Nothing happened for most of the day. I haven't had time to write anything imaginative or personal and I was going to let you all have a day off.
And then............
No, daddy didn't fall into the pond (I do hope you know this poem, or you will think I'm absolutely barking)
Dilly found a piglet in the road!! Oh, go on then..... !!!
She phoned me to ask what to do. I knew to whom it belonged - well, the most likely person. I said I'd ring.
Actually, that's about it. I phoned, the lady there (who was not the farmer, S & B were out) said she'd find someone to help and ten minutes later, Dilly stopped her car to pick me up on her way home - I was hotfooting it to go and help in case the piglet tried to get on to the bypass, not having appreciated quite how small it was - and said a young man "Well, younger than me" she said, had come from the farm. At that time it was frolicking in long grass so he was able to scoop it up with little difficulty. He said that they'd had a call earlier, but not been able to find it, so he was grateful that Dilly had stayed. It had walked about a mile, poor little thing, it was only one day old.
And Pugsley was weighed today. 11lbs 15oz. At a month and two days old. Well, my children all gained weight speedily too, nothing like mother's milk. I held him while Dilly was pottering round the room doing things. His eyes followed her all the time. Afterwards, while she was giving Squiffany her tea (she made a pizza at the baby-group) I sang nursery rhymes to him. He didn't seem to mind, maybe his eyesight is better than his hearing.
Tuesday, 31 October 2006
Monday, 30 October 2006
Winding down
The weekend has been quiet but I am tired this morning. This is entirely my own fault, as I went to bed very late. Since the clocks went back yesterday it would have been sensible to go to bed an hour earlier rather than later.
I bought croissants and decadent stuff like that for breakfast on Saturday. El and I both got up quite late and I made a pot of coffee and one of tea and took a trayful into the drawing room so that we could lounge around and chat while we ate. We were impressed and happy to find that the Sage had lit a fire, the first this autumn. It has been so mild that we haven't needed one - we didn't then, really, but it was such a pleasure. I said that we'll want it every night now and the Sage said that we've plenty of coal and wood - use as much as you like, he said expansively, I've had my £200 pensioner's heating allowance.
I look forward keenly to pensionerhood and my free bus pass.
Later, Dilly came over with the babies and we all played happily together. I went and made plates of sandwiches, cheese and egg, which were about all that were left in the larder, opened wine and fruit juice and we relaxed for most of the day. Squiffany came with me to the station to take El to catch her train. "Choo choo," she said hopefully and was not disappointed. She has not had a train ride yet, there's not much point in taking a train to Norwich as it's nearly as far to the station as it is to Norwich. Maybe Beccles to Lowestoft in the summer.
I didn't feel like cooking in the evening, so we fetched fish and chips. Gorgeous.
Sunday, relaxed again. No church in the morning so I got up late, listened to the radio, read the papers, caught up on blogs. Eventually, I went to check the sale accounts and was extremely gratified to find that they were right, which meant that we'd given the right change and that I'd added the cheques correctly. Once, I had the embarrassment of having to ring someone and asking for the £100 that I'd undercharged him.
Pub at lunchtime - I was running late by then so I skipped lunch and had beer instead. Only a pint, however, as I was playing the organ in the afternoon. There was a service for All Souls' day, which isn't until 2nd November, but we have it on the Sunday before, in remembrance of people who have died. All Souls' day isn't particularly commemorated in this country (unless it is by Catholics?) but the last Rector started up this service a few years ago and it is very much appreciated. Invitations are sent to those who have been bereaved during the past year, and it is open to all of course. Fifty-something people came, including several children remembering grandparents and it was a warm and comforting service. Everyone who wanted to, which meant everyone in fact, lit a candle in memory of those they were thinking of. Tea and cakes and a chat in the church rooms afterwards. Churches should be, and actually often are, for helping more than preaching.
And in the evening, Roro and I did a jigsaw. Started it, anyway. Nice to have a son who is good-natured enough still to do that sort of thing in the evening once in a while.
The fishmonger calls on a Monday morning and today he had mussels. Yum (me), Yuck (the Sage). That's all right, I'll have them for lunch and all the fewer to scrub.
I bought croissants and decadent stuff like that for breakfast on Saturday. El and I both got up quite late and I made a pot of coffee and one of tea and took a trayful into the drawing room so that we could lounge around and chat while we ate. We were impressed and happy to find that the Sage had lit a fire, the first this autumn. It has been so mild that we haven't needed one - we didn't then, really, but it was such a pleasure. I said that we'll want it every night now and the Sage said that we've plenty of coal and wood - use as much as you like, he said expansively, I've had my £200 pensioner's heating allowance.
I look forward keenly to pensionerhood and my free bus pass.
Later, Dilly came over with the babies and we all played happily together. I went and made plates of sandwiches, cheese and egg, which were about all that were left in the larder, opened wine and fruit juice and we relaxed for most of the day. Squiffany came with me to the station to take El to catch her train. "Choo choo," she said hopefully and was not disappointed. She has not had a train ride yet, there's not much point in taking a train to Norwich as it's nearly as far to the station as it is to Norwich. Maybe Beccles to Lowestoft in the summer.
I didn't feel like cooking in the evening, so we fetched fish and chips. Gorgeous.
Sunday, relaxed again. No church in the morning so I got up late, listened to the radio, read the papers, caught up on blogs. Eventually, I went to check the sale accounts and was extremely gratified to find that they were right, which meant that we'd given the right change and that I'd added the cheques correctly. Once, I had the embarrassment of having to ring someone and asking for the £100 that I'd undercharged him.
Pub at lunchtime - I was running late by then so I skipped lunch and had beer instead. Only a pint, however, as I was playing the organ in the afternoon. There was a service for All Souls' day, which isn't until 2nd November, but we have it on the Sunday before, in remembrance of people who have died. All Souls' day isn't particularly commemorated in this country (unless it is by Catholics?) but the last Rector started up this service a few years ago and it is very much appreciated. Invitations are sent to those who have been bereaved during the past year, and it is open to all of course. Fifty-something people came, including several children remembering grandparents and it was a warm and comforting service. Everyone who wanted to, which meant everyone in fact, lit a candle in memory of those they were thinking of. Tea and cakes and a chat in the church rooms afterwards. Churches should be, and actually often are, for helping more than preaching.
And in the evening, Roro and I did a jigsaw. Started it, anyway. Nice to have a son who is good-natured enough still to do that sort of thing in the evening once in a while.
The fishmonger calls on a Monday morning and today he had mussels. Yum (me), Yuck (the Sage). That's all right, I'll have them for lunch and all the fewer to scrub.
Sunday, 29 October 2006
Friday the Twenty-Seventh, Part Three
The best is yet to come? Last cliché of the day, with any luck.
Do you go to auction sales? Whether as a buyer or a seller, they are very exciting. Even as a spectator you can feel the thrill and the tension. I should think that there is something of the same excitement as a gambler feels, except that at the end you have something to show for it.
I don't want to put in our website address as I don't want to tell everyone who visits it via Google about this blog. A girl has some modesty. Not much of course, but I prefer to remain a closet exhibitionist. So, if I tell you L*w*st*ftch*n*a dot co dot uk, I expect you can work out the rest and so, if you choose to, you can look us up. If you can't, email me and I'll tell you.
The sale started with a few books - there have not been many books written specifically about L/ft china, and they are all out of print, so there is a keen second-hand market for them. Then we went on to teapot lids. Yes, just the lids. So besotted are collectors that they are willing to buy the cover in the hope that, one day, they might find a matching pot.
I won't run through it all. I'll be writing a report for the website within a few days which will say a good deal more. It was a fantastic sale though. The Sage said that, busy as he was, it was one of the easiest sales he had ever had. Arms waving all over the room. Sometimes four or five bidders vying with each other at the same time. They were not always easy to spot as the room was so full. There's always something that goes bananas and this time it was a little vase. Only four inches high and in perfect condition, it was pretty and quite uncommon - certainly, it's rare to find an undamaged one. But this, estimated at £400-£600, rocketed up to £1,450 - plus the buyer's premium of 10%. The bargain of the sale, in my opinion (because I liked it), was a nice barrel-shaped teapot - Lot 36 if you look it up. There was a big chip off the spout and a crack which didn't really matter and it made £484 in total. Spend £50 on restoring the spout and it'd easily fetch £800.
You don't have to spend a lot, if you don't mind some damage and you want a hand-made, hand-painted item, well over 200 years old. A couple of pieces went for £55 each and another for just over £70. A teabowl and saucer in fine condition can be bought for around £400, which was the price of Al and Dilly's new washing machine. It might not be so useful, but instead of throwing it away in ten years time, you will be able to sell it at a good profit, and have had considerable pleasure from it in the meantime - which is the point of buying it. People who invest without pleasure for the beauty of the item miss a lot. I don't think there are many of those however, it's not that sort of china.
The thing is with much of this china is that it is accessible. It is not necessarily for the rich. I know lots of people who just have one or two pieces, because L/ft is their birthplace or their home town and it is a bit of their heritage. There are splendid pieces, many of them in museums, but it is a homely, domestic sort of china and was mostly made for use - which is why much of it is damaged.
However, some pieces were made to be decorative, commemorative and to be displayed proudly and handed down the family. And this is what happened to our prize lot, that was briefly left behind on the kitchen table. It is a small disc of china, carefully painted in underglaze blue. On one side it has a painting of a Chinese house and walled garden. On the other is a name, Th0s (short for Thomas) Anders0n and his birthdate, September 13th 1790. It is only 3 inches in diameter and is in perfect condition. These little commemorative b1rth pl@ques, which have one or two small holes to thread a ribbon through to hang on the wall, were unique to L/ft. There are, probably, around 25 of them still in existence, but I don't know of one that has been sold at auction in some time and we have never been able to offer one before.
We estimated it, rather conservatively we knew, at £8,000 to 10,000. I had a bidder on the telephone and there were several potential buyers in the room. One person, who did not want to be seen to be bidding, had arranged a code with the Sage. The bidding started at £7,000 - the Sage does not waste time by starting boringly low - and quickly rose. My bidder held back until £12,000 and then told me to bid. I waved my card. I was outbid. He told me to bid again, but there were two bidders in the room, and his bid had to be £12,600. £12,800, £13,000. The discreet bidder stopped, but there was still another buyer in the room. "The bidding's at £13,500, do you want to put in another bid?" "One more." One more was enough. Everyone applauded. I congratulated him, said goodbye and put the phone down. The end of the sale and a queue of people waving cash and chequebooks was forming. Ro printed off all the invoices and I got to work.
The man who had remarked on the friendly atmosphere had bought a piece. He looked at us. "Is this an entire family business, then?" he asked. Well yes it is, really, us and our three children, the Sage's cousin C, Dilly and Pugsley...... during the sale, Pugsley squeaked and Dilly hastily wheeled him out to be fed. "Ah, sorry about that," said the Sage. "My grandson just woke up."
Do you go to auction sales? Whether as a buyer or a seller, they are very exciting. Even as a spectator you can feel the thrill and the tension. I should think that there is something of the same excitement as a gambler feels, except that at the end you have something to show for it.
I don't want to put in our website address as I don't want to tell everyone who visits it via Google about this blog. A girl has some modesty. Not much of course, but I prefer to remain a closet exhibitionist. So, if I tell you L*w*st*ftch*n*a dot co dot uk, I expect you can work out the rest and so, if you choose to, you can look us up. If you can't, email me and I'll tell you.
The sale started with a few books - there have not been many books written specifically about L/ft china, and they are all out of print, so there is a keen second-hand market for them. Then we went on to teapot lids. Yes, just the lids. So besotted are collectors that they are willing to buy the cover in the hope that, one day, they might find a matching pot.
I won't run through it all. I'll be writing a report for the website within a few days which will say a good deal more. It was a fantastic sale though. The Sage said that, busy as he was, it was one of the easiest sales he had ever had. Arms waving all over the room. Sometimes four or five bidders vying with each other at the same time. They were not always easy to spot as the room was so full. There's always something that goes bananas and this time it was a little vase. Only four inches high and in perfect condition, it was pretty and quite uncommon - certainly, it's rare to find an undamaged one. But this, estimated at £400-£600, rocketed up to £1,450 - plus the buyer's premium of 10%. The bargain of the sale, in my opinion (because I liked it), was a nice barrel-shaped teapot - Lot 36 if you look it up. There was a big chip off the spout and a crack which didn't really matter and it made £484 in total. Spend £50 on restoring the spout and it'd easily fetch £800.
You don't have to spend a lot, if you don't mind some damage and you want a hand-made, hand-painted item, well over 200 years old. A couple of pieces went for £55 each and another for just over £70. A teabowl and saucer in fine condition can be bought for around £400, which was the price of Al and Dilly's new washing machine. It might not be so useful, but instead of throwing it away in ten years time, you will be able to sell it at a good profit, and have had considerable pleasure from it in the meantime - which is the point of buying it. People who invest without pleasure for the beauty of the item miss a lot. I don't think there are many of those however, it's not that sort of china.
The thing is with much of this china is that it is accessible. It is not necessarily for the rich. I know lots of people who just have one or two pieces, because L/ft is their birthplace or their home town and it is a bit of their heritage. There are splendid pieces, many of them in museums, but it is a homely, domestic sort of china and was mostly made for use - which is why much of it is damaged.
However, some pieces were made to be decorative, commemorative and to be displayed proudly and handed down the family. And this is what happened to our prize lot, that was briefly left behind on the kitchen table. It is a small disc of china, carefully painted in underglaze blue. On one side it has a painting of a Chinese house and walled garden. On the other is a name, Th0s (short for Thomas) Anders0n and his birthdate, September 13th 1790. It is only 3 inches in diameter and is in perfect condition. These little commemorative b1rth pl@ques, which have one or two small holes to thread a ribbon through to hang on the wall, were unique to L/ft. There are, probably, around 25 of them still in existence, but I don't know of one that has been sold at auction in some time and we have never been able to offer one before.
We estimated it, rather conservatively we knew, at £8,000 to 10,000. I had a bidder on the telephone and there were several potential buyers in the room. One person, who did not want to be seen to be bidding, had arranged a code with the Sage. The bidding started at £7,000 - the Sage does not waste time by starting boringly low - and quickly rose. My bidder held back until £12,000 and then told me to bid. I waved my card. I was outbid. He told me to bid again, but there were two bidders in the room, and his bid had to be £12,600. £12,800, £13,000. The discreet bidder stopped, but there was still another buyer in the room. "The bidding's at £13,500, do you want to put in another bid?" "One more." One more was enough. Everyone applauded. I congratulated him, said goodbye and put the phone down. The end of the sale and a queue of people waving cash and chequebooks was forming. Ro printed off all the invoices and I got to work.
The man who had remarked on the friendly atmosphere had bought a piece. He looked at us. "Is this an entire family business, then?" he asked. Well yes it is, really, us and our three children, the Sage's cousin C, Dilly and Pugsley...... during the sale, Pugsley squeaked and Dilly hastily wheeled him out to be fed. "Ah, sorry about that," said the Sage. "My grandson just woke up."
Friday the Twenty-Seventh, Part Two
Things could only get better? Still riding the clichés.
I was running late. I had spent some time playing with Squiffany, to give Dilly time to catch up with chores. I hurried out to buy supplies of food. Sale days are the rare times when I unashamedly buy quantities of junk food. We are busy all afternoon and evening, handling items of fragile antique china and we need to keep up our energy levels, with only a few snatched minutes to eat. So I fill rolls with meat, cheese and salad and buy cakes, chocolate biscuits, crisps and sweet drinks - as well as bottles of water which I don't normally buy. I think the use of food miles and plastic bottles to transport fancy water, when every drop that comes out of our taps has been purified to drinking quality is one of the dafter examples of modern life.
We were ready to leave by one o'clock, which was all right. Half an hour to reach the saleroom, an hour to set up, half an hour in hand for unexpected problems plus, hopefully, a cup of tea and a brief break. Two miles down the road, the Sage said "You did put in the *star item*, didn't you?" "I thought you did. I put it in its box and waved it at you and put it down again." Ah. We turned the car around and headed home.
We left again at one-fifteen. And the Sage, most uncharacteristically, drove, if not recklessly, without his usual reck. We sat in silence for most of the way, each of us (Ro had taken the day off work and was with us) calming down in our own way. We unpacked the car and I headed for the car park, anticipating some difficulty in finding a space.
And this is where the day changed. As I approached the furthest corner, a car backed out of a space. I drove in and, as I put money in the ticket machine, three cars went past, drivers peering to see if someone was about to leave. More cars were driving in as I walked out. I said 'thank you' to my vastly appreciated guardian angel. No, really, it isn't superstition, I have a personal other-worldly assistant, he's fabulous and saves me from myself and from disaster. And, just occasionally, he finds me a parking space, when it really matters.
We were all ready by quarter to three, but people were already hopefully hovering. At five to, I started giving out the china to the ten or so people sitting at the tables and then, just as I was about to go round registering them with booking numbers, in streamed a dozen more.
How we arrange the sale is to have three tables, covered with blankets and then white tablecloths, down the middle of the room. Around them, with space in between for us to walk about, are more tables at which the viewers sit. There's probably room for about 30 people at a time. The rest of the room has rows of chairs for them to sit at during the sale. They ask for the china they wish to look at and we hand it to them. They are welcome to handle it - some people like to see it all, others only ask for a few selected lots. The viewing goes on for four hours and is constantly busy.
Our various helpers came and went during the afternoon, putting in a couple of hours each. Ro helped and also dealt with the registration. Al, Dilly and Pugsley arrived at about 6.15, after Al had shut up shop and done his Friday deliveries and El hurried in, having come on the 6.30 train. The saleroom was full, nearly every seat taken with a dozen or so standing. Many of the buyers have known us for many years and are friends, but there are new ones every time. On man said "this is very civilised and friendly, I've never known a sale quite like it."
At six-forty, I phoned the one person who had asked to make a telephone bid. I confirmed the lot numbers he was interested in. At six-fifty, the Sage reminded everyone to register and a couple more hopeful bidders-to-be came to the desk. There was an expectant feeling in the air. I wished I'd got around to visiting the loo at some time during the day, but decided I could hang on for another couple of hours.
The Sage taped his gavel on the table, welcomed everyone to the sale and announced the first lot.
I was running late. I had spent some time playing with Squiffany, to give Dilly time to catch up with chores. I hurried out to buy supplies of food. Sale days are the rare times when I unashamedly buy quantities of junk food. We are busy all afternoon and evening, handling items of fragile antique china and we need to keep up our energy levels, with only a few snatched minutes to eat. So I fill rolls with meat, cheese and salad and buy cakes, chocolate biscuits, crisps and sweet drinks - as well as bottles of water which I don't normally buy. I think the use of food miles and plastic bottles to transport fancy water, when every drop that comes out of our taps has been purified to drinking quality is one of the dafter examples of modern life.
We were ready to leave by one o'clock, which was all right. Half an hour to reach the saleroom, an hour to set up, half an hour in hand for unexpected problems plus, hopefully, a cup of tea and a brief break. Two miles down the road, the Sage said "You did put in the *star item*, didn't you?" "I thought you did. I put it in its box and waved it at you and put it down again." Ah. We turned the car around and headed home.
We left again at one-fifteen. And the Sage, most uncharacteristically, drove, if not recklessly, without his usual reck. We sat in silence for most of the way, each of us (Ro had taken the day off work and was with us) calming down in our own way. We unpacked the car and I headed for the car park, anticipating some difficulty in finding a space.
And this is where the day changed. As I approached the furthest corner, a car backed out of a space. I drove in and, as I put money in the ticket machine, three cars went past, drivers peering to see if someone was about to leave. More cars were driving in as I walked out. I said 'thank you' to my vastly appreciated guardian angel. No, really, it isn't superstition, I have a personal other-worldly assistant, he's fabulous and saves me from myself and from disaster. And, just occasionally, he finds me a parking space, when it really matters.
We were all ready by quarter to three, but people were already hopefully hovering. At five to, I started giving out the china to the ten or so people sitting at the tables and then, just as I was about to go round registering them with booking numbers, in streamed a dozen more.
How we arrange the sale is to have three tables, covered with blankets and then white tablecloths, down the middle of the room. Around them, with space in between for us to walk about, are more tables at which the viewers sit. There's probably room for about 30 people at a time. The rest of the room has rows of chairs for them to sit at during the sale. They ask for the china they wish to look at and we hand it to them. They are welcome to handle it - some people like to see it all, others only ask for a few selected lots. The viewing goes on for four hours and is constantly busy.
Our various helpers came and went during the afternoon, putting in a couple of hours each. Ro helped and also dealt with the registration. Al, Dilly and Pugsley arrived at about 6.15, after Al had shut up shop and done his Friday deliveries and El hurried in, having come on the 6.30 train. The saleroom was full, nearly every seat taken with a dozen or so standing. Many of the buyers have known us for many years and are friends, but there are new ones every time. On man said "this is very civilised and friendly, I've never known a sale quite like it."
At six-forty, I phoned the one person who had asked to make a telephone bid. I confirmed the lot numbers he was interested in. At six-fifty, the Sage reminded everyone to register and a couple more hopeful bidders-to-be came to the desk. There was an expectant feeling in the air. I wished I'd got around to visiting the loo at some time during the day, but decided I could hang on for another couple of hours.
The Sage taped his gavel on the table, welcomed everyone to the sale and announced the first lot.
Saturday, 28 October 2006
What my birth date says about me? I wasn't born on my due date, however
| Your Birthdate: September 10 |
 Independent and dominant, you tend to be the alpha dog in most situations. You're very confident, and hardly anything ever shakes you. Mundane tasks tend to drain you - you prefer to be making great plans. You are quite original. When people don't "get" you, it bothers you a lot. Your strength: Your ability to gain respect Your weakness: Caring too much what others think Your power color: Orange-red Your power symbol: Letter X Your power month: October |
Thanks, Wendz, for doing the '8 random facts' meme so brilliantly, and for the birth date quiz - yes and no. I'm not an alpha dog, but I trust myself, which probably means I'm confident. And I don't know what a power symbol is, but it would be X, if it were not already Z.
I'm fine with mundane tasks and I respect what people think but I'm not anxious for approval myself. If they don't 'get me' it's fine too, why should they, I don't matter (this is not negative, I love the fact of being a minute speck in the scheme of things. Each of us is both everything and nothing. Well, that's what I think).
Friday the Twenty-Seventh, Part One
It was the best of days, it was the worst of days? It was a day of two halves?
Whatever cliché I use, the day started particularly badly and we could only be thankful that it didn't end that way.
Al woke to hear Squiffany calling for him. He usually gets her up, as Dilly has to wake up a few times in the night to feed the baby and he lets her have a lie-in until he goes to work, if possible. He went into Squiffany's bedroom, to see her looking shocked. "Daddy," she said, "So sorry. Sick. Bed. Mess. So sorry, mess."
He took her through to the bathroom, undressed and bathed her, dressed her and found her a toy while he stripped the bed and put the sheets and her pyjamas into the washing machine. Then he went out to feed Goosey.
Goosey usually hears the back door being opened and waits, honking, at the gate. But there was no sight or sound of him. After a search, Al discovered the reason. A fox, or probably two had visited during the night and had killed him as he slept - there had been no sound and there was no sign of a struggle, just our poor goose, half-eaten in the grass.
Goosey had belonged to my mother. Some 16 years ago, she acquired two eggs from a poultry-keeping friend and one of our bantams sat - perched precariously - on them until one hatched; the other never did. Rather than keeping him alone, my mother further acquired a cockerel and two ducks to share his run and there they all lived amicably. In the end, his companions died of old age and Al inherited Goosey on his grandmother's death.
So, Al went back in the house, told Dilly what had happened, and then came to tell his father before going off to work. Later on, I went in to commiserate with Dilly. Squiffany was fine, no after-effects from the sickness, fortunately, but Dilly was trebly disconsolate. Upset about Goosey of course, but she had also just finished mopping up the kitchen. "The washing machine did the sheets all right," she said, "but when I put in the next load, it leapt out and pulled the hose out and the plug from the socket and now it doesn't work at all. I think it's had it, it's 11 years old and not worth repairing."
At least, I mentioned helpfully, it had washed that first stinky load before its demise, showing itself to have been, to the last, a loyal and helpful appliance. We also agreed that, if bad luck comes in threes, at least the worst had already happened.
Whatever cliché I use, the day started particularly badly and we could only be thankful that it didn't end that way.
Al woke to hear Squiffany calling for him. He usually gets her up, as Dilly has to wake up a few times in the night to feed the baby and he lets her have a lie-in until he goes to work, if possible. He went into Squiffany's bedroom, to see her looking shocked. "Daddy," she said, "So sorry. Sick. Bed. Mess. So sorry, mess."
He took her through to the bathroom, undressed and bathed her, dressed her and found her a toy while he stripped the bed and put the sheets and her pyjamas into the washing machine. Then he went out to feed Goosey.
Goosey usually hears the back door being opened and waits, honking, at the gate. But there was no sight or sound of him. After a search, Al discovered the reason. A fox, or probably two had visited during the night and had killed him as he slept - there had been no sound and there was no sign of a struggle, just our poor goose, half-eaten in the grass.
Goosey had belonged to my mother. Some 16 years ago, she acquired two eggs from a poultry-keeping friend and one of our bantams sat - perched precariously - on them until one hatched; the other never did. Rather than keeping him alone, my mother further acquired a cockerel and two ducks to share his run and there they all lived amicably. In the end, his companions died of old age and Al inherited Goosey on his grandmother's death.
So, Al went back in the house, told Dilly what had happened, and then came to tell his father before going off to work. Later on, I went in to commiserate with Dilly. Squiffany was fine, no after-effects from the sickness, fortunately, but Dilly was trebly disconsolate. Upset about Goosey of course, but she had also just finished mopping up the kitchen. "The washing machine did the sheets all right," she said, "but when I put in the next load, it leapt out and pulled the hose out and the plug from the socket and now it doesn't work at all. I think it's had it, it's 11 years old and not worth repairing."
At least, I mentioned helpfully, it had washed that first stinky load before its demise, showing itself to have been, to the last, a loyal and helpful appliance. We also agreed that, if bad luck comes in threes, at least the worst had already happened.
Thursday, 26 October 2006
It's the little things
I am in high good humour today. And for so little reason. I mean, no reason at all not to be cheerful, blessings are falling over themselves to be counted (if I allowed myself to think of the horrible backlog of work that will dismay me next week, my mood would plummet, but that's not for now. I am not breaking deadlines yet.), but it is the little extras that need to be appreciated. It is, sometimes, similarly little incidents that can plunge one into a miserable mood and so, if you have a tendency to melancholy, it is all the more vital to take every opportunity to be happy.
Ah. I've broken the thread and talked too much. Sorry, I'll start again.
I am in high good humour today. The smallest thing can tip one into cheerfulness, and today it was, simply, that the Sage had his mobile phone with him, charged up and switched on. I had a phone call, one of whole lots - what is it with phone calls? Have some people never heard of email? - and needed to check something with my husband. And I could. It took half a minute, I was able to relay the message and relax.
Otherwise, I would have waited anxiously until he arrived home, then he would have had to deal with the situation, having kept the person waiting in the meantime.....
Now, this doesn't sound a reason for great joy. It just sounds normal. But the Sage doesn't really like mobile phones as they apply to him. He likes being able to contact people on them, he expects me to have mine, just in case he wants a chat. He just doesn't really see that I might be equally glad to know how to get hold of him. He had used it so little that his Sim card was disconnected and I had to buy him a new one, plus £20-worth of credit. This will probably last him two years.
Anyway, I was able to give him a happy and praiseful reception when he arrived home and hope (oh, will I ever learn?) that this lesson will be remembered next time he wants to come home to a smiling wife.
The second thing that made me cheerful, indeed it made me Laugh Out Loud, was Anna's post today. It was over an hour ago that I read it, and I'm still chortling spasmodically, although the Sage is starting to look at me oddly and I maybe should go and do some work.
Ah. I've broken the thread and talked too much. Sorry, I'll start again.
I am in high good humour today. The smallest thing can tip one into cheerfulness, and today it was, simply, that the Sage had his mobile phone with him, charged up and switched on. I had a phone call, one of whole lots - what is it with phone calls? Have some people never heard of email? - and needed to check something with my husband. And I could. It took half a minute, I was able to relay the message and relax.
Otherwise, I would have waited anxiously until he arrived home, then he would have had to deal with the situation, having kept the person waiting in the meantime.....
Now, this doesn't sound a reason for great joy. It just sounds normal. But the Sage doesn't really like mobile phones as they apply to him. He likes being able to contact people on them, he expects me to have mine, just in case he wants a chat. He just doesn't really see that I might be equally glad to know how to get hold of him. He had used it so little that his Sim card was disconnected and I had to buy him a new one, plus £20-worth of credit. This will probably last him two years.
Anyway, I was able to give him a happy and praiseful reception when he arrived home and hope (oh, will I ever learn?) that this lesson will be remembered next time he wants to come home to a smiling wife.
The second thing that made me cheerful, indeed it made me Laugh Out Loud, was Anna's post today. It was over an hour ago that I read it, and I'm still chortling spasmodically, although the Sage is starting to look at me oddly and I maybe should go and do some work.
Wednesday, 25 October 2006
Z's going soft and gentle. Won't last, make the most of it
It was, indeed, a good evening. Roro (this is Squiffany's name for him and I think it rather suits) had volunteered to cook a beef curry. He had been given a new recipe and some particularly splendid curry powder and wanted to try it out. I offered to cook a cauliflower and potato dish (phool gobi aur aloo ki bhaji, if that means more to you), which has lots of cumin in it. We had done the preparation and the beef was cooking when the family dropped by and so had time to spare.
We'd have spared the time anyway. Everything is dropped for Squiffany and Pugsley.
It won't, of course, all go as smoothly as this. But it is a lovely introduction for them to life as a family of four. Al has gone back to work now. This should be his half day - as he works all day every Saturday he sticks to the tradition of an early closing day midweek - but he will stay open later today. The shop is busy this week for half term. He sold lots of pumpkins yesterday - not surprising, he's undercutting the local supermarket and, he's been told, Tesco too. It's good that parents are bringing the children in to buy them fruit instead of sweets - there has been a visible change in attitude in the last couple of years. People are making an effort to eat healthier; I'm not sure that this will show much effect healthwise for a while, but it is a start. They are also trying hard to cut down on waste, returning bags for reuse or bringing their own. They refuse paper bags too if possible.
A friend is coming round for dinner tonight. He will help us with the sale on Friday (it's a family and friends business) and then he's off to New Zealand on Sunday. His daughter and son-in-law moved there a few years ago and, having visited a few times, he and his wife love the country too - she went out a month or so back. They have now gained residency and spend about half the year in each hemisphere, having sold their family house here and bought a flat instead. In the long run (they both have a mother to think of) they will spend more of the year over there.
I will make a roast pumpkin soup, braised shoulder of lamb in tomato, onion and carrot, pommes boulangère and whatever vegetables look nicest, and pineapple, which I probably won't do much to. There are some gorgeous pineapples around and there's no need to do anything elaborate. I may spoon some passion fruit onto it. I may even make a syllabub, but I'm not promising anything.
We'd have spared the time anyway. Everything is dropped for Squiffany and Pugsley.
It won't, of course, all go as smoothly as this. But it is a lovely introduction for them to life as a family of four. Al has gone back to work now. This should be his half day - as he works all day every Saturday he sticks to the tradition of an early closing day midweek - but he will stay open later today. The shop is busy this week for half term. He sold lots of pumpkins yesterday - not surprising, he's undercutting the local supermarket and, he's been told, Tesco too. It's good that parents are bringing the children in to buy them fruit instead of sweets - there has been a visible change in attitude in the last couple of years. People are making an effort to eat healthier; I'm not sure that this will show much effect healthwise for a while, but it is a start. They are also trying hard to cut down on waste, returning bags for reuse or bringing their own. They refuse paper bags too if possible.
A friend is coming round for dinner tonight. He will help us with the sale on Friday (it's a family and friends business) and then he's off to New Zealand on Sunday. His daughter and son-in-law moved there a few years ago and, having visited a few times, he and his wife love the country too - she went out a month or so back. They have now gained residency and spend about half the year in each hemisphere, having sold their family house here and bought a flat instead. In the long run (they both have a mother to think of) they will spend more of the year over there.
I will make a roast pumpkin soup, braised shoulder of lamb in tomato, onion and carrot, pommes boulangère and whatever vegetables look nicest, and pineapple, which I probably won't do much to. There are some gorgeous pineapples around and there's no need to do anything elaborate. I may spoon some passion fruit onto it. I may even make a syllabub, but I'm not promising anything.
Tuesday, 24 October 2006
Where? - Boo!
Squiffany loves playing hide-and-seek. Playing peep-bo is one of the first games you play with a baby isn't it - a cloth over their eyes for a moment "Where's baby? Where are you?" and then laughter when first you and later the baby takes it away. And then you do it to yourself too, "Where's Granny?"
One of her first useful gestures was an elaborate shrug of the shoulders, wide questioning eyes, and when she could speak she added the word "Where?"
Tonight, she taught Tilly to play. Tilly was rummaging in the corner of the drawing room, hoping to smell a mouse, and Squiffany was searching for her. Under chairs, behind cushions - there she is! - "Boo!" After a couple of times, we realised that Tilly was not mousing any longer (there was no mouse there but she is eternally an optimist), but was lying still and quiet until she was found. We were hugely impressed; Tilly was not brought up with children and has not had many chances to play with them. Then we tried it the other way round. Squiffany went to hide. "Where's Squiffany, Tilly?" we asked. Tilly sniffed the ground and trotted over to the corner. There she was!
Pugsley is growing rapidly. His face has filled out and he is gaining an extra chin or two. He will come, all being well, to his first auction on Friday. I wonder if he will put in any bids.
One of her first useful gestures was an elaborate shrug of the shoulders, wide questioning eyes, and when she could speak she added the word "Where?"
Tonight, she taught Tilly to play. Tilly was rummaging in the corner of the drawing room, hoping to smell a mouse, and Squiffany was searching for her. Under chairs, behind cushions - there she is! - "Boo!" After a couple of times, we realised that Tilly was not mousing any longer (there was no mouse there but she is eternally an optimist), but was lying still and quiet until she was found. We were hugely impressed; Tilly was not brought up with children and has not had many chances to play with them. Then we tried it the other way round. Squiffany went to hide. "Where's Squiffany, Tilly?" we asked. Tilly sniffed the ground and trotted over to the corner. There she was!
Pugsley is growing rapidly. His face has filled out and he is gaining an extra chin or two. He will come, all being well, to his first auction on Friday. I wonder if he will put in any bids.
Monday, 23 October 2006
To post or not? yeah, go on.
I haven't really anything to write about. I seem to write more over the weekend, unlike many people who take the weekend off. And, although quite a lot has happened today, not much of it is bloggable.
I will have more precious sweet time from now on. Al says that Dilly is quite able to manage the children, most of the time, so he will go back to work. I was in the shop this afternoon as she blithely accepted an invitation to visit a friend in Norwich before remembering that she can't drive yet. And, even if she finds driving all right (she was told to avoid it for six weeks and is now a little over halfway there, but six weeks? Just what can one keep up for six weeks? Jeez) she still has two children to lift and strap into their car seats. So Al went with her.
Precious sweet time, I said. But it's still redundancy. Woe.
Well, not that much woe. I can do the housework tomorrow! Yay!! (Ooh, one more ! and I'll emulate JonnyB).
The shop was very busy today. Lots of happy children choosing pumpkins to carve for Hallowe'en. Children are just so endearing. Sure, they can be a pain, but there aren't many I don't like - they are, usually, so straightforward and responsive. There aren't many of them, unless, perhaps, those with particular handicaps or illnesses, who do not respond to the way they are treated. There was one little girl with both her parents. She made a great fuss of her father, maybe he works hard and is not often there during the day. The mother smiled, enjoying the happiness. Another girl was with Granny. She didn't want a bag for her pumpkin, she wanted to carry it proudly, for everyone to see. One young woman has three boys, the eldest about 8 and twins a couple of years younger. They are lovely children, who carry a basket round the shop and take turns to put things in it. Another mother was a bit impatient with her daughter in a pushchair. I was sorry for her and the little girl, as the older son was just so annoying. He went and looked at the back of the shop, where supplies are stored. Then he came by the counter and looked at me. Most children, I'd have greeted in a friendly way. But somehow, he gave me the creeps. Funny, isn't it. I ignored him.
Oh, Bananaman. He comes in for a few vegetables, sometimes a lemon, but always a banana. He annoys Al and all his staff. Mm (preening) - he likes me. I am entirely sympathetic to his wish to check every price several times and to add the bill in his head at the end, because you can't really trust an electronic till. Al asked if I felt insulted, that he doubts what I ask him to pay. Not really, it's his foible, he can't help it. "You're happy" said Bananaman. I agreed that I was. "I can tell," he said, "you're always smiling."
I come home and snarl, of course. You can only smile for so long.
I will have more precious sweet time from now on. Al says that Dilly is quite able to manage the children, most of the time, so he will go back to work. I was in the shop this afternoon as she blithely accepted an invitation to visit a friend in Norwich before remembering that she can't drive yet. And, even if she finds driving all right (she was told to avoid it for six weeks and is now a little over halfway there, but six weeks? Just what can one keep up for six weeks? Jeez) she still has two children to lift and strap into their car seats. So Al went with her.
Precious sweet time, I said. But it's still redundancy. Woe.
Well, not that much woe. I can do the housework tomorrow! Yay!! (Ooh, one more ! and I'll emulate JonnyB).
The shop was very busy today. Lots of happy children choosing pumpkins to carve for Hallowe'en. Children are just so endearing. Sure, they can be a pain, but there aren't many I don't like - they are, usually, so straightforward and responsive. There aren't many of them, unless, perhaps, those with particular handicaps or illnesses, who do not respond to the way they are treated. There was one little girl with both her parents. She made a great fuss of her father, maybe he works hard and is not often there during the day. The mother smiled, enjoying the happiness. Another girl was with Granny. She didn't want a bag for her pumpkin, she wanted to carry it proudly, for everyone to see. One young woman has three boys, the eldest about 8 and twins a couple of years younger. They are lovely children, who carry a basket round the shop and take turns to put things in it. Another mother was a bit impatient with her daughter in a pushchair. I was sorry for her and the little girl, as the older son was just so annoying. He went and looked at the back of the shop, where supplies are stored. Then he came by the counter and looked at me. Most children, I'd have greeted in a friendly way. But somehow, he gave me the creeps. Funny, isn't it. I ignored him.
Oh, Bananaman. He comes in for a few vegetables, sometimes a lemon, but always a banana. He annoys Al and all his staff. Mm (preening) - he likes me. I am entirely sympathetic to his wish to check every price several times and to add the bill in his head at the end, because you can't really trust an electronic till. Al asked if I felt insulted, that he doubts what I ask him to pay. Not really, it's his foible, he can't help it. "You're happy" said Bananaman. I agreed that I was. "I can tell," he said, "you're always smiling."
I come home and snarl, of course. You can only smile for so long.
Sunday, 22 October 2006
The family story – part 6– the distaff side
If you want to catch up, go to Search This Blog and put in family story, and you will find parts 1-5.
I left my father going to Weymouth in 1946. There, he would meet and marry my mother. So it seems a good point to stop and start again with the other side of my family.
I have already said, right at the beginning, how little I know about my maternal grandmother, Janet. So this is about my grandfather, David. I don't know much, but at least I knew him, which is more than I can claim for any of my other grandparents.
He was born on Trafalgar Day, so his first name was Nelson, although it was never used. He had two brothers, and they all joined the army soon after the outbreak of the Great War in 1914. His two brothers were strapping lads, topping 6 foot, but young David was only 5 foot 5. He was a superb horseman, however, and specialised in stunts, such as galloping, lance in hand, and picking up a small quoit on the end of the lance. And leaning from his horse, again at full gallop, to pick up a lady's handkerchief from where it lay on the ground. He paid for this agility in later years with acute arthritis in one hip. By the time hip replacement operations came in, it was too late for him and he walked with a pronounced limp, in spite of a built-up shoe, and was in constant pain.
He spent all the war years in Europe, in the trenches. He survived the war. His two tall brothers did not, mown down as so many were of that generation.
A few years ago, the details of those killed was put up on the internet, and my sister looked up our great-uncles. She discovered that they had not been killed outright, but that one had survived to be brought back to England and the other, too gravely injured to be moved had, nevertheless, been visited by his mother, who was with him when he died. To watch two sons die is beyond the imagination of any mother, but she was not alone and, somehow, she survived.
David and Janet were second cousins. In the way that things were done in those days, they courted for several years before they were married. Their first and only surviving child was born on Remembrance Day, 1923. In 1925, Janet died. Putting two and two together, I believe that she died of septicaemia, following a miscarriage. My mother was only eighteen months old at the time and, as her father was not able to look after her by himself, she went to live with her grandparents.
David's mother and Janet's father had both been widowed and, having known each other as cousins all their lives, it was a friendly and practical arrangement for her to go and live in his house and help to run it. It was not thought scandalous or immoral, nor was it. They were both over seventy (Janet was the ninth of ten children, born when her mother was well into her forties) and it was an acceptable arrangement to the society of the day.
My mother lived there for more than five years. They were the happiest of her childhood. It was an ideal home for a small motherless child, calm and loving, and she idolised and idealised her grandparents for her whole life. Her grandfather was a retired farmer, called John Farmer - try to get more English than that! - and they lived in what was then a small town (now much larger) in North Wiltshire.
I left my father going to Weymouth in 1946. There, he would meet and marry my mother. So it seems a good point to stop and start again with the other side of my family.
I have already said, right at the beginning, how little I know about my maternal grandmother, Janet. So this is about my grandfather, David. I don't know much, but at least I knew him, which is more than I can claim for any of my other grandparents.
He was born on Trafalgar Day, so his first name was Nelson, although it was never used. He had two brothers, and they all joined the army soon after the outbreak of the Great War in 1914. His two brothers were strapping lads, topping 6 foot, but young David was only 5 foot 5. He was a superb horseman, however, and specialised in stunts, such as galloping, lance in hand, and picking up a small quoit on the end of the lance. And leaning from his horse, again at full gallop, to pick up a lady's handkerchief from where it lay on the ground. He paid for this agility in later years with acute arthritis in one hip. By the time hip replacement operations came in, it was too late for him and he walked with a pronounced limp, in spite of a built-up shoe, and was in constant pain.
He spent all the war years in Europe, in the trenches. He survived the war. His two tall brothers did not, mown down as so many were of that generation.
A few years ago, the details of those killed was put up on the internet, and my sister looked up our great-uncles. She discovered that they had not been killed outright, but that one had survived to be brought back to England and the other, too gravely injured to be moved had, nevertheless, been visited by his mother, who was with him when he died. To watch two sons die is beyond the imagination of any mother, but she was not alone and, somehow, she survived.
David and Janet were second cousins. In the way that things were done in those days, they courted for several years before they were married. Their first and only surviving child was born on Remembrance Day, 1923. In 1925, Janet died. Putting two and two together, I believe that she died of septicaemia, following a miscarriage. My mother was only eighteen months old at the time and, as her father was not able to look after her by himself, she went to live with her grandparents.
David's mother and Janet's father had both been widowed and, having known each other as cousins all their lives, it was a friendly and practical arrangement for her to go and live in his house and help to run it. It was not thought scandalous or immoral, nor was it. They were both over seventy (Janet was the ninth of ten children, born when her mother was well into her forties) and it was an acceptable arrangement to the society of the day.
My mother lived there for more than five years. They were the happiest of her childhood. It was an ideal home for a small motherless child, calm and loving, and she idolised and idealised her grandparents for her whole life. Her grandfather was a retired farmer, called John Farmer - try to get more English than that! - and they lived in what was then a small town (now much larger) in North Wiltshire.
A second slice of meme
How do we know tagged me. The first 4 random Z-facts went up yesterday and here are 4 more.
* I am not a perfectionist. I think somewhere between 80% and 95% is ample and if 70% will do, that’s good enough for me. There is always an exception, however, and any sort of handiwork should be as near perfect as possible because, as long as the work is actually completed, there is very little more work in getting it exactly right than in just wrong enough to annoy you forever.
* My special talent is in keeping small children quiet in restaurants while waiting for a meal to arrive. This does not mean I go round the tables entertaining them, god forbid, I refer only to children who are at my table. I teach them napkin folding – from Mrs Beeton. The two I do are fairly intricate, but attractive. One is a slipper and the other I call a waterlily, although I have a feeling Mrs B. called it a rose and crown or something. The other thing I do is teach them, from The Walrus and the Carpenter,
“The time has come,” the Walrus said
“To talk of many things.
Of shoes - and ships - and sealing-wax,
Of cabbages - and kings.
And why the sea is boiling hot-
And whether pigs have wings.”
Which takes them ages to learn and entertains them mightily. You might not find these much fun, but small children do and a number of parents have been very grateful to me. As have whole restaurantfuls of customers who are glad to find they are not being disturbed by bored 5-year-olds
* I am not squeamish in regard to creepy crawlies. I will pick up any insect, arachnid, or scuttling creature except cockroaches, which receive no mercy from me and are exterminated at sight. I have not, in fact, seen a cockroach in this country for years (little ones in a hotel bathroom in Chennai didn’t bother me and I didn’t kill them – I was the intruder not they) but one year we had a delivery of coal to my parents’ house which must have contained cockroach eggs, which hatched in the warmth of the coal cellar where the boiler was also situated. They came up the pipes into the kitchen and were the devil to eliminate.
Nothing else bothers me, I’ll pick up slugs, spiders, blackbeetles and mice which I have pursued round the room and trapped under a cushion, anything that, if it bites me, will not cause any particular injury, because that would be unwise. When I was a little girl, I deeply resented the nursery rhyme
‘What are little boys made of?
What are little boys made of?
Frogs and snails and puppy-dogs’ tails,
That’s what little boys are made of
What are little girls made of?
What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice and all things nice,
That’s what little girls are made of.’
I wondered why boys got the fun things and girls just had to be ‘nice’.
* I miss my long hair. I loved it. I used to hold it against my face and snuggle into it. As a child, I had long, blonde hair and it wasn't until my mid-twenties that I had it cut to somewhere just below my shoulders. When I was pregnant with Ro, I couldn't bear the thought of that backward lean into the basin, so I avoided going to the hairdresser and it grew very long again. Eventually I had it cut into a bob and, in variations of style and with the addition, a couple of years back, of a fringe, there it has stayed.
I miss being properly blonde. If I had all my hair, it would be, but it needs a few months of growth to make its mind to go to its real colour and so it's the sort of blonde that looks brown to someone who doesn't know what they are looking for. I did have highlights put in for a year or two, some while back, but two hours and quite a lot of money to have something done so subtly that my husband didn't even notice for six months seemed a bit pointless.
Because my hair was so long and I hardly ever had it cut, I was a virtual stranger to the hairdresser for many years. When I did go, I used to fall asleep. The massaging sensation, the stroking and combing, the repetitive snipping sound of the scissors was very soporific. I had to fight an overwhelming urge to go to sleep.
I seem to have ended on a slightly melancholy note, but there we are. Maybe when I am old and have silver hair, I'll let it grow again and twine it up in a chignon, and brush it out each night lovingly. Until then, it'll look better short.
I started by thinking that this was impossibly hard. But - or is it just me? - it's quite easy to write about oneself. I won't tag you by name, but I have several people in mind* ----------** so, if you have a go, please let me know.
*Yup, you ;-)
**yes, you too, sweetie
* I am not a perfectionist. I think somewhere between 80% and 95% is ample and if 70% will do, that’s good enough for me. There is always an exception, however, and any sort of handiwork should be as near perfect as possible because, as long as the work is actually completed, there is very little more work in getting it exactly right than in just wrong enough to annoy you forever.
* My special talent is in keeping small children quiet in restaurants while waiting for a meal to arrive. This does not mean I go round the tables entertaining them, god forbid, I refer only to children who are at my table. I teach them napkin folding – from Mrs Beeton. The two I do are fairly intricate, but attractive. One is a slipper and the other I call a waterlily, although I have a feeling Mrs B. called it a rose and crown or something. The other thing I do is teach them, from The Walrus and the Carpenter,
“The time has come,” the Walrus said
“To talk of many things.
Of shoes - and ships - and sealing-wax,
Of cabbages - and kings.
And why the sea is boiling hot-
And whether pigs have wings.”
Which takes them ages to learn and entertains them mightily. You might not find these much fun, but small children do and a number of parents have been very grateful to me. As have whole restaurantfuls of customers who are glad to find they are not being disturbed by bored 5-year-olds
* I am not squeamish in regard to creepy crawlies. I will pick up any insect, arachnid, or scuttling creature except cockroaches, which receive no mercy from me and are exterminated at sight. I have not, in fact, seen a cockroach in this country for years (little ones in a hotel bathroom in Chennai didn’t bother me and I didn’t kill them – I was the intruder not they) but one year we had a delivery of coal to my parents’ house which must have contained cockroach eggs, which hatched in the warmth of the coal cellar where the boiler was also situated. They came up the pipes into the kitchen and were the devil to eliminate.
Nothing else bothers me, I’ll pick up slugs, spiders, blackbeetles and mice which I have pursued round the room and trapped under a cushion, anything that, if it bites me, will not cause any particular injury, because that would be unwise. When I was a little girl, I deeply resented the nursery rhyme
‘What are little boys made of?
What are little boys made of?
Frogs and snails and puppy-dogs’ tails,
That’s what little boys are made of
What are little girls made of?
What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice and all things nice,
That’s what little girls are made of.’
I wondered why boys got the fun things and girls just had to be ‘nice’.
* I miss my long hair. I loved it. I used to hold it against my face and snuggle into it. As a child, I had long, blonde hair and it wasn't until my mid-twenties that I had it cut to somewhere just below my shoulders. When I was pregnant with Ro, I couldn't bear the thought of that backward lean into the basin, so I avoided going to the hairdresser and it grew very long again. Eventually I had it cut into a bob and, in variations of style and with the addition, a couple of years back, of a fringe, there it has stayed.
I miss being properly blonde. If I had all my hair, it would be, but it needs a few months of growth to make its mind to go to its real colour and so it's the sort of blonde that looks brown to someone who doesn't know what they are looking for. I did have highlights put in for a year or two, some while back, but two hours and quite a lot of money to have something done so subtly that my husband didn't even notice for six months seemed a bit pointless.
Because my hair was so long and I hardly ever had it cut, I was a virtual stranger to the hairdresser for many years. When I did go, I used to fall asleep. The massaging sensation, the stroking and combing, the repetitive snipping sound of the scissors was very soporific. I had to fight an overwhelming urge to go to sleep.
I seem to have ended on a slightly melancholy note, but there we are. Maybe when I am old and have silver hair, I'll let it grow again and twine it up in a chignon, and brush it out each night lovingly. Until then, it'll look better short.
I started by thinking that this was impossibly hard. But - or is it just me? - it's quite easy to write about oneself. I won't tag you by name, but I have several people in mind* ----------** so, if you have a go, please let me know.
*Yup, you ;-)
**yes, you too, sweetie
Bear with me, real life breaks in occasionally
A young friend of mine, C. is in hospital and I am extremely anxious about her. Her weight has dropped to a dangerous level. She (and I don't often see her and get this information from a mutual friend, S.) denies that she is anorexic, however, as she knows she is too thin and says she wants to eat, but she gets stomach cramps after eating most foods and so is afraid to eat - she associates anorexia with a mistaken body image. She has been tested for many allergies and illnesses, with negative results.
It seems to me that accepting her assertion that she is not anorexic is not helping her at all. It seems self-evident to me that she is suffering from an eating disorder, however you categorise it. She was in hospital a few months ago, but only because she collapsed; until then she had never been to the doctor at all about this problem. S. is much more comfortable with calling it a food allergy than anorexia, but I don't see why. It is an illness, there is no shame in it. If I had a nervous breakdown or suffered from bi-polar disorder, I should not be shunned because my illness was more of the mind than the body.
C's mother has tried to take the pragmatic route, which would be the way my mind works too - look, you may feel pain after food, but it is still nourishing you, just eat little and often and it will be doing you some good. But she can't, won't - and weighs about 4 stone. Which is 56 pounds. 25 kilos. If it drops more, she will die.
She is on a drip in hospital now, as she is so low in various vitamins, and on a fairly strict regime, told she has to eat 1500 calories a day and then build up from that. But until she understands the problem, she is not capable of breaking away from it.
My mother developed anxieties about foods and all I could do was try to accommodate her wishes as much as I could, while making sure she took in as much nutrition as possible. But she was in her seventies, and physically ill too.
C. is only thirty, strong willed, intelligent and independent. Can you help someone who denies that she needs help?
It seems to me that accepting her assertion that she is not anorexic is not helping her at all. It seems self-evident to me that she is suffering from an eating disorder, however you categorise it. She was in hospital a few months ago, but only because she collapsed; until then she had never been to the doctor at all about this problem. S. is much more comfortable with calling it a food allergy than anorexia, but I don't see why. It is an illness, there is no shame in it. If I had a nervous breakdown or suffered from bi-polar disorder, I should not be shunned because my illness was more of the mind than the body.
C's mother has tried to take the pragmatic route, which would be the way my mind works too - look, you may feel pain after food, but it is still nourishing you, just eat little and often and it will be doing you some good. But she can't, won't - and weighs about 4 stone. Which is 56 pounds. 25 kilos. If it drops more, she will die.
She is on a drip in hospital now, as she is so low in various vitamins, and on a fairly strict regime, told she has to eat 1500 calories a day and then build up from that. But until she understands the problem, she is not capable of breaking away from it.
My mother developed anxieties about foods and all I could do was try to accommodate her wishes as much as I could, while making sure she took in as much nutrition as possible. But she was in her seventies, and physically ill too.
C. is only thirty, strong willed, intelligent and independent. Can you help someone who denies that she needs help?
Saturday, 21 October 2006
Saturday evening, and Z has been drafting.
I'm continuing with my family story, on my mother's side, and I know this is going to be difficult. I intend to say something that my mother kept secret all her life for one thing, and she was a strong-minded person, so I'm not doing it lightly. But I think it will release her from something which she blamed herself for, but which was so trivial - and so unkind - that it will sadden you that it meant a lot to her.
That's for another day. Tonight, we have had more lamb for dinner, This was a casserole of the tough bits, the neck and the shanks. I cooked them with onions and tomatoes until tender the other evening, and then took them off the bone, tiddled up the gravy a bit, and served them with gorgeous, newly dug turnips and curly kale, and, um, oven chips*. Well. I'd been busy, and didn't have any more time. And chips are tasty. Especially when sprinkled with Maldon Sea Salt. My parents used to buy this from Fortnum and Mason in the '60s, and I still have never tasted a better salt, nor seen a prettier. Little pyramids, they are. Sweet**.
*For non-British readers, of course I mean French fries, not potato chips, which are crisps. Oh, American English. It's all right when it's pavement = sidewalk, as there's no room for misunderstanding. But the chips/fries/crisps hoo-hah, the pants/vest (which are, to us, underwear), shorts, suspenders kerfuffle, they could give rise to serious misunderstanding. If we were not all so sympathetic and intelligent.
**Sweet meaning adorable. They are, of course, salty.
That's for another day. Tonight, we have had more lamb for dinner, This was a casserole of the tough bits, the neck and the shanks. I cooked them with onions and tomatoes until tender the other evening, and then took them off the bone, tiddled up the gravy a bit, and served them with gorgeous, newly dug turnips and curly kale, and, um, oven chips*. Well. I'd been busy, and didn't have any more time. And chips are tasty. Especially when sprinkled with Maldon Sea Salt. My parents used to buy this from Fortnum and Mason in the '60s, and I still have never tasted a better salt, nor seen a prettier. Little pyramids, they are. Sweet**.
*For non-British readers, of course I mean French fries, not potato chips, which are crisps. Oh, American English. It's all right when it's pavement = sidewalk, as there's no room for misunderstanding. But the chips/fries/crisps hoo-hah, the pants/vest (which are, to us, underwear), shorts, suspenders kerfuffle, they could give rise to serious misunderstanding. If we were not all so sympathetic and intelligent.
**Sweet meaning adorable. They are, of course, salty.
8 Random Things About Me. A tag from How do we know
This is like being twelve years old at school and the teacher says you can write an essay on any subject you like and your mind promptly goes blank. I write fairly randomly in any case, about whatever comes into my mind as I sit here, and apart from a few pictures, taken to be posted, I rarely plan in advance.
Several refer to childhood, several contain verse, this wasn’t expected but has simply happened.
* When I am upset or emotional, my eyes become intensely green like a cat’s. This happens even if I don’t cry (where the contrast of green and red is unpleasantly startling) but, although I have seen it in the mirror many times (yes, when upset I am sometimes looking in the mirror, cause and effect might be cited here), no one else has ever mentioned it to me.
* When I was a child of 4 or 5, there was a song. My sister used to sing it to me. And not in a nice way. She teased, because that’s what big sisters do.
“I'm not a bat or a rat or a cat,
I'm not a gnu or a kangaroo,
I'm not a goose or a moose on the loose,
I am a mole and I live in a hole.”
My mole (one of many, I am considerably molier than thou) has been with me from earliest childhood and is situated in my armpit. I was deeply embarrassed by it as a child and never raised my right arm unless I was wearing long sleeves. Now it hardly makes me self-conscious at all, as I have so many other bodyparts to be embarrassed by.
* When I was a child, strangers called me Alice. Which is not my name. I was a dear little long-blonde-haired child with a winsome expression. Even when I was in my late 20s, the village shopkeeper decided to name me Alice. Yet, when there was a school production of Alice in Wonderland when I was 10, I was given the role of the Walrus. I wore baggy trousers with braces, a striped red and white teeshirt and, of course, I had to grow a droopy moustache. Or maybe I wore a stick-on one, I can’t quite remember. My friend Angela played the Carpenter, as her father was the school caretaker and had a splendid carpenter’s bench.
* When I am at the dentist, I do mental arithmetic to distract myself. Or practise times tables. My favourite times table is 17. I was pleased to be 51 as that is 17x3 which is excellent. 52 was good as it is a pack of cards. 53 is all right because, as I have mentioned before, I am now the age of the year I was born in, if you take the century for granted. I haven’t thought of anything good about any future year until 64, which, being both a square and a cube, is a very cool number.
When I’ve had enough of numbers, I turn to poetry. I learned this Shakespeare sonnet when I was 14. I decided to learn a sonnet and not one of the best known.
Those lips, that love’s own hand did make
Breathed forth the sound that said “I hate.”
To me, who languished for her sake.
But, when she saw my woeful state
Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue which, ever sweet
Was used in giving gentle doom
And taught it thus anew to greet.
“I hate” she altered with a word
That followed it as gentle day
Doth follow night, who, like a fiend,
From Heaven to Hell is flown away
“I hate” from hate away she threw
And saved my life, saying “not you.”
Some years ago, I borrowed a slim volume of poetry from the library, which was called ‘poems to learn by heart’ or something like that. I only learned one, and it was about the shortest. It was by Rudyard Kipling, I think and was, of course, about James I (or James VI if you are a Scot).
The child of Mary, Queen of Scots
A shifty mother’s shiftless son.
Bred up among intrigues and plots
Learned in all things, wise in none.
Ungainly, babbling, wasteful, weak,
Shrewd, clever, cowardly, pedantic.
The sight of steel would blanch his cheek
The smell of baccy drive him frantic.
He was the author of his line -
He wrote that witches should be burnt.
He wrote that monarchs were divine
And left a son who – proved they weren’t!
Otherwise I recite bits of Milton and rather a lot of the poets I studied for English A Level in 1970, Keats, Coleridge, Wordsworth and the like.
This, you might have observantly noticed, is only 4 things. It is the length of the post that deters me from putting them all up at once, I feel that I have intruded onto your time enough for now. The rest tomorrow.
Several refer to childhood, several contain verse, this wasn’t expected but has simply happened.
* When I am upset or emotional, my eyes become intensely green like a cat’s. This happens even if I don’t cry (where the contrast of green and red is unpleasantly startling) but, although I have seen it in the mirror many times (yes, when upset I am sometimes looking in the mirror, cause and effect might be cited here), no one else has ever mentioned it to me.
* When I was a child of 4 or 5, there was a song. My sister used to sing it to me. And not in a nice way. She teased, because that’s what big sisters do.
“I'm not a bat or a rat or a cat,
I'm not a gnu or a kangaroo,
I'm not a goose or a moose on the loose,
I am a mole and I live in a hole.”
My mole (one of many, I am considerably molier than thou) has been with me from earliest childhood and is situated in my armpit. I was deeply embarrassed by it as a child and never raised my right arm unless I was wearing long sleeves. Now it hardly makes me self-conscious at all, as I have so many other bodyparts to be embarrassed by.
* When I was a child, strangers called me Alice. Which is not my name. I was a dear little long-blonde-haired child with a winsome expression. Even when I was in my late 20s, the village shopkeeper decided to name me Alice. Yet, when there was a school production of Alice in Wonderland when I was 10, I was given the role of the Walrus. I wore baggy trousers with braces, a striped red and white teeshirt and, of course, I had to grow a droopy moustache. Or maybe I wore a stick-on one, I can’t quite remember. My friend Angela played the Carpenter, as her father was the school caretaker and had a splendid carpenter’s bench.
* When I am at the dentist, I do mental arithmetic to distract myself. Or practise times tables. My favourite times table is 17. I was pleased to be 51 as that is 17x3 which is excellent. 52 was good as it is a pack of cards. 53 is all right because, as I have mentioned before, I am now the age of the year I was born in, if you take the century for granted. I haven’t thought of anything good about any future year until 64, which, being both a square and a cube, is a very cool number.
When I’ve had enough of numbers, I turn to poetry. I learned this Shakespeare sonnet when I was 14. I decided to learn a sonnet and not one of the best known.
Those lips, that love’s own hand did make
Breathed forth the sound that said “I hate.”
To me, who languished for her sake.
But, when she saw my woeful state
Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue which, ever sweet
Was used in giving gentle doom
And taught it thus anew to greet.
“I hate” she altered with a word
That followed it as gentle day
Doth follow night, who, like a fiend,
From Heaven to Hell is flown away
“I hate” from hate away she threw
And saved my life, saying “not you.”
Some years ago, I borrowed a slim volume of poetry from the library, which was called ‘poems to learn by heart’ or something like that. I only learned one, and it was about the shortest. It was by Rudyard Kipling, I think and was, of course, about James I (or James VI if you are a Scot).
The child of Mary, Queen of Scots
A shifty mother’s shiftless son.
Bred up among intrigues and plots
Learned in all things, wise in none.
Ungainly, babbling, wasteful, weak,
Shrewd, clever, cowardly, pedantic.
The sight of steel would blanch his cheek
The smell of baccy drive him frantic.
He was the author of his line -
He wrote that witches should be burnt.
He wrote that monarchs were divine
And left a son who – proved they weren’t!
Otherwise I recite bits of Milton and rather a lot of the poets I studied for English A Level in 1970, Keats, Coleridge, Wordsworth and the like.
This, you might have observantly noticed, is only 4 things. It is the length of the post that deters me from putting them all up at once, I feel that I have intruded onto your time enough for now. The rest tomorrow.
Friday, 20 October 2006
Snapping
Last weekend I harvested pumpkins, squashes and suchlike. These are most of them.
Including the sax
They have been digging up the pavement in the middle of town for weeks. I wouldn't be too happy if it was my shop right next to them while they are cutting up the concrete.
It is rare, in this country - or in this part of it anyway - for jerusalem artichokes to flower. Not spectacular flowers, but rather appealing, 10 feet above the ground. Or 3 metres if you prefer.
The butt
That is what I am. The butt of all the jokes. My meeting today in Bury St Edmunds is a case in point. The chairman of each society (for I am a chair of men as well as a chair of vice) was given three minutes for a verbal report. I might have overrun slightly, but I did have two extra Useful Points to raise, for which I was thanked by the Chairman (this is the overall chairman; the Chairman of chairmen, and if you are thinking that there might be more chiefs than braves here, you might have a point) and was also delayed slightly by an inexplicable outbreak of hilarity.
I had asked if other societies expected their members to sign in at meetings. At ours, about 250 people at a time turn up so it isn't really possible to ask them nicely, individually to tick their name off on a sheet, although we make it as easy as possible. And quite a few of them don't bother. The bright idea was that it would help, in the case of a fire alarm, to ensure that everyone had left safely and gathered at the Assembly Point to be counted. Unfortunately, I explained, when just this eventuality happened (it was a false alarm, I'm glad to report), quite a few members wandered off to go shopping and never returned.
I wasn't trying to be funny, not even in the hope of ready money, but everyone laughed. Rather loudly in fact. Now, I'm more than happy to provide amusement, but was this so funny?
Afterwards, I set myself behind the tea trolley and poured tea for everyone, so now they all know me. And will be charming to me in future as they believe me to be both amusing and helpful and, as a bonus, to be someone who says sensible things and gets thanked by the Chairman.
I had asked if other societies expected their members to sign in at meetings. At ours, about 250 people at a time turn up so it isn't really possible to ask them nicely, individually to tick their name off on a sheet, although we make it as easy as possible. And quite a few of them don't bother. The bright idea was that it would help, in the case of a fire alarm, to ensure that everyone had left safely and gathered at the Assembly Point to be counted. Unfortunately, I explained, when just this eventuality happened (it was a false alarm, I'm glad to report), quite a few members wandered off to go shopping and never returned.
I wasn't trying to be funny, not even in the hope of ready money, but everyone laughed. Rather loudly in fact. Now, I'm more than happy to provide amusement, but was this so funny?
Afterwards, I set myself behind the tea trolley and poured tea for everyone, so now they all know me. And will be charming to me in future as they believe me to be both amusing and helpful and, as a bonus, to be someone who says sensible things and gets thanked by the Chairman.
Thursday, 19 October 2006
Vice
Today, I did stuff that needed to be caught up on. Like paying bills. One day soon, I hope to pay cheques into the bank. But one has to prioritise. And there is one cheque I haven't seen since half an hour after I was given it a month or two back, so I really should look for it again.
I went shopping. The butcher and the supermarket - just the little local supermarket, to keep within my comfort zone for shopping. And I visited a friend, who had sawed up some fence posts and was giving them to us for firewood. Together, we loaded them into the car, 'nng'ing at their heaviness. I arrived home and told the Sage. He went and got the barrow and casually heaved them on it by himself. Hmm. Picking up from the ground is quite different from sliding on the level. Anyway, maybe even now he is wincing from the incipient hernia.
This afternoon, off to the High School for the governors' meeting. You know, the important one where my part in it didn't really matter. I had forgotten that it was election time. Or, for the chairman and vice-chairman, re-election time. Which am I? Well, the word 'vice' is the clue here, darlings. As you probably expected. In fact, the chairman is superb and I hope she will stay in post forever, or at least until I have a legitimate reason to quit altogether as I really don't want to make the time and effort commitment that she does. I come into my own when there is a problem. I am, actually, quite good at throwing myself into a tricky situation and playing a worthwhile part in putting it right. Then I rather want to relax for a bit, which would not be a good idea in this job. Having said that, I've been a school governor for eighteen years and, although I don't have any children at school any more, it seems a bit of a waste of all that effort to quit.
I have pictures to post, but I'm too tired, or possibly lazy, to go through the palaver of finding the lead, putting them on the computer, etc, etc, etc (crikey, I must be tired, can't be bothered to rabbit). Tomorrow.
Also tomorrow, Bury St Edmunds. That is a place, not a plan of action. I don't indulge in that sort of vice.
I went shopping. The butcher and the supermarket - just the little local supermarket, to keep within my comfort zone for shopping. And I visited a friend, who had sawed up some fence posts and was giving them to us for firewood. Together, we loaded them into the car, 'nng'ing at their heaviness. I arrived home and told the Sage. He went and got the barrow and casually heaved them on it by himself. Hmm. Picking up from the ground is quite different from sliding on the level. Anyway, maybe even now he is wincing from the incipient hernia.
This afternoon, off to the High School for the governors' meeting. You know, the important one where my part in it didn't really matter. I had forgotten that it was election time. Or, for the chairman and vice-chairman, re-election time. Which am I? Well, the word 'vice' is the clue here, darlings. As you probably expected. In fact, the chairman is superb and I hope she will stay in post forever, or at least until I have a legitimate reason to quit altogether as I really don't want to make the time and effort commitment that she does. I come into my own when there is a problem. I am, actually, quite good at throwing myself into a tricky situation and playing a worthwhile part in putting it right. Then I rather want to relax for a bit, which would not be a good idea in this job. Having said that, I've been a school governor for eighteen years and, although I don't have any children at school any more, it seems a bit of a waste of all that effort to quit.
I have pictures to post, but I'm too tired, or possibly lazy, to go through the palaver of finding the lead, putting them on the computer, etc, etc, etc (crikey, I must be tired, can't be bothered to rabbit). Tomorrow.
Also tomorrow, Bury St Edmunds. That is a place, not a plan of action. I don't indulge in that sort of vice.
Wednesday, 18 October 2006
A day or so in the life.
I have a morning off! I thought I'd be needed in the shop tomorrow, but Al says that, unless the weather improves markedly, Jean can manage on her own. A friend is coming to keep Dilly company in the afternoon, so Al can take over the shop. I can't as I have an Important Meeting. Well, the meeting is important but my part in it isn't and I'd have been willing to cry off if necessary.
We went to Gardening Club last night, in the next, and lovely, village. A most entertaining young man, Ben from Blacksmiths Cottage Nursery in south Norfolk, not far from Diss. 'We' were Al, Dilly, Pugsley and me; the Sage was at a picture exhibition and Ro was babysitting Squiffany. Everyone was enchanted to see the baby, who behaved beautifully. He squeaked for a minute, until he was fed, half-way through the evening and everyone looked at me, assuming that I'd made an unseemly noise. I grinned, mouthed a burp and excuse me. Well......... Anyway, he was, in due course, ceremoniously introduced as the Youngest Member so everyone (I trust) knew I had been joking. Joking, all right?
I haven't mentioned the play I saw on Saturday. 'A Voyage Round my Father' by John Mortimer. It started as a book and a radio play I think, and was dramatised on television. BBC, natch. Laurence Olivier played the father, we think. This time, it was Derek Jacobi, who was excellent. It is a tragi-comedy in its truest sense, we laughed out loud but the underlying sadness of the situation was not far away and the final scene was almost unbearable. It was not until then that I even thought of 'I Claudius' by the way, just for an instant. Just in one phrase.
That was a marvellous series. Do you remember it? It was on BBC4 (or one of those extra numbers, whatever) very recently, and has been repeated over the years. Sian Phillips as Livia, BRIAN BLESSED as Augustus, John Hurt as Caligula, and half the acting fraternity and sorority of Great Britain, who were all just superb. I have it on DVD, about time I watched it again. And reread the books. They are in the downstairs loo, no excuse that I can't find them. Maybe after War and Peace. Which is just so good. The battle of Borodino, oh goodness, painful to read. Still closing in on Moscow, but any day now. And Pierre's wife is such a bad girl. But then I've loved Pierre all my life. Although, on rereading, he'd have had to be a bit more coherent. Really, well-meaning but not exactly sharp.
A customer just rang. A regular at our sales, who travels all the way from Northumberland. He was phoning to apologise that they can't make it this year, as his wife has to have a major operation next week. Aren't our clients lovely, bless him. I hope all goes well, they expect to make the next sale in May.
Another chap rang. He was a little miffed. His catalogue had arrived, but there was a mistake! The website gave the May sale details. I sympathised, said it hadn't gone up until a few days after the catalogues were posted, but when had he checked it? Monday, he affirmed. Hm, last Monday week, I suspect. Anyway, I advised him to check again and ring back if there was a problem. Really, wouldn't you look before you complained?
This bit is unashamedly taken from the comments, but I did write it ......... The lamb was extremely delicious and tender. More fatty, it must be said, than would be acceptable to a supermarket, but it does add flavour and you don't have to eat it. Roast potatoes, cooked in the lamb fat which I had rendered down; locally grown, though not by me, cauliflower and beetroot, mushrooms from our field cooked with shallots, white wine and a dash of cream.
The last, probably, of the local raspberries. There may be a few more at the weekend, but the rain may spoil them. We ate most of them last night, but there are a few left.
No wonder I don't lose those few pounds. Well, several, potentially, but it's the first that are the hardest.
We went to Gardening Club last night, in the next, and lovely, village. A most entertaining young man, Ben from Blacksmiths Cottage Nursery in south Norfolk, not far from Diss. 'We' were Al, Dilly, Pugsley and me; the Sage was at a picture exhibition and Ro was babysitting Squiffany. Everyone was enchanted to see the baby, who behaved beautifully. He squeaked for a minute, until he was fed, half-way through the evening and everyone looked at me, assuming that I'd made an unseemly noise. I grinned, mouthed a burp and excuse me. Well......... Anyway, he was, in due course, ceremoniously introduced as the Youngest Member so everyone (I trust) knew I had been joking. Joking, all right?
I haven't mentioned the play I saw on Saturday. 'A Voyage Round my Father' by John Mortimer. It started as a book and a radio play I think, and was dramatised on television. BBC, natch. Laurence Olivier played the father, we think. This time, it was Derek Jacobi, who was excellent. It is a tragi-comedy in its truest sense, we laughed out loud but the underlying sadness of the situation was not far away and the final scene was almost unbearable. It was not until then that I even thought of 'I Claudius' by the way, just for an instant. Just in one phrase.
That was a marvellous series. Do you remember it? It was on BBC4 (or one of those extra numbers, whatever) very recently, and has been repeated over the years. Sian Phillips as Livia, BRIAN BLESSED as Augustus, John Hurt as Caligula, and half the acting fraternity and sorority of Great Britain, who were all just superb. I have it on DVD, about time I watched it again. And reread the books. They are in the downstairs loo, no excuse that I can't find them. Maybe after War and Peace. Which is just so good. The battle of Borodino, oh goodness, painful to read. Still closing in on Moscow, but any day now. And Pierre's wife is such a bad girl. But then I've loved Pierre all my life. Although, on rereading, he'd have had to be a bit more coherent. Really, well-meaning but not exactly sharp.
A customer just rang. A regular at our sales, who travels all the way from Northumberland. He was phoning to apologise that they can't make it this year, as his wife has to have a major operation next week. Aren't our clients lovely, bless him. I hope all goes well, they expect to make the next sale in May.
Another chap rang. He was a little miffed. His catalogue had arrived, but there was a mistake! The website gave the May sale details. I sympathised, said it hadn't gone up until a few days after the catalogues were posted, but when had he checked it? Monday, he affirmed. Hm, last Monday week, I suspect. Anyway, I advised him to check again and ring back if there was a problem. Really, wouldn't you look before you complained?
This bit is unashamedly taken from the comments, but I did write it ......... The lamb was extremely delicious and tender. More fatty, it must be said, than would be acceptable to a supermarket, but it does add flavour and you don't have to eat it. Roast potatoes, cooked in the lamb fat which I had rendered down; locally grown, though not by me, cauliflower and beetroot, mushrooms from our field cooked with shallots, white wine and a dash of cream.
The last, probably, of the local raspberries. There may be a few more at the weekend, but the rain may spoil them. We ate most of them last night, but there are a few left.
No wonder I don't lose those few pounds. Well, several, potentially, but it's the first that are the hardest.
Oh, Pollyjollyanna. Allegedly.
| Your Blog Should Be Yellow |
 You're a cheerful, upbeat blogger who tends to make everyone laugh. You are a great storyteller, and the first to post the latest funny link. You're also friendly and welcoming to everyone who comments on your blog. |
Sometimes. I don't do funny links though, do I?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
