Swings but not roundabouts

I stayed with Weeza and family last night, we took Zerlina to nursery school this morning, dropped W's car for its service and then I took W and Hay home because he needed a sleep.  So then I went off to the supermarket for the rest of the food and other essentials ... or maybe simply desirables, but they're the fun bit, after all.

When we were going to fetch Zerlina, I suggested that I might take them out to lunch and we decided on Wroxhamam BARNS, as z always calls it.  She loves it there and there's lots for young children to do.  And for grannies. After lunch, we went to the Junior Farm and I fed the goats, who took the feed pellets delicately, nibbling gently from my hand, and I cuddled a guinea pig, stroked lambs and talked to a splendid ginger Tamworth pig.  Then we went to the playground and I went on a swing.  I do love swings, though sometimes get dizzy on roundabouts.  Then I had an ice cream, a Mr Whippy-type cone with a chocolate flake in.  We had a brilliant time, the children were tired out by the end and fell asleep on the way home.

Saucy libertine

The funniest moment of the day came early, when I was reading the local paper over breakfast.  Carol Pearson, who is married to ex-MP Charles Clarke, writes a weekly article, usually with a rather carping semi-political tone to it - I might well often agree with her, but somehow the tone rather needles me.  On this occasion, she was criticising Michael Gove.  An easy target he certainly is, I know very few people who do not criticise Michael Gove in stern and sometimes exasperated terms, and I'm certainly not one of the few.  I couldn't quite go along with Carol's view however, which seemed to decry all academic subjects in favour of very basic life skills.  And then she said this about her cookery lessons.

"Thus I left school with a handful of O- levels (sic) and a handy acquaintanceship with chopping, whisking, rubbing-in and how to make a roué sauce." She was so pleased with the roué sauce that she repeated it at the end.

I almost fell off my chair with laughter.  Roué and sauce seem to form a natural partnership it's true, but I can't think what the ingredients might be.

(For anyone with no knowledge of cookery terms, a roux is an amalgam of melted butter and flour which is cooked gently before liquid is added - with milk, it's the basis of a white sauce, for instance.  It isn't a sauce in its own right, and its pronunciation is indistinguishable from roue, but not from roué.  I assume you know what a roué is.)

Z is getting excited

I woke early the other morning, lay reading for a couple of hours and then got up at 5.  As a consequence, I was tired the next evening and went to bed early, so woke early .... you get the picture.  This early rising is very virtuous I suppose - though I'm not sure why it's cracked up to be so, but it's also quite boring.  Night time is so much more fun, at least I'm more fun in the evenings.

I remember a few years ago when we were asked round for dinner with friends.  I was a bit tired, looking forward to a delicious meal - she was a professional cook before her retirement, has written books and everything - and rather wanting to be entertained, not particularly sparkly.  When we arrived, we found that a couple who had recently moved to the village were there, looking a bit shy.  We had met before, didn't know each other very well, our friends were being kind and helping them spread their social wings.

After greetings, our hostess vanished to the kitchen and soon a silence fell.  Then I became aware that several hopeful pairs of eyes were upon me.  Evidently, Z was expected to perform - not literally, dear hearts, I don't, but to start a conversation at the least.  So I took a swig of gin, put on my brightest smile and launched into animated evening mode, and it all went swimmingly, they just wanted a start.  But I realised afterwards that they had probably assumed that it had been the alcohol.  I don't need alcohol to have fun, though.  It all depends on the company.

RiZotto

I ducked out of church, darlings.  Andy emailed me first thing, offering to play the organ, and once I thought of the two hours I'd have in hand, I was jolly pleased.  So now the house is officially cleaned.  Unofficially, that doesn't actually mean clean because there are still a few hell-holes I'm keeping quiet about, and the whole place needs to be dusted and hoovered all over again.  Blimey, this housework lark is a total bummer and I'm not going to do it regularly, I assure you.

I didn't get around to buying actual food, but fortunately I had some asparagus stock in the fridge and a butternut squash and some shallots in the veg rack, so risotto it was - although Al and co called in so I drank more wine than expected.  Swings, dear hearts, and roundabouts.  I have a weekly quota.

Ro and Dilly are seriously house-hunting.  They know the village south of Norwich they like and they know how much they are willing to spend (and it's a realistic amount).  Fingers crossed.

Z goes to a party

We drove 150 miles for lunch today.  And great fun it was too.  Ro came over first thing and we all set off together, meringues and mousse in the car.  We made very good time, less than three hours each way, though I was tired by the time I arrived home, having done all the driving (neither the Sage nor Ro is insured to drive my car).

Ro hadn't been to Daphne's house for some years and I sent him to look for himself among the photos in the downstairs loo.  It took him a while to identify himself - he's the little blond on the left.  Al is standing next, then G (Daphne's son, who is getting married in a fortnight), then G's brother J, and the Sage is almost hidden in the foliage.  It was evidently taken the last time the summerhouse was dismantled, something that is due to happen again.

When we got home, Ro went for a bath (the boiler has packed in at his house and a new one will be fitted next week).  I had supper ready when he came down and then the Sage took him to admire the four youngest chicks, who are living with their mother in a coop in the biggest greenhouse.

Immediately after this picture was taken, one of the chicks crapped spectacularly into his hand.  Ro squealed a bit but didn't drop a bird of course, and I removed them from his grasp to put them back under the mother hen's wing.  He had a messy puddle in his hand, which was most amusing.  

Curate's egg

I didn't fill in the feedback form after the meeting - for one thing, I had to run to catch my train.  For another, I didn't quite know what to say.  Good in parts, perhaps?  Not quite excellent, even so.

I had about 500 yards to scurry to get back to Russell Square, then into the lift, then onto the platform.  The train was just coming in - one stop to Holborn.  Several corridors to hurry down, then three minutes to wait, anxiously.  I'm not good at cutting it fine.  Four stops and then four minutes to four, I excused myself past people and rushed on to the concourse at two minutes to.  I got on the train on the first carriage as I couldn't run any more.  Through three First Class carriages and past the buffet and then joined a queue.  The man in front of me made a humorous comment, can't remember what, when he heard me pant.  He grinned, I replied amicably.  Standing room only, but I was able to lean against a luggage rack and I read my downloaded book until Colchester and then sat down.

It wasn't that interesting a meeting it seems, if I've a lot more to say about catching a train than about the previous five hours.

Tomorrow, I'll mostly be making meringues.

Ro the songwriter

When Ro was a very little boy, he was given to moments of lyricism.  He was not quite three when he came up with this

People in the clouds, people in the clouds
Because they are smoking a cigarette 
In my eye
But mummy got it out with a needle
And now it's better again


No one in the family or our circle of friends smoked, so I'm not sure where he got that idea from.

A couple of months later, he sang this to us

My little tree, my little tree
We are happy, we are fat
We are like a walnut cat
We are happy, we are fat
We are like a walnut cat
My little tree, my little tree

And here is the tune.

He's written neither poem nor music ever since, as far as I know.

!!!

Okay darlings, I've finally got the invitation header up.  I'm a bit slow, I'm afraid.  I'm really quite busy.

And I lost three hours this afternoon, but all in a good cause.  I had a phone call from my friend yesterday, who had a problem understanding what to do with her iPad, so I went over to visit her.  It was quite straightforward in fact, though quite understandable that she was bewildered, being 94 and never having used any sort of a computer before.  We spent an hour emailing each other, so now I hope she knows how to open received mails and write new ones, and I've set up her contact list and signature.  She's having a lesson on Thursday and I've said I'll be at the end of the phone or pop over any time she wants.  After all that, we had tea.  She insisted that I ate two biscuits.

Today, it hailed.  Fortunately, I was in the car at the time, on my way to fetch Meals on Wheels, and it had stopped by the time I arrived at the caff.  I'm really none too thrilled at this and nor is anyone else.  It's all very well blaming it on the hosepipe ban, but the weather nymphs have had their little joke, surely.  Couldn't they have saved this for the Olympics?  After all, everyone expects it to rain then.

Last night I finally removed the nail varnish that was put on my toenails in India.  I suppose that's the last vestige of my holiday.  Booooo.

Actually, it's just occurred to me.  Now that JonnyB has given up blogging, I can lay claim to three exclamation marks!!!  No more !!(!) for me!!!

Ahem.  Overkill already.  They'll be used sparingly, I promise.

Z would rather be old than not

In some ways, you know, I might not mind being old and decrepit.  When I was first married, the Sage took me to visit elderly friends of his who lived in a beautiful flat in Norwich, on the first floor.  Mrs G always let me ride upstairs on her chair lift (and she fed me Elizabeth Shaw mints and always pressed the rest of the packet into my hand to bring home).  And when darling Kenny bought an electric buggy some years ago, I was quite excited.  So he let me have a ride in it and I went off down to the church gates (about 150 yards or so from the house).  They go at quite a speed you know, it was great fun.  It was better fun when the then Rector, Ian (whose daughter's wedding reception will be on our field in July) drove past.  The expression on his face when he saw me in, he thought, a wheelchair, was very entertaining.  Later, he phoned me in some alarm to find out what the matter was.

Most of the older people I know are desperately anxious not to be seen in a wheelchair, however frail they are.  I'm not too sure why, if it made the difference between getting out and about or being housebound, or being exhausted by walking a few yards instead of sailing along in comfort and earning my keep by having all the shopping bags hung about me rather than the person with me having to carry them as well as care for me, I really think I'd be quite up for it.  Maybe that's easy to say now, when I'm not quite old yet, although I have been in the position of using a walking stick and being grateful for help - and sometimes finding myself in tears because of the unexpected kindness of strangers.

Unexpected, but also quite predictable, I found.  So many occasions - I never had to carry my heavy suitcase, nor stand on a London bus.  My face is quite anxious in repose, I am told, and I suppose I show tiredness quickly (that I am in the way of grinning scarily most of the time is because I've been asked so often why I'm worried, when I was just not smiling), so maybe I worried people ... anyway, I was humbled but never humiliated by being helped and looking vulnerable.

Ida ho ho ho

Ida lives in the local residential home and is often brought to church by one of the staff in her wheelchair. She has a habit of commenting at various points in the sermon and would quite like to enter into discussion with whomever is leading the service - which I'm sure they quite appreciate as it proves that at least one member of the congregation is awake and listening.  She speaks out at other moments too, on occasion.  Today, for instance - "When I was a child, I used to pray to God very strongly" ("Good for you," interjected Anthony) ... "that the psalm would be a short one."  The whole congregation guffawed.

It seems to be quite well received now that I usually play the clarinet instead of the organ.  In the winter, we use the meeting room adjoining the church to save heating the whole building and, when it's Andy's turn to play, he uses an electronic keyboard.  I'm not at all fond of playing that so bring the clarinet instead.  We moved back to the church last month, but the first time I played there was a modern hymn that really was not suited to the organ so I kept to the other instrument.  And since then, I've been playing it by request.  I'm aware of course that this says as much about my organ playing as my clarinetting, but the other advantage is that it's pitched slightly lower and is easier to sing to - and in fact, the rich tone is a pleasure to sing to in any case, or so I'm told.

It's not impossible that this might be the first day for five or six weeks when there will not be any rain.  Very good timing if so, because it's the day of the town's street market.  I should have gone really, the Sage did, but I wanted to do some gardening.  He had lunch while he was there.  I had a slice of dry bread and a glass of wine.  I'm not sure that's really quite the thing for Sunday lunch though.  I wanted cheese, but someone seems to have eaten it all.   Maybe I'll go and cook something, I won't last until dinnertime.

Milk tooth and egg tooth

The main news from yesterday was that Augustus finally has a tooth.  This tooth has had a remarkably long journey through his gum - he's now 9 1/2 months old, all other babies in the household had teeth before they were 5 months.  I haven't seen this proud eruption yet, I will go and inspect some time next week.  I'll have to check with Weeza when they'll be there though, because this will be the week when she returns to work.  Just two days to begin with, then three which was what she worked from when Zerlina was 18 months old to when she started her maternity leave.

z goes to a childminder called Linda, where she is very happy.  Gus visited for a day last week and had a brilliant time.  Another little boy has already turned into a hero and z was very attentive to her little bro too.  They were both tired out when they arrived home, had tea and went straight to bed.  So Weeza is confident that things should go well and she's looking forward to getting back to the office.

Back here, the Sage has been acting midwife again.  The eggs have such hard shells that the chicks simply can't break out of them, and he has had to help.  We had several wriggling their way out of their shells, lying on a towel on top of the Aga, this morning.  He chips gently at the end of the shell where the air-sac (I should have spelt that 'sack', to give Chris something to correct) is, and when he has broken through then he leaves it to the chick to make its way out.  It's such a pity when the chick can't break through, wears away its egg-tooth and dies of exhaustion, so he does what he can to help.  We have six chicks now, it'll be lovely to see them scuttling about.  We have to keep them under cover while they are little though, there are too many predators about, such as magpies.

Wrinkles

The iPad is useful to download attachments, I bought Pages and Numbers and download documents to one, spreadsheets to the other and PDFs go onto iBooks.  Then I don't have to print documents and they're always to hand.  Of course, it would be just the same for a laptop, netbook or whatever - but when you buy your iPad and are told it isn't a storage device, it can be.  And there are apps such as Noteshelf where you can write with your finger or a stylus which is convenient - untidy, has to be said, but useful for quick notes.

Anyhoo, enough of that.  Um.  Sorry darlings, nothing interesting has happened today.  I went to get my hair cut, came home and continued to sort out my wardrobe.  The good thing is that the ironing basket has been cut down to - well, to a single basket.  It contains a whole lot of dinner napkins and three of the Sage's shirts and some handkerchiefs.  I've got a lot of napkins.  I've told my children that they can each expect a good four dozen as their inheritance when I die.  They all wished me long life and good health.  The less good news is that I've now got an awful lot of unironed clothes hanging in my wardrobe.  Every time I dress I shall have to switch on the iron first - and, more to the point, use it.

I weighed myself this morning.  Joy, darlings, total joy.  Not only have I lost the pound I gained in India, but a couple more besides.  I celebrated by cutting off the buttons on my jeans and sewing them on again half an inch in.  Yes, I was wearing the jeans at the time.  But at least I threaded the needle first time, which I thought wasn't bad really, as my sight isn't what it was, now I have slight astigmatism.  I never thought my short sight would let me down and am reluctant to admit it.

I had my hair cut slightly shorter before I went to India to be easier to look after and I will keep it that way, at least for the summer.  It's not a lot of difference, not an inch in it, but I think it's okay.  I've kept the fringe at the same length.  Anything to hide the wrinkles, darling.  Or some of them, at any rate.

Ageless

Today's Year 9 music lesson was fun.  They are being taught about irregular time signatures, and first the teacher played recordings of Take Five and Mars from Holst's Planet Suite, both being in 5/4 time, of course.  Then she wanted them to learn to play Dave Brubeck's Unsquare Dance

 F

Two to each keyboard, she gave each pair a sheet of music and let them work out the base* line, then the chords (clapping in the recording) and when they'd mastered those, the melody.  Only a couple of them managed to play the base* line with the melody, it was quite tricky for them.  They did enjoy it though and I helped several with the notes and the rhythm.  There are some quite exuberant lads in that class, which I always enjoy (don't you find the rascals are much more fun?) and they worked hard and really concentrated and were pleased to play to the rest of the class at the end and be applauded.

I've been out to dinner tonight with a group of friends - it's a small dining club, women only, that I started going to to keep my mother company, the best part of 20 years ago.  I was the youngest there then and I still am.  The founder, who is now 94 and no longer a member, comes along once in a while and tonight she was telling us all about her new iPad.  She's never had a computer before, is enjoying getting to grips with it and her first emailing lesson is tomorrow.  She's very excited.  I think it's brilliant and certainly proves that you're never too old to try something new.

*Bass.  Ahem.  Sorry.  

Z the incurable optimist

"Do you fancy a wee, wee snifter?" asked the Sage just now.  "Jolly good idea," said I.

A partridge is laying eggs in our chicken run.  A broody hen is sitting on some eggs, but evidently a bit intermittently because whenever she wanders off for a while, the partridge nips in to the nest.  The Sage thinks we might as well eat them.  It seems a bit mean, but ... well, if I hardboil them and serve them with celery salt #memo to self, must buy celery salt - then I could pretend they're quail's eggs.

I was trying to fill in a claim form today for an agricultural grant for our fields.  I thought I'd done it right, but then it said I hadn't completed something that I couldn't understand at all, and nor could I understand the document that was supposed to help me.  So I rang the helpline.  It took some time, very nice young (I'm sure she was) woman was very helpful as well she might be, and in the end it turned out, I don't understand why, that our claim would have been rejected anyway, though we've always received it in the past.  Oh well, easy come easy go, and I was quite relieved to click on 'abandon claim' after wasting a mere hour and a half on it.

This afternoon, I tackled my wardrobe.  And my floordrobe and my chaise longuedrobe (I know, darlings, some people have a chair in their bedroom but I need more space for my stuff).  I filled four binbags with discarded clothes and have taken them to the Scope receptacle in the village recycling centre (it's the bottlebank otherwise in fact),  I was quite ruthless, for me.  Mind you, I had offered a third of my wardrobe space to the Sage and I find that I might not be able to keep my promise, once everything's hung up, so we may have to think again.  Thing is, I've thrown away all the clothes that are currently too big for me.  So I cannot put on any weight or I'd have to buy new clothes, and that would be such a cop-out.

I finally threw away the last 60s dress that I still have, a sleeveless pink shift.  I wouldn't have if it hadn't got several moth holes in.  I also threw away a cream linen kaftan from 1970 and a jacket, part of a suit that the Sage's tailor made for me in 1973.  Truly ruthless you see, and I feel a pang as I type - but last week I threw away my first AppleMac, so that's proof, if needed, that I'm determined.  There was one garment I didn't throw away, from nostalgia.  On the wardrobe floor (not at all the same thing as a floordrobe) was a pair of jeans.  I looked at the label ... age 13 it said, and I remembered one time putting on a pair of jeans from the pile of clean washing, doing them up, finding the legs were a bit tighter than I remembered and realising that I'd put on Al's trousers.  He was a very thin lad (and still is, 20-odd years on) and it was the first time I realised that maybe I wasn't as fat as I thought I was.  I put them on today - I could do up the button but not the zip, so now I have something to work towards.  Is it a bit unrealistic, for mildly porky Z to think she might get into the jeans of her onetime 13-year-old son?  Yes, frankly, but that won't stop me from keeping them and trying.  And I didn't throw out any other clothes that are too small either.  Boundless optimism at the Zedery as always.

I loved that Mac.  I may not have used it for 15 years, but I still loved it.

I still haven't written out directions to here.  I will darlings, I will.  Trust me.  I've promised them to Tim, anyone else who'd like them please email.

Silly cow

We decided to have an early night last night, and I was in bed by 11 with the Sage not long behind me.  I'd just turned off the light, finished replying to an email and we were just snuggling up to go to sleep when the phone rang.  "That'll be Daphne," I said, as she usually phones around 11 pm.  In fact, it was the police - or one of them, anyway, a female police officer.  A cow had been reported out in the lane.

The Sage's first reaction was polite lack of interest, but we supposed we'd better do something about it.  So I fished my underwear out of the linen basket, put my jeans and jumper back on and we stomped down and into the car.  The cow was out, rather wishing she knew how to get back in with her friends (Big Pinkie and another cow, we haven't named them this year yet) and wasn't entirely pleased when I clapped my hands to get her to move to where the Sage had released a section of wire.  I clapped her on the rump, she started to move and then wheeled round resentfully.  I stepped back a bit.

Once she got going, it wasn't easy to stop her and she vanished over the bridge down the lane - away from the road, fortunately.  I moved the car to help persuade her not to go past it, and it didn't take long for the Sage and me to drive her back into the field.  We were back in bed by midnight.  All the same, knackered, darlings, we were.

It's all been a bit busy today and I haven't got around to writing down directions to get here, so if you're waiting I apologise and will email you tomorrow.  

'Welcome' can hardly be overused, can it?

I've already invited you, and several of you lovely people have already accepted the invitation (and one backed out last week, hem hem) but the invitation is still open to this party and you're all welcome.  Well that is, I'm rather assuming not all of you can come (there are a fair few readers) but I'd borrow extra plates and fit you all in if intercontinental guests want to pop along.  

It's lovely that so many of you who came last year can come again, and also that there are several who weren't able to, or whom I didn't know then, who are joining us this time.

To recap - 

 Saturday, 26th May, from 12.30 pm

Lunch at the home of Z and the Sage

Overnight visitors welcome

Dogs welcome (as long as they don't chase chickens)

Motorbikes welcome

Children of all ages welcome

All food requirements catered for, just let me know, especially about allergies 

The guest list so far includes Roses and Lawrence, Mike and Ann, Tim, Blue Witch and Mr BW, Sir Bruin and Liz the Small Bear, Rog and Mrs Rine with the Lilster, Phil and Lisa and Amelie (with A's baby brother), Mig, Pixie Mum and Ian, Wink, Weeza, Phil, Zerlina and Augustus, Ro and Dora, and a few more have not yet confirmed either way (or if you have and are not down, I'm terribly sorry but have the worst memory, just give me a poke and say what the hell).  I'm sorry to say that Christopher, who had hoped to come, now has another engagement on the Monday at home and even I, demanding hostess as I am, can hardly expect him to come all the way from the south of France just for lunch.  

I'm expecting Wink, Mig, and Phil, Lisa and Amelie to stay overnight and still have a bedroom in hand as long as Amelie doesn't mind sharing with her mum and dad, and after that it'll be an airbed wherever there's room.  You're welcome to stay Friday and Saturday nights, and if you're staying elsewhere you're welcome for supper/breakfast too.

If you are staying, for heaven's sake don't consider bringing a sleeping bag or towels or basic toiletries, I've got loads.  Most of the bedding has feathers in, so if you're allergic please let me know, I do have alternatives.

If you need the address, just ask me for directions, my email is on my profile.  

You don't have to be a blogger, you don't have to have met anyone, few of us had met each other last year and it all seemed to work.  I'm really looking forward to seeing you, and will cook all the food before you arrive this time so I actually have time to join in and don't spend the entire lunchtime cooking.  

You can meet Bobby the leopard, inspect the Wall, admire the newly-resurfaced drive and see how three weeks tidying up still leaves my house at the stage where most people start cleaning.  On the other hand, there will be plenty of food and innumerable books to read, and I've already laid in an indecent stock of wine.  Actually, that's all I've bought as yet.  

I'm really looking forward to seeing you and so is the Sage.

Under the hammer. In the auctioneering sense, obv.

The sale went very well, but it was unpredictable.  Some items went for a lot of money, others didn't attract a bid.  The *star lot* was estimated at £8,000-£10,000 and went for £11,000 hammer price, £12,650 out of the saleroom, so that was very good.  A couple of things that didn't meet their reserve have been sold afterwards for slightly less and some more will probably go in the next few days.

I'd been feeling quite down and dispirited for the previous couple of days and was struggling to build up any enthusiasm.  However, a necessity to look cheerful, be friendly, have a smile on your face and take an interest in what's being said to you is a very good way of raising the spirits.  Behave as though you're happy and you become much more happy, and so I did.  And in fact I quite enjoyed it.  What's special about us is the personal touch - so, much of the time, I saw someone coming in and sitting down at the table (darlings, I've just remembered that I took pictures! - before viewing started, but it'll show you what I mean), wrote their name on the registration list and took them a bidder number without asking them to sign in.  Not many salerooms where you get that level of personal touch.  In fact, people ring to apologise if they're not going to make it, as if it's a private party!

I had a list of people to phone and also some commission bids - usually the Sage puts those in his book, but if there's something complicated, such as someone wanting to spend no more than a given amount altogether, or alternative bids (that is, if they aren't successful in the first lot they bid for then they'll bid for another, but only want one piece) then I take it on.  It went fine, I didn't miss anyone and several of my customers were successful, but I managed to forget to hold up the bidder number every single time and Weeza had to ask.  D'oh, darlings, d'oh.  It must be extreme old age and decrepitude.

Anyway, here are pictures of the china.  Books were on a separate table.  84 lots of china.  I took three pictures so you're getting three views, wicked waste makes woeful want, as they say.

People sit on the chairs and we bring any pieces of china they would like to see.  They can handle anything they want to, but we pick it up from the central table and take it to them for safety, rather than let people mill around helping themselves.

The jug was put the wrong way round so that the inscription doesn't show, so here's a close-up.  £12,650, remember - very good condition, best part of 250 years old, but it's the inscription that gives it its value.

Mama Weeza rules!

I feel as though I'm way behind on my work, but I don't think I am really.  It's just that today was quite unproductive.  It started with a meeting at school - the wretched local authority really makes things unnecessarily (I always spell that word wrong first time and have to delete the redundant 'c', dammit) difficult and we thought they'd be less ghastly when we became an academy.  We still have to fight the battles, but at least now we win them mostly, but it's such a waste of time and energy.  Anyway, that took two hours, then I had to go supermarket shopping for essentials for tomorrow and then a friend called round, by arrangement, after lunch and he stayed rather longer than I'd thought he would.  After that, we went over to Weeza's to leave my car there for her to use - Phil, extremely kindly and helpfully, has taken a day of precious holiday tomorrow so that he can look after the children and Weeza come and help us.  After years of looking after children, it's a bit thought-provoking when they start to look after you.  But appreciation and humility are good habits to get into.

So I'm mostly ready for the sale, and so is the Sage.  He was ready days ago, in fact.  Today, I've printed off the bidder numbers, the registration list, the list of things we need, got plenty of A5 paper, written down whom I'm bidding for and whom I'm telephoning ... and so on.  I'm terribly tired and will go to bed soon.

But we have to have some good news, it's the rule.  Today, Augustus said mama for the first time.  He was sitting on the floor, she was leaving the room for a minute and he looked at her and called her back.  He was quite ill for several days, poor mite, D&V as it's known (he's skinny enough at the best of times, he's visibly lost weight) and has become a bit clingy.  But he's all smiles again now, as long as he feels secure, and eating well and on the mend.  Phil is quite jealous and has been coaching him to say dada.  But mama rules at present.

Clowning

Those of you who come via a feedreader will see that I deleted a post earlier on today - it was just that a blogfriend was unable to get a photo not to print sideways, so I tweaked it for him, posted it to make sure, deleted the post and emailed the picture to him.  Because I'm helpful like that.

I went to a brilliant lecture today - not at all a fine art lecture although it was NADFAS, it was about clowns and by a clown - this one.  He started by telling us of his early life, building up to his first venture onto the stage as a 15-year-old schoolboy at a school entertainment, and then on to his National Service, entertaining troops and his first professional engagements.  Then he showed slides of early circus shows from the 19th Century, bringing it more up to date with clowns he had worked with, and he spent the last 15 minutes on several  brief acts wearing hat, wig and false nose as disguise.  He is a brilliant mime artist, it was hilarious and the lecture was very interesting.  He's still working, although he'll be 80 in September (I'm so glad the Sage wasn't with me, he never intends to retire, though I wish he would, and it would just spur him on).

I did cycle in to town, for the first time in weeks ... mind you, I was away for a fortnight and it's rained every day since ... my bike tyres need pumping up.  I didn't have time to stop and take a picture, but there was an odd sight on the bridge over Earsham Dam, a row of baby clothes spread over the railings.  I don't know if someone had washed them in the river - it's normally shallow there and cattle use it for watering, though the depth of water builds up in times of flood of course.  It's called the Roaring Arches bridge, which is a bit of an exaggeration really.  Anyway, they were gone by the time I came home.

I had various plans for this afternoon, but annoying bits of life intervened and I hardly got anything done. I think I'll have an early night and give it another go tomorrow.  It's the Sage's sale on Friday and I haven't got my papers ready yet - not that I have a lot, he does most of the bookwork as you'd expect at this stage.  I don't exactly dread it, but I don't enjoy the sales any longer.  And we've got three this year.

By the way, the Sage will be on Radio Suffolk on Friday lunchtime - I think it's 1.40 pm, for about 10 minutes.  It's been recorded, but I don't know what he said as I was out at the time.  I'll listen to the website on Saturday - we don't receive Radio Suffolk here very well anyway, so I'd be listening online in any case.

Bobby

Here we are, darlings, my childhood companion, Bobby.

Not a mark on him, he was throttled rather than shot.  If you haven't read yesterday's post, please do and follow the link before being horrified at my posting pictures of a stuffed leopard.

He's been in a garage (not always the same garage) for over 30 years, but before that he held pride (I don't know what the term is for a leopard*, I trust he'll forgive comparison with a lion) of place on the landing in my childhood home.  I don't know if he'd picked up any creepy-crawlies, Al and I discussed the possibility of putting him in the freezer to kill anything unwanted, but leopard and case are jolly heavy - they'd fit in my freezer if I cleared it out first, but we'd never be able to lift it out again.  And I wouldn't care to take him out of the case where he's resided for the past century.  It would need specialist assistance.

Not that it isn't available, they did just that at Norwich Castle Museum a while ago.  There was a problem with their extensive collection of stuffed animals, I think that woolly bear got in (that's the larva of the carpet beetle) and everything was put in freezers to kill the bugs.  I gather that, ironically enough, it was the polar bear that posed most problems in terms of freezer space.

He's at the end of the landing and there isn't much natural light there.  Having lights on or doors open to let the light in from the windows just made reflection and glare, so these pictures were taken using flash, something I normally avoid with my camera as it's better without.  But there we go - come to the blog party on 26th May and you can see Bobby for yourself.  And see me too, of course.  And each other.

*I've looked it up, it's a leap or lepe of leopards.  Bobby hasn't done much leaping of late, I have to say.

Hoorah for the failed wannabe maneater!

Well, the Sage has come up trumps, that's all I can say, and it may have taken a few years but who counts the years?

I shall not beat about the bush (which can be quite uncomfortable, so I'm told) but tell you straightaway, that Bobby the leopard is in residence.  I shall give you the link to the time I Told The Tale - goodness, almost four years ago.  Here, darlings.  The comments are really cool too, please do read them.

Anyway, he's on the landing.  I'm so thrilled, I can hardly describe.

Actually, I'm going to give the Sage one of my special chocolates.  Excuse me.

As I said in the post, I wasn't at all sure if Bobby would prove to have become hopelessly motheaten in his years in the barn, but he looks fine.  It's possible, now he's in the warm, that a load of woolly bears or other caterpillars or maggots will appear, horribly, but I'm the optimistic sort on the whole, and I hope that there will be no problem.

The Sage and Jamie were busy in the workshop when I went out to my village festival meeting and I guessed what they were up to but didn't go and look, just called out that the Sage's kipper was ready to be put in the oven.  When I arrived home, I was led upstairs to look.  Tomorrow, I shall take a picture and show you.  Remember, darlings, this leopard was no big game trophy.  Great Uncle Ronan only killed him to save his servant's life.  If he'd been a trophy, he'd have quietly mouldered away in the barn, not exhibited proudly.  But anyway, Bobby is part of my childhood and I love him, failed wannabe maneater though he is.

Z shoulders responsibility

In the interests of fairness, I should say that it's by no means all the Sage's fault.  I'm just as untidy as he is - you should see the state of my study and I've got a spectacular floordrobe.  Mind you, I always knew and admitted it, whereas he married me under false pretences.  When I used to visit his house it was always tidy.  It wasn't until I married him and moved in that I opened drawers and discovered that, before I was due to visit, he used to sweep everything off all the surfaces into them.  The writing wasn't so much on the wall as in all those empty envelopes that he didn't bother to throw away but kept with the more important former contents.

Nevertheless, we more or less overcame that (a large spare bedroom was unusable and packed to the gunwales* by the time we left our house in Lowestoft) and things were more-or-less reasonable for some time after we moved here, especially after we built an extension.  It all fell apart after Weeza's wedding, when my hip started to give problems and I gradually became less able to keep things together.  This is not an easy house and it has a large garden, and once darling Kenny couldn't manage any longer, the garden became too much for me.  I lost heart, frankly, and the housework suffered too, and I left the Sage to his own devices.  Devices and desires, dear friends.  His collecting habit extended beyond control.  He hasn't changed over the years, it's just that his brakes are not what they used to be and they were always poor.  I did enough cleaning and tidying to get by and no more and ignored the rest.

And so it's not his fault, it's not mine either.  It's just that now I can't deal with it any longer, I know that we won't be able to stay in this house unless it's easier to run and that means a lot less stuff.  He's awfully reluctant to do anything about it, he's not too keen on me at present because he thinks I'm being unreasonable (not that he'd say so to me, but he does to others), but I know my limits.  And so I'm having to push.  He's being co-operative, though it's not easy for him.

I haven't started on the garages and outhouses yet.  Nor the cars.


*gunnels if you prefer, darlings, I grew up among sailors

Willing, if not able

Thinking about wills (thank you, Tim) reminded me of my mother's.  One of her quirks in later life was to tweak its details every so often.  Only in minor ways, we found several former wills drawn up over a period of about five years and the main items were the same, but minor specific legacies to my sister and me were changed regularly - she'd left almost everything to us anyway, so there didn't seem much point to this, but it evidently gave her some satisfaction.  The final change was a bit odd.  She left me her car, which she'd already given to me (before making the change), although I refused to accept the gift in case she became well enough to drive again, which she did, as it happened.  She left Wink a portrait of herself (of Wink, that is) that Wink had always disliked and which she refused to take, so it's now somewhere in our attic.  The third stipulation was the odd one, though.  She declared that everything in her house should be left exactly as it was - well, obviously she didn't mean not to clear out the fridge.  The furniture and everything.

Darlings, I'm normally a polite woman but this was a bit much.  "She wants it kept as a shrine?  For how long, forever?  She didn't even own the house!"

Actually, she'd much have preferred what actually happened, which was that Al moved in (having redecorated and removed much of the furniture) and he and his family still live there.  She'd love that, far more than having all her things still there gathering dust nine years on.  

Z declutters

As a pleasing antidote to yesterday's burst of domesticity, I spent the morning reading the papers and doing nothing else at all.  I didn't even go shopping - with the result that I'm going to be rather using my ingenuity for a menu for tomorrow's meals, but it had to be done.  I've got eggs, cheese, onions (well, shallots at any rate) and bacon, one can eat for a day on those.

I did do some sorting out this afternoon, mostly things that Wink and I inherited from our mother and which we've agreed should be sold. I can't bear to think any longer that my children will have a horrible headache over Too Much Stuff when I die, though getting the Sage to acknowledge that either of us will do so is another matter.  He was enthusiastically agreeing to the sale of anything I looked at (I refrained from saying that it wasn't up to him) as a way of not addressing the load of stuff he has that he really neither wants nor needs.  The hundred or so paintings he bought without mentioning them to me over the past few years has pushed me beyond endurance however, quite apart from the things I did know about, and a major clear-out has been agreed, in principle at least.

My mother and father loved each other dearly, but had quite a volatile relationship.  My mother loved drama, which my father hated, and when pushed too far he verbally exploded, although he got over it quickly.  He hated being nagged (although who doesn't?) and my mother said, but if you did what I asked at once, I wouldn't have to say it again.  And that's a fact. "Darling, please could you?" - "You know I mentioned?" - "I hate to mention it again" - "Have you forgotten?" - "Just sodding do it, will you, like I asked three months ago and the deadline is tomorrow" - well, we all have been on both sides of that, and I honestly do try to avoid mentioning anything more than twice, but that generally just means that nothing ever gets done at all.

I'll give you a couple of examples, although they aren't so much actions as agreements.  When Al was three years old, I raised the matter of having a third child, something that had been agreed in principle when he was born.  The Sage didn't answer.  So I didn't mention it again.  When Al was seven and a half, he suggested we have another baby.  Ro was born ten months after that.  When our dog Simon died I wanted another dog, but the Sage looked ahead to when it would finally die and hated to think of that and preferred not to have a dog at all.  It took four years before he agreed and I never mentioned the subject in that time, much as I wanted to.

I'm old now, however, and I've run out of time and patience.  So if something doesn't happen, I'm afraid I'm prepared to nag.  Well, to mention it again, maybe two or three times, over a matter of months.  But the only way I can justify expecting him to make a sacrifice is to make one at least as large myself.

I've turned out five boxfuls of books so far.  And a whole load of silver plate.  Oh, and four decanters.  Well, it's a start.

Half a crown

Of course, the disaster at Aberfan in 1966 made a huge impression on me, as it did on everyone at the time. For those of you who are too young to know or don't live here, it is a village in Wales where a coal slag heap slid, following heavy rain, onto the village primary school, killing nearly all the pupils and their teachers. The most appalling tragedy, everyone was shocked and grieved for their parents and the few survivors.

What I remember too is that there was a fundraising appeal. How money would help wasn't that clear, but there was a big response. We were asked to bring contributions to school and my mother gave me half a crown to take in. I never told her, but it was quite embarrassing. Everyone else brought in sixpence or a shilling at most and I rather stood out. Since my main aim in life at that time was to remain unnoticed in the background, I was particularly uncomfortable in case it looked as if I was showing off.

Half a crown, two shillings and sixpence. Twelve and a half pence. There's inflation for you, it would be an embarrassingly small amount now. I wonder what happened to the money - apart, perhaps, from funeral expenses, I can't think that any of the bereaved parents would have wanted to take it for themselves.

I've had a rare burst of domesticity in the last couple of days. Unable to sleep the night before last, I got up early and could think of nothing better to do than clean the aga and polish cutlery. Today, I defrosted the fridges. Well no, one of them is the frost-free sort so I cleaned it - I'm not sure what happened while I was away but it was slightly and unidentifiably whiffy when I got home. The other one has a freezer compartment with a very slightly deficient seal. It's fine for weeks, then a slight build-up of ice soon turns into a snowstorm. Not literally, mind you.

Next week I shall revert to my normal slapdash self. Domesticity doesn't suit me in the least. Why, I even ironed the skirt I'm wearing this morning. All quite worrying. I've been cleaning windows and everything.

Have a good weekend, everyone.

Zoë

Sent from my iPad

Z blathers on a bit

Just one more chunder, as Weeza elegantly put it (I suppose that should be 'chunder, or is that just too pretentious for words?) last night and Augustus has been much better.  They're coming over tomorrow afternoon for fun and jollity, or as much of it as one can have when the weather keeps going from bright sunshine to chilly rain.

The Sage bought a yearsworth of stamps today.  He'd just paid the half-year's rates, or Council Tax as it's more correctly known these days, so needed access to my bank account.  Crumbs.  Do stock up on stamps before the price goes up at the end of the week, darlings.  If you think it hurts now...

I should put up a few more photos from India, but I've rather run out of steam for now.  The henna painting on my hands has almost faded away now, it always goes quite quickly once I'm home because of the chlorine in the water.  I finished unpacking my suitcase today - I know, darlings, quite incredibly quick, I've hardly been home a week ... well, nine days ... it's quite understandable when I don't unpack until I'm repacking for the next time.  Which reminds me, I've got to book some tickets.  It's all pressure, innit?  Those First World problems.

It'll be the Sage's next auction sale tomorrow week.  He tells me he's got a lot of commission bids already and a few phone calls booked, so that augurs well.  He's managed to talk me into three sales again this year, but at least the next one isn't until September.  Still, it's a lot of work.  I'm not really into work.  More into cultivating my garden, metaphorically speaking.

Z is a Good Mother

I haven't got around to looking out any more photos yet, sorry.  I spent the day with Weeza and the children.  There was a phone call around 10.30, with Weeza wondering if I happened to be free...? Gus had a stomach bug and there was a lot of washing to be done as a consequence and Zerlina, who was quite well, to be looked after.  I gave apologies for my meeting and hot-footed over to them.

Babies can recover remarkably quickly and he seemed to be over the worst by the time I left this afternoon.  We're hoping no one else catches it.  I'll make sure I keep a decent level of alcohol intake over the next few days, believing that to be the surest protection against pretty well all germs.

A friend came to dinner tonight, being down from Aberdeen on business.  A relaxed and cheerful evening, he was good company.

That's about it, it seems.  I haven't done anything else.  And it rained most of the day.  

Z-ero, Sage- one

I decided to turn out the area under the stairs in the hall.  "I'll help you," said the Sage, which I thought was nice of him.  I was free this morning so this was to be the day.  "You won't throw away anything before I've seen it, will you?" said the Sage which, I realised, was the reason for his helpful attitude. Hmm.  I told him I wouldn't throw away anything of his before he'd seen it.

The job was duly done and there are a couple of boxes of things to be got rid of, mostly silver plate that had been put there after my mother died because we didn't quite know what to do with it.  Our hall is divided into two - the hall itself with the front door (which we hardly ever use, when someone knocks on it we assume it's Jehovah's Witnesses or Mormons and the passageway leading from the side door which we use all the time (the back door usually has a stack of bottles in front of it waiting to be taken to be recycled).  The passage near the side door was full of boxes, stuff to be taken to the bin, to be recycled, to be stored or sold.  "I'll see you about 5 o'clock," said the Sage.  "I've an appointment in Ipswich."

I was suckered again.  All the clearing up to do and he was beetling off.  I never learn.

Actually, I've been really tired since lunchtime.  I don't know quite why, maybe it's the damp and dreary weather, because Dilly says she's tired too with no particular reason.  I went to sleep for a while this afternoon, curled up in an armchair (and woke with indigestion as a consequence) and it took me ages to get going again.  And now, honestly, all I can think of is going to bed.  I went to make some coffee, in the hope of it waking me up a bit, but couldn't be bothered when I discovered I had to grind more beans (I usually grind enough for two or three days at a time) so made Earl Grey fumé instead.  And if I'm too tired to use an electric grinder, perhaps bed is the best place for me.

The wheels on the bus went round and round...

The bus trip wasn't brilliant, to be honest.  It was quite interesting, but Maja and Marina sensibly cut things short after lunch.  Wink and I didn't, and wished we had when we discovered we had to walk a kilometre to an ashram (and another one back again) in the heat of the day when we'd already walked a lot.  We opted to stay on the bus.  Or rather I did, I read, Wink went and talked to a group of children playing cricket.

An entertaining moment was when we were by a lake.  A group of schoolchildren were just leaving as we arrived.  They were adorable, but that isn't the entertaining bit.  Someone was watering the shrubs from a hosepipe, and after a while he realised that no more water was coming out.  Another man carefully unkinked the hose, but it didn't help.

You might notice from this picture what the problem actually was.

It was even better when they tried to rejoin the two lengths of hose and water sprayed everywhere.

We went to another church, where there was a window depicting a saint whose name I've forgotten, but who was rather petulantly showing us a graze on his knee.  Marina recognised him, apparently he was rather badly wounded but his dog licked his injuries which miraculously healed at once.  Presumably, the sore knee was the final hurt that the dog hadn't licked yet, but the flirty yet indignant display of knee was highly entertaining.

Pondicherry

After the Hindu wedding celebrations were over, most of us headed off in various directions for a few days before we were due to convene in Vallore for the Christian ceremony.  Wink and I were going to Pondicherry.  We went with Maja and Marina and left them to visit the Shore Temple in Mahabalapuram (I should have checked the spelling of that, it's not way out) before finishing the journey.

I took several snaps from our hotel bedroom but not one of the sea view, a few hundred metres away.  This view, however, shows what an Indian building site looks like.

It isn't really quite indicative because they're just being used as supports, but those precarious twigs, when lashed together, comprise scaffolding in India.  It's remarkable.  They don't look as if they'd support anything at all, but I've seen it over and again in the past.  And another thing, it's women who do the labouring.  Men are the builders, but women fetch and carry and do the heavy work.

Wink and I walked down the road towards the sea.  There's not exactly a beach.

 The statue of Gandhi provided welcome shade for a couple of men and several dogs who slept underneath.

 That Pondicherry was part of France right through and beyond the days of the British Raj was apparent in the street names and in some other bilingual signs.

 It was hot and the sun was strong.  I wore my big floppy hat, or I'd have been in trouble, but Wink is quite impervious to the sun's rays.  However, we were both pleased when our destination, the tourist office, became visible.

 A rather charming touch was that there were two clocks in the office, one giving Indian time and the other giving French time.  It was wrong as it happens, because it hadn't been adjusted for European summer time, but no matter.

The beach opposite the tourist office.

We found out that there was a tourist bus daily doing tours of temples and so on in and around the city. So we decided that we'd have our massage and pedicure and do the tour the day after.

On the second evening, we tried out the rooftop restaurant.  We liked it very much.  It was quite breezy up there, but that meant that it wasn't too hot.  We looked out over the lights of the city.

Not so much tweets as cheeps

If you look across at my Twitter updates, you'll see that we've been making valiant efforts this evening to save the lives of several baby chicks.  I'm not at all sure that we will have been successful.  The shells are really hard so they wear out their egg tooth (one each, can't possibly say teeth) trying to crack through, and the mother, though several years old, is inexperienced in motherhood so is not very good at keeping them warm.  We do have two live chicks though, at any rate.

A few more pictures.  I should explain that I don't really like intruding on people by snapping away at them (photographically speaking) at a party.  And most of the places we went, such as museums and temples, one was not allowed to take photos.  Wink and I hired a car and went off to look at the cathedral in Chennai, which looks like this...

and then went to a museum on the same site where, extraordinarily, the late Pope and Father Christmas were in close juxtaposition.

Then we went to see the Law Courts.  A very nice man showed us round, he showed us all the interesting bits that a guide book might not mention, such as this -

He took a lot of time and trouble for us, but in the end I had to ask him to take us back to our car (we were quite lost) because Wink's leg was so painful and she was limping along behind us.  It was very interesting to see the portraits of the judges: for a long time they were all white and British, then the first Indian judge's picture came up and from then on they were all Indian.  Unfortunately, I didn't note the date of the changeover and it was too dark inside to take a photo.  You'll have to go and see for yourselves.  A few photos of the outside of the buildings...

I'm not sure who the conductor chappie was in the third photo - Chris, is it a statue of you?  I find that I have got a photo of the Advocate General of 1897 and that he is Indian, so the changeover had occurred by then.  Here he is.

We didn't stop at the beach this time, which is impressively huge and sandy.  Marina and Maja went there another day, so they might have a better photo if they would like to send it across.  

I know, darlings, no one will ever love me for my photographic skills, nor for my writing ability.  It's sheer Zedness that will carry me through.  Ahem.  

Z is a rubbish photographer

It's so late, I've been out for dinner and then caught up with emails once I arrived home, that I don't think I'll write much now.  Instead a few pictures.

First, Kamala's house on the Friday evening when there was the first of the parties.  It looked spectacular lit up with blue lights.

The next day, the next party, which was when all the women had their hands hennaed.  Mine are fading now, this soon happens once you arrive home and wash in chlorinated water.  This is taken from the verandah.  Most people had had lunch by then so there weren't many in the picture.

This is Laddu, the basset hound.  His father Skipper only died a month or so ago at the age of 15.  Both belonged to Arte, Nandini's sister.  I'm afraid he moved his head so it's out of focus.  I told you the photos weren't up to much.

And this one explains why I didn't take pictures of the wedding ceremony.  One could see round the photographic paraphenalia, but it really got in the way of taking pictures.  Both bride and groom are professional photographers, so one can see why the official photos were a priority.

And that's it for today.  

Z and the elephant packed her trunk...

I'll see what I can do about a few photos - they're mostly a bit random, you can see my heart wasn't in it.  Far more fun to take part in what was going on than to take pictures.  But here I am getting up close to the temple elephant (which I just typed as 'elephone').

And, for the time being, here's a picture of the bride and groom and immediate families after the Christian ceremony (on the steps of the church), and one of the wedding cake, which was made at the Madras Club.

Westernisation and prosperity

I mentioned in my first post (I think) from India that there were various changes that I noticed.  Funnily enough, towards the end of the holiday Geeta asked me (and Wink, separately) about our impressions from just that point of view.  Another friend, Jill, who is English and lives in London, hadn't noticed these differences, but then she visits India frequently - the last time was in December - so they'd have crept up on her.

I suspect it's all connected with India's increased prosperity and success as a nation.  I should start by saying that I'm sure that in many areas, particularly rural villages and slums in the larger and more crowded cities, that deep poverty is as grinding as ever, but what I saw in Chennai in particular was a generally higher standard of living.

I've already mentioned that there are much fewer bicycles and more motorbikes.  Also that cars are modern ones rather than the old Ambassadors.  It's noticeable that cars are in beautiful condition and look new.  They're nearly all imported - and that's notable too, because there was a time only a few years ago when Indians took pride in making what they used and now it's more fashionable to buy imported goods. The roads are incredibly crowded and busy, even more than they used to be.  It all looks chaotic, but actually people drive very well.  They need to be very alert.  As a general rule, the larger vehicle is held to be responsible for an accent* - so if a motorbike hit a pedestrian it'd be the biker's fault and if a car hit a bike it'd be the driver's.  There was an incident where a bus hit a lorry it was overtaking - witnesses said that the lorry swerved into the path of the bus, but it was the bus driver who was arrested.  He was overtaking, therefore the anus of responsibility (sorry, family expression started by Weeza some 20 years ago) was on him, although checks were being done on the lorry's steering.

Wink and I also felt that there were far fewer people living on the street.  We weren't approached by a single beggar or street seller in Chennai.  There aren't many of the woven huts left where, remarkably, a whole family would emerge dressed in immaculate, freshly laundered and ironed clothes, the man in crisp white shirt, the children in school uniforms and the woman in a sari.  I suppose that a lot of new flats have been built for those people to live in.  Regarding clothes, the sari is still traditional in South India, but less so now.  Young people are far more likely to wear casual Western clothes - my younger friends used to at home but not go out in them, but this is gradually changing.  If they do wear Indian clothes it's likely to be a shalwar kameez or trousers and tunic rather than a sari.  The dhoti has all but disappeared (I didn't see a single one) although a few men still wear a lungi - the difference between them is that a dhoti is wrapped around the waist and passed between the legs, whereas the lungi is worn more as a sarong; that is, it goes around the waist but not between the legs.  It's convenient in that it can be flipped up to waist length to walk in the street and the lower half released to make a long skirt to wear indoors.  A dhoti is nearly always white but a lungi is usually coloured or checked.

Another difference on the streets is that now there are overhead signs giving directions!  This is a real innovation within the past 18 months or so, apparently.  Just of major roads, but it's certainly a start.  One thing about motorcyclists, by the way - the rider often wears a crash helmet, but I've never seen a single passenger wearing one.  Most car drivers and front seat passengers wear a seat belt, a rarity in the past.

I didn't see a single person being given instructions doing a head waggle.  This is a real change - it's sort of the equivalent of a nod of comprehension, although there was often a fair degree of subservience in it.  The few times I saw it were 'equal to equal' - that is, it was simply comprehension - and it seems remarkable that there has been such a change so quickly.  Tips are as readily and gladly received as ever, but there's no indication that anyone feels demeaned by a tip and it's graciously received and quite often a handshake is exchanged afterwards which would never have happened a few years ago.

The water is much more likely to be safe to drink.  Previously, I'd never have drunk water unless it was from a previously sealed mineral water bottle, but now many more places buy in sufficiently pure water that Westerners and non-acclimatised people can drink it safely.  I'm always careful - in four visits I've never had a stomach upset (rather the opposite, if you see what I mean) but I was able to feel a lot more relaxed this time.  Oh, and you can order black tea without fearing that the roof of your mouth will be removed by tannin.  And I'd never previously had anything but disgusting coffee, but now it's far better, usually filtered although modern coffee shops have espresso machines.

*As Sir Bruin wittily put it when correcting my typo - "grave or acute?"  So good that I'm leaving the mistake as it stands.

A passage from India

I'm home, darlings, and so is Wink.  The most notable thing about the journey was the unexpected upgrade - woo hoo! - Wink went through first because she's damaged a tendon in her leg and asked to board early because standing for a long time is very painful, and was surprised and pleased that she was also upgraded.  She spent the next ten minutes wondering how to break the news.  I, meantime, queued as one should, arrived to have my boarding pass checked and was asked to wait as my seat had been changed.  And then "you've been upgraded!" - and I thought woo hoo - oh bugger, I'll have to do the decent thing and give my seat to Wink.  So when we discovered we were both in the same boat as it were, we were jolly pleased, especially when a woman was making a fuss about her teenage daughters having to sit apart "I paid £975* each for those tickets, you know," - mind you, that was return - and we jolly well hadn't.

I'm tired tonight, too tired to write much.  I'll see what pictures I have tomorrow, not huge lots actually and I hope I'll be able to pinch some of the wedding photos.  It really has been brilliant.  Wink and I have got on really well, never a cross word (The Hindu's crosswords are easier than The Times, btw) and it was lovely to see our friends again and meet new people too.  I even gave our new Croatian friends the address of this blog.  I hardly give anyone that, they may not have realised how unusual it is (Wink told them about the Razorblade).

One thing's for sure, I'm never again going to arse about taking the train to a London airport.  It's the coach for me.  The cost is about the same, it's bus station to door, no exhausting trek across London and no broken down East Anglian trains and no information about substitutes.

The Sage tells me he has cooked my dinner.  The rest of the evening will be devoted to him.  It's only fair.  Mind you, an early night is planned.  Nothing on for tomorrow morning (not clothes, silly, no appointments until the afternoon) so I'll probably talk to the plants in the greenhouse and have a cup of tea with Dilly.

*about that, darlings, can't remember the exact sum