We have a lecture every month and I have to give the vote of thanks at the end. This means that for the whole of the hour-long lecture, I'm busy committing to memory entertaining snippets, most of which I forget when I have to stand on the stage at the end. Before the lecture, I also have to give out notices and introduce the speaker, which is all right. On the way home from visits, I thank the person who organised it, and the coach driver (Keith is our usual driver and we like him very much).
I go for the informal approach. "You are so spontaneous!" people say - which is, of course, a kind way of saying 'totally unprepared'. I take the view that people will forgive me if I'm fluffy, as long as they like me and I make them laugh. So that's the angle I go for. It does not mean that I don't mind when I am more than usually inept.
A few years ago, we had a splendid chap called J0hn B3njam1n coming to give us a lecture on jewellery (you may have seen him on Ant1ques R0adsh0w). Before he arrived, several people (who had not checked their programme) asked me who was lecturing. " J0hn B3njam1n" I replied. Without exception, each of them said "Eh? J0hn Betjamen?" Was it any surprise, therefore, when I introduced the fellow, that I said it too?
Another time, we were approaching Norwich on the A11 after a visit to London. There are several roundabouts, and I was standing at the front of the coach with my back to the windscreen. Round the roundabout we went (for that's what you do when you approach those useful traffic aids) and I fell straight down the steps towards the door. The driver (not Keith) might have warned me, but it was, admittedly, more fun that way. And indeed, all 49 people in the coach laughed at me.
The third time was when we had another well-known antiques expert, D@v1d B@tt1e, for a study day. Nothing too awful about the vote of thanks that time, except that the Sage was in the audience. He isn't normally. I felt very self-conscious. I like to keep compartments in my life separate.
Though - and I'd forgotten about this until now when I wrote about it - the matter was raised in a disagreement a few weeks later. I suggested to the Sage that he often didn't show much support for me and he had never even noticed it. It is not easy to win an argument with me, because I cite Evidence. I reminded him of the occasion and told him that, nervous as I'd been, he hadn't said anything to encourage me beforehand, nor to reassure me afterwards. He was startled, because it genuinely hadn't occurred to him (although I always go through the whole supportive thing every time he does an auction or gives a lecture, even though it's been his job for decades) and said "But I didn't say anything to discourage you!"
He kept digging. "I clapped!"
"Everyone bloody clapped. It would have been a bit pointed if you hadn't. Anyway, they weren't clapping me, they were clapping the speaker."
Poor darling was quite contrite.
Tuesday, 31 July 2007
Z hates to disappoint people
A society* I belong to applied, a couple of years ago, for a visit to the Prince of Wales' home - not the house itself, but a tour of the gardens. We've recently been offered a date in September. The letter arrived while the society takes its summer break, so some of the committee have had to get off their deckchairs** and do some extra work.
We have three or four visits every year, to exhibitions, interesting houses etc - this autumn, for example, we will go to the Terracotta Army exhibition at the British Museum and to the Mansion House - and there is one committee member whose responsibility is to make all the arrangements. However, for this particular trip, both people who have done this job have already visited H1ghgr0ve and so can't go again, so I've got to deal with applications.
I discover that I am not temperamentally suited to dealing with an oversubscribed trip.
We decided, since people may be on holiday or the post may take longer in some places than others, to go for a ballot rather than first come, first served, and the date for this is Monday 13th. There are only 25 places available - since expenses are the same whether the coach is full or half-full and this is a long way and so needs two drivers, this makes it a relatively expensive excursion and it will be a long day into the bargain, as we are going to leave at 6.30 am and don't expect to return until 9.30 pm - and I'd hoped (knowing I wasn't being realistic) for 25 applicants.
In the first two days, I've had 32. That already means disappointing 7 people, and many of the applicants are friends which makes it even worse
I can't sway the outcome as it wouldn't be the Thing to Do***, and to make sure I'm not tempted, I've asked the Rector to do the draw with me - not just because she will be above suspicion, but also because she won't know any of the people concerned so won't mind.
There is just one upside. On the day, I'll get to boss everyone about.
*There are over 300 different branches, which are run independently but all affiliated to the National Association.
**With thanks to Dandelion for the improvement.
***With an acknowledgment to Dave that, by claiming a place that could go to a more deserving person, I am a liar.
We have three or four visits every year, to exhibitions, interesting houses etc - this autumn, for example, we will go to the Terracotta Army exhibition at the British Museum and to the Mansion House - and there is one committee member whose responsibility is to make all the arrangements. However, for this particular trip, both people who have done this job have already visited H1ghgr0ve and so can't go again, so I've got to deal with applications.
I discover that I am not temperamentally suited to dealing with an oversubscribed trip.
We decided, since people may be on holiday or the post may take longer in some places than others, to go for a ballot rather than first come, first served, and the date for this is Monday 13th. There are only 25 places available - since expenses are the same whether the coach is full or half-full and this is a long way and so needs two drivers, this makes it a relatively expensive excursion and it will be a long day into the bargain, as we are going to leave at 6.30 am and don't expect to return until 9.30 pm - and I'd hoped (knowing I wasn't being realistic) for 25 applicants.
In the first two days, I've had 32. That already means disappointing 7 people, and many of the applicants are friends which makes it even worse
I can't sway the outcome as it wouldn't be the Thing to Do***, and to make sure I'm not tempted, I've asked the Rector to do the draw with me - not just because she will be above suspicion, but also because she won't know any of the people concerned so won't mind.
There is just one upside. On the day, I'll get to boss everyone about.
*There are over 300 different branches, which are run independently but all affiliated to the National Association.
**With thanks to Dandelion for the improvement.
***With an acknowledgment to Dave that, by claiming a place that could go to a more deserving person, I am a liar.
Monday, 30 July 2007
Unrealistic Expectations
I should remember that if an expected (though not overdue) business email has not arrived by 11.30 on Sunday night, it's unlikely to be here at 7.30 on Monday morning.
Sad to say, the computer and the camera are not at present on speaking terms. I took the precaution of restarting the computer before plugging in the camera in the hope of preventing a problem and it was when I tried to look at the photos that the computer crashed, so I've lost my photos. At least I'd shown my daughter the film I"d taken at the station, when we suddenly found out that Pugsley could say her name.
When a baby starts using words, it isn't always that obvious what they are - that is, whether it's really words or just sounds. My daughter reminded me when Squiffany was a baby and they went out of the back door of a café and she looked at the grass and said "garden". But she didn't say the word again for months.
Dilly and the children drove me to the station and Dilly asked Squiffany if she knew where I was going - whom do they usually bring here? "El and Phil", realised Squiffany. "Last syllable of El's name" piped up Pugsley. Startled, we asked him to repeat it. He did, several times, until I got the camera out and then he needed some persuasion. But he did in the end.
I'm sorry, also, to have lost the picture of El and Phil stranded in the fountain - and the artistic one of the rainbow seen in the fountain. I rudely snapped (without his knowledge) a young man with the worst hairstyle I've ever seen. I was looking forward to showing you that. He had very red hair and he had decided to shave it off all around the sides and leave it sticking up like a bog brush on top. The contrast between pale bristly head and red topknot was ugly, not in an aggressive "you thinking of messing with me, mate?" way but a "yeah, I know it was a really dismal mistake but I really feel those summer evening draughts and I'm too cold to cut it all off" one.
We arrived at the restaurant at 6 o'clock, just as the market had finished for the day, so we watched all the barrowboys pack up. As they were stacking the boxes on top of the barrows, an elderly Indian lady in a sari, clutching a couple of shopping bags, came along, eyes darting. She put down her bags and dived towards a fallen onion. Then a slightly dented cabbage. There was a turnip, but she rejected the green pepper, which must have been too soft. I rather applauded her - I don't like waste either, and she punctiliously waited until there was no question that the stallholder was going to pick them up himself.
A man came along, wearing a cheap suit and eating fish and chips. The bits of batter he didn't want were chucked on the ground with the vegetable debris. "Nice," said El. "I expect he feeds the rats in his own backyard, too." Fortunately, there are always London pigeons on hand and they cleared most of it up before the council refuse collectors came along. We wondered if all the stallholders pay equal amounts for rubbish clearing - some of the stalls left little or no rubbish, whereas the greengrocers made a real mess.
We know a barrowboy in Portobello Road. He says that local people are too posh to do their greengrocery shopping with him any more - round there they all go to the supermarkets, or maybe they buy their organic vegetable boxes and have them driven in from the countryside. He sells fruit to people scurrying out at lunchtime, or simple veg and salads to those hurrying home at the end of the day who have run out of tomatoes or need a stick of celery. Chapel Market is still busy though. A tough life - only shut on Mondays, El tells me, but each other day they are there for long hours in all weathers.
Sad to say, the computer and the camera are not at present on speaking terms. I took the precaution of restarting the computer before plugging in the camera in the hope of preventing a problem and it was when I tried to look at the photos that the computer crashed, so I've lost my photos. At least I'd shown my daughter the film I"d taken at the station, when we suddenly found out that Pugsley could say her name.
When a baby starts using words, it isn't always that obvious what they are - that is, whether it's really words or just sounds. My daughter reminded me when Squiffany was a baby and they went out of the back door of a café and she looked at the grass and said "garden". But she didn't say the word again for months.
Dilly and the children drove me to the station and Dilly asked Squiffany if she knew where I was going - whom do they usually bring here? "El and Phil", realised Squiffany. "Last syllable of El's name" piped up Pugsley. Startled, we asked him to repeat it. He did, several times, until I got the camera out and then he needed some persuasion. But he did in the end.
I'm sorry, also, to have lost the picture of El and Phil stranded in the fountain - and the artistic one of the rainbow seen in the fountain. I rudely snapped (without his knowledge) a young man with the worst hairstyle I've ever seen. I was looking forward to showing you that. He had very red hair and he had decided to shave it off all around the sides and leave it sticking up like a bog brush on top. The contrast between pale bristly head and red topknot was ugly, not in an aggressive "you thinking of messing with me, mate?" way but a "yeah, I know it was a really dismal mistake but I really feel those summer evening draughts and I'm too cold to cut it all off" one.
We arrived at the restaurant at 6 o'clock, just as the market had finished for the day, so we watched all the barrowboys pack up. As they were stacking the boxes on top of the barrows, an elderly Indian lady in a sari, clutching a couple of shopping bags, came along, eyes darting. She put down her bags and dived towards a fallen onion. Then a slightly dented cabbage. There was a turnip, but she rejected the green pepper, which must have been too soft. I rather applauded her - I don't like waste either, and she punctiliously waited until there was no question that the stallholder was going to pick them up himself.
A man came along, wearing a cheap suit and eating fish and chips. The bits of batter he didn't want were chucked on the ground with the vegetable debris. "Nice," said El. "I expect he feeds the rats in his own backyard, too." Fortunately, there are always London pigeons on hand and they cleared most of it up before the council refuse collectors came along. We wondered if all the stallholders pay equal amounts for rubbish clearing - some of the stalls left little or no rubbish, whereas the greengrocers made a real mess.
We know a barrowboy in Portobello Road. He says that local people are too posh to do their greengrocery shopping with him any more - round there they all go to the supermarkets, or maybe they buy their organic vegetable boxes and have them driven in from the countryside. He sells fruit to people scurrying out at lunchtime, or simple veg and salads to those hurrying home at the end of the day who have run out of tomatoes or need a stick of celery. Chapel Market is still busy though. A tough life - only shut on Mondays, El tells me, but each other day they are there for long hours in all weathers.
Sunday, 29 July 2007
:-D ... well, it's not hard, is it?
My sister, her young man and I are planning a visit to the Loire in October. He has been doing all the research, which I heartily approve of, because I have a short attention span - I usually don't mind, and can't be doing with more that a choice of three at best. I'm a nightmare in a travel agency and worse online because there is Too Much Choice.
Having, between us, agreed all the details (well, he suggested, I said yes), he emailed to say that the booking was confirmed. Yay!
I emailed back, cc-ing my sister
:-D
Z x
Now, doesn't that say it all to you? I thought it did. But I had a phone call this evening from my sister, whom I shall call Wink.
Wink - Bod and I had a most peculiar email from you.
Z - What?
Wink - it was all signs and symbols and we didn't understand it.
Z (who had forgotten all about the email, having received another one from Bod in the meantime) - oh my god, don't say that I''ve been spammed and you are getting dodgy stuff in my name!
Wink - I don't know - it didn't send us anywhere, but it didn't make sense.
Z (starting to have an inkling) - what was it?
Wink - well, there was a colon and then..
Interrupting Z - haven't you come across emoticons?
Explanations ensued. I felt a little silly. I expect she felt sillier. I mean, really.
Having, between us, agreed all the details (well, he suggested, I said yes), he emailed to say that the booking was confirmed. Yay!
I emailed back, cc-ing my sister
:-D
Z x
Now, doesn't that say it all to you? I thought it did. But I had a phone call this evening from my sister, whom I shall call Wink.
Wink - Bod and I had a most peculiar email from you.
Z - What?
Wink - it was all signs and symbols and we didn't understand it.
Z (who had forgotten all about the email, having received another one from Bod in the meantime) - oh my god, don't say that I''ve been spammed and you are getting dodgy stuff in my name!
Wink - I don't know - it didn't send us anywhere, but it didn't make sense.
Z (starting to have an inkling) - what was it?
Wink - well, there was a colon and then..
Interrupting Z - haven't you come across emoticons?
Explanations ensued. I felt a little silly. I expect she felt sillier. I mean, really.
Recommendations
For dinner, on Friday night, we went to the Clerkenwell Dining Room. If you book via Top Table, you get a 50% reduction in the prices of the food at present, which makes it astonishingly reasonable for what we had, which was gorgeous food, charming staff and a good atmosphere.
We started with a freebie gazpacho. Oh, no, that came after the really good bread. Then El and I had tempura and Phil had pâté (there was some fois gras in there, but there was also chicken so his conscience was only moderately troubled). We all ate bits of each others' plates throughout in a relaxed yet keen fashion. Afterwards, Phil and I both had smoked duck breast, which was served at exactly the right stage of rareness on Puy lentils with little shallots, small beetroots and pommes dauphinoise. El had slow-cooked belly of pork with scallops, served with tiny apple cubes, the pommes d. and I'm not sure what else. We shared the chocolate terrine with pistachio icecream served in a most fabulous little biscuit, sort of tuile-ish, but with a brandysnap lacyness and, praline-like, studded with chopped nuts. It was heavenly. Even though we didn't have coffee, they brought sweets - nice little crisp sweet Melba toasty bits, tiny home-made marshmallows and rich little truffles. The bill would have been £115 including service, but the half-price offer brought it down to only £40 for all the food and £35 for the very nice bottle of wine, fizzy water and tip.
On Saturday night, we went to one of El and Phil's current favourites and within a few minutes' walk of their flat, in Islington's Chapel Market. We were there early as I had a train to catch. We shared a couple of starters, had monkfish, lamb curry, Chicken Tikka, red vegetables, yellow rice, Tiger beer - really good, delicious fresh food. Again, nice staff. I'd happily go again. There was a special 60th Independence anniversary, but we weren't quite up to all the food on it at that time of the evening. I don't know the cost as my lovely children paid, but it was very good value, especially as, again, we'd booked with Top Table. The name, you are anxious to know, is Rooburoo.
The day was excellent. Starting with El and Phil's splendid breakfast, which I did not help to cook as their kitchen fits two snugly. I had, however, contributed eggs. Just as we were leaving for the station, I went to fetch the half-dozen eggs that had been nestling in the kitchen --- but two were missing! - Ro had had breakfast already! Nothing daunted, the Sage went and squeezed a couple of bantams and returned with two more eggs, still warm. Mm, nice.
I'm glad to say that I liked the Gormley exhibition just as much the second time round. Afterwards, I took El and Phil to see the fountain with sheets of water that trap giggling tourists. El said that I'd be a good guide, as I am so enthusiastic. Such keenness did I instil in her that she chirruped "shall we go in?" I, being a reticent type, was startled but, being a jolly type, was game. We became trapped in watery cubes and it was really quite a windy morning. I was all right, but their jeans rather soaked the water up, especially as I was let out several minutes before they were. I amused myself taking lots of photos.
Afterwards, we went to the Cartoon Museum*, which I mentioned the other day. It was fabulous, do go. It's only been open for 18 months, doesn't receive government funding and is a joy. I love cartoons, from Hogarth and Gilray to Searle, Addams, Scarfe, Calman, Heath Robinson, whose work is being commemorated in their current exhibition. Looking at them reminded me how the more sardonic cartoonists shaped my early life.
It seems to be largely run by volunteers, and the woman on duty was a friendly, welcoming enthusiast. The little gift shop was a joy, with lots of books of cartoons and about cartoonists, well-chosen gifts for children keen on drawing, and very amusing cards. I bought the book of the exhibition and El bought a highly amusing mug.
Afterwards, we spent a cheerful hour or so in the British Museum - the 'or so' part sitting people-watching: my word, there are some oddities about. Then we went back to the flat for a Nice Cup of Tea and a Sit Down (you do know this website, don't you? I'm such a fan that I even bought the book last year. I read it in Venice) before venturing out for our Indian dinner. We hadn't had lunch, as breakfast had lasted all day.
There were Scouts on the train from Chelmsford, which was a bit disconcerting if you didn't know about the Jamboree. Which I didn't. But they were cheerfully well-behaved, as you would expect of such future Establishment Pillars.
*admission is £4 for adults, not £3 as stated here. Still Value.
We started with a freebie gazpacho. Oh, no, that came after the really good bread. Then El and I had tempura and Phil had pâté (there was some fois gras in there, but there was also chicken so his conscience was only moderately troubled). We all ate bits of each others' plates throughout in a relaxed yet keen fashion. Afterwards, Phil and I both had smoked duck breast, which was served at exactly the right stage of rareness on Puy lentils with little shallots, small beetroots and pommes dauphinoise. El had slow-cooked belly of pork with scallops, served with tiny apple cubes, the pommes d. and I'm not sure what else. We shared the chocolate terrine with pistachio icecream served in a most fabulous little biscuit, sort of tuile-ish, but with a brandysnap lacyness and, praline-like, studded with chopped nuts. It was heavenly. Even though we didn't have coffee, they brought sweets - nice little crisp sweet Melba toasty bits, tiny home-made marshmallows and rich little truffles. The bill would have been £115 including service, but the half-price offer brought it down to only £40 for all the food and £35 for the very nice bottle of wine, fizzy water and tip.
On Saturday night, we went to one of El and Phil's current favourites and within a few minutes' walk of their flat, in Islington's Chapel Market. We were there early as I had a train to catch. We shared a couple of starters, had monkfish, lamb curry, Chicken Tikka, red vegetables, yellow rice, Tiger beer - really good, delicious fresh food. Again, nice staff. I'd happily go again. There was a special 60th Independence anniversary, but we weren't quite up to all the food on it at that time of the evening. I don't know the cost as my lovely children paid, but it was very good value, especially as, again, we'd booked with Top Table. The name, you are anxious to know, is Rooburoo.
The day was excellent. Starting with El and Phil's splendid breakfast, which I did not help to cook as their kitchen fits two snugly. I had, however, contributed eggs. Just as we were leaving for the station, I went to fetch the half-dozen eggs that had been nestling in the kitchen --- but two were missing! - Ro had had breakfast already! Nothing daunted, the Sage went and squeezed a couple of bantams and returned with two more eggs, still warm. Mm, nice.
I'm glad to say that I liked the Gormley exhibition just as much the second time round. Afterwards, I took El and Phil to see the fountain with sheets of water that trap giggling tourists. El said that I'd be a good guide, as I am so enthusiastic. Such keenness did I instil in her that she chirruped "shall we go in?" I, being a reticent type, was startled but, being a jolly type, was game. We became trapped in watery cubes and it was really quite a windy morning. I was all right, but their jeans rather soaked the water up, especially as I was let out several minutes before they were. I amused myself taking lots of photos.
Afterwards, we went to the Cartoon Museum*, which I mentioned the other day. It was fabulous, do go. It's only been open for 18 months, doesn't receive government funding and is a joy. I love cartoons, from Hogarth and Gilray to Searle, Addams, Scarfe, Calman, Heath Robinson, whose work is being commemorated in their current exhibition. Looking at them reminded me how the more sardonic cartoonists shaped my early life.
It seems to be largely run by volunteers, and the woman on duty was a friendly, welcoming enthusiast. The little gift shop was a joy, with lots of books of cartoons and about cartoonists, well-chosen gifts for children keen on drawing, and very amusing cards. I bought the book of the exhibition and El bought a highly amusing mug.
Afterwards, we spent a cheerful hour or so in the British Museum - the 'or so' part sitting people-watching: my word, there are some oddities about. Then we went back to the flat for a Nice Cup of Tea and a Sit Down (you do know this website, don't you? I'm such a fan that I even bought the book last year. I read it in Venice) before venturing out for our Indian dinner. We hadn't had lunch, as breakfast had lasted all day.
There were Scouts on the train from Chelmsford, which was a bit disconcerting if you didn't know about the Jamboree. Which I didn't. But they were cheerfully well-behaved, as you would expect of such future Establishment Pillars.
*admission is £4 for adults, not £3 as stated here. Still Value.
Saturday, 28 July 2007
Home!
London was bright and delightful and we had a splendid day. I was very glad that I was getting off the train at Diss anyway, because the train terminated there and passengers were bused to Norwich. It was raining and it's a much longer trip by road than by rail.
I hope you have all written lots of posts to entertain me, and I will read them all tomorrow. But now I'm going to bed.
I hope you have all written lots of posts to entertain me, and I will read them all tomorrow. But now I'm going to bed.
Friday, 27 July 2007
London awaits the arrival of Z!!(!)
I'm off in a few minutes. Dilly is taking me to the station. I have packed exceedingly light, which always gives me a tiny frisson of pleasure, because my young brain was scarred by my mother taking everything on every occasion. For me, packing for all eventualities means an extra pair of knickers, just in case.
You will not miss me at all, darlings, however fond you are, for I shall be back tomorrow night.
Have a lovely weekend.
You will not miss me at all, darlings, however fond you are, for I shall be back tomorrow night.
Have a lovely weekend.
Food memories (vegetarians, please read no further)
When I was a child, my mother must have spent most of her days planning meals and cooking them. No quick bowl of muesli in the morning or lunchtime sandwiches. We had three square meals a day.
A proper breakfast, of course. We didn't start the meal with cereal in our family. Straight into the bacon and eggs. Sometimes kedgeree or sausages. Grilled tomatoes and mushrooms. Or just eggs, poached, scrambled or boiled. A piece of toast perhaps, but my mother watched her figure and didn't eat much bread. My father made fantastic marmalade, so he might have that on toast. At Christmas, we had a turkey and a whole ham, so breakfast for a week afterwards might be cold ham. Then there were kippers, of course, always served in pairs. Or bloaters, which she served whole (nowadays, I gut bloaters before cooking them).
That kept us going for the morning. My mother made coffee for herself, the gardener, the daily and anyone else around at 11 o'clock, but nothing to eat. I might have had a glass of milk - there was certainly milk at school, little bottles containing one third of a pint. No one liked it, as it wasn't refrigerated during the morning and was slightly warm and, in the summer, borderline off, but we had to drink it.
School lunch was ghastly, on the whole. Stews were strangely gelatinous, gristly and had no vegetables in them at all. I was used to plenty of vegetables and longed for a bit of onion and carrot to give it some interest. The pies made with minced beef were all right - good pastry - but the scrambled eggs were horrible. They were served out of great stainless steel vats and the top half was dry and crumbly and the rest damp curds scooped out of water with a slotted spoon. We believed they were made from powdered egg and we may have been right. Sausages were mostly fat and gristle and the cheese and potato pie was disgusting. Lumpy mash with sour cheese mixed in and baked. On Friday, it being a Catholic school, we had fish. My mind has blanked a description of the pieces of fish we were served and we hoped for fish fingers instead, although one day a boarder told us that she had lifted the breadcrumbs off her fish finger and found mould underneath. Vegetables were overcooked, of course. There was always soup, though I never took it. It was made from a packet and I didn't see much point in it.
At home, my mother might have made a shepherd's pie with the leftovers from the Sunday roast. Or fishcakes, a casserole, an omelette, cold meat and salad with a baked potato, lamb chops - quite straightforward dishes, but always beautifully cooked and served with several (never overcooked) vegetables. We had more than our daily five fruit and veg in those days, there were always lots of home-grown vegetables on the table. She made wonderful vegetable soups with home-made stock.
Our main meal was normally in the evening, except on Sundays, when we had a traditional roast, usually beef. Sirloin, on the bone, with the undercut (fillet) left on. My mother made wonderful Yorkshire pudding and roast potatoes. The beef was served rare. In the evening, we had it cold, as well as any other cold meat left from a previous day, with several different salads and pickles - she pickled red cabbage and walnuts and made chutney. We also had cheese - Cheddar, Stilton, Brie, Camembert, Edam - and biscuits. It was served on a trolley in the drawing room - all other meals were eaten in the dining room.
Dinner during the week was usually meaty. We had at least one other roast and often a chicken. We sometimes had a mixed grill - does anyone eat mixed grill now? So much food on the plate - a small piece of steak, a lamb chop, a sausage, some liver, a kidney, tomatoes, mushrooms, fried potatoes, sometimes an egg or a rasher of bacon too. We often ate fish - grilled usually, sole or turbot or trout - or baked cod with onion and tomato, or fish pie with mashed potato. Our next door neighbours owned a fishing fleet and almost lived on fish - my mother was a bit taken aback to find that they considered kippers suitable for an evening meal, when to her they were, however delicious, certainly a breakfast or lunch dish.
At the weekend, they often had dinner parties and went to a lot of trouble with the food. They were followers of Elizabeth David and made cassoulet, ratatouille, daubes and carbonades. My mother had no interest at all in sweet food and, apart from lemon syllabub (I use her recipe still, except that I have changed it*), puddings were simple in the extreme. For example, a bought coffee icecream, smothered in whipped cream and sprinkled with a crumbled Flake chocolate bar was, she considered, perfectly acceptable for a dinner party pudding. A starter might be oeuf en cocotte (cooked perfectly so that the white was set but the yolk runny) or home-made pâté. In the 60s, they were always the first with the new foods, which they had sent up from London if necessary - avocado, for example. They grew aubergines, okra, melons - we had eight greenhouses, two of them hothouses.
Once in a while, my father fried fish and chips. He started by filleting the fish, which would have been cod, plaice or haddock. Then he peeled the potatoes, sliced them, soaked them, dried them, fried them to cook through. He made the batter and battered the fish. Then he gave the chips their final fry and fried the fish. They were served with frozen peas and home-made tartare sauce and lemon. He used almost all the dishes and pans in the kitchen and my mother would spend the afternoon cleaning up. He was a marvellous cook, but each meal he prepared was an Event and he used every utensil he could find and never even thought about the clearing away.
At home, unless there were guests, we never had puddings. My mother didn't encourage a sweet tooth, though she did not disapprove of ice cream. This was the only shining light of school meals. The school cooks made lovely puddings, jam or chocolate sponges, rice pudding served with a dob of dark brown sugar, apple pies. In the summer, sometimes, jelly and ice cream, which was all right but not as nice as the dairy ice cream my mother bought.
Wine was always on the table. Everyday wine was bought in half-gallons. I can't remember at what age I was first allowed to drink it but after that I always could if I wished. I rarely did, maybe the occasional half-glass when I was in my teens. Because it was not forbidden or 'special', I didn't think of drinking alcohol as something to aspire to or hide from my parents. Sometimes we went to Sunday pre-lunch drinks parties. From the age of about 14, I was given sherry and, looking back, I must have sometimes become pretty drunk. Sherry is a fairly heavy drink for a youngster and I was freely offered refills.
We didn't eat between meals, although fruit was not counted as snacking and was always available in large quantities. My mother did not bake cakes or biscuits, though we might have a biscuit at (afternoon) tea time. Lunch was at 1 and dinner 7.30 - later at a party of course. From a fairly early age, we ate dinner with our parents rather than early high tea.
Remarkably enough, I was tiny. I had a very small appetite, although I was not fussy about food at all. My mother was sympathetic, as she knew I simply could not eat much. "Try to finish the meat," she would say. "It's expensive and it's protein." I would be asked what vegetables I wanted with my sliver of meat and small potato. "Five peas and half a sprout, please" I would say, and that's what I'd be given. My parents understood how discouraging it was to be confronted with a plateful I couldn't finish.
*Less sugar, more alcohol. She did the juice of a lemon and half the grated rind, 4 ounces of sugar, a glass of sherry and half a pint of cream. I use the juice and all the rind, 2 ounces of sugar (a little more if needed), a glass of sherry and a slug of brandy, to a half-pint of cream.
A proper breakfast, of course. We didn't start the meal with cereal in our family. Straight into the bacon and eggs. Sometimes kedgeree or sausages. Grilled tomatoes and mushrooms. Or just eggs, poached, scrambled or boiled. A piece of toast perhaps, but my mother watched her figure and didn't eat much bread. My father made fantastic marmalade, so he might have that on toast. At Christmas, we had a turkey and a whole ham, so breakfast for a week afterwards might be cold ham. Then there were kippers, of course, always served in pairs. Or bloaters, which she served whole (nowadays, I gut bloaters before cooking them).
That kept us going for the morning. My mother made coffee for herself, the gardener, the daily and anyone else around at 11 o'clock, but nothing to eat. I might have had a glass of milk - there was certainly milk at school, little bottles containing one third of a pint. No one liked it, as it wasn't refrigerated during the morning and was slightly warm and, in the summer, borderline off, but we had to drink it.
School lunch was ghastly, on the whole. Stews were strangely gelatinous, gristly and had no vegetables in them at all. I was used to plenty of vegetables and longed for a bit of onion and carrot to give it some interest. The pies made with minced beef were all right - good pastry - but the scrambled eggs were horrible. They were served out of great stainless steel vats and the top half was dry and crumbly and the rest damp curds scooped out of water with a slotted spoon. We believed they were made from powdered egg and we may have been right. Sausages were mostly fat and gristle and the cheese and potato pie was disgusting. Lumpy mash with sour cheese mixed in and baked. On Friday, it being a Catholic school, we had fish. My mind has blanked a description of the pieces of fish we were served and we hoped for fish fingers instead, although one day a boarder told us that she had lifted the breadcrumbs off her fish finger and found mould underneath. Vegetables were overcooked, of course. There was always soup, though I never took it. It was made from a packet and I didn't see much point in it.
At home, my mother might have made a shepherd's pie with the leftovers from the Sunday roast. Or fishcakes, a casserole, an omelette, cold meat and salad with a baked potato, lamb chops - quite straightforward dishes, but always beautifully cooked and served with several (never overcooked) vegetables. We had more than our daily five fruit and veg in those days, there were always lots of home-grown vegetables on the table. She made wonderful vegetable soups with home-made stock.
Our main meal was normally in the evening, except on Sundays, when we had a traditional roast, usually beef. Sirloin, on the bone, with the undercut (fillet) left on. My mother made wonderful Yorkshire pudding and roast potatoes. The beef was served rare. In the evening, we had it cold, as well as any other cold meat left from a previous day, with several different salads and pickles - she pickled red cabbage and walnuts and made chutney. We also had cheese - Cheddar, Stilton, Brie, Camembert, Edam - and biscuits. It was served on a trolley in the drawing room - all other meals were eaten in the dining room.
Dinner during the week was usually meaty. We had at least one other roast and often a chicken. We sometimes had a mixed grill - does anyone eat mixed grill now? So much food on the plate - a small piece of steak, a lamb chop, a sausage, some liver, a kidney, tomatoes, mushrooms, fried potatoes, sometimes an egg or a rasher of bacon too. We often ate fish - grilled usually, sole or turbot or trout - or baked cod with onion and tomato, or fish pie with mashed potato. Our next door neighbours owned a fishing fleet and almost lived on fish - my mother was a bit taken aback to find that they considered kippers suitable for an evening meal, when to her they were, however delicious, certainly a breakfast or lunch dish.
At the weekend, they often had dinner parties and went to a lot of trouble with the food. They were followers of Elizabeth David and made cassoulet, ratatouille, daubes and carbonades. My mother had no interest at all in sweet food and, apart from lemon syllabub (I use her recipe still, except that I have changed it*), puddings were simple in the extreme. For example, a bought coffee icecream, smothered in whipped cream and sprinkled with a crumbled Flake chocolate bar was, she considered, perfectly acceptable for a dinner party pudding. A starter might be oeuf en cocotte (cooked perfectly so that the white was set but the yolk runny) or home-made pâté. In the 60s, they were always the first with the new foods, which they had sent up from London if necessary - avocado, for example. They grew aubergines, okra, melons - we had eight greenhouses, two of them hothouses.
Once in a while, my father fried fish and chips. He started by filleting the fish, which would have been cod, plaice or haddock. Then he peeled the potatoes, sliced them, soaked them, dried them, fried them to cook through. He made the batter and battered the fish. Then he gave the chips their final fry and fried the fish. They were served with frozen peas and home-made tartare sauce and lemon. He used almost all the dishes and pans in the kitchen and my mother would spend the afternoon cleaning up. He was a marvellous cook, but each meal he prepared was an Event and he used every utensil he could find and never even thought about the clearing away.
At home, unless there were guests, we never had puddings. My mother didn't encourage a sweet tooth, though she did not disapprove of ice cream. This was the only shining light of school meals. The school cooks made lovely puddings, jam or chocolate sponges, rice pudding served with a dob of dark brown sugar, apple pies. In the summer, sometimes, jelly and ice cream, which was all right but not as nice as the dairy ice cream my mother bought.
Wine was always on the table. Everyday wine was bought in half-gallons. I can't remember at what age I was first allowed to drink it but after that I always could if I wished. I rarely did, maybe the occasional half-glass when I was in my teens. Because it was not forbidden or 'special', I didn't think of drinking alcohol as something to aspire to or hide from my parents. Sometimes we went to Sunday pre-lunch drinks parties. From the age of about 14, I was given sherry and, looking back, I must have sometimes become pretty drunk. Sherry is a fairly heavy drink for a youngster and I was freely offered refills.
We didn't eat between meals, although fruit was not counted as snacking and was always available in large quantities. My mother did not bake cakes or biscuits, though we might have a biscuit at (afternoon) tea time. Lunch was at 1 and dinner 7.30 - later at a party of course. From a fairly early age, we ate dinner with our parents rather than early high tea.
Remarkably enough, I was tiny. I had a very small appetite, although I was not fussy about food at all. My mother was sympathetic, as she knew I simply could not eat much. "Try to finish the meat," she would say. "It's expensive and it's protein." I would be asked what vegetables I wanted with my sliver of meat and small potato. "Five peas and half a sprout, please" I would say, and that's what I'd be given. My parents understood how discouraging it was to be confronted with a plateful I couldn't finish.
*Less sugar, more alcohol. She did the juice of a lemon and half the grated rind, 4 ounces of sugar, a glass of sherry and half a pint of cream. I use the juice and all the rind, 2 ounces of sugar (a little more if needed), a glass of sherry and a slug of brandy, to a half-pint of cream.
Thursday, 26 July 2007
The appeal of the Full English...
I spoke, this morning, of all the (pretty light but culturally above reproach and thoroughly entertaining) delights planned for Saturday. What did most of you home in on?
The cooked breakfast.
You know, I'm old enough to have grown up with bacon and eggs for breakfast every day. I had no idea what a privilege it was.
The cooked breakfast.
You know, I'm old enough to have grown up with bacon and eggs for breakfast every day. I had no idea what a privilege it was.
Making plans
I mentioned that I'm having a day in London, with El and Phil. I'm taking the 4.17 train tomorrow afternoon, which will arrive about 6 and then we will meet for a drink before going out for dinner. On Saturday, we're going to the Gormley exhibition - back there, in my case, but I really want to go again.
Until yesterday, we hadn't planned the rest of the day, but I'd had my eye on the Heath Robinson exhibition here, for I have found his drawings most entertaining all my life. My father was a fan, so I grew up with them. I'm not sure if my daughter even knows this, but I arrived home last night to find an email from her suggesting the very same exhibition. Isn't that splendid?
Then, we'll toddle down to the British Museum and take a gander at this.
Later, we'll have an early meal at an Indian restaurant they like which is not far from their flat, and I'll take the 8.30 train home. I have nothing at all to do on Sunday, for once, but maybe Ro will let me play with him on his Wii...
Until yesterday, we hadn't planned the rest of the day, but I'd had my eye on the Heath Robinson exhibition here, for I have found his drawings most entertaining all my life. My father was a fan, so I grew up with them. I'm not sure if my daughter even knows this, but I arrived home last night to find an email from her suggesting the very same exhibition. Isn't that splendid?
Then, we'll toddle down to the British Museum and take a gander at this.
Later, we'll have an early meal at an Indian restaurant they like which is not far from their flat, and I'll take the 8.30 train home. I have nothing at all to do on Sunday, for once, but maybe Ro will let me play with him on his Wii...
Wednesday, 25 July 2007
Z sees the Nobs, as well as Silver Threads
Today, Dilly and the children and I went to the Sandringham Flower Show. This part of Norfolk is where the smart people live (Nobs, not Knobs, of course). Indeed, Charles and Camilla (as we Yobs familiarly refer to them) were driven in their horse-drawn carriage a mere three yards from us. They looked very fine.
Despite a couple of rainy spells, it was a most jolly day and we had fun. I particularly appreciated the fact that the flower and produce was of usual local growers' standard and not absolutely professional - this splendid effort notwithstanding.
It was a little windy by the time we were ready to leave. As Squiffany was climbing into the car, she suddenly decided a final visit to the lavatory was necessary. While they were gone, I looked in the mirror.
Something of a mistake. But worse was to come, when I combed my hair and looked closer
Oh, bum.
Despite a couple of rainy spells, it was a most jolly day and we had fun. I particularly appreciated the fact that the flower and produce was of usual local growers' standard and not absolutely professional - this splendid effort notwithstanding.
It was a little windy by the time we were ready to leave. As Squiffany was climbing into the car, she suddenly decided a final visit to the lavatory was necessary. While they were gone, I looked in the mirror. 
Something of a mistake. But worse was to come, when I combed my hair and looked closer
Oh, bum.
I'm worth more alive
$4350.00
Mind you, my less than perfect sight is only slight myopia. I can see everything, only a bit fuzzy. That's quite nice, I think.
Thanks to Badgerdaddy (yes, I should link, but you all read Badgerdaddy already, I trust).
Mind you, my less than perfect sight is only slight myopia. I can see everything, only a bit fuzzy. That's quite nice, I think.
Thanks to Badgerdaddy (yes, I should link, but you all read Badgerdaddy already, I trust).
Tuesday, 24 July 2007
Doesn't 'holiday' suggest 'fun'?
I went to buy a couple of cards - birthday card for Ro and congratulatory card to friends who've recently had a baby - and in came a tall thin well-spoken woman, loudly apologising for her noisy child. She had a quiet little girl with her. As I left, the same woman had gone outside and was telling her daughter, who looked scared and shocked, to "Stay THERE and be GOOD and keep an eye on HIM." By the wall was a small boy with vivid red hair, straight and rather long with a pelmet fringe. His mouth was wide open in a soundless wail and both front teeth were missing.
I felt sorry for the whole family. The summer holidays have only just started and the tether is already stretched to its endurance. Still six weeks to go.
I felt sorry for the whole family. The summer holidays have only just started and the tether is already stretched to its endurance. Still six weeks to go.
Z has wheels
Mark was, in person, as helpful as he'd been on the phone. We went in and the Sage said "We're the ones whose car had all the problems." You might think, in a garage, that this was not quite enough clue, but he knew us at once, greeted us and fetched the car key - which he gave to me - and the invoice, which he took us through and explained to us (we'd had them do a full service while they were about it). He still pitched his manner at the right level of friendliness without familiarity or subservience. I managed not to put my foot in it this time, though I suspect he already had my measure.
Ro came with us (he's got some time off work) and he and I went to the cinema afterwards. As we arrived home, the Sage greeted us with "Excellent timing. Dinner's just ready."
Today, it's Ro's birthday. His present should arrive - I bought him a Wii, as I think that no one should be too old for toys. Also, I rather want to play with it myself. Squiffany is planning a party for him this afternoon. We suspect there will be balloons and pass the parcel as well as a gaudily iced cake.
The postman has just arrived (he won't be bringing the Wii, which is coming by courier). I heard him say, to Tilly, "Morning, sweetheart, good girl." I heard her crunch a biscuit.
Ro came with us (he's got some time off work) and he and I went to the cinema afterwards. As we arrived home, the Sage greeted us with "Excellent timing. Dinner's just ready."
Today, it's Ro's birthday. His present should arrive - I bought him a Wii, as I think that no one should be too old for toys. Also, I rather want to play with it myself. Squiffany is planning a party for him this afternoon. We suspect there will be balloons and pass the parcel as well as a gaudily iced cake.
The postman has just arrived (he won't be bringing the Wii, which is coming by courier). I heard him say, to Tilly, "Morning, sweetheart, good girl." I heard her crunch a biscuit.
Monday, 23 July 2007
Z was too familiar
Oh dear, I've just embarrassed myself. Again.
Mark from the garage just rang to say my car will be ready today. As we'd asked, they have given it a full service as well as the head gasket repair. I asked the price. £1,235.81. "Actually," I told him, "I'd steeled myself for more."
I then thanked him for his helpfulness throughout all this - praise is more important than blame, I think, when it's due - and then I said "Right then, see you later, love." I bit my tongue in dismay. It was a business conversation, dammit. I don't even know the lad. I may call you all by (richly merited, you lovely people) endearments, but this is entirely different. And I don't have the sort of voice that sounds as if I call everyone "luv" or "darlin'"
At least I didn't say 'dear heart.'
I will dress in a business suit and look sensible and proper when I go in, and perhaps he will think he misheard me.
Mark from the garage just rang to say my car will be ready today. As we'd asked, they have given it a full service as well as the head gasket repair. I asked the price. £1,235.81. "Actually," I told him, "I'd steeled myself for more."
I then thanked him for his helpfulness throughout all this - praise is more important than blame, I think, when it's due - and then I said "Right then, see you later, love." I bit my tongue in dismay. It was a business conversation, dammit. I don't even know the lad. I may call you all by (richly merited, you lovely people) endearments, but this is entirely different. And I don't have the sort of voice that sounds as if I call everyone "luv" or "darlin'"
At least I didn't say 'dear heart.'
I will dress in a business suit and look sensible and proper when I go in, and perhaps he will think he misheard me.
Sunday, 22 July 2007
Just Another Sunday
I had a phone call at 8 o’clock this morning to say that G wouldn't be able to do coffee this morning (which was fine, I took milk and biscuits, set it up and then nobbled a helpful person to take over) as she was over at the hospital with her mother.
This is a lady in her late seventies, who has been waiting for an exploratory operation since November. She still hadn't been given a date, but was increasingly in pain. Following a fall when she broke her hip a year or two back, she is a bit frail anyway. Last week, G rang to ask if there was any way of bringing the op. forward. "Well, she could go privately..." "How much?" "About £1,500." They decided to go for it, and on Tuesday were invited to come in this Sunday at 7.30 am.
In the event, G's mum was in such pain at 5 o'clock that she took her in early, which was the reason she felt that her stint on the coffee rota was just one job too much, and she was right.
Of course, they made the right decision for her mother's health - and, in addition, she knows that they value her sufficiently to make it. But I thought that waiting lists were supposed to have come way down. Now the operation has taken place, will it be counted as a target that has been met? Or will it disappear altogether from NHS figures? I know a good many people who have given up waiting and paid out for procedures that should have been carried out on the NHS - I would not be at all surprised if they were included in the 'success' figures.
The reason I don't like these targets is that they encourage fudging and fiddling. I see it too often.
Food to prepare, this afternoon, for a 'do' at one of the neighbouring parishes. Little canapé-ish stuff. I always think that, if you make it look pretty (and taste nice, of course), you can get away with really simple stuff.
Later - Sadly, having taken the photos, I plugged the camera into the computer, which promptly crashed. I unwisely unplugged the camera before turning it off, which means I have lost all the photos (including some from the festival which I hadn't got around to downloading). Sorry. The canapés were very nice, though, and so was the do.
This is a lady in her late seventies, who has been waiting for an exploratory operation since November. She still hadn't been given a date, but was increasingly in pain. Following a fall when she broke her hip a year or two back, she is a bit frail anyway. Last week, G rang to ask if there was any way of bringing the op. forward. "Well, she could go privately..." "How much?" "About £1,500." They decided to go for it, and on Tuesday were invited to come in this Sunday at 7.30 am.
In the event, G's mum was in such pain at 5 o'clock that she took her in early, which was the reason she felt that her stint on the coffee rota was just one job too much, and she was right.
Of course, they made the right decision for her mother's health - and, in addition, she knows that they value her sufficiently to make it. But I thought that waiting lists were supposed to have come way down. Now the operation has taken place, will it be counted as a target that has been met? Or will it disappear altogether from NHS figures? I know a good many people who have given up waiting and paid out for procedures that should have been carried out on the NHS - I would not be at all surprised if they were included in the 'success' figures.
The reason I don't like these targets is that they encourage fudging and fiddling. I see it too often.
Food to prepare, this afternoon, for a 'do' at one of the neighbouring parishes. Little canapé-ish stuff. I always think that, if you make it look pretty (and taste nice, of course), you can get away with really simple stuff.
Later - Sadly, having taken the photos, I plugged the camera into the computer, which promptly crashed. I unwisely unplugged the camera before turning it off, which means I have lost all the photos (including some from the festival which I hadn't got around to downloading). Sorry. The canapés were very nice, though, and so was the do.
Saturday, 21 July 2007
Z never learns...well, she forgot the lesson again
There came a day, when I was 38 years old, when I looked in the mirror and realised that I was too old to go without make-up, unless I cared to risk being handed a bell and a sign saying 'unclean' by someone who thought I had a dreaded disease, rather than just looking like this naturally. So, ever since, my mornings have started with a few minutes being spent putting on some slap - usually in quite a casual fashion, for I'm content with a general cover-up and don't expect miracles.
Occasionally, however, this transformation from scary to mere old bag doesn't happen first thing, and this always proves to be a mistake.
Today, for instance, I did this and that, read a few blogs, answered an email and wrote another, wrote the last post (migraine gone, by the way, thank the Lord- and the chemists, of course - for M1gr@leve) and finally, around 10.30, went to wash my hair. I was just smearing moisturiser on the boat race when a car drew up.
That's it. Whenever I don't present a reasonable face to the world, someone calls. I dragged a hasty comb through the wet hair and went to answer the door. My friends recoiled in horror momentarily, but recovered their poise quickly, and Tilly came to my aid by playing in a most friendly fashion with their two little children.
After they left, I went straight to rectify matters and now have painted on a smile and a complexion. My hair is a bit beyond redemption, having half-dried pointing the wrong way, but no matter. It's the face that frightens people the most.
Occasionally, however, this transformation from scary to mere old bag doesn't happen first thing, and this always proves to be a mistake.
Today, for instance, I did this and that, read a few blogs, answered an email and wrote another, wrote the last post (migraine gone, by the way, thank the Lord- and the chemists, of course - for M1gr@leve) and finally, around 10.30, went to wash my hair. I was just smearing moisturiser on the boat race when a car drew up.
That's it. Whenever I don't present a reasonable face to the world, someone calls. I dragged a hasty comb through the wet hair and went to answer the door. My friends recoiled in horror momentarily, but recovered their poise quickly, and Tilly came to my aid by playing in a most friendly fashion with their two little children.
After they left, I went straight to rectify matters and now have painted on a smile and a complexion. My hair is a bit beyond redemption, having half-dried pointing the wrong way, but no matter. It's the face that frightens people the most.
Not much happening
Unwisely, I started the day with some intricate work* on the computer, forgetting I hadn't put in my contact lenses ad so had to squint myopically and it gave me a migraine. I used to get them quite often and tried all sorts of ways of staving them off - I knew when I'd been overdoing it and so didn't eat citrus fruit, chocolate, drank no alcohol, tried to get more sleep but not too much - avoided the traditional triggers, sometimes with success and sometimes not. Now, I know that most of the cause, for me, was tension and tiredness and I'm very laid-back at this stage of my life, so they rarely happen. Patterns of moving objects can do it though (I have to be careful around water and sunlight) and this is the cause this morning. Best to just pop a couple of pink pills and keep going, so I'll ignore it and it will go away.
I sat down to write last night and realised that nothing interesting had happened. Still hasn't. We're not flooded, and now the sky is blue, though it looks a bit breezy. My sister was supposed to come to visit this weekend, but couldn't make it in the end - just as well, yesterday was not the best day to travel. The Sage's sister arrived home by train on Thursday evening - the same train line she had been on was impassable by last night.
Next weekend, I'm going to London - just for the Friday night. Visiting my little girl and her lovely husband. We'll have a nice meal at wherever they have booked (no trouble finding good places to eat in their neck of the woods) and spend Saturday together.
And, before then, we have an anniversary and a birthday. On Monday, it'll be the 21st anniversary of moving here - coming home, as far as the Sage is concerned. Have I ever told you that this is the house he was born in? His parents bought it the year after they were married, in 1928, and lived here for the rest of their lives.
On Tuesday, my younger son Ro will be 23. Which is why I remember the day we moved - I'm not big on commemorating dates, but we can't forget that one.
My eyesight has cleared and no headache has started yet. Maybe I'll get away with it.
*You are so polite. I put 'word' this morning and no one has mentioned it. How intricate does a word have to be, to bring on a 'pattern of moving objects'-caused migraine.
Maybe you are as unobservant as I'm a bad typist?
I sat down to write last night and realised that nothing interesting had happened. Still hasn't. We're not flooded, and now the sky is blue, though it looks a bit breezy. My sister was supposed to come to visit this weekend, but couldn't make it in the end - just as well, yesterday was not the best day to travel. The Sage's sister arrived home by train on Thursday evening - the same train line she had been on was impassable by last night.
Next weekend, I'm going to London - just for the Friday night. Visiting my little girl and her lovely husband. We'll have a nice meal at wherever they have booked (no trouble finding good places to eat in their neck of the woods) and spend Saturday together.
And, before then, we have an anniversary and a birthday. On Monday, it'll be the 21st anniversary of moving here - coming home, as far as the Sage is concerned. Have I ever told you that this is the house he was born in? His parents bought it the year after they were married, in 1928, and lived here for the rest of their lives.
On Tuesday, my younger son Ro will be 23. Which is why I remember the day we moved - I'm not big on commemorating dates, but we can't forget that one.
My eyesight has cleared and no headache has started yet. Maybe I'll get away with it.
*You are so polite. I put 'word' this morning and no one has mentioned it. How intricate does a word have to be, to bring on a 'pattern of moving objects'-caused migraine.
Maybe you are as unobservant as I'm a bad typist?
Thursday, 19 July 2007
Credit where it's due - even if you want to pay up
I phoned the car recovery service at 7.30 this morning and, as promised, a breakdown lorry arrived within the hour to take my car the 20 miles to the garage. Cheers to the Co-operative Insurance Service and their Road Rescue Plus cover, where the call centre people are helpful and friendly and, usually, have lovely Manchester accents, and where the service is prompt and efficient.
Unfortunately, the car is a bit buggered and will be very expensive to fix. However, that is not to fault Holden Motors in Norwich, where Mark has phoned back when he promised and they are instilling confidence in me, as well as a new gasket and other things in the car.
I am being philosophical. The car did not break down in the middle of heavy traffic, nor miles from anywhere. No one is injured and the money is in the bank, even if we would prefer to spend it on other things. Apart from a few phone calls, it has required no effort from me or the Sage. Everyone has been helpful.
This evening, the Sage rang the local strawberry grower to order tomorrow's strawberries. "I've got a pocketful of money for you from Al" he said. "Will you be there tomorrow morning?" "No", replied Tim. "I'll be too busy. No problem, it's as good as money in the bank." Al owes him nearly £1,000 already and it will be well over that by the time Tim is available to be paid. A reputation like that is not easy to win and I feel a mother's pride...
Unfortunately, the car is a bit buggered and will be very expensive to fix. However, that is not to fault Holden Motors in Norwich, where Mark has phoned back when he promised and they are instilling confidence in me, as well as a new gasket and other things in the car.
I am being philosophical. The car did not break down in the middle of heavy traffic, nor miles from anywhere. No one is injured and the money is in the bank, even if we would prefer to spend it on other things. Apart from a few phone calls, it has required no effort from me or the Sage. Everyone has been helpful.
This evening, the Sage rang the local strawberry grower to order tomorrow's strawberries. "I've got a pocketful of money for you from Al" he said. "Will you be there tomorrow morning?" "No", replied Tim. "I'll be too busy. No problem, it's as good as money in the bank." Al owes him nearly £1,000 already and it will be well over that by the time Tim is available to be paid. A reputation like that is not easy to win and I feel a mother's pride...
Wednesday, 18 July 2007
*Vroom, vroom, cough, cough, pfffftt*
Have I mentioned? - I don't think I've mentioned that my car has been giving a little cause for concern recently. My daughter and son-in-law borrowed it, the Sunday before last, to go to Norwich. When they arrived home, they said that it had overheated and had cut out on the Chicken Roundabout, a mile from home.
We let it cool, put in a few pints of water and have been keeping an eye on it. It seemed okay.
Yesterday, we put in a litre of water. Today, I went to Norwich and, when I came home, it took two litres. Hmm.
We phoned the garage (in Norwich) and booked it in for tomorrow morning. I rang a friend and arranged for her to pick me up to take me to my lunch engagement afterwards. As I put the phone down, the Sage came in. "I've just put in another three pints. I'm not sure it should be driven. Whatever the problem is, another twenty miles could do a lot of damage."
We rang the garage again and asked how much they would charge to pick it up. £100. But did we have breakdown cover? Yes! I had forgotten, but I have. But was it for roadside breakdowns only? I rang to ask. Lord love them, for a mere £54 per year, it includes picking the car up from my home. Arrangements have been made (including ringing another friend to fetch me from home) and all people I have spoken to have been lovely and helpful and, if actions are as good as words, I will give full credit tomorrow.
Oh, and on another subject entirely, I told you about the assembly I went to yesterday - one of the teachers referred to a sponsored run he and his wife (who is the SENCO* at the same school) did on Sunday for the Stroke Association. He was proud, not so much that he ran the marathon, but that his wife Mickey actually ran it twice. She just kept on running and went on for 52 miles and *however many* yards.
Today, I had a meeting in the Learning Support Department (for I am SEN governor). After my meeting, I said to Mickey "What did you do at the weekend?" She said "Oh, I, er, did a run." I made her tell me about it. And asked if she was accepting sponsorship (she'll have found out from Clinton this evening how I knew). And I asked her to accept my contribution.
But, though she was pleased to receive it, I had intended to give her a tenner. But, when I looked in my bag, I'd got 3 pound coins and a £20 note. I thought about it. I even thought of giving her a cheque. Better nature took over, I'm glad to say.
52 miles. Blimey. I still run lopsided - indeed, sometimes I walk lopsided. Not as badly as if I had a stroke, however. Good for you, Mickey and Clint.
*Special Educational Needs Co-Ordinator
We let it cool, put in a few pints of water and have been keeping an eye on it. It seemed okay.
Yesterday, we put in a litre of water. Today, I went to Norwich and, when I came home, it took two litres. Hmm.
We phoned the garage (in Norwich) and booked it in for tomorrow morning. I rang a friend and arranged for her to pick me up to take me to my lunch engagement afterwards. As I put the phone down, the Sage came in. "I've just put in another three pints. I'm not sure it should be driven. Whatever the problem is, another twenty miles could do a lot of damage."
We rang the garage again and asked how much they would charge to pick it up. £100. But did we have breakdown cover? Yes! I had forgotten, but I have. But was it for roadside breakdowns only? I rang to ask. Lord love them, for a mere £54 per year, it includes picking the car up from my home. Arrangements have been made (including ringing another friend to fetch me from home) and all people I have spoken to have been lovely and helpful and, if actions are as good as words, I will give full credit tomorrow.
Oh, and on another subject entirely, I told you about the assembly I went to yesterday - one of the teachers referred to a sponsored run he and his wife (who is the SENCO* at the same school) did on Sunday for the Stroke Association. He was proud, not so much that he ran the marathon, but that his wife Mickey actually ran it twice. She just kept on running and went on for 52 miles and *however many* yards.
Today, I had a meeting in the Learning Support Department (for I am SEN governor). After my meeting, I said to Mickey "What did you do at the weekend?" She said "Oh, I, er, did a run." I made her tell me about it. And asked if she was accepting sponsorship (she'll have found out from Clinton this evening how I knew). And I asked her to accept my contribution.
But, though she was pleased to receive it, I had intended to give her a tenner. But, when I looked in my bag, I'd got 3 pound coins and a £20 note. I thought about it. I even thought of giving her a cheque. Better nature took over, I'm glad to say.
52 miles. Blimey. I still run lopsided - indeed, sometimes I walk lopsided. Not as badly as if I had a stroke, however. Good for you, Mickey and Clint.
*Special Educational Needs Co-Ordinator
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