I have spent a tiresome day getting insurance quotes.
Our insurance has not even run out, we have still got another few weeks to go, only we had a letter a few days ago informing us that our insurance company had gone bankrupt and that we would not be insured after Thursday.
I phoned around some solvent insurance companies, to discover that the regrettable timing of the bankruptcy meant that we were three weeks short of having had a full year of cover, and that unfortunately forty nine weeks of insurance does not qualify you for a year’s no claims bonus.
I must be getting old, because I felt no more than mild but resigned irritation and not at all the incandescent rage I might have experienced a couple of years ago. Even the discovery that I could apply to the receivers for the return of my lost three weeks’ insurance, but recovery might take between six to ten months, failed to make me feel anything other than amused. I think I might enjoy getting old if it is like this.
In the end the nice lady at the insurance broker, who had had a week of being shouted at by unexpectedly uninsured taxi drivers, very kindly managed to find a company who did not notice how many weeks were in a year, and as an extra bonus had managed to talk them down to a fairly reasonable price. I paid for it immediately on Mark’s credit card, before they could change their minds and put a couple more noughts on the end.
I felt as though I had had a real achievement at the end of this activity, and could justify doing something nice rather than the dusting, which is lurking depressingly in my future not far away.
I have been given so many apples over the last few weeks that I am beginning to run out of things to do with them. I had a massive pot of already-stewed apples on the cooker, and needed to think of a handy use for them.
I made apple cakes. These are little muffin-sized objects which are a cross between a pie and a cake, with a pie crust underneath, an apple filling, and sponge cake on the top instead of a lid.
I made the pastry with butter and oats and nutmeg. I added brown sugar and a mashed banana into the apple, then spiced it all with ginger and cinnamon and sprinkled it with almonds. I put a blob of cake mix on the top of each one and shoved them in the oven.
When they had cooled they looked perfect underneath my new glass cake cover. The house smelled lovely, of apple and cinnamon, and Mark ate five, one after another, when he came in from the farm.
The children refused them with some distaste, not being at all enthused by home baking, and especially not apples, which they regard with the same disdain that I reserved for rhubarb in my own youth. This makes their usefulness a bit limited.
I am considering making chutney with the rest, which might become tomorrow’s job.
It depends how hard I am trying to avoid the dusting.
