Z the butcher

Well, you won't guess what I've been doing this morning. Unless you've read the title of this post, which is a bit of a giveaway. I'll rephrase that....You might well guess what I've been doing this morning, but it's still a bit startling. And I suggest that all vegetarians or those who don't like to think where their food comes from stop reading right now.

I'll leave an extra line or two so that your eye doesn't stray. Goodbye, see you later I hope.

We have a field. A few of them in fact. One is for grazing dairy cows, two are used for grazing dairy cows in the later stages of pregnancy, when they don't need to be near to the farm for twice-daily milking, one is, at present, cut twice-yearly for hay and one, a little distant from the house, is lent to a friend to keep a few sheep on. It is a favour to both parties, as the grass needs to be eaten and, being by the river and prone to flooding, cows cut it up too much. It is a rather ancient piece of grassland and once, years ago, the Sage saw a bittern there, which was tremendously exciting (they are awfully rare) and I so wish I'd been with him.

The lambs from the sheep are there to be eaten. And, having been naturally raised - no supplementary feeding (the ewes have some in the winter), they grow at their natural pace and taste wonderful. We buy one each year. The local butcher would cut them up for a tenner, but does that sound like us? The Sage and I got going with cleaver, saw and knife and now the freezer contains neatly parcelled joints and chops. Not that neatly butchered, admittedly, but I wrap a mean joint.

It does make me feel a bit of a brute, but on the other hand I really don't care for the parcelled pieces in the supermarket that try to make you forget that you are actually going to eat a piece of an animal and that was its purpose, in living and in dying (I sense I am losing readers with every word here). I'd rather face it, once in a while, and remind myself that I'm an animal with no more sense than any other. Killing is a bit different however. Though I'm afraid I have a fondness for mussels...fortunately the Sage doesn't, so I only have to scrub enough for myself.

Coining it. And rabbitting

Your Dominant Intelligence is Linguistic Intelligence

You are excellent with words and language. You explain yourself well. An elegant speaker, you can converse well with anyone on the fly. You are also good at remembering information and convicing someone of your point of view. A master of creative phrasing and unique words, you enjoy expanding your vocabulary. You would make a fantastic poet, journalist, writer, teacher, lawyer, politician, or translator.

What Kind of Intelligence Do You Have?

Actually, I don't think I would. But this might explain something. Thanks to Lionel d’Lion, from whom I pinched it. Well, shared it, as he has it too, like cake.

I was considerably cheered this morning. I drove to Norwich to hear what turned out to be an excellent lecture on Mantegna, the early Renaissance artist. I pondered on which car park to head for. I didn't have 45 or so minutes to spare to use the park and ride, so it would be the multi-storey, or the ground-level pay and display. I prefer the latter, but that doesn't take notes so, when stopped at the traffic lights, I checked my change. Enough.

Having parked, I started to feed in my money. £1 was rejected. I examined it. Was it a fake? A good one if so. Had to be. I asked an approaching woman if she could change a fiver. "Sorry, no, but let me get my ticket and I'll see what I can do." I checked my coins again. "How much are you short?" "80p" "I can do that," she said cheerfully, handing it over.

This simple kindness made my day. I said I'd put money in a charity box, she was happy about that, we left each other smiling.

I hadn't really prepared for my meeting today. I had left a list on the computer of the things I needed to take, but had notes to make, a form to fill in, a cheque to write, people to smile at and greet, an introduction and a vote of thanks to think about. I entered the theatre and was greeted by Sue. "You look a bit fraught" she said, concerned. "You came in the door, slumped for a moment, took a deep breath and put a smile on your face."

That was meant to happen before anyone noticed me, because we do, don't we, put on a suitable face. It's not that it isn't meant, but one can't go around in the usual scatty or sullen way when meant to be on show in some way. I wasn't particularly aware of it until some years ago, when friends asked us round for dinner. Newish neighbours were the other guests. Younger than us, they were a little nervous and shy and not very chatty. I was quite tired and rather felt like being entertained. The hostess was in the kitchen and conversation was hesitant, and I was silent. I was handed a drink by my host and suddenly became aware that hopeful faces were turned towards me. I took a slurp of my drink, sent it to my head and started to chatter cheerfully. I could read the minds "Whoopee, she's off, now we can have fun." Which was quite disconcerting but not unflattering. But maybe I should just shut up more. I listen to myself sometimes, goodness I rabbit on.

PS
Oh, and when I got on the stage I discovered that the trap-door in the middle was open; worse, in fact, it was covered by an open grille. I had, of course, chosen to wear stilettos today and I was standing about a foot in front of this trap, which was about 2 foot by 5 foot, much as I am I suppose, well, if folded up a bit as I fell. I mentioned it as a forewarning in case I suddenly fell over backwards. The speaker said, afterwards, that she had been a bit anxious on my behalf.

I would have worn other shoes, but hardly any fit at present. I have been standing and walking almost constantly for the last few weeks and only my most generously sized shoes don't pinch. But these ones, though comfortable, are a nuisance. I have to look down as I walk as the smallest crack in the pavement can trap them, whereupon I either fall over or keep walking, shoeless. Well, one-shoed, as it's unlikely that both will get trapped during the same stride.

You see, I rabbit. If you were shy, you would, by now, be entirely at your ease. Since you aren't, you are probably wondering if I'll ever shut up.

Oh, by the way. A friend, to whom (grammar), I gave the address of this blog finally, after months - months, got around to reading it, and told me so. I asked, rather nervously, what he thought. "Well," he said, "It's your style, I recognise you in it. But you're funnier in real life."

Oh. Is that a compliment or not?

Z calms down - but is wound up by watches

It was a good weekend, thank you, and a pleasure to spend time with children and sister. Also started to carry out my resolve to get to grips with London buses. As I explained to my daughter, catching them is easy enough, it's knowing where to get off that is the problem. Especially if you need to ring the bell in advance and can't rely on recognising just round the corner from where you need. However, all went well and I will, in future, take my A to Z so that I know where I am at all times.

Usually, the pleasure in a city is in knowing roughly where you are (which you always do in London), but getting enjoyably lost. I do like wandering around and finding your way back by chance and a bump of direction. When I visit my sister by train, I usually walk back from Waterloo to Liverpool Street - not much scope for getting lost there, when most of the walking is along the river, but when I get to St Paul's or Tower Bridge, I never quite follow the same route twice through the City.

I trust that I will sound a little calmer this week than last, although I'm not relying on it. There is still an absurd amount to do, which would be fine if I hadn't promised to keep shop for at least half of every day. I have, at least, been cracking on with War and Peace; I'm about two-thirds of the way through and, at present, Napoleon is closing in on Moscow.

I spent an annoyed hour this morning, trying to find out the dates of a couple of gold pocket watches that the Sage has to value. All attempts at Googling, or Yahoo!ing have failed. Easy to find silvermarks (which he pretty well knows by heart anyway) but gold is another matter. It would be easy for me to order, online, books on the subject, but just pictures of the date letters (very confusing to try to work out the shape of a letter from its description) must be out there somewhere. And the word 'date' gives the wrong impression altogether and attempts were made to direct me to websites of a different nature.

I can ramble even after a glass or two.

Truth is, I don't have time to go away. That is, I have time to go away or do whole lots of things that need to be done, but not both. Does anyone doubt what the choice will be?

Oh, for the days when had willpower. When I would just get on and do it all, and keep working until it was finished. Now, I do a bit, read a bit, chat a bit, do a bit more, think 'nah, that's boring' and do something useful but not urgent. However, I do have a most useful extra assistant. It may have taken a long time, but my husband has come up trumps. During the morning, I had three phone calls, asking most politely for information on the final details of completing my jobs that I had dumped on him because I was too busy decorating the church for a funeral tomorrow. He was wonderful. He thought of everything and then checked with me, just in case.

I am thinking of advertising for a PA. And then leaving the advertisement in a prominent position so that he will think that it seems a marvellous job and be tempted to apply for it. He would stroll through the interview. Other applicants would be completely bamboozled by my interviewing technique. A year ago, I gave a job to someone who was so wonderfully quirky that he would baffle the children in his care into doing anything he said. And it has worked. I chose him over the person who seemed fine, but I couldn't understand why her then employers were not re-employing her (as it was a situation that is becoming more prominent in schools) unless there was a hidden problem. I say that *I* chose, but there were three of us; however, I persuaded the others.

Oh, and my printer is annoying me so much. First it said it might not have enough pink ink to complete another document like the last one. So I replaced the pink cartridge. Then it said that the black ink was a bit low. Not out, but it would hate me to run out in the middle of a document (this was 6 pages after saying it had enough ink for at least 100 more pages). Replaced. Then it worried about blue ink. Once it had run out of all other excuses, it blamed yellow ink. Never mind that it appeared to be one third full, it might not print a page with grey writing. I have no yellow ink. I cannot buy yellow ink for this printer in the nearest town. I have to order it. Really. I am a little annoyed. My last printer at least gave the option of printing in colour or black and white. And I'd take the risk of it running out. This is very inconvenient.

I probably will not have time to write a post tomorrow, but I'll be back on Sunday or Monday. I'm afraid I'll have to turn on wv in the meantime, or I will come back to interesting anonymous comments. I say 'interesting' ironically, of course.

I wonder what clothes to wear and what book to take. I must remember to pack something to wear at night, as I will be sharing a bed. I will have to carry my bag all day Sunday so it must not be heavy. It is too dark in my bedroom to see clothes now so packing has to be done before 8 tomorrow morning. Shoes. Hmm. Have I got any garment that will take me through greengrocering, a funeral, dinner, shopping, the theatre, an exhibition, a pub and two trains? Something dark, so that wine stains will not show.

I will travel light. I love travelling light. Except, can I manage with only one book? Hmm.

Um. What was I talking about?

Hm. I hadn't been drinking or anything. I think, in the last post, that I was just a touch unguarded and let you into the way my mind really works all the time.

Now, I have been drinking, and so I'll be far more circumspect.

The Sage found more mushrooms on the field today. As we walked home from the PCC meeting, he said that the weather was perfect for mushrooms. Since he doesn't even like them, I thought that was considerate. He picked about 8 of them for me. I cooked them, with shallots and wine, this evening. There was one small mushroom that wasn't quite like the rest. I cooked it, but I put a little bit on one side. Just in case Ro or I feel as if a coma is coming on tonight. I'm sure there will be an antidote.

And the odds are that it will be fine anyway.

Not that I have time for a coma. I've got a lot to do before I go to London on Friday. I mentioned my exciting Oyster card. I am studying bus routes, so that I will know where to go off the bus and not be swept off into the wilds of North London. I've driven to my daughter's flat a couple of times. The second time, I was alone, it was November, dark and rainy. I got lost. It was the rush hour. It wasn't easy to stop to consult the A to Z, useful book though that is. In the end, I rang her and she guided me the last couple of miles to her flat.

My bump of direction isn't bad, but you don't have much to go on with English street signs. Whether in the town or in the country, they lead you a long way astray. And then leave you flat, without any clue at all.

I remember an occasion, a few years ago, when I took Ro back to Lancaster University after Christmas. A friend, whose father lives in Lancaster, had asked for a lift. He hadn't seen his dad for a few months and it was a good opportunity to spend the night there, we could share the driving, be company on the road etc.

We got hopelessly lost in Lincolnshire.

Really. There were road works and we thought we could find a way to circumvent them without following a long and devious way through God-knows-where. Well, we went places God had never thought of. At each junction we stopped, consulted the map, decided which road to take - and then, half a mile down the road, none of the places mentioned in the last sign seemed to exist any more. We had planned to stop for dinner. In the event, when we finally found a main road, we stopped for a quick cup of coffee, rang our respective families and then hurried back, two hours late. When you add to this the unusual attitude to road markings one finds in Lincolnshire, it's not surprising that it is not my favourite county.

I found myself having to pass, on a blind corner, a parked lorry marked 'Motorway Maintenance' this afternoon. This was on a B road, the B1332 from Norwich to Yagnub, in a county that has never seen a motorway. This seems odd, but I will not question it. Not mine to reason why.

Some people never learn to reck their own rede

I needed, after I'd finished with my appointment in Norwich, to buy some lilies on the market. These cost £2.95 for 3 or £10 for 10, which is rather sweetly Normal For Norfolk.

Afterwards, I thought was a good idea to walk back to the car park by way of Jarrolds. The department store that is, at its heart, a bookshop. Oh yes. The woman who is currently reading at least three books, one of which is War and Peace with about 1.000 pages still to go, who bought nineteen second-hand books on Saturday and hasn't had a chance to start any of them, the same lass who still hasn't read yesterday's papers, let alone start on today's - and why do I *need* two newspapers a day anyway?- yes, this is the very person who found herself irresistably drawn to buy yet three more books.

I didn't sleep much last night. I suddenly started to worry about all the things I have left undone which I ought to have done, and it occupied my mind rather a lot. I have a moderately free afternoon now, so can get on with some of them. Of course, by 'free', I mean that I haven't anything written in my diary, in the way of appointments or obligations. In fact, there is so much to do that I am in danger of forgetting vital matters. It occurs to me, sometimes, to wish that I just had a job, a home life, maybe even a social life, and didn't take on a variety of different and mostly voluntary tasks. But I think then that I'd be too aware of my own limitations. By pretending that I can do these things, I can delude myself, and sometimes others, into believing that there is no end to my capabilities, if only I were not so busy.

I'm a fool. But it seems that is my chosen path. The primrose path to dalliance. Oh crikey, I hope that doesn't make me a puffed and reckless libertine. Or even an ungracious pastor. Which seems to show I've an urge to read or see Hamlet again. Or I wouldn't be quoting from it. Hm. Rambling.

Time for lunch. Camembert. Which will be sniffed cautiously, to see if it smells like Brie (sorry, in-joke. Jen knows what I'm talking about. As does IM, who put the information into my head in the first place).

Outing myself

Yay! It's taken Lynn a while to get the catalogue onto the website - she is a busy woman - but it's up at last. If you want to see it, send me an email at zoesonholiday@hotmail.com and I'll give you the address. I'm far too shy just to put it up here for everyone to see.

Z sips hot lemon and ginger

"Don't kiss her" said Al and Dilly simultaneously. "She's passed her cold on to the baby, and now we think we're getting it" added Al.

The Power of Squiffany seems to override seclusion from Granny. I have sneezed several times. I have a sore throat. It remains to be seen whether willpower and quantities of ginger overcome the effects of the cold. I do not, normally, acknowledge a cold until February, by which time I am rather ready for a couple of duvet days, dog cuddled up next to me, a blazing log fire in the grate, with a couple of books, a glass of whisky and a crossword puzzle to hand.

That reminds me, I should have downloaded the latest Tough Puzzles weeks ago. Oh, goody.

The shop went well today. Quite a busy afternoon. I had a meeting in the morning, which was also very useful, and I left the shop, soon after 5.30, hardly hobbling at all. I seem to be doing awfully well. Muscular development is particularly good and will become better, now that pumpkin season is coming in. Two large pumpkins have to be carried out in the morning and back in the evening. Of course, to be replaced as they sell.

I haven't looked at the pumpkins in the garden recently. There are loads of butternut squashes, but I don't know about the other sorts as I will need to wear wellies to get to them. Time to harvest soon I think.

It's all about humility. And there's so much to be humble about. So we never run out of ideas.

This evening, I'm feeling better. More relaxed. I'm afraid alcohol has a lot to do with it. But so do Schubert, Tom Lehrer and cooking. Not food, as yet, just its preparation. I'm making risotto, very soothing. I'm drinking red wine, very mellow. I'm listening to Tom Lehrer. Bracing. I like sardonic humour. I expect you realise that the name of this blog is a quotation from him (blimey, I hope he doesn't mind. I wonder if he'll catch up with me and expect royalties. Surely Tom Lehrer is far too cool for that sort of malarky?) and I slip in little quotes quite regularly. I don't expect you to look back and find them. If I ever do, I'll hold a competition. The prize will be that I don't blog for a week. Or a month, if you find more than ten quotations.*

Organ playing at church went well, considering I learned one hymn at 9.30 and played another for the first time on the organ soon after (I've played it on the clarinet). I go around looking capable. It's a good front and could seem intimidating. But it isn't, because I regularly cock up something that would be walkovers for more able people. And I look worried. It is disarming. Indeed, I am worried. Stitchwort made the absolutely valid point that Christianity is about charity, loving your neighbour and all that. And so it is. But, if any of you have ever attended a Christian service, it's all about failing. Not being good enough. Sin. Craftily, there are not only sins of commission (what I did wrong) but sins of omission (what I didn't do right, or could have done better) as well. Therefore, we are all doomed as impossible demands are made. This, of course, teaches humility. Humility is good.

* I reserve the right to change numbers if/when this comp is held. Up or down, whatever.

There's bags. And then there's bags.

"How are things with the new baby?" said a friend, giving me a carrier bag with a wrapped parcel in it: a present for Pugsley. "Fine, thanks, very well," I replied cheerfully. "So, what's with the bags under your eyes then?" he enquired.

Z just wants the problem sorted, not talked about

I'm off to church in a few minutes. I've spent two hours there already this morning. Another 2 hours or so to go. And then I'm jolly well going to the pub.

I arrived home to find, in an email, the saga of the coffee is still going on. A couple of weeks ago, the person (a lovely girl, she'd had a bad week) making coffee was upset because, there being lots of visitors and families to the Harvest service, she was asked to make coffee after the service as well as before. When I tried to comfort her and help, she shook me off angrily.

I've come up with a solution and a back-up solution in case anyone objects to the first idea. But everyone wants to have their say. Don't we all have more important things in our lives? I am so tempted to just say I'll make the sodding coffee myself, but I mustn't; for one thing it's easier to take on that job than give it up, and for another I will be saying I'm *better* than the ones who are complaining, and I neither think that nor want anyone to feel dismissed as unappreciated.

But it's hard for me to understand the problem. On that occasion, I'd worked, on the Saturday, for 16 hours to decorate the church, cook the Harvest supper, serve it and wash up afterwards. I'd spent another 4 in the church on Sunday, clearing up, getting ready for the service, playing the clarinet, preaching the sermon and being friendly afterwards. It wasn't a problem. I'm normally busy for 2 -3 hours on a Sunday on church matters. And I don't consider myself a churchy person at all. I'm not even very religious. I described myself to a friend recently as, not so much a pillar of the church as a flying buttress - though I did acknowledge that this is not my bon mot, I stole it from, I think, Winston Churchill.

I am not, though it looks as if I am, boasting about the time it takes me. Just that (except here and now) I don't go on about it. And I keep smiling, even if afterwards I go home and moan to my ever-loving Sage (who is just grateful not to be in the wrong himself, so listens kindly which enables me to get over it and regain my good humour). So if you offer to do a job, do it willingly and wholeheartedly, offer to do a bit more than you're asked to do, smile - and it will be a pleasure. If you do it begrudgingly and barely adequately - it will be a chore.

But I can't say that, as it will sound far too critical and, furthermore, I'll lose my miffed volunteers for the coffee rota.

Oh well. If you have been, thanks for listening.

Update, post pub, 2.15 pm Lovely bloke on the rota today quietly, without comment, made coffee cheerfully both before and after the service. I understood what he was saying, and it didn't need words.

My husband doesn't understand me -

- but that isn't important.

Today I went to work in the shop. Al and Jean arrived at 8.30 and the Sage gave me a lift in a few minutes later (I couldn't find my book and I worry if I am without a book. Hoho, what irony).

At 9 o'clock, the Sage called to us "they are unpacking boxfuls of books under the Buttercross*, you'd better go and have a look."

I smilingly served a customer (more like baring my teeth really, I wanted to look at those books) and then scuttled out. Indeed, there were about ten boxfuls of books, some hardly read. The local second-hand bookshop proprietor was going through the books, picking out what he wanted, from right to left. I started at the left-hand box.

A few minutes later, ten books in my arm, I waved to the Sage "Can you bring my bag and I'll pay". "No, that's all right, I'll pay." I went back to the shop, abashed to find there were five customers and Jean was alone. However, a happy face and effusive apologies have got me through life so far and everyone was understanding.

Not too long afterwards, the shop was empty again and the Sage came back. "They have unpacked four more boxes".......

This time, Jean and I both went and the Sage stood guard in the shop. Nine books later, I spied a customer and returned happily to my duties, leaving my well-gotten gains with the chap in charge for the Sage to carry out negotiations. And he did well.

Now, the Sage doesn't read for the pleasure of reading in itself. He is not obsessed with books. He does read quite a lot, but usually for information. He doesn't really understand the great joy of seizing a book just because it catches the eye, because a randomly-read paragraph appeals, because it's on a subject I know nothing about so maybe it's about time I did, because it is, simply, a bookful of wonderful words**.

But he encouraged me nonetheless, although he thinks I am, frankly, daft to have as many books as I have already. And as a result I've smiled all day. Mm, maybe that has something to do with it.


*The Buttercross is the ancient marketplace. On Thursdays there are market stalls there. On Saturdays, for a small fee, a charity can set up a stall there (one has to book months in advance) to sell bric-a-brac, cakes, second-hand books, whatever, for its good cause).

**'The Pencil' - a history of design and circumstance. Now, there's a title. It has never occurred to me to wonder who, and how, and why, and when, invented the pencil.
'Hand to Mouth' - a Paul Auster I've not read. I've never quite made up my mind about Paul Auster, but somehow I read him.
Two books by Hanif Kureishi (My Beautiful Laundrette). I've read 'The Buddha of Suburbia' but that's all.
'Zorba the Greek' - one of those books you assume you must have read, but haven't.
A book called 'Zoë'. What, because I'm worth it?
A biography of Maria Montessori.
And others. Quickly chosen, there will be hits and misses. And the misses can go back to the next charity booksale, to find a better home.

Bum or cherry?

There is always, with each of your children, an outstanding feature which strikes you at once. Not literally, not unless you have given birth to Cyrano de Bergerac, but something that is, at once, noticeable.

With El, it was her pretty little mouth. It took us several days to name her and, until she was named, she was called 'Rosebud'. Yes, very Citizen Kane, but that was not in our minds.

With Al, it was his left ear. This turns over more than the average at the top. I was, until then, totally unaware that mine does too.

With Ro, it was the shape of his head. A very shapely head, had Ro. The word 'Mekon' came to mind, just a little.

When I first saw Pugsley, I said (oh, and am I a bad grandmother) "Blimey, what a bum chin!" His parents did look just a little startled. But there is a definite, if tiny, cleft to the chin.

But when I tested them, so had both his parents. And so does Ro. Not visibly, just in test conditions. Which are, of course, taking a firm grasp of the chin - sideways, not top to bottom - with thumb and forefinger (you can test yourself or someone else this way) and seeing whether the middle goes in (bum) or out (cherry).

Ro maintained that everyone is, at bottom, a bum. Until I proved otherwise. Then he said that his father must be a bum, for the tendency to have been passed down.

It must be a recessive gene. Like baldness, it can skip a generation.

The Sage and I are both cherries.

Lurching, aching, but not complaining

I went to the kitchen to check on the dinner (which is ready), greeted the returning Sage with a telephone message and went back to the computer to finish my email, as he went to the phone. I lurched to the right. I pretended that I'd slipped on a cookery book that I'd carelessly left on the floor.

Maybe that third glass of wine on an empty stomach (except for a chocolate digestive, but that was just to lessen the liquid impact of a mug of Lapsang Souchong) was not the best idea.

But it's Friday night and I've worked very hard today. Being a shop assistant in a greengrocery is very demanding physically. Entirely enjoyable, but it makes a woman ache. Mainly in the pelvic region.

Kisses on the bottom

I wrote myself a letter. That is, I started one to a colleague on Hotmail and then, because I was going to send several attachments, decided to send it on Gmail. So I sent it to myself, intending to readdress it, add the photos and send it on.

Half an hour later, still waiting, I rewrote it instead.

An hour later, it arrived.

Dirty little stop-out.

I have just ordered an Oyster card. This is, my daughter assures me, the most useful innovation to London Transport since the demise of the hansom cab. I am going to visit her and her best beloved in a week or so, and it will save buying tickets at the station and let me forget the appalling price of a Tube ride nowadays. Also, if you use it enough in a day, it kindly lets you go free, though I didn't quite gather exactly how many trips you need to use it for first. Furthermore (yes, it gets better and better), it will automatically top itself up, using my credit card details, so I don't have to worry about running out of credit.

This is the most exciting thing that has happened to me in four days.

Smith the Virgin

I was reminded, on reading Stegbeetle’s recent post, of my father's funeral. Mr Stebbings the gardener came in, the next day, for coffee as usual. "Nearly a tragedy, yesterday, after Mr Malcolm's funeral" he said. "Oh no, whatever happened?" asked my mother. "One of the gravediggers fell in. All sand and gravel it was, just caved in and, being double depth, they had a hell of a job to get him out before he was buried." "Oh no, that's dreadful," said my mother, nearly in tears. It was only a week since her husband had died of a heart attack, aged 59, in front of her. "Thass true enough," said Mr Stebbings. "Had it from a witness. Smith the virgin*. He told me so hisself."

My mother made her excuses and went and cried with laughter instead in another room.

*Verger

Z delivered a sermon. Well, a talk. In church though.

The 'sermon' went all right, thank you for asking, Dandelion. It was Harvest Festival and the village schoolchildren came along - it is a Church of England school (although there is absolutely no admission selection on the basis of religion, nor is there indoctrination, we are totally against that). They brought their harvest offerings up to the altar early in the service and a bit later on, they came up again to sing a song. Because they were coming, I decided to base the talk on the three school rules, which are Be Polite, Be Kind and Work Hard. The children know them well, because they do talk about them in assemblies and think about how they apply to all aspects of school life.

So, I talked a bit about each one - Work Hard came first, and I talked about the work involved in growing food, whether in our gardens or on farms; what you get out of it, in terms of both the produce and the satisfaction, is related to what you put in; how vital the harvest is, although we aren't too aware of it in this country because we have all we need.

Be Polite - from their earliest age, children are taught to be polite, to say please and thank you, because it really matters that we are considerate to each other. Some people don't approve of Harvest Festival because they say it is not a truly Christian festival, it is pagan. This is true, it is not based on Christ as Easter and Christmas are, but that doesn't make it unchristian, but a more all-embracing thing altogether, because it links us to our pre-christian past and to other faiths and other countries - I mentioned that the last time I visited India, my friends were going to visit their family village to celebrate the harvest with week-long celebrations with special foods and ceremonies (I felt self-conscious here as there was a Hindu family in the church, whose children go to the village school - I hadn't known they would be there). So we should say 'thank you' to God for the food we have, and 'please', that people in other countries should have a successful harvest and enough food to live on.

And Be Kind. The harvest offerings are put in boxes afterwards and the children, with their teachers, visit old people in the village to give it to them. This is no longer a necessity, they all have enough to eat, but it is not the point - it is a symbolic gesture but appreciated as the people visited so enjoy it. It might feel embarrassing to knock on someone's door and give a stranger a present, but the friendly gesture of giving a gift and thinking of others is what matters.

And thinking about others, looking outside yourself and caring about more than just your own immediate concerns, is what the school rules mean, and Jesus, similarly, summarised the ten Commandments into two - love God and love your neighbour as yourself. And the school rules, in their way, say the same thing.

Bless her, you're thinking - a bit simplistic and it's hardly based on the Bible, but she tried hard. Yup, true. And I won't be doing it again. But I said what I had planned to, mostly in the right order, I didn't dry up and I wasn't overly hesitant, so at least I embarrassed myself only moderately. And the next time we have a Harvest Festival when we don't have a vicar, I won't be a churchwarden, so it won't be my job.

I had done a slightly foolish thing just before the service, by introducing myself to the head of Music at the High School, as I've just become the Governor link with the music faculty. She and her husband are fine musicians, and I then had to play the hymns on the clarinet and I felt thoroughly self-conscious. At least it wasn't the organ, more notes to go wrong there.

300th Post

Ooh, I never expected to get this far. I didn't know what would happen, or what I'd write but what has surprised me with pleasure is how lovely you are. Sorry to be sloppy, but it's okay to be a girly as long as no one who actually knows what a hard-boiled, tough woman I really am reads this. And Ab and El (and Sh?) will just laugh at me whatever I say.

This evening, WI. Women's Institute. Jam and Jerusalem; except we don't do the Jerusalem bit. Once, we were coming up to a Big Meeting with outsiders, so we thought we'd better have a go at Jerusalem. I took along my clarinet for unmusical accompaniment, took a deep breath and some wag went ' One, two, a-one, two, three, four' and I laughed so much that I hyperventilated and nearly fainted during the second verse.

I was doing Food. Now, as you might expect, the WI I belong to doesn't go down the cup of tea and a Rich Tea biscuit road, but does nice food. It was a meeting to which we had invited Guests, so there were several of us doing food and I'd said I'd do savouries. Which I interpret as canapés. I think finger food is so much more tempting if it's pretty as well as tasty*.

Anyway, it was nearing 10.30 when I arrived home, so I took a bottle of wine out of the fridge and started to read and write emails, and catch up on blogs. It's going to take a day or two, there are loads of updates I haven't read yet.

Which brings me back to the start (look, I have Delivered a Sermon, I can do neat endings). I do like hearing from you, and thanks for reading this and commenting, whether it's regularly or occasionally. You make me happy.



* The food. Very simple, I didn't have time to be inventive.

I often use slices of cucumber as a base, as it looks pretty and saves everyone from eating bread and pastry with every bite. The other base I usually use is bread croutes, which are buttered (or olive oiled) on one side and baked in the oven until golden - far easier than frying and they don't absorb so much fat. They don't go soggy quickly as biscuits do. If I have time, tiny choux pastry balls are good with a savoury filling, but I don't bother with the sort of pastry that has to be rolled out, for individual bites. I also bear in mind food allergies and choices such as vegetarianism, so I try not to include hidden food ingredients such as walnut oil or non-visible shellfish.

1. Salmon, flaked with mayonnaise and a squeeze of lemon juice on cucumber.
2. Ripe brie on cucumber.
3. Chicken liver pate - v. simple, the liver cooked in butter with garlic, a drop of brandy added and a little cream, mashed with a fork - on croutes.
4. Mushroom pate - cook shallot in butter, add mushrooms, cook again, add white wine, cook until evaporated, add cream, cook until the liquid has gone - on croutes.
5. Garlic cream cheese on cucumber, topped with prawns
6. Chicken breast, cut into 1cm(ish) cubes, marinated in yoghurt flavoured with chilli powder, ground cumin, ground coriander, ground ginger, tomato puree and lemon juice. Soak cocktail sticks, put a cube on each stick, grill.
7. Tiny new potatoes, tossed in oil and then in a mixture of spices which I made up as I went along, then roasted, then put on cocktail sticks.

Each made about 25-30. Now I've written it down, it doesn't look very impressive, but I did say it was simple.

Z is irascible

- and it's all because of Microsoft. Is anyone surprised? Windows *Live* Mail. More than Half-Dead mail if you ask me. I have had to email some photos. Because I *upgraded* - Hah - is it any wonder that I am reluctant to go on to Beta Bloggger until all you less cautious, more trusting individuals have complained bitterly about its shortcomings - to Windows Live Mail Beta, it no longer tells me when I am up to the pitifully small maximum size attachment I can send so, as I can't be bothered to add up decimals (I'm still a pounds, shillings and pence girl at heart) I have to go under rather than over, which means loads of emails. Half of which it can't be bothered to send so sends me a message to say that they *may* reply to a query.

This is quite sweetly frank actually. But I am so tense that I have turned to the 'easy listening' section of iTunes. I'm presently listening to Dean Martin. What does that do for my e-cred?

Okay, so I never had any. Fine, laugh.

That's enough, you can stop now.

That means you.

And you.

Oi!

Back home

We had a wonderful weekend. El and Phil were home from London, and so were here when Dilly and the baby came home from hospital. Al left at 10 o'clock, saying that he had no idea when they would be back as there wasn't a fixed time for doctors to do their rounds at the weekend - one family had left on Saturday night at 8.30. This does seem odd to me; if there's one time when a family needs consideration it's when a baby has just arrived, and trying to manage childcare and transport can be hard enough without there being no way of telling, to within several hours, when you will be discharged from hospital does strike me as unhelpful.

However, this was no problem at all on this occasion. I took Squiffany to church with me, but the service had only been going on for 15 minutes when El appeared. They were on their way home already. So we abandoned church and hurried back.

However, Dilly will not be allowed to drive or to pick up Squiffany for several weeks, following her operation. Al will take all the time off work that he can, but it's not easy when you run your own business, especially when it's a shop. We'll manage as best we can and his customers will understand - it'll do wonders for his New Man credentials.