tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-216028612024-03-09T00:15:55.652+00:00Razor-blade of LifeNot so much cutting edge as half-cut and still sliding.Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00822383355869390919noreply@blogger.comBlogger3059125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21602861.post-44610487677890737922022-03-06T22:07:00.000+00:002022-03-06T22:07:06.415+00:00Z lunches out<p> I may return to Blogger, my other blog is playing up. I don't know whether it's my server or Wordpress or what, but I can't get into it tonight and I'm losing patience.</p><p>It's now six months since Tim died and his house in Reading is on the market. It has to be sold, I am not moving there and it would be absurd to keep both of them. It's a lovely house and would make a wonderful home for a new family, especially if they love to throw parties. It's perfect for parties.</p><p>Today, my sister Wink and I took my younger son Ro out for lunch at his local pub, which was really excellent. His small children were with us and the children's menu was a decent one, including the option of the Sunday roast that Ro and I had. The children were adorable and behaved very well. It's worth getting children used to being in restaurants, if possible, because they learn how to behave in company. Young Perdita had fish fingers, mashed potato and peas and she pretty well ate the lot, and it was a generous portion. She's only just two, but she has a very healthy appetite.</p><p>I'm lending Ro my car, because I've bought an electric one - I've kept Tim's lovely 14 year old BMW and it is expensive to run, so I've got one that's cheap to run, to balance it. But Ro could do with a car and it's a decent one, so this makes sense. We had a quick run with it this morning - it's the first time he's driven an automatic and he didn't quite know what to do with his left hand or foot. It' won't take long for it to be second nature. I've always alternated between automatic and a car with a clutch, it's fine ... mostly. Next time I go to Reading, later this month, I'll go in the BMW and it's fine until, after a long time on the motorway, you come to a junction and, ahem, forget about the clutch. I haven't actually stalled yet.</p><p>If you're used to an automatic, an electric car isn't that different. A few things to learn, though, no doubt I'll report back.</p><p>Sometimes I think that Tim is just behind me, but I don't look back because he isn't. It's all very dismal and lonely, but of course it is. I cope as best I can, and my holiday in Atlanta, back in January, was wonderful and did me a lot of good.</p>Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00822383355869390919noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21602861.post-28697876264704378282021-10-10T19:19:00.001+01:002021-10-10T19:19:10.808+01:00Comfort comes in odd ways<p> From 21st September</p><p>I drove back down to Reading this morning. It was the last thing I wanted to do but I'm having to share my time between Norfolk and here for now. I have a list of things to do over the next few days - notifying all the other companies etc and changing direct debits, getting the house valued, going through music to choose tracks for Tim's funeral and starting to sort things out. First will be his clothes, which will be put into bags, taken back and put into the Scope charity bin at the village hall. He's got a surprising amount of clothes in the wardrobes and drawers, but they're nearly all old because everything he wore most of the time is in Norfolk - where I've got to do the same job.</p><p>First, though, I had an appointment to see Tim, to say goodbye. He'd already gone, of course. I talked to him for ten minutes or so and stroked his face and his hand, then left. </p><p>I'd had a bit of time at the house before that, which I used to look for documents, the one I needed being Viv's probate certificate. The solicitor had mentioned that Tim had told her that Viv's name had never been taken off the title deeds of the house - Viv was Tim's late wife. So I needed proof that he was the sole owner. I looked everywhere possible in the house, with no result, so went online to order a replacement. It's a mere £1.50 to access online and is a simple process. I had found Viv's funeral service leaflet so knew the date. But I ran out of time to finish the order and was going to do it later.</p><p>Having arrived back, feeling even worse than I had all day, it occurred to me that Tim's office, unused for a few years, was outside in the brick-built shed. It looks like a garage, but inside there are two rooms, the other being a toolshed, and he'd told me that he used to do all Viv's admin when she was an Ofsted inspector, some 20 years ago. Perhaps the papers were there.</p><p>It took me a while to find the keys, but I got in there and found a filing cabinet. Neatly labelled files at the top, box files in the lower drawers. It's all there. All his bank accounts and investments and all the papers I needed. Tim didn't really send me there, of course, but I think I'll choose to believe he did, because it's some comfort at a wretched time.</p><p>I've rather hit the buffers now, but nice people are coming to clean the house soon, so I'll just clear away anything in their way and then browse through music for a bit. Admin can wait until tomorrow. Lovely friends have invited me over tonight, so I won't be alone this evening. </p>Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00822383355869390919noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21602861.post-85010825972323196832021-09-20T09:35:00.002+01:002021-09-20T09:35:24.060+01:00Lovely Tim<p> People don't update bookmarks and notifications any more - I know that I don't. I use a feed reader, so at least I know when blogs have been updated, even after several years. But I touch base here once in a while, if there's something to say that you might feel you'd want to know.</p><p>I wish I didn't have this to say today, but I'll have to. My Tim died a fortnight ago. It was sudden and unexpected, though he was waiting for an evaluation to decide on treatment for a failing aortic valve. There isn't much more to say, I've had to repeat the tale too many times already. He died at his house in Reading, so I'm holding his funeral there and then bringing his ashes back here, where there will be a short service in our local church, where we were married. </p><p>People are looking after me but it's hard to bear it. There isn't any alternative, there's too much to do. </p>Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00822383355869390919noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21602861.post-28558033864512615202020-12-11T21:33:00.000+00:002020-12-11T21:33:06.324+00:00Family getting together<p> Blogger is becoming impossible. I don't often write here but I've started a post twice and, after a couple of lines, everything I've written has vanished. This will be my final attempt.</p><p>I've continued to blog on the newer site, of course, but i know some people only have this one marked. So, a quick update, from the middle of lockdown 2.</p><p>Rose and family moved out during the summer from the annexe. She had been my very welcome guest for nearly six years and her Boy lived there too, once he'd finished university. A year or so ago, he moved his girlfriend in and then Rose moved her new partner in. Everyone got on well but the whole thing wasn't really sustainable, especially once lockdown came along and, in the end, Boy and Girl moved to Ipswich and Rose and Man moved nearer to Norwich, but still on the edge of a village next to a field.</p><p>We were perturbed about the prospect of the annexe being empty - there was no question of renting it out. The council had allowed me to have a friend living there as a guest, but it's a family annexe, not a letting property and that's fine by us. It adjoins our house and you have to be very confident of a relationship to have anyone else here. I didn't have anyone else who I thought I'd welcome except for a short time. But it suddenly struck me that my sister Wink wanted to move up here and, though she'd been thinking of buying a place - no one thought of taking away Rose's home! - she might like to move in. So, in short, we asked and she said yes.</p><p>It's been several months' process, but she finally moved in this week. And all is well. </p>Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00822383355869390919noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21602861.post-61929501491364384862020-03-26T13:58:00.000+00:002020-03-26T13:59:41.982+00:00Z chatters about anything but what's on everyone's mind<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
What strange times across the world. I'm blogging (in The Other Place) to take our minds away from it - this has its disadvantages in that I won't have the memories of how it feels to look back on, but I see my role in life as cheering people up, on the whole. Anyway. <a href="http://razorbladeoflife.co.uk/" target="_blank"> http://razorbladeoflife.co.uk</a>, if you're looking for it.</div>
Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00822383355869390919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21602861.post-28128465375298858092020-01-06T12:59:00.001+00:002020-01-06T12:59:17.880+00:00HNY and all that...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Trying to comment on a friend's blog, I find I've been signed out of Google. I haven't of course, but I do get signed out of Blogger and it's quite a trick to get back in again. I come here and I'm signed in but I go elsewhere and I'm not. Of course, Blogger is free at the point of use, so not important to the mighty Google. <br />
<br />
Hope all is well with you. I do have notifications of a visit a day or so and, though I assume they're from spammers, if you're a real person and prefer me to post here than on my other blog, I could do both. Let me know.</div>
Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00822383355869390919noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21602861.post-8104706335659244762019-10-05T18:41:00.003+01:002019-10-05T18:41:54.368+01:00Z remembers the house - er, hotel - where she was born<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">A friend said that blogging with Blogger is awkward on a Mac, so I thought I'd have a go; though in fact, she uses an iPad and I'm on the desktop. The desktop iMac, that is, for you literalists out there.<br />
<br />
We went to visit my sister last week, which was a lovely break. We visited Weymouth one day, where I was born. LT grew up a bit further along the coast, so knew the town rather better than I did; though everywhere has changed a lot in the past half century. He decided not to go to his home town of Bournemouth, he thought it would be too depressing. However, we were rather gratified to discover that Weymouth seafront and the old harbour were much as they had always been. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sd42ACEkQsU/XZjTDyPsqqI/AAAAAAAAF2g/7CW1TM-Th38Y2GaQu9FVpwLR3noIlp-pACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/%2525nctamlkSXyRfIA6FuxpHA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sd42ACEkQsU/XZjTDyPsqqI/AAAAAAAAF2g/7CW1TM-Th38Y2GaQu9FVpwLR3noIlp-pACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/%2525nctamlkSXyRfIA6FuxpHA.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
This is the old harbour. The side where we walked still has cars parked facing the water, but now there are huge sleepers to stop them rolling into the water as well as a kerb at the edge, which is very sensible but, perhaps, removes the little frisson of daredevilry that there used to be.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y3LzLVF9asE/XZjTUODXgEI/AAAAAAAAF2w/9jdtAoB7tYUaSVP-J1VH5ktDM1yfa0PtgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/3Q3BvNNQQ8ib%2525uGNx9KeLA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y3LzLVF9asE/XZjTUODXgEI/AAAAAAAAF2w/9jdtAoB7tYUaSVP-J1VH5ktDM1yfa0PtgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/3Q3BvNNQQ8ib%2525uGNx9KeLA.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AsEYUYiVQ9U/XZjTTUIaniI/AAAAAAAAF2k/d6pRZY26vmQrDP-Fd5i4lF9Rnu0QfS2JACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/fullsizeoutput_1b14.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="477" data-original-width="1600" height="95" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AsEYUYiVQ9U/XZjTTUIaniI/AAAAAAAAF2k/d6pRZY26vmQrDP-Fd5i4lF9Rnu0QfS2JACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/fullsizeoutput_1b14.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WOug-cNah-k/XZjTVm6eYFI/AAAAAAAAF20/-PU3zuUjDxgZj9KUJ5dPsKWO8Z0BrjL7gCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/fullsizeoutput_1b17.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="1600" height="74" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WOug-cNah-k/XZjTVm6eYFI/AAAAAAAAF20/-PU3zuUjDxgZj9KUJ5dPsKWO8Z0BrjL7gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/fullsizeoutput_1b17.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bndjwdjUZzQ/XZjTT0wU__I/AAAAAAAAF2s/uGMDn12B_5MaEfDxYTjs8N_xggHf5iHGgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/GPHtwEtVR2SrmJYSFW033Q.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bndjwdjUZzQ/XZjTT0wU__I/AAAAAAAAF2s/uGMDn12B_5MaEfDxYTjs8N_xggHf5iHGgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/GPHtwEtVR2SrmJYSFW033Q.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> <br />
</div><br />
And here, in the random order that Blogger always loved, are pictures of the Riviera Hotel, where I was born and lived until I was three or four. It looks magnificent as you come round the bend and down the hill but is, unfortunately, marred by the funfair in front. It has been nicely maintained but it's not as smart as you'd think such a fine Art Deco building would be.<br />
<br />
<strike></strike><br />
Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00822383355869390919noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21602861.post-79313044336128326062019-02-12T17:21:00.002+00:002019-02-12T17:21:57.555+00:00Up and running<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Not me, darlings, my other blog. I just couldn't face dealing with it yesterday, though I had plenty of time. I had a sense of despair at the thought of it. I'd perked up by the evening however, so looked up the details and cracked on with it this morning. It took quite some time with a helpful chap in IT support on the host website and now I've got a much better deal for less money. He tried to point me in the right direction to set that up myself, but I knew that wasn't going to happen and pleaded uselessness. Just as well I did because, it turned out, there was a fault after all and he had to disable *something or other* to get the blog back.<br />
<br />
I appreciate this stalwart old blog, though, and was glad to use it. So I'll double-post sometimes, for the benefit of those who prefer to come here. The 'official' site is, again, razorbladeoflife.co.uk, all the same.<br />
<br />
Thanks to you kind people for leaving comments while I've been here.</div>
Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00822383355869390919noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21602861.post-69117820609084100342019-02-11T21:34:00.001+00:002019-02-11T21:34:18.156+00:00As the Bard said, what's .......<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I can't now remember why, at dinner, Tim told me the Italian for onion. I was intrigued though, because it's nothing like the French, which the English is derived from. I looked it up in several different languages and I'm still puzzled. It seems that both the Spanish/Italian/Portugese/Romanian come from the Latin, but so does the French, from a completely different word.<br />
<br />
Time was, I'd have done all the research and discovered what I wanted to know. Now, I'm not sure I can be bothered. I will remain intrigued, without quite enough zest to mind.<br />
<br />
We were talking about names, too. I know several people who've chosen to change their name, for one reason or another. Brenda was 70 years old when she finally decided to change to Zella and, such was the strength of her personality, no one ever called her Brenda again. Sophie was called so by her husband-to-be, who mistook what her name actually was (not his fault) and said that Sophie suited her far more than Janet, and so it does. Dorothy changed to Jane because Dot rhymed with Stott and she'd been teased for too many years - her mother (and Sophie's) never accepted it though, so which you called her depended on which side of the family you knew better. <br />
<br />
Most people seem not greatly to like their given name. I liked mine, growing up, because of the Z, mostly. I enjoyed the slash - slash - slash of the Z, like Zorro (I was a child addicted to television, so have always been tolerant of computer games and so on), I liked the ë diaeresis, that the name was a Greek word, that it was distinctive and I didn't mind too much that no one knew how to pronounce or spell it, if they could remember it at all. I quite happily answered to Snowy, Suzie, Zo or anything else, and still do. Indeed, my friend Sophie and I were quite used, as adults, to answering to each others' name.<br />
<br />
I really do call my sister Wink, or Winkie. But her name is Melanie, though she's usually known as Mel nowadays. Why she's Wink is quite another story, however.</div>
Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00822383355869390919noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21602861.post-7555237850496133382019-02-07T21:00:00.003+00:002019-02-07T21:02:13.215+00:00Wince<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Wince, our gardener, is such a nice man. He's worked here for nearly six years, having been at the same job from the age of 15 until 60, when he was made redundant because the business closed. He didn't want to look for another job, so decided to do odd jobs - just what we needed.<br />
<br />
He rescued me, many years ago, when I fell into the icy river and, though I could stand, couldn't get out, and we'd always passed the time of day (what an odd expression, but you know what I mean). He always lived at home with his parents, then his mum, never married, though he has got a girlfriend and now he lives alone since his mother died a few months ago. He's very interested in nature, conservation, photography, engineering and music, but it's not easy to know him well, he's quite self-contained. <br />
<br />
He was such a help to me after Russell died. I'd been really struggling to keep the garden going - mostly, the grass cut - for several years but, even though I thought I'd sell and move on, I didn't want the place I'd lived happily for nearly thirty years to be neglected. So I bought some new equipment and Wince was very pleased with it. He isn't as much of a gardener as I (theoretically) am, to tell the truth, and has sometimes dug up choice plants when he is carried away with the weeding, but that's accidental. <br />
<br />
When he arrives on a Thursday morning, he wants to know if I have a Plan, and professes to be disappointed if I haven't. I can usually tell what he has in mind, though, because he brings a wheelbarrow with any tools that I don't have and he does - today, it was a hedge trimmer because Rose had some tidying up in mind and Wince correctly surmised that I didn't have many jobs for him. Often, I've mentioned two or three things that need doing, sometime in the next few weeks at his convenience, and he's done them all by the end of the day. He just never stops. Today, having done the pruning and tidying that Rose needed, it suddenly poured with rain - so he took himself off to the barn and split logs until the rain stopped. Then he said he'd finished an hour early, so wouldn't take a full day's money. As I said, such a nice man.</div>
Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00822383355869390919noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21602861.post-82716056435379940622019-02-06T21:22:00.001+00:002019-02-06T21:22:28.811+00:00Food, glorious...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
LX and Vagabonde have triggered more thoughts of proper English food - how could I not have mentioned scones? British scones, not American ones, which are more like our drop scones, I think. Simply butter rubbed into flour with a little sugar and mixed into a dough with milk. You can add an egg and you can add some raisins or sultanas, but you don't have to. Gently roll or pat it out, not too thin, cut into rounds with a cutter or simply divide into pieces with a knife, put on a baking sheet and into a hot oven for ten minutes or so, while you put jam and whipped cream or butter into dishes and make tea. Simply perfect. <br />
<br />
We love our cakes, the traditional English cooks. They tend to be variations on a theme - whisked sponge cakes, either baked in a round tin or in a flat rectangular one, when the filling is spread on and they're rolled into a Swiss roll; or else creamed butter and sugar, egg added, then flour, with whatever flavourings you want. The tradition is to cook in two shallow round trays, as a Victoria sandwich (you can sandwich with fruit and cream or butter icing) - but it was much this mixture that I steamed into a sponge pudding. We loved fruit cakes, as everyday or rich as we wanted - I don't often make cakes, but when I do, the simplest is a boiled fruit cake, where you put the butter, sugar, dried fruit and some water in a pan, simmer it for a while, then cool and add eggs and flour, then bake. There are pound cakes, Dundee cakes, Simnel cakes, gingerbread, parkin - parkin is a fabulous one, made with oatmeal - lemon drizzle, chocolate sponge, coffee and walnut ... it's a wonder we're not all fat.<br />
<br />
Oh. So we are.<br />
<br />
We like preserves, too. Do other countries make chutney? I don't know if they do, to the same extent. I've had mango chutney in India and some very spicy pickles. Tim and I had pickled walnuts with our pâté and cheese for lunch. I've never made them, because you have to have a walnut tree so that you can pick the walnuts when they're very young, before the shells have started to harden. My father loved pickled walnuts but I didn't eat them for years, until I noticed a jar in the local deli. Now, I buy them until they've sold out that season's produce. Piccalilli (sp?) is one that I've never seen in another country. I've not made that either, but it's mixed vegetables in spiced vinegar with the addition of turmeric, basically, I think. My mother didn't make preserves generally, except pickled red cabbage. I've not found the perfect red cabbage yet. I made some, but I'd had to get a commercial mix of pickling spices and it had too much chilli in, it was wrongly proportioned and wasn't a great success. We do make quite a range of chutneys and pickles, though.<br />
<br />
I mentioned toad in the hole - the same batter is used to make Yorkhire pudding, which is so delicious that a lot of people nowadays eat it with any roast meat. Correctly, it only goes with roast beef and is made in one big tin, not individual ones. But hey. Whatever anyone likes. <br />
<br />
What I do love is a fresh seasonal vegetable. I won't buy imported asparagus. If served it, I wouldn't refuse to eat it, but it's one of the few things that, as far as I'm concerned, has to be locally grown and in season for me to buy it. It's a traditional Norfolk crop, which is just as well. I was telling Tin the other day about a meal I cooked in May or early June, coming up to 16 years ago. I bought a whole fish from the fishmonger - I'm not sure if there were three or four of us, but it was big enough for the family and I baked it whole, seasoned with home-grown herbs. I had dug up the first new potatoes, picked the first peas and some broad beans. Everything was fresh and seasonal and simply cooked. It was immensely special, as meals go, for that reason, and we all enjoyed it. But, looking around, I realised that no one in my family knew why it was so special. First potatoes and peas, all homegrown herbs and veg, perfectly simple fish, perfectly cooked - the only person I knew who would have felt exactly the same as I did was my mother, and she'd died in March. </div>
Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00822383355869390919noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21602861.post-1437935314955392712019-02-05T20:54:00.002+00:002019-02-05T20:54:24.683+00:00Glorious food<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I still haven't sorted out my other blog. I've probably lost half my lovely readers, who've stuck with me all these years and I'm sorry. But it's rising to the top of the list, that job, as long as nothing more pressing happens tomorrow.<br />
<br />
Tonight, we had kippers and roast potatoes for supper. I remember my mother being a bit shocked, when she accidentally called on our neighbours, back in about 1964, at about 6 o'clock, and found them tucking into their evening kippers. They were a breakfast dish, as far as she was concerned, possibly lunch at a pinch, but not appropriate for the evening meal. I reckon that kippers are suitable at pretty well any time of day, though. There's a saying somewhere that a British breakfast is just about right at any time of the day, and I'd certainly go along with that.<br />
<br />
LT and I were talking about typically English - moving away from the whole UK as we're both English - dishes, the other day. Roast beef, obviously, and actually roast any meat, including game. Also fish - fried fish in batter and chips, grilled sole, kippers and bloaters, fried roes, they're all straightforward food for people who like to see what they're getting. Whitebait. Herring in all its forms - two of which, maybe three, I've mentioned already. Cabbage. Carrots. Good honest bread and home made puddings, such as suet puddings, sponge puddings, rice puddings, syllabub and trifle. Tim and I slightly disagreed about macaroni cheese - I said that macaroni has certainly been used in this country for over 500 years, so it counts, but he reckons it's very similar to meals in Italy and other countries; which I don't think matters - but there we go, let's compromise on cauliflower cheese. Pan haggerty and lobscouse and bubble and squeak. Liver and bacon - bacon, actually, the proper stuff. Black pudding, tripe and onions, kidneys and other offal. I've never eaten lights - lungs - though I cooked them for my dog, who adored them. Shellfish - oysters, mussels, winkles and so on. Broad beans (fava beans, darlings) and fresh green peas. Potted meat, sausages - how could I have taken so long to mention sausages? Toad in the hole. Steak and kidney pie. Steak and kidney pudding. Pork pie. Stilton cheese, Wensleydale, Cheshire, Cheddar, all the delicious regional cheeses that guarantee I can't become vegan. And eggs. Fried, poached, scrambled, coddled (does anyone coddle an egg nowadays? I don't), meringued - ooh, proper puddings can take another sentence. Queen of puddings, Eve's pudding, burnt cream (yeah, there's crème brûlée but we share with our French cousins), apple pie, apple crumble, rhubarb fool, strawberries and cream, baked apple, gooseberry tart.....<br />
<br />
Having said all that, our cookery is inspired from all over the world. Why should it not be? Sometimes I decide, or Tim decides, to be inspired by a single country, but mostly we're all over the place, in a good cause. If it's good, we'll cook it and we'll eat it. </div>
Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00822383355869390919noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21602861.post-37766240056394092222019-02-04T21:17:00.001+00:002019-02-04T21:17:30.340+00:00The darling dozen come for lunch<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The whole family came to Sunday lunch, which went very well. Roast beef, Yorkshire pudding etc, followed by Proper Steamed Sponge Puddings and custard. As traditional English as you can get. Jam sponge and chocolate sponge, and almost everyone had a little bit of both.<br />
<br />
Later, I went and played on the Ups and Downs with Zerlina, Gus and Rufus and, after they had all gone home, I was tired out. I had a bath and came down again and couldn't really stay awake. Asked if I was hungry, I had to say I'd rather go straight to bed, which I did before 8.30 in the evening. The cooking did take a lot of effort, but I swung into action with energy and good cheer (the potatoes just didn't want to roast and I had to fry them into crispness in the end) and I was vastly grateful that LT took over all the jobs that weren't actual cooking - including hoovering, sorting out drinks, tidying, lighting fires ... honestly, he just cracked on and took all the burden - but, though I wasn't at all tired all day, I just unravelled by 7 o'clock. I'm old, darlings. I don't mind being old, I've always had a good many older friends and I've always appreciated them, but it can be a bit disconcerting to feel the age one actually is.<br />
<br />
Anyway, the Baby Belling cooker not having quite come up to scratch in terms of potato roasting, I've ordered a new table-top cooker. Splendid as the Aga is, I can't fit everything in and it's occasionally useful to have something else - and, in the summer, I aim to turn the Aga off altogether. I've also, recently, bought a new, useful toy - I have nowhere in the house to dry more than a small amount of washing. If the weather isn't suitable to dry everything outdoors, it has to go in the tumble drier. But I found a firm that makes two-tier racks to sit on top of the Aga, plus an extra rail in front and - though it was expensive - I bought them all and they actually are very good. It's a bit of a faff to carefully fold each item and lay it on top, but I haven't used the tumble drier this year yet. </div>
Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00822383355869390919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21602861.post-4822822805803455332019-02-01T22:17:00.003+00:002019-02-01T22:17:48.937+00:00Z's week. Or Z's weak, possibly, who knows?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Sorry to say that a week has gone by and I've done nothing about the other blog. I limit the stuff I deal with in a day, and it wasn't top of the list on any of them. It's a nuisance, and sometimes frustrating, but the only way I can plod through things without getting overwhelmed. Next week, I'm sure.<br />
<br />
I typed out a list of 28 lots for the next auction today - it's not until October, but I've got more than half the lots booked in already, as well as a couple of potential new buyers. I'm not sure how long I'll carry on with the sales - I do them out of nostalgia and friendship, mostly - the work involved is not so very arduous but it does take quite a lot of time, for what that's worth. I'll plod on year to year, for the time being.<br />
<br />
The family is coming to lunch on Sunday - it'll be my Christmas menu of roast rib of beef etc; it having been the first time we've been all together since then. When we went to the butcher today, he'd had a run on ribs of beef, which was a bit alarming. I was busy planning an alternative, but he kindly went and phoned the wholesaler, who can put in an extra delivery tomorrow morning. One of the good things about local shopping.<br />
<br />
Actually, the proprietor of the butchery died suddenly a couple of weeks ago, of an aneurism. It was sudden. He was very involved in local affairs; having been on the council, a former Mayor, Town Reeve, he raised a lot of money for charities and catered at many local events. His is the last butchery in the town, so we hope his wife will decide to keep the shop going. There are two other butchers and an assistant there, and we think she will. A couple of farm shops, which do their own wild boar and goat, some game and chicken, but not everything, there is certainly scope for a butcher. <br />
<br />
We are quite lucky for food shops in Yagnub. There's a fishmonger, whole food shop, deli and greengrocer within a few yards of each other. There are also a good many places to eat out. Our favourite opened again today, having been closed during January so any refurbishment can be done and the owners have a break. So we hot-footed it down there for lunch. Which was splendid. </div>
Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00822383355869390919noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21602861.post-86436434113159535212019-01-29T21:27:00.002+00:002019-01-29T21:27:27.247+00:00Z is old and sensible<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I've made all the marmalade we'll need for the year and it's nicely tucked away on the larder shelf. There are still half a dozen pots from last year, which have been brought into the kitchen. I've also frozen a few oranges in case I want to cook with Seville oranges during the next year. I'm more efficient than I used to be, in some respects, which feels a bit boring; but hey ho. It's bound to catch up in the end and it seems that I've finally grown up, chiz chiz. <br />
<br />
I don't think I mentioned, last time LT and I were in Reading, we went to Ikea to look at wardrobes. I know. I know, darlings, I've avoided this sort of stuff for so many years, but I have finally entered the stage of my life when I want a dressing room. So bookcases will be shifted in favour of wardrobes. The books will be kept, of course, I haven't changed fundamentally. Anyway, we were so enervated by the job of circumnavigating the Ikea showroom that we couldn't quite face ordering anything to be delivered 160 miles away, so just wrote it all down and haven't glanced at it since. <br />
<br />
But tonight I want Tim to cheer me up because I'm feeling old and dull, so he's playing Fats Domino. Hooray. The Fat Man Rules!</div>
Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00822383355869390919noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21602861.post-79361525468718543052019-01-27T21:08:00.001+00:002019-01-27T21:14:03.564+00:00Snooze and chips and sealing rats. And a happy blog day.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I slept soundly for three nights*. I said to Tim yesterday that I mustn't read anything into that - neither that it was too good to last, nor that this was a breakthrough and that I'd sleep better in future. As it happened, I didn't do too well last night - 9 o'clock now and I won't last until 10, I don't think. Getting old is fine, but it can be a bit tedious on occasion. <br />
<br />
It's still all Man (in the mankind sense) against Rat in the henhouse. After the last disaster, I put a layer of chicken wire on the base and coming well up the walls of the shed, then concrete slabs on top as far as I could, because they didn't fit exactly and I didn't have quite enough anyway, and filled in with bricks and there were still a few gaps where I put in big stones. Then I covered the whole lot with a piece of vinyl floor covering offcut and some chipboard. And, on Thursday evening, I noticed that it had been nibbled. I panicked a bit, covered any possible areas with bricks and had to leave for London the next morning. On Saturday morning, I found another newly nibbled area.<br />
<br />
We searched and puzzled, took out all the moveable bits, including nest boxes, and really couldn't work out how the little buggers were getting in. It made no sense - until Tim spotted a tiny gap at the side where they'd nibbled through the corner of the shed and slipped through the edge of the wire. So he jammed a stone in the hole and staple-gunned the wire and I've filled in every gap, one way and another. I have to have a sheet of tin in front of the door because they are eating their way through there. They do no harm to the chickens, but other rodents - I suspect stoats - do.<br />
<br />
The rat-proof feeder isn't, so I have to block that off every night too. Then I leave the door open to the greenhouse so that the cats get in during the night and worry the rats a bit. I haven't tonight though, it's very blowy out there. It's not actually that cold, but it feels as if it is. Snow is due, apparently, in the next couple of days, so I rather hope that the wind has died down by that time, as it tends to form a three-foot drift in the drive if it's windy. I'd call it a metre deep, to encourage the young, but it would be an exaggeration. But many's the time I've dug our way out to the road, all 100 yards or possibly metres of it.<br />
<br />
Talking of cats - as I did, briefly - even the shyest lets me stroke him now. Not for long and I don't meet his eyes, as it's too challenging for him. But there is a pleasure in having a wild creature trust you.<br />
<br />
I've had an update from Tessa about Tim the hedgehog (for he's a boy, so we're doomed to confusion. Eloise cat is one thing, but Tim hedgehog takes far too long to say). He's getting better and put on 100 grams in the first couple of days. Tessa reckons that he'd have died by now without help. She's going to check his teeth to be sure he can catch food in future - though if he can't, he can just join the throng down in the barn. I"m sure the cats won't be at all bothered.<br />
<br />
It's my 13th blogging anniversary. Gosh,<br />
<br />
* I was awake in the intervening days, of course.</div>
Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00822383355869390919noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21602861.post-51740495103685505562019-01-26T21:12:00.003+00:002019-01-26T21:12:58.286+00:00Z writes a thank-you letter<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I went to London yesterday to meet my builder at the flat and, afterwards, a friend for lunch. He was slightly disconcerted by the restaurant I'd chosen - simply because it's next door to the flat - but spicy Louisiana food was a bit outside his comfort zone, I think. I hope he did enjoy it though.<br />
<br />
I've just been on the Greater Anglia train website, to send feedback about the return journey. I got to the station in good time - I'd had a really easy time of it all day, journey-wise - and the announcer said that my train was delayed. An incoming passenger had been taken ill and was being helped - I think they used a different train in the end - anyway, it was actually only delayed by about 15 minutes, but the guard explained that, as we'd missed our time slot, there would be a further delay as we went along. It ended up as about 18 minutes.<br />
<br />
After that, the driver really put his foot down, though the train didn't feel rocky in the least. By the time we got to Ipswich, the guard was able to announce that ongoing connections could be caught after all, if people would go promptly to the platforms, which he told them.<br />
<br />
I'd been amused for a while by the woman and her son in the seats behind us. He was a textbook petulant teenager. At one point he was whingeing about his phone - it was useless, it was reeealy old and embarrassing and she didn't care at all... - and she answered with slightly amused patience. Then she told him they'd have to be ready to leave quickly, so he needed to get ready - "Whyyyy???" - and she told him about the connection that had been announced, if he hadn't been so busy complaining. I noted him as they left - about 14, neat school blazer, I'm sure he's a nice boy really!<br />
<br />
The guard had said we'd be at Diss at 17.58 but we were actually there at 17.48, which was pretty impressive. The driver was trying to get to Norwich on time for passengers to make their connection to Great Yarmouth - don't know if he did so. The guard quipped "Please close the doors behind you so that we can get going as quickly as possible - those doors don't close themselves" and "We've just crossed the border from Suffolk too Norfolk. If you're leaving the train at Diss, please have your passport ready." No one had been cross about the late departure of course, it was no one's fault, but the odd chuckle never does any harm.<br />
<br />
So the feedback I sent was appreciative, and I've sent my thanks. I hope that the message is passed on.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00822383355869390919noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21602861.post-35312318285450296852019-01-24T20:45:00.001+00:002019-01-24T20:45:33.295+00:00Z drops in again<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A small hiatus on the razorbladeoflife.co.uk front, darlings. It's gone down and I have to get on to support. Yeah. I know. I thought I was going to do it after dinner this evening and then we went out to the hen house because of my anxiety over rats - I'm not coming over all Room 101, this is perfectly reasonable of me - and now I don't feel like a conversation with a helpline. I'll be in London tomorrow and so the odds are that I'll be <i>hors de combat </i>for a couple more days at least - or anyway, the Z part of me. And then, I trust, all will be well and we can start talking about this year's blog party, if such a thing is destined to take place. All is willing and able at this end, so it's up to you lovely people to come along and join us.</div>
Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00822383355869390919noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21602861.post-48043253099808702722017-12-31T21:40:00.001+00:002017-12-31T21:43:13.464+00:00Z drops in<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A friend, John of PubLog - which he has let fallow for some time - thought he might start blogging again, but he hasn't been able to sign in to it. So I thought I might check out this one. It recognised me through my Google account, but it's taken me several minutes to work out how to write a new post. <br />
<br />
I have never stopped blogging, of course, but I do it elsewhere now. Same name, Razorblade of Life, but it's <a href="http://razorbladeoflife.co.uk/" target="_blank"> http://razorbladeoflife.co.uk</a> nowadays, as it has been for a few years. <br />
<br />
In the time since I left blogger, a lot has changed in my life. But I'm still here.</div>
Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00822383355869390919noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21602861.post-3558402369722249982016-09-15T09:40:00.003+01:002017-12-31T21:33:40.507+00:00Pretty picture<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Tim tells me that he can't post a photo using Internet Explorer on his Blogger blog any more, so I wondered if it could be done with Safari.<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-B9V0WA6SlTs/V9peHuAnAGI/AAAAAAAAFIk/hOsc9uOtP8M-PyARn4hbclSQMfLjBUMLACK4B/s1600/cover.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-B9V0WA6SlTs/V9peHuAnAGI/AAAAAAAAFIk/hOsc9uOtP8M-PyARn4hbclSQMfLjBUMLACK4B/s320/cover.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
And it seems that it can -and it's easier than it used to be, in fact. Just drag'n'drop.<br />
<br />
So here's some pretty Lowestoft china for you. </div>
Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00822383355869390919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21602861.post-47133138359107944682015-12-13T16:47:00.001+00:002015-12-13T16:47:15.368+00:00And Ro corrected it...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
As you were, darlings.</div>
Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00822383355869390919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21602861.post-86147375388408234582015-12-11T17:11:00.000+00:002015-12-11T17:11:02.983+00:00Wordpress seems to have made a mistake<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Darlings, in case you're looking here for my blog, having found a 'fatal error' message on the .co.uk one, it's Wordpress who've made it. I've passed the problem on to Ronan (tech support) and hope that he can sort it out over the weekend.<br />
<br />
News of the day is that I'm back on the road, having spent the morning and several thousand pounds in Norwich.</div>
Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00822383355869390919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21602861.post-3352963532585242062014-10-01T19:57:00.000+01:002014-10-01T19:57:13.750+01:0086 followers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I've just dropped in to the dashboard because I'd got signed out of Blogger and it's the easiest way of getting back, and I saw that I still have 86 followers here. Which either shows vast loyalty or else that few of us unsubscribe from anything (that's true of me, for sure). Hello, if you do call in - I'm still blogging on the other site, though things have changed someone, most specifically, I'm sad to say, because the Sage has died. I don't want the Razorblade to be a widowhood blog, so mostly write as I always did. I hope it doesn't look callous: it isn't. I'm better looking out than in, at least when someone is looking at me.</div>
Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00822383355869390919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21602861.post-9205538259198296292013-08-26T10:15:00.001+01:002013-08-26T10:15:20.317+01:00Z has moved house. Sorry...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
...if you've come here from a link I've left on a comment, but I find that if I sign in with name and URL, I don't have the option of subscribing to comments, so I still use my Blogger sign-in. My blog has moved <a href="http://razorbladeoflife.co.uk/" target="_blank">here</a>. Same name, same furniture, different address.</div>
Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00822383355869390919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21602861.post-53496897522138144542013-08-08T13:25:00.001+01:002013-08-08T13:28:29.743+01:00The removal van is packed<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This morning, I packed Rupert's bag while Russell took him for a walk, and I think it's time to pack and go here too. I'll leave comments on here for a few more days so that you can tell me if you have any difficulties with logging in over there. However, all posts and comments have been transferred. I need a Blogger or similar ID to be able to comment on many sites so this blog will stay here as it is.<br />
<br />
If you haven't visited it yet, please drop in, you will be very welcome. <br />
<br />
If you would like to leave a comment, you need to register with a name of your choice and an active email address, where you will be sent a password - you then sign in with your username and password and if you tick the box it will remember you. You will get a profile page but you don't need to do anything on that - however, if you wish comments to appear under a different name than the one you've entered, you can add it and if you want a different password, you can change to one of your choice. Any difficulties, please leave a comment here while they're still switched on, or email me at the address on my profile - oh, I see my profile has vanished. Just click on Z and look for 'contact me.' Please don't sign in with your Wordpress, Blogger or any other password, just with your own name or blogname and your email. No outside agency has any access to your details or comments.<br />
<br />
See you at <a href="http://razorbladeoflife.co.uk/" target="_blank">http://razorbladeoflife.co.uk/</a>. And if you have been, thanks for listening.</div>
Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00822383355869390919noreply@blogger.com0