that has suddenly appeared in the little greenhouse. I think that maybe dreading the future doesn’t mean I can’t occasionally enjoy the present. 

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I’ve been listening to: 

1. This excellent look at boredom, something that’s massively undervalued. We tech away as much discomfort as we can with TVs and phones and iPads, when actually most boredom is unspeakably valuable, both as a creative force and as a bonding tool. 

2. Have I recommended this before? I’ve listened to it so many times. To be fair, I’d listen to absolutely anything with Michael Sheen, such is his voice and his ambition to do even a bit of good. Please don’t ever tell me anything awful about him. 

3. This Criminal episode is just lovely. 

4. I hadn’t realised for how long I’d been saving this, but Debbie Reynolds (when she wasn’t being interrupted by a giddy Alec Baldwin HEM HEM) was just the damn best. Go and watch Singin’ in the Rain to remind yourself. 

This week’s wonderful & worthwhile things:

[All links repeated at the end]

1. Our kitchen ceiling caved in, due to a major leak from the bathroom. But there’s nothing like children dancing around in helpful excitement to make a small catastrophe feel like a minor adventure. (It’s only when a secondary leak floods the initial repair that I cry.)

2. The courgette seeds we planted have become fat leaves on dark stalks, budding again and again. I’m currently debating whether I need to cancel all trips away from the house, so I can be here to care for the tiny kitchen garden of sprouting herbs and craning, fur-bedded vegetables. I feel like a god. I started with a bag of soil & seed compost, an old tupperware box, and seeds; accessible to lots of people, I hope, and I cannot recommend it enough. 

3. It’s difficult to measure love, and it’s irresponsible to discount the effects of our parents’ inherited trauma. I can safely say, however, that I have never once felt loved by my mother. I disliked her through my childhood and teens with the kind of gut-instinct a child has for grinding quotidian injustice, then found a peace with her in my twenties. Friends with similar parents had said over and over, ‘It’s just about accepting that they’ll never be who we need. We just have to decide whether we want to have a relationship with who they actually are.’ And I did, so we saw each other frequently, and I swallowed that sense of always being manipulated and unheard. (When I told her news of my job redundancy, or my pregnancies, or my cavernoma, I was cut off each time with more pressing anecdotes of her own. It was almost funny, in the way family jokes are, except for all those times when it wasn’t.)

Last summer, four years since the cancer treatment and death of my father — appointments and notes and visits, my efforts to ensure distant family were kept informed about each change in condition, each suggestion from the care team — I had a similar nerve-wracking few weeks with my mother, this time in a French hospital. This time I couldn’t visit, but found myself the initial point of contact, responsible at first for telling her neighbours, siblings, and my sisters, as well as calling her and the hospital each day for updates. Some weeks after her return, I received a typed letter informing me that I was subsequently being removed as one of her executors (my sisters though would remain) as well as having my power of attorney revoked. I have never uncovered why. She didn’t contact me on my birthday, nor on Christmas Day (I, like all children in these circumstances, still contacted her on her birthday and at Christmas. We always want to prove that we’re better than they’ve told us). All of this wormed inside my brain, constantly, painfully, until sudden clarity hit: Jackasses Gonna Jackass. (Before I was declared the Most Terrible Person, my sister held the title; before her, my father; before him, my uncle; before him, probably me again. This realisation also helped.) 

As my children grow older, my anger returns. As they grow past milestones I remember from my own childhood — the age I was when calmly told to choose what I was going to be hit with after some behavioural infraction; the age I was when she stormily cut my hair from past my shoulders to a boy’s dull, savage chop (I wept throughout — my father tried to intervene — she insisted afterwards that it was what I wanted); the many, many ages when she consistently told my embarrassed visiting friends to ignore me as I was ‘just showing off’ – such a trivial slight! such a shaping of my feelings about keeping her away from people I valued! –; the years and years where I wrestled with my unfathomable unhappiness in this nice, middle-class home where I was bought presents and taken on holidays — it seems horribly simple to avoid these things. Don’t humiliate your child. Don’t terrify them. Don’t constantly repeat the witless truism that you ‘love them, but don’t like them.’

I find it easy to admit making a mistake. I apologise freely and with thoughtfulness to my children, my partner, friends, because I am not perfect, because we are all human. Part of growing up is the difficult realisation that your parents are human too, and they make mistakes. But sometimes it’s even harder to accept that you really haven’t done anything wrong – at four, at seven, at 10, at 37 – and that you, like everyone else, deserve better. 

Anyway, when I vanish down a Lucille Bluth-flavoured hole of anger and hurt, I remember that exercise helps everything. And it does! Do treat yourself to some, if you can. Also, I read this book while camping recently and it is wonderful. Dodie Smith writes with such understatement that I could read her books twenty times and come away with something different each go.

4. This programme (part 1 of 2) about Jeremy Hardy is so utterly wonderful. It also contains clips of brilliant Linda Smith and Humphrey Lyttleton, and I realise I spend vast portions of my time watching, listening to, or writing comedy because it’s how I understand, process, and communicate my own feelings to the world. (If that’s not turning your lemons into lemonade, I don’t know what is.) 

5. I finally order prescription sunglasses, after years of balancing normal sunglasses over my spectacles, on the pollenous days I can’t hack contact lenses. Continuing my Squash And A Squeeze philosophy of life, it feels like a gift, delighting me at least six times a day.

6. Although repetition has somewhat rendered athletic ads featuring everyday girls and women a cynical trope, there’s nothing like watching a large group of girls play a sport they love. The variety of body shapes, the support they offer one another, and the sheer enjoyment of it. Really, don’t all joys boil down to enjoying our bodies while we can? 

7. The day is bright today, and I took the dog on a longer walk than usual; watching that dog trying to run out a greyhound was hilarious, the sleek fool. At the time, I was listening to this episode of The Cut on Tuesday, on the topic of Spring Horniness and the weird trash we get hot over, which contains the immortal line “The bud is breaking through. But the soil that nurtured the bud was all fucked up, and now the flower is weird.” Also, the final line of the episode made me do an actual out-loud bark of laughter. 

8. It’s several years old now, but I love how both Bad Neighbours 2 and this review scratch an itch in completely different ways. I love the film for everything it undoes of the first one, plus the sheer charm of Efron and furious optimism of Chloë Grace Moretz; also, Rose Byrne, who might be one of the most underrated comedic actresses of our time. But the review offers something else, and sates the library-card-carrying part of my brain that wants to read a thousand think pieces on Magic Mike XXL and Parks & Rec and The Windsors. I hope you enjoy both.

1. When Jeremy Hardy Spoke to the Nation here

2. The Cut on Tuesday – I Want to Put My Mouth on That here 

3. Little White Lies review of Bad Neighbours 2 here