I ate a few, and they weren't a patch on my apricots. I decided that the only time to make jam was right then. So I pitted the entire bag, put them in the preserving pot, and stewed them. I'm starting to think that there is a fine line between reducing the watery-ness and totally losing the flavour. These were very watery, and to my mind, didn't have a lot of flavour to boot. I checked online, but beyond vanilla, there weren't any decent jam recipe suggestions. I opened the cupboard, got out the ginger in syrup, and sliced up a couple of balls. That helped. Now it just tasted of ginger. I tried the freezer, found a couple of pounds of gooseberries, and chucked them in. That was better. But now it tasted of ginger and gooseberries. Still, at least it tasted of something. I didn't have enough jam sugar, so I decided to go to bed.
On Tuesday, slightly knackered after a bad night's sleep (it was very hot, and I couldn't figure out if that was because of red wine or just summer), I ploughed through emails at work. I decided that as Sal had suggested that if I wanted, I could go swimming after my half-hour slow run (we'd been going easy on me in a hope that my leg would make amends), I would run after work, which would enable me to go straight to the pool afterwards with enough time. I'd even invited Maggie for the swim. So, I had a free lunch-time! I invited Heather to lunch, but she had pre-holiday shopping to do, and didn't come. I ended up mainly just working over lunch instead, with a brief sortie to pick up a sandwich, some sugar and a load of jam jars. Around then, I realised that I didn't have my phone, and hadn't really set a time to meet Maggie. Inevitably, I ran late. Well, that wasn't the half of it, although I did. I mean, I worked late. I meant to leave the office at 5, so I could get in my half-hour run and then go swimming, but it was easily half past before I was anywhere near getting ready. I realised I had some logistics to sort out - I had cycled in, but I needed to take a pool car home for an early start the next day. No problem. Pile the sugar into the car, go home, change, pick up phone and give Maggie an update, jog to, and maybe in the vicinity of the pool, swim, pick up bicycle, go home. Brilliant.
I got home, fully intending on going running, but I also had the jam to make. I went into the garden, remembered that I'd hung my washing out before I left for work this morning, and saw that lots more apricots were ready: I fetched a bowl, and filled it. I still had time for this run, but only just, because I had to meet Summer to help someone who is coming to Edinburgh with us with his poetry. Well, not so much his poetry as his delivery. I looked at the apricots: I didn't have time for the run now. I'd do it later. I had already warmed the greengages to try and reduce some liquid off them, and while I stirred them, I started pitting the apricots. They were sweet and lovely, and it was time to go. I grabbed some poetry books and headed out.
We had an interesting session, which started out badly when the heavens opened on Summer and I as we walked to the pub. On account of everyone who had been enjoying a quiet summer's pint in the beer garden dashing indoors, there was no quiet area left to help the would-be poet. We decided to go back to Summer's house, and I had him read out a non-rhyming poem, which I thought most closely resembled his style. It was Tich Miller, by Wendy Cope. He liked it, although interpreted it in a quite unique way. Eventually we called it a day, and I went home. I turned the 'gages back on, and finished the apricots. (Pitting them, not eating them). I shoved the jam sugar in, and put it on a low simmer. I was so tired, and there was still a light rain going on. I debated just telling Sal that the slow thirty minute run had been a breeze. Hell, I might as well throw in that the swim was refreshing as well. But how stupid is that? It's not like she's actually anything like as scary as everyone made out. When I've been too tired for runs, I've simply said that, and she's agreed that it's important to listen to your body. What's the point of fibbing? As the teachers used to say when they caught us cheating on tests, "you're only cheating yourself". Worse though, I'd also feel I was abusing Sal. I mean, she's giving up her time to sort me out. The least thing I can do is do the training. I like to leave not running as the last resort. Also, I left my bike outside the passport office.
I got garmined up, shoes on, and slipped out the front door, waiting in the darkness for the garmin to find the satellites. What it mainly found was that it was almost out of charge. Never mind. I started up the street. I know Sal worries about where I run, so if she finds out when I run, she'll probably go spare. I shall have to sign a disclaimer for Sal saying "I did not run at night because I was scared of this lady, and I do not hold her responsible for anything that happens to me from third parties in Dogsthorpe, New England, Fletton, up the embankment, or the wider Peterborough area." Anyway, I'd sign that quite happily because I like running at night. It reminds me of that song from Guys and Dolls, "My time of day". Especially the smell of the rain-washed pavement bit. They were still being washed, when I was running. And the run, well, it was easy. My hurty leg was still giving it gyp, and I almost got knocked over on the corner at the end of Tony's road, by some girls cycling on the pavement. I got sad running past Jan and Tony's thinking of them moving away, and not having any more fun evenings at theirs. But then I got a bit worried at having left the jam on the hob. The garmin had long since died, but my watch was still going, and said I'd been away for 20 minutes. I still had to pick up the bicycle, and get that home. Hope the jam didn't stick while I was gone. I had images of Frank trapped in a burning house. I wasn't sure why he'd be trapped, but you know, it'd be typical.
I got to the bicycle, which was still there, and cycled it home through the rain, which had eased off quite a bit by now. I pushed it round the back, and as I turned the outside light on, I had a flash of a white shirt, and felt a momentary panic that someone was in the garden. Then I realised it was just a white shirt. The washing was drenched. Never mind, tomorrow's supposed to be nice too, right?
On the plus side, the jam wasn't burned, so I bottled it up, washed the preserving pan, and shoved the apricots in it, which I stewed very lightly and went to bed, feeling pleased Sal didn't know what time it was.
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