| Welcome back to my blog about everything and nothing
My God, look at the time! We’ll be too late for the market again.
We’ll be all right, just in time for the sell off!
There’ll be nothing good left, only the old rubbish nobody wanted.
You know that’s not true. They always over stock all week and, come Saturday, they have to sell. They can’t store it over the weekend.
Come on! Let’s get some greens. Here we are, the bag man has started, let’s watch him for a minute.
Roll up, roll up ladies and gents, this empty sack in my left hand is going to the first person to give me three fivers. Empty did I say? No, there’s two lovely caulis in it and now there’s a bunch of carrots, a punnet of mushrooms, a pound, no, a two pound bag of spuds, a nice straight cucumber, a string of onions and here’s a pound of Bramley’s for your pie.
I’m giving it away for fifteen, giving it away. Nobody?
Well I’ll put you a bunch of spring onions and a nice cos to go with them. Still no taker?
Well who’s in for twelve? Ten and two? Come on, I have to feed the nippers!
Eight? Did I hear eight? I’m not the Salvation Army mate and this is not Scotland. There’s enough in this ‘ere sack to feed ‘er Majesty for a week with a bit over for Philip.
Ten? Did I hear ten? Yes, sold to the smart gent on the right. Your old lady will love you for this, sir. Take it over Tom and count his money.
Come on you won’t bid for anything here and I must have things for a salad tonight. Those lettuces don’t look too bad, I wonder if she has any dill.
Two Webb’s Wonders please and a bunch of dill if you have some.
Sorry luv, no dill today, there weren’t none on the market. I got some parsley and thyme if they will do you.
No I don’t think so, but I could chop in some spring onions. Give me a nice bunch please.
There you go luv, and you could put a couple of boiled eggs in there too if you don’t mind me making a suggestion. My old man loves sliced hard boiled eggs in his lettuce.
Not at all, give me six please. So does mine! In fact he’ll eat eggs with anything, any time. I don’t need a kitchen, I need a hen run with a gas ring.
No fun cooking like on the telly when it’s not appreciated is it? Mine comes in every night and asks what he’s got with his chips!
Yes I know, but I took mine down to the quack the other day and put the fear of God into him. Since then he’s been munching up his veggies like a vegan. Can’t say he looks like he’s enjoying it though.
Don’t you worry dear, does them good to suffer a bit I say.
Suppose your right. How much do I owe you? There you are. Now I’ll have to drag him home while he has the strength to carry the bag.
‘Bye.
Come on, Man of My Dreams, take me home.
What, you’re finished already? What’s the rush? I was looking forward to spending the afternoon and evening here.
Ha, ha, very funny. Where did you go?
I went over to the butcher’s and bought a bag of meat on auction for a tenner.
You did what! What ever’s in there?
I don’t really know, I saw a leg of lamb and some pork chops go in but it was half full when I arrived. It’ll be a surprise.
Well, we’ll sort it out at home, probably a nice feast for Mrs Patel’s dog. I suppose it eats pork.
I’m sure there’s some good stuff in there. They wouldn’t risk their reputation. They’re back every week, and of course her dog eats pork. There’s no such thing as a Muslim dog.
Why not? We have dog food, dog doctors, dog churches and dog cemeteries. Why can’t they have the same? I’m sure if you look Sainsbury’s next time you’ll find halal dog biscuits.
You can’t have a halal dog biscuit! Halal is a way of killing animals by letting the blood run out. You can’t let the blood run out of a biscuit.
Well, it’s religion. Anything’s possible.
No it’s not! The Prophet got whisked off to heaven to learn how to write the Koran, our chap walked on water and raised the dead but neither of them is on record as having bled biscuits to death, or carrots, or cabbages or hot cross buns or anything.
All right, you win, just for now. Tell you what; if your leg of lamb’s any good we’ll have it roasted with some potatoes in the fat and a nice crispy salad to go with it.
What, no vegetables?
No vegetables. It’s your day off.
If he peels the potatoes and does the cooking can the cook open a bottle of red in the kitchen as is customary in the trade?
Well all right, but only if his victim can share it.
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And today we'll do Tiryns
Do we really have to? We “did” it last year,
Yes but we only saw half of what there is to see!
Well, I'm sure nothing has changed; they can't really have put up any more ruined walls, can they?
Don't be silly. You drive. Remember, Tiryns is to the right, just up the road out of Náfplion.
How could I forget? The approach road is terrible but, mercifully, there's nothing to “see” going up.
Just wait till we turn the corner.
Look, up the lane on the hill! There it is, the cyclopean fortress walled for Proteus by seven Cyclops brought from Lycia. Here ruled Perseus, here was born Heracles and here he laboured for Eurystheus. Here the men of Tiryns, followers of Diomedes friend to Odysseus, left for the Trojan plain to war against Paris, Hector and Priam.
When you're quite finished, I'm going to park over there if it’s not reserved for Heracles. You can slog it up to the top alone today. I have no desire to stand there again, breathless, pretending to be spellbound, gazing at an empty space where you say the megaron or something stood.
Come on Dear, don’t be a drag, race you up to the gate.
Race me? Why does it have to be so steep?
It's to slow down any attackers and to stop them mounting machines to break down the gate.
But what about the shopping, how on earth did anybody get anything up here?
Slaves, my Dear, slaves, now look out for the sockets for the gate’s thole pins.
The what pins? No, don’t tell me, I remember from last year. They didn’t have hinges because they didn’t have any iron so the gates turned on thole pins in sockets in the ground, right?
Right, you’re getting better. Next question, why does this entrance ramp curve clockwise round the walls and not anticlockwise.
Oh no, not again. When do we get to those galleries you say were polished by the backs of sheep?
Come on, you haven’t told me. Why clockwise?
Oh all right, it’s to expose the unprotected right shoulder to missile weapons. Nobody was left handed apparently. Happy?
Very good, and here are the storage galleries in the walls thickness, polished, as you remember, by the backs of sheep rubbing on the roof during centuries of being used as folds.
Must have been gigantic sheep, taller than me!
Of course not, my Dear, indigenous Greek sheep, while uncrossed with the Merino, tended to be rather small. What happened was that over the centuries the floor was raised by deposits of rubbish until the sheep just had room to squeeze in. Archaeologists cleared the galleries down to their original floor level in the 19th century.
Well, now I've seen the galleries again and had your animal husbandry lecture again, can we go down to that place where Schliemann kept his wife while he was digging and have a glass of wine, or two?
Not just yet, please. If we hurry up to the top, where you can get a good impression of the entire fortified enceinte, we could do Mycenae this afternoon.
Schliemann’s place is on the way to Mycenae.
It’s definitely not Mycenae again, not today. We’ve been there umpteen times. I haven't forgotten anything, I promise. The Lion Gate, the grave circles, the tholos tombs, cyclopean walls, Agamemnon's death mask and all that stuff. I dream about it!
Anyway in my book there is no such thing as "this afternoon". The time you are referring to is properly called "after lunch" and it's going to be a long lunch. We might even go back to the hotel so I can get into my long white dress and go the that place on the quay with the nice young boys serving so I can practise batting my eyes at them until they spill the wine.
But you didn't go down to the cistern last year and you seem to have forgotten the Mycenaean bridge.
No I didn't go down to your creepy cistern. Any black hole with a sign outside saying "Do not enter without a torch" is definitely off my tourist trail. And how could I forget the Mycenaean bridge after bumping along that sheep track for and hour? And what a sight it was, a pile of old stones that looked like Agamemnon and his mates threw them together one Saturday night after one too many jars of wine.
You're stifling your romantic instincts.
Romantic instincts? - I have a sack full of those but they are not associated with piles of stones, but with good food, good wine, soft beds and clean sheets. Try me!
But you knew I couldn't come here without seeing the antiquities.
Yes of course. Now you've had your bit of Tiryns today, tomorrow if you're a good boy we'll do a bit of Mycenae but without cisterns and bridges, and if you are very, very good we'll go to that theatre place on Thursday.
Epidaurus?
That's the Johnny. I can sit in the sun on the stone benches while you wander around photographing all those stones you didn't have time to photograph last year. But only if you take me to dinner at O Vassilis afterwards.
You're on, let’s go and get that white dress. | | |
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Now love of lists can sidetrack you for weeks. Some chaps in Hong Kong (I think), set up a service called "iNobii". Here you type in the International Standard Book Number of your treasured library items and, Lo! They come back with publisher, a blurb, a picture of the book and it's popularity among other users of the service. They offer to put it on "your shelf". Say "yes" and you start a bookshelf you can get to from anywhere in the world and which can save hours of cataloguing and searching. Of course, you have a "profile". It's good to tell them where you are, country and town at least. This allows their computer to tell you who in your vicinity has the same book shelved. If interested you can put books up for sale, loan or exchange. I'm not. All my books are old friends and shall be looked after as long as I am able. The site also tells you for each book you enter, if it can be bought, where and at what price. Unfortunately the book sharks dominate this section. There are none of the specialist book traders and no local shops. If you are wobbly on geography there is a map marking where you live. It also shows the surrounding population of users. There seem to be lots in Rome for instance, and none where I live. Those challenged linguistically can choose to work in one or more of the 20 or so languages offered in addition to American English. Strangely enough, English is not an option. Social networking zombies are catered for with "chat" and blogging possibilities. Using the site can be fun. One makes discoveries about old acquaintances that have been on the shelf for years. I found that my battered hardback "Fifth century Gaul" once had a sexy dust jacket with pictures of medieval looking chaps disporting themselves in a field. Older books, not sporting ISBN's, can be entered and will be found if somebody has already logged them in somewhere in the world. If not, you fill in a form describing the book and within minutes, it is checked and added to your shelf. Try http://www.anobii.com | | |
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Off to the races We got off to a false start by missing the bus. Nothing daunted, we hailed a taxi and were soon on our way to the station. There was an outside chance that the train would leave on time so we hurried onto the platform and climbed into our carriage just before the off. While Harry and I chatted, Tom sat in the corner, studying his diary. He was our dark horse. Although we had been friends several years, none of us really knew his form. His private life was a closed book to us but he was not, nevertheless, an outsider. “There you go again Tom,” said Harry, “Running true to form. Sitting in the corner trying to pretend you don’t see us.” “Not a bit of it,” Tom replied laughing, “Just because a chap’s quiet and not calling the odds at the top of his voice all the time, doesn’t mean he’s miserable. I was just looking at the names of the girls I know when it came to me that it might be a good idea to open a book on which of us gets married first.” “You’d be odds on favourite.” I said. “Anyway, whatever turned your thoughts to marriage?” “I’m not thinking about it, but it came to me the other day that a fair running mate in life might be nice to have, especially when the going gets rough.” “Dangerous thoughts,” said Harry, “You’d better be careful, some filly will have you saddled up and under Starter’s Orders at the altar before you can read her form book.” “Not me,” laughed Tom, “I’m too quick over the jumps to be caught like that.” “Don’t be too sure,” I said, “there’s many a front runner been brought down by a loose horse.” “Don’t worry,” said Tom, “I’ll give you even money one of you will pip me at the post.” “No, no, that’s not even on the cards!” said Harry and I simultaneously. And so it went on until we pulled up at Ascot. It was Lady Day and we had come for the Gold Cup. The going was good, the odds were good and everything promised a fine day at the races. | | |
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There is an alarming thing about Handymen. When one finally turns up on the doorstep with his bag of kit, you stand first on one foot and then the other trying desperately to think of something for him to do which will take more than two minutes. All those must-be-done jobs which led to him being called in have vanished from your consciousness leaving you vacuous and not a little embarrassed. That’s why I keep my Handyman handy so to speak. Jim (most Handymen give themselves out as Jims, it must be a professional requirement) knows me of old. He knows that if he had to rely on my memory for jobs to be done he wouldn’t earn a crust. In order to keep the wolf from the door, he has set up a fool proof communication system enabling him to keep a firm hand on developments. Nowadays, whenever I come across something to repair, renovate or replace, I get him on his mobile. He listens patiently, sometimes asking a pertinent question - like the day I rang him to tell him the radiator was making funny noises. “Excuse me for asking Ma’am, but you have eleven radiators in your house and one in the garage, which one did you have in mind?” (Amazing, I never thought to count them!) “Oh, yes, the little one in the hall.” At which point he invariably says, “Ah” That a magic word! Excelling all the poetry ever written, Jim’s “Ah”, meaning “Got it, relax, everything's under control, I’m on my way.” Of course he’s not really on his way; he’s chary with his movements, usually waiting until we’ve got together a fair selection of jobs before he attacks them. When he has a good days work lined up he descends on the house, letting himself in, (having a key was part of our deal). He whirls into, smooth, efficient, cheerful, competent and painstaking action; the very model of the old time English workman. All done and cleaned up, he composes his little note for me in the kitchen, beginning: “Dear Mrs,
Sundries
2 off silicone tap washers 55p ea. £1.10p
6 #8 self tap stainless 13p ea. 78p
etc. etc. (usually about half a page)
Total sundries £8 48p Attendance and fitting, say £35 Amount to be settled £43 48p Signed,
Jim
6 may 2005” “Attendance and fitting” is always “say £35”, it was also part of our deal. I never try to understand the “Sundries” bit but I read the list carefully for the vicarious pleasure this insight to an unknown world gives me. Jim’s missives are carefully scanned and archived. My archive is somewhere in California where the operators undertake to keep its contents safe for 200 years. I fondly hope the some future researcher into 21st century life in White Oaks Close will find Jim’s works and interpret them for the benefit of posterity. I often think I should have married someone like Jim instead of Charles, my useless lawyer, ex husband whose only contribution to the welfare of humanity or the greening of the planet was to drop dead from a heart attack aged 43. (“And not a moment too soon!” I remember musing to myself at the cremation). That day I began to realise I was free to live my life and furthermore I was woefully ill equipped to do so. Just because Charles had spent his time doing nothing useful, I had assumed that that’s how most people lived the good life. Shock number one was administered, unwittingly, by Mrs Oldfield next door. I was invited to tea for the first time the day after Charles went up in smoke. We gathered in the Oldfield kitchen where I found her slicing bread! I’d never seen anyone slicing bread. Our bread came ready sliced in a plastic wrapper. Hers was a golden brown loaf, crusty on the outside and snow white inside. Her teenage daughter stood by to slap on butter, lettuce, tomato slices and a bit of hard boiled egg to produce a two inch thick sandwich fit for the Queen. The table was covered with lettuce, piles of tomatoes with their stalks on and a bowl of hard boiled eggs. We seemed to be in the business of feeding the five thousand, but this time without divine assistance. I fingered the tomatoes, not a polystyrene tray in sight, no cling film, and with stalks on. “Do you like tomatoes, my dear?” “Yes, of course, but where do you buy them with stalks on?” “They’re out the garden, come and look.” And we looked. What a garden! On the right a clipped lawn with big flowering shrubs nestling up against the sunny wall, on the left rows and rows of edible plants most of which I had never seen in the wild, as it were. The centre space was occupied by a rose walk stretching the whole length of the garden. I glanced guiltily over the wall at my section of Argentine Pampas blowing in the wind and undoubtedly scattering numberless nasty seeds and spores over Mrs Odlfield’s paradise. It’s wonderful, Mrs Oldfield, who made it for you?” (Charles always had things made for him and I was still infected.) “Why, nobody, Fred and I worked it up ourselves to be just the way we wanted it.” I decided then and there that Fred, and possibly Mrs Oldfield must belong to the same blessed race as Jim and I wanted to be adopted. First thing was the pampas. Charles had bought the most expensive machine to cut the grass that capitalism ever got away with. He was always buying labour saving devices. It never seemed to occur to him that since he was innocent of all labour, there was nothing to save. The Rolls-Royce mower idled in the garage never used, not even properly unpacked. I dragged it out into the daylight determined to get the better of it. There was a booklet with pictures.
Section one was “Before you start for the first time”.
A Caucasian male with an effeminate air was pictured switching things, adjusting, and pulling smartly. This I did in the right sequence to no avail. The wrong sequence didn’t help either. Section two, “Achieving a smooth cut” seemed irrelevant at this stage as did Section three “Cleaning and storing the mower”. Section four “Trouble shooting” was a gold mine.
The white Caucasian had been replaced by turbaned Oriental, a Sikh from the cut of the turban, who was illustrated interfering with the innards of the machine. The first eventuality covered was, quite rightly “What to do if the mower doesn’t start”. Mr Singh was shown dipping a pencil in the fuel tank, (mine was too short and fell in), jiggling the nipple on the carburettor with a screwdriver or other similar object (I knew all about nipples, one of Charles fixations, but I had no idea what a carburettor was). No point therefore in trying to locate a screwdriver or “other similar object” although I was certain that Charles had laid down several boxed sets for just such an eventuality. Moving on, I came to Section 4 “Need further assistance?”
You bet I do!
A kindly lady of Caribbean, or just possibly Ghanaian, provenance, pictured wearing the bedroom curtains, advised me to “contact my Supplier or my conveniently located Technical Support Centre”. Having driven round the block several times without finding my “conveniently located Technical Support Centre”, I called in on the Supplier. The day Charles bought the machine they were lined up on the forecourt like Montgomery’s tanks at El Alamein. Obsequious chaps of varied ethnic origins bustled about accosting potential buyers, small labels bearing very big prices written in very small letters fluttered in the breeze. What desolation now awaited me? The windswept forecourt bore no trace of mowing machinery. The freckle faced young lady at the desk labelled “Service” looked at me long and hard and, having established to her satisfaction that I was real, informed me in faultless “saf Lunnon” the “We don’t do them machines ‘ere anymore there weren’t no call for them locally”. Sitting disconsolately at the kitchen table my thoughts turned to Jim. He would never have bought such a heap of useless mechanical engineering and if he had he would have known how to repair it…… Of course, what was I thinking of? Call Jim! He came that Sunday afternoon so I could witness the miraculous events. Having consigned the, politically correct but otherwise useless, instruction book to the dustbin he opened by remarking, half to himself, “I don’t see how this thing could ever have worked.” Determined to find out, he took it apart bit by bit until it was laid out like a giant jigsaw on the sheet I had supplied. Putting it back together, he came across four pieces with no discernible function and three screws and one bracket which should have been present but which were not. About four o’clock we were under Starter’s Orders. Jim gave the “sharp tug on the cable” which the white Caucasian had advised so long ago. We were off! She purred like a Bentley. Jim twisted a handle and she leaped forward mowing down the Pampas like the Combined Harvesters on the prairies. Reaching the bottom of the garden, Jim did a smart left and began to spiral in. In no time at all, all that remained was a stubborn square like the Old Guard at Waterloo. Succumbing to Jim’s onslaught, they quit the field leaving it looking like Lord’s on a dry day. My paragon, my latter-day Daedalus, left me with a small handwritten note, To start, turn the key, pull the cable sharply.
To mow, release the brake, twist the right handlebar grip to advance.
To stop, turn the key off, engage the brake.
Please keep the machine in the shed.
I will keep her topped up with petrol, I’ve put a Jerry can in the shed. Life is good, I can mow the lawn. Mrs Oldfield looks over the wall admiringly; she says she will send Fred over to show me how to plant tomatoes when it’s time. We made a bonfire together of all the food like substances I had in the house and replaced them with things one can eat. I was afraid the satellite people would detect me and run me in for releasing toxic fumes into the atmosphere, but they must have had a day off because nobody called knocking at the door. Best of all Jim’s on the mobile. He wafts in and out of the house while I’m away, fixing things and leaving me little precious notes for my archive. | | |
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It always starts at the car park when she says, “Wait here, they’re leaving”.
Those words turn me off. I’m a patient parker, willing to drive round and round until a nice empty slot presents itself.
Not so Jenny. She spots somebody with a full shopping cart. I have to drive behind them at walking pace.
They keep looking back apprehensively, perhaps expecting to be kidnapped.
They reach their car. They aren’t going at all, just packing the car prior to going back for cup of tea.
They wave us on, smiling smugly, infuriatingly.
If they are leaving they take half an hour about it.
There are some people behind us, honking their horn.
“You should pull to one side to let them pass.”
“If I do that I won’t be able to get into the slot.”
They leave; I make my elaborate, six point, manoeuvre and finally get in.
“You’re much too close my side.”
I reverse out.
Some idiot thinks we’re leaving.
Jenny jumps out waving and scowling at them. They drive off, probably going home feeling sick.
“Have you got change for the ticket?”
Always say “Sorry, I haven’t.”
Now she has to go and get the ticket. I lean on the car roof with the door open watching her march up to the machine.
It sees her coming and tries to morph into a fire hydrant.
Too late, she jams in the coins, stabs the button, rips the ticket out and gives the machine a whack round the head to see if our coins will fall out.
They sometimes do. If so, the poor machine gets a second, even mightier, whack to see if the previous user’s coins fall out.
Parking ticket dispensers don’t live long near Jenny.
“Put it where the man can see it otherwise they’ll clamp us again.”
We have never been clamped. She has been clamped several times because, as she explains,
“I just went off for five minutes, and it wasn’t worth buying a ticket.”
Jenny has the same problem with time as Einstein had. She’s convinced that if she accelerates around the shops like a Springbok the clock ticks slower.
I see she’s only paid for an hour. Good, no new dresses or new shoes today.
What’s it to be then, a bit of Jamon Iberico, some lomo, a slice of manchego, some olives, and a bottle of Rioja?
Alas, only if she’s in a good mood.
If not, it’ll be spuds, lamb chops and frozen broccoli.
We’re off, we turn into the Casa España street. Don’t say a word, trail along with the shopping bag, play the coolie, try to be invisible.
She’s gone in, smiling horribly at Teresa who smiles back unflinchingly; she’s used to English “ladies”.
Jenny orders Teresa around, assembling the basics, while I wander about picking up a bottle of Mojo Rojo, some anchovies and some dried cêpes.
Jenny doesn’t approve but won’t say anything in front of Teresa for fear of “Giving the wrong impression.”
What now, back to the car or does she have other thoughts?
Other thoughts it is, we’re moving in the general direction of the market. Yes it’s the market’s turn to be hit.
She’s gone all mellow at the fishmongers, defrosting the Dublin Bay prawns with her smile.
We’re going to have some. She will split them, de-vein them and grill them with a touch of garlic and butter.
The fish monger is flustered. He’s not used to Jenny in her nice mood. She usually behaves like a sanitary inspector.
He throws in an extra prawn to encourage her to keep it up next time.
Now it’s quick march to the delicatessen, what’s this, a slice of pâté?
We are going to have an aperitif. I can get out the tapas glasses and we’ll get started on the Rioja.
On the long haul back to the car park she slows down and slips her arm in mine.
When she’s like this I begin to remember vaguely why I married her.
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He brings his kit once a week. I try to have the list of things for him to do ready. Some weeks I have to break something just to make sure he stays. For an hour or so he potters around the house putting things to rights. He doesn't say much, which suits me. Having to say something might be dangerous, giving the game away. Sometime I hear him tut-tutting over something broken that he thinks shouldn't be. It sounds like he's reproaching it for making my life difficult. I can even stretch his tutting to be a small sign of affection.
While he works I make tea. He always gets the blue mug. When I bring it he smiles and nods for me to put it somewhere handy so he can drink without stopping work. Once, aeons ago, I remember asking him if he wanted a mug or a cup, and how many lumps. It was a mug and two lumps. So it has remained and will remain until the end of time. I never try to offer food because his hands are always oily or greasy but often I picture him sitting on the floor, with his hands greasy and his eyes closed, while I kneel beside him feeding him biscuits.
He always comes in the kitchen door and goes out through the garden gate. He has a lady customer down the back lane he told me, to explain his choice of route. Whenever he touches the gate pangs of jealousy hit me. Who is she, this lady down the lane? What's she like? Is she younger than me? Does she have more interesting things for him to do? Does he stay longer with her. Does he chat and smile with her and make jokes? Does he tell her about me? One day I'll follow him. I'll find out which house he goes to. There are only four houses down the lane at the end, set back with long front gardens. The sort of houses you could live in for years without anybody knowing you were there. The sort of places where an odd job man could linger for hours without it being noticed. No I won't, I don't want to know.
Before he leaves we have our little ritual conversation. “Not a lot today, Missus, just the bathroom tap again and I changed the bulb in the outside light. I'll bring my meter next time and check the circuit if that's all right with you. It shouldn't be burning bulbs at that rate.” If that's all right with me? Of course it's all right with me. He can bring his meter and check all my circuits everyday if he wants to. There's nothing wrong with the outside light though. Just before he comes I shake the bulb until it breaks. I hope his meter doesn't detect that.
I hand him his fee. He turns to leave with “Same time next week, be all right, Missus?” Of course same time next week will be suitable, same time everyday would be even more suitable. One day I hope he finds out what's really broken and I shall pay him as much as he asks to repair it. | | |
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We’ll go up to Oxford Street and have a quick look round Selfridges. A quick look round? The gravity of the counters grips her, a landing every time. Money is exchanged for fancy packaging. It takes tremendous energy to get her back into orbit. We escape the pull of the perfumes only to be dragged down by the jewellery. The smiling sales-lady brings her head close over the trays and they conspire to pauperize me. She’s already carrying five or six bags. Soon we will steer for the men’s department. She will insist I buy something for myself - a sort of consolation prize. And then it will be afternoon tea. Darjeeling, scones, clotted cream and strawberry jam. I always try to order crumpets but she protests at this vulgarity. “How can you let me eat a cream tea alone? People will think we’re estranged.” So I stuff the clotted cream into the split scone and dab a bit of jam on. Not too much jam. She likes a lot and will give me her reproachful look when it’s all gone. Pour her some tea. Try not to drip on the table cloth. She gives me her regal smile. In the garden she mucks in with me, hacking at the ivy, turning the compost and raking up the leaves. But here she becomes a junior member of the Royal Family and I become her equerry. It’s worse in Harrods. That’s why I never take her there.
“Why not?” she pouts?
“I don’t want to give my custom to the Arabs.”
“Racist!”
“Not at all, I’m just discriminating, the citizen’s freedom to choose.” Of course it’s not that, it’s the delivery service. One of Harrods’s little antique looking vans stopping at the door with the liveried delivery man is just what she needs to get one up on the neighbours, for a week. But how one has to order to get a delivery! I, or rather she, did it once. It was like Scott equipping himself for Antarctica. I think she was trying to get two vans but they squeezed it all into one. It took a long time for the Harrods man to drag everything up to the front door and pile it in the hall. Several neighbours needed physiotherapy after hours squinting from behind the curtains. So nowadays it’s Selfridge's. A bit down market but she can get more bags for my money. She can lord it over the tea room where the clientele are a shade down market too. Once she ordered a glass of Madeira to just turn heads. She can’t stand the stuff but she’s willing to suffer for Society. But when all is said and done, she’s fun to be with. When I look around me at what other, quite reasonable chaps, have to live with, I thank my Guardian Angel. | | |
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Him - Read me a story, my dear.
What at your age? Read your own stories.
Him - Come on be a sport. I’ll curl up on the rug in front of the fire and you can sit in the big armchair and read something nice out loud.
And what exactly is “something nice”?
Him - Oh, you know, not too complicated, maybe something funny or whimsical.
You are whimsical enough already. What do you have in mind as “funny”?
Him - How about something from Wodehouse?
No. I really can’t do all those upper class accents.
Him - Well, you choose.
Here we go again. Not only do I have to sit on the armchair and read something funny or whimsical out loud while you lounge in front of the fire, I have to choose as well. In that case I shall read a cookery book and you can nod off to the sound of a recipe for Borscht.
Him - Now you’re being sadistic! Ok, if you prefer it, I will sit on the chair and you can curl up on the rug while I read something nice to you.
Aha, rôle reversal! I could see that coming. What are you proposing to read that I will find “nice”, a bit of floppy Flaubert, some vitriolic Voltaire, some soppy Swinburne or some dreary Dickens? You know you are such a snob when it comes to authors.
Him - All right, all right, let’s both sit on the rug and listen to some music. What would you like to hear?
The Rolling Stones.
Him - The Rolling Stones! You’ve got to be in a hall with a few hundred morons tearing their hair out and screaming to appreciate them!
Well, I’m pretty moronic, you always say. I can ruffle my hair and scream a bit. Your vivid imagination can supply the rest.
Him - Let’s play that new bit of Bach we bought the other day.
I thought we bought that to play at the funeral of whichever one of us runs out of steam first. We don’t want to spoil the surprise do we? I’ve got a much better idea. You run along and open a nice red. I’ll cut a bit of cheddar and we’ll have it here on the rug with some pistachios.
Him - And some crisps?
And some crisps. And what’s more, we will share a glass like we always did in the Hotel Luxembourg when we only had one tooth glass in the room.
Him - And later on we can go out for a curry.
No, not a curry, it was always a Vietnamese in the Rue Monsieur Le Prince wasn’t it?
Him - You’re right, I haven’t forgotten but we’re a long way from the Rue Monsieur Le Prince and the little Vietnamese.
Don’t worry, my dear, we can always start a new tradition, can’t we?
Him - Of course, and I’ll start it by replacing the cheap Beaujolais of yore with a nice civilized Pomerol!
And I’ll top it off by phoning for a Pizza or two!
Him - Pizza, are we doomed to eat Pizza?
You’ll be all right. We shall pretend we’re in Napoli.
Him - Then perhaps I should open a Chianti?
Don’t be silly dear. Only tourists drink Chianti in Napoli. The Pomerol will do splendidly. How about toppings? You’ll have your usual Arrabiatica I suppose and I’ll have a Bianca so I can try that super expensive olive oil we bought.
Him - That will be fine. I’ll put the oven on. They’re always a bit soggy when they arrive.
Quick, come and look out of the window! You see that cloud over there behind the trees, it looks a bit like Vesuvius.
Him - It certainly does, you see it’s working. We won’t have to pretend much harder to be in Napoli.
You’re right, go and dig out Torna a Surriento, that should help. I’ll slip into my Gina Lollobrigida nightie.
Him - I didn’t know you had one. But if you’re going overboard I’ll wear my black shirt and white tie.
That’ll be perfect, just what we need, a touch of the Camorra.
Him - That’s the door. I’ll go.
Was it the pizza man? Are they hot?
Him - Yes and yes, but he went a bit pale when he got me at the door in my capo della Camorra kit, Surriento going full blast and you floating on the canapé in your negligee.
Get cutting please, I’m starving. All this artistic stuff gives me an appetite. And poke the fire up a bit, I’m going blue under this flimsy.
Him - Nice and comfortable now?
Yes, it’s wonderful here in Napoli
Him – And when we get home you can read me a story. | | |
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A quick survey of the most recent journals (lasting several minutes) has revealed a new malady rapidly infecting those writing about food in the United Kingdom. Restaurants and Gastropubs (the latter designed to hit you in the stomach) are becoming increasingly adjectivised. Furthermore, the adjective industry is being given a new boost. Semi-literate food reviewers are assembling new words at a rate which bodes evil for their quality. In Wiltshire there is, according to Jasper Gerrard (could this be a real name or is it a gastro tag?) writing in the Daily Telegraph (where else), a restaurant (it calls itself a manor) which serves “hand-dived” scallops. This term could be loosely related to diving or the verb “to divvy”. Assuming we are correct in guessing that one cannot be reasonably expected to dive for scallops in Wiltshire, even by hand, then “to divvy” must be at the root of this. These scallops then are divvied up by hand. Not divvied, that is, by Thomas Parkinson’s patent scallop divvying machine. Since when, nevertheless, is the past tense of “divvy” dived? When ordering one is presumably informed that a delay of half an hour is to be expected while the chef divvies the scallops by hand because they cannot be fully appreciated un-divvied. And then, having consumed the exquisitely hand divvied or dived scallops we pass on to the “feather soft” red mullet. Here “feather soft” is probably employed as a euphemism for “past its best” or “gone off”. We are, after all, in Wiltshire. “Red mullet” is of course a euphemism for goat fish. Finally this establishment offers “passion fruit ravioli” to prepare you for a bill for two amounting to £188. This is about the same price as my three star restaurant on the beach nearby where the mullet is not goatfish and has certainly not “gone off”. On the other hand I cannot vouch for the scallops being “hand-dived’. We also lack the amenity of being in the wilds of Wiltshire, the “passion fruit ravioli”, and we are not a manor. But still! Now we go all Moorish, not the Rabat sort but the Dartmoor sort. The Dartmoor Inn is “set” in Moorside which, we are informed, is despite its name “within easy reach of the moors”. Andy Barker reports in the Evening Standard (what do you expect with a name like that?) that it “features ageing parquet” presumably laid last week and ageing fast. The “pub classic”, fish and chips, is dished up with a “herby green mayonnaise” he reports. This must be what makes it a “pub classic”. The only “herby green” item served in my brother’s local chippy (set on Dartmoor along side the hand crafted prison set in granite) is fried mushy peas. To cap it all, in Moorside they have “home made corned beef” for breakfast. Customers, probably also “herby green” by this time, may then crawl off home. But hist! There is also a vegetarian meal details of which Andy, with commendable restraint, withholds. Meanwhile, Zoe in the Sunday Times, enthuses over the "tangy" chocolate mousse she discovered. Alas dear Zoe, do not venture across the Channel. My friend Jeanette, who ladles out her mousse in Honfleur would tip the whole terra cotta pot full over your head if you referred to her chocolate mousse as "tangy". But we dally. Let’s get on to the Recipe of the Week, “Roasted scallops with wild flowers”. Here we are not informed as to how the scallops are “dived” or “divvied”. Tristan, who does the cooking at the Launceston palace in Kensington, advises us to get the fishmonger to remove what he calls the “roe” from the scallops. Well, first find a fishmonger and then persuade him to remove the best bit! But Tristan’s best bit is the botany. He advises to use fresh “pea flowers, rocket flowers, chive and leak flowers”. Now pea flowers, no not sweet pea flowers, are the flowers of the marrowfat pea available briefly when the marrowfats are blooming in their splendour around the frozen pea factories in Norfolk. Imported pea flowers will lack taste of course. The rocket plant, beloved by British cooks writing in newspapers, but unknown elsewhere in Britain, closely resembles the Italian Rucola , the German Rauke , the French Roquette , the Portuguese Rucula and the Spanish Arugula. God only knows when it flowers. No gardener worth his rocket would let it bolt. The same holds true for chives. Pluck out all buds before they open, if not your whole bunch of chives will be inedible. (Don’t forget to save some for this recipe if the rocket, the marrofats and the leeks are, perchance, all in flower). Leeks, do leeks have flowers? Possibly but one has to be patient. They appear, if at all, at the end of the second year after planting. So, having magicked all this together, Tristan in Kensington dresses his flowers in olive oil (what else?) and spreads them on top of his, presumably machine dived, scallops to be dined upon. Incidentally, scallops have a very short season here on the Biscay coast. Each boat is limited to a few kilos. At the price they are nobody would dream of throwing away the coral. Diving for scallops is forbidden, it’s poaching. One is liable to be sent down for a goodish stretch if caught by the police. If caught by the scallop fishers you are likely to lose your “corail”, or roe, as Tristan puts it. But apart from his gastro-botany excursion, old Tristan is a bit of a let down. He only uses two adjectives in his piece and both are hackneyed. Have to look smart Tristan, old son, if you want to continue oiling wild flowers at the Launceston. | | |
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The wine to order when dining at the Meson el Cid in Burgos is:
Pedrosa - Crianca - Tags:el cid
- Where I am:A casa
- Mood:forgetfull
- Listening to:too early
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I've been reading the International Herald Tribune off and on for about forty years staring when my regular trips to Paris began in the early sixties, (KLM, Air France and Lufthansa handed out free newspapers on board and the IHT was the only one in anything approximating to English).
I closed my eyes to the abrerrant spelling and mentally erased the occasional "gotten", became quite expert with the crossword, except for those days when the puzzle was excessively American with clues like "university north west of New York" or "1950's Hogie Carmichael special" and gloated over clues like "Swan of Avon" and "general's boot" which, I fondly hoped, sank the "Good Old Boy" readers.
Nowadays, retired in France, the IHT does not come lightly to hand and costs an exorbitant 2.50€ a pop. Regular reading is reserved for the holidays in Portugal where I can get a day old copy at the kiosk. So for a few weeks I revert to my old habits, doing the crossword everyday, and reading end to end. No Buchwald, of course, and no Safire and no replacements. The old comic strips are still a pleasure to follow although Doonesbury and Dilbert are set in a totally foreign context and consequently meaningless to me in Europe.
The leader page has changed, for the worse in my opinion, with acres of white space costing as much as the print areas. The top and bottom contributed articles have changed in tone. The old dingdong between racist Republicans and New York Jewish intellectuals seems to have subsided and been replaced by bland domestic controversy, hard for a non-American to engage with.
The editorials seem shorter and softer - as if opinions are to be avoided. Nevertheless the paper still generates a helpless confusion for speakers of European English with it's social terminology.
What are we to make of a recent article by one Ross Drouthat, on "affirmative action"? Ross tells us that by 2020 or thereabouts "non-whites, that is black, Hispanic and Asian, would the majority."
I am sure that my Spanish colleagues, Hispanic up to their eyebrows, would baulk at being classed as non-white. Maybe Spanish speakers change skin colour crossing the Atlantic. My neighbour from the Congo would not feel comfortable being dumped with Obama in the "black" category either. Although, discriminating on the basis of skin colour or language is a crime in most European countries for which you can be locked up for a goodly stretch, apparently not so in the USA. There, if I understand the gist of the article, "non-whites" however defined, are given special preference for Government jobs and educational opportunities.
All this in connection with a certain Ms Sotomayor. She, nominated for a place on the Supreme Court, labelled herself as a "Latina woman". This epithet, whatever it means, seems to be causing a problem for some people. Of course her nomination might be an example of affirmative action, if "Latina women" qualify for it, but on the face of it, she is adequately suited for the post. Maybe the Supreme Court needs a Spanish speaker, if that is what a "Latina woman" is.
The author goes on to speak of the "first post-white generation" and questions the need for racial discrimination in such circumstances. One is left with the feeling that the USA is perhaps the most racist democracy today. A pin cushion with pins sticking out in all directions, each pin an axis of discrimination, religion, skin colour, language, sex, family circumstances and wealth. Obviously, angels are dancing on every pinhead. | | |
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Left the bay of La Rochelle sheltered by the islands of Ré and Oleron for the bay of Nazare, open to the Atlantic swells.  Through the Basque country and accross the plains of Old Castille to Burgos and the hotel El Cid opposite the cathedral.  . Valladolid, Salamanca, Ciudade Rodrigo, Vila Formosa and Almeida next day with lunch in Vila Formosa and dinner at the Pousada Our Lady of the Snows inside the fortress of Almeida. The same room as always, the ritual drink on the terrace, the visit to John Beresford's grave in the redoubt and dinner almost alone with the elderly waiter who nurses the wine into our glasses.  Early start over the Serra da Estrela passing Guarda, Castello Branco, Abrantes, Torres Novas, Rio Meijor, Obidos to Nazare. Sea fog banked over San Martinho but Nazare's headland stood clear against the calm sea.  | | |
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A new searching machine has been released by Microsoft into the stormy skies of the computer user’s cloud. Although named “Bing” (or was it “Bling”?) and notwithstanding the possible Crosby taint, I decided to slap her on my turntable and give her a spin. Half an hour and a myriad clicks later, we still haven’t found my mislaid cufflinks (admittedly mislaid in 1967, but there’s nothing like a real test you will agree). Curious facts came to light however in the course of this exercise in serendipity starting with the staggering decline in the number of people using cufflinks since 1967. This has been greatest in the enlightened societies of the west and least in the Middle East. Not the only thing that is least in the Middle East, you are tempted to interject! Kate Bradford, blogging away on Life and Style in that well known daily, attributes this to the almost universal adoption by men of the short sleeved shirt eked out during the chills by woolly sweaters. As she was the first to note, nobody has hit the shops with cufflinks for short sleeved shirts. One may also search the land of woolly clad men and not find a jumper, or even a cardigan, with open cuffs for which links would be required. Such sartorial market opportunities continue to go begging to this day. Asked about the economics of this, an old friend pointed me to a piece in the Quarterly Review of the Cufflink that appeared in 1971. This essay evoked the great swathes of East Lancashire and West Yorkshire once given over to the cufflink industry. There, practically every village had its cufflink mill clanking away by a canal. Of an evening the pubs and workingmen’s clubs would fill with Link Lookers, Link Twisters, Link Cutters, Link Winders and Link Setters. Aged Link Pairers would recount tales from the youth of the industry when Pairing was done by hand and no two pairs were alike. Decline came with the accession of Elizabeth II and the consequent loss of royal support. The failure of the British Space Programme in the fifties and sixties more or less ensured that the first man on the Moon would not be sporting British cufflinks. Wimbledon relaxed the requirement for links to be worn on Centre Court. Cheap imports, featuring ambidextrous pairing, drove out the superior British product. Who nowadays remembers the difference between a right handed and a left handed link? By the mid-seventies the entire complex of cufflink manufacturing and trading had been swept away along with its practitioners, the Linkers, their songs, their dialect, their clubs and Unions - all vanished without leaving a puff. In the light of this, of course, the failure of “Bing/Bling” to locate my missing links loses whatever significance you may have endowed it with. | | |
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Well there is a vast choice, but today we will concentrate on the lands of the Prophet. Easy enough, material abounds, the choice is without limit, the world's your oyster. Take Emirates into Abu Dhabi, from six continents no less, and watch members of the ruling family beating their domestics with nail studded planks or running them over with their 4x4's. Apartments are now quite cheap if you should wish to dwell awhile and soak up the atmosphere. Unless of course you happen not to be a European, American (Hawaii excepted), a certain type of Australian or the dominant type of New Zealander, in which case it could well be you under the 4x4.
Lovers of games of chance could always head for Ar Riyadh. Odds are quite high on being hit by a Filipino housemaid falling from a fourth floor balcony (from which she will have been thrown, without malice aforethought, by the master of the house because she was laggardly in opening her thighs when ordered). Better odds can be had on Indonesian housemaids who are somewhat rarer.
One should always fly Qatar Airlines, the world's (or at very least the Prophet's) four star airline. A foretaste can be had from Sky news where Qatar boasts its obscene luxury by inserting reassuring video clips between Sky's usual boring fare of Iraqis sweeping up body parts into bags in Baghdad or Pakistanis swatting the Taliban in Swat.
Although the Arab League does tend to dominate the top table of places you don't need to be, others are developing strongly. Leaving aside the real time simulation of Hell reigned over by Hamas in Gaza (which doesn't really qualify because you can only get in by crawling through a tunnel) one has to note the up and coming Iranians who, inspired by the Prophet, taking up the torch dropped by the Nazis, vow to bring about the destruction of Israel.
Casting a wider net, you have the devoted young men in Dagestan, giving their lives to return their country to the Middle Ages and definitely not to be visited for the next century or so. Should Asia and the footsteps of Alexander pale, one can turn aside to the black land Sudan, and the, definitely to be avoided, extermination of the population of Dafur. And don't even think about Somalia! | | |
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farcalled's journal
