... about something I heard on the BBC 6 o'clock News on Radio 4. Apparently Derby Police Force have paid for 100 seats for tonight's showing of the new James Bond movie (Quantum of Solace) so if they encounter any kids behaving badly whilst 'trick or treating' they can give the offender the opportunity to see the film for free, thus getting them off the streets and into the cinema. This is apparently called a 'diversionary activity'.
People who know me will probably shudder as they envisage the scenes in the Chateau Angevin kitchen whilst this report was going on. It's just as well the radio doesn't have a mike, such was the level of shouting I am pretty sure it would have shattered. What on EARTH is going on here? The message this gives children is 'Make enough trouble and see what pops out of the woodwork to bribe you to behave' - the sort of situation where kids can scare old people in their own homes under the pretext of trick-or-treating and be REWARDED for it makes my blood boil. Were I in charge, the OLD PEOPLE would be given the free cinema seats, not the little yobs intent on causing trouble.. oh no, THEY would be frogmarched down to the copshop post-haste, put in the slammer for the night and made to do homework. Trick or treat that you little pests. In fact, compare the lie-down-and-walk-all-over-us attitude of the Derby Police Force with the action of their Essex counterparts who have also co-incidentally been on Radio 4 today
http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2008/may/30/ukcrime.youthjustice
Now that is more like it. And stuff the civil rights mob - the thing these well-meaning but misguided people need to keep in mind is it is necessary to behave responsibly towards society before that society can realistically consider the individual's 'rights'. Rewarding pests teaches them only that prolonging their bad behaviour might get them even more rewards; scaring the pants off the little beasts might actually make them think twice about doing it again.
Citizens of Derby, should any of you be reading this, I hope you make a massive fuss about this. It is ultimately YOUR money being misused here.
Friday, 31 October 2008
A post with a bit of an international flavour
Today was set aside for doing yet more boring domestica: this has given my mind plenty of time to think, as making mutton stew, scrubbing the kitchen floor and tidying up Mini's mess in the front room are not exactly tasks designed to be mentally absorbing.
Firstly, regular readers of this blog, whoever you are, will be surprised as yet I haven't made a comment on the forthcoming US elections. This is not a mistake on my part, but just deep boredom with the whole process, I'm afraid. There is also a bit of me which thinks the sort of obsessive interest in ANOTHER COUNTRY'S elections is a bit peculiar - we don't pay this much attention to elections in, say, Italy, now, do we?; a brief mention on the international news round up is all one could realistically expect there. As many of you will know, I detest the slow, or indeed not-so-slow creep of US culture into this country and I regard the whole election process over there as more akin to a circus than a serious piece of political activity; moreover a circus which is being increasingly copied by our so-called leaders here.
However, today I had a long old think about the whole thing. I'm not American, so it matters little who I think is the best man for the job; however, I do think it is pretty obvious that Barack Obama is certainly the more statesmanlike of the two candidates. He is patently a thinking man, and one whom I believe would not hesitate to take advice if he was out of his knowledge-depth on a particular issue: something which has been sadly lacking in recent years and which I suspect would be deeply unpopular with, for example, the military. McCain is, in my opinion, far more of a hothead and we'd just have more of the same lunacy we've experienced already if he were elected. Furthermore, he's a much older man... and if anything happened to him the grisly spectacle of that creature Sarah Palin stepping into his shoes raises its ugly head. I'd sooner put Mini in charge of a nuclear arsenal than I would that woman, frankly. However, the Americans were stupid enough to elect Dubya twice so I wouldn't put anything past them.
All this having been said, a bit of me hopes Obama will NOT be elected. Mainly because I don't think he'd even get close to standing for his second term because some lunatic would undoubtedly assassinate him well before that time. Americans love shooting their leaders (the rest of us just dream about shooting their leaders), and, as the first 'black' President, Obama's time would almost certainly be numbered - there are just too many nutters of varying hues in the country who would feel perfectly OK with claiming 'God told me to' as an adequate defence. I understand he's already had death threats and has a souped-up bodyguard force... my advice would be 'Get out now, Mr Obama'. I don't want to see the TV coverage of his widow and small children at his funeral, frankly - the world has too few decent men already. So, if Mr Obama is elected - you heard my predictions regarding the probable outcome here first, boys and girls.
Staying with America, today, as everybody who has trogged down any High Street for the past month or so and had to push past the various tacky 'displays' of witches' hats and plastic spiders is aware, is Halloween. Now I make much of being an old moo, but I'm still a long long way away from getting my bus pass, so the Angevin childhood is not THAT long ago... and yet I cannot remember any of this hype and commercialism going on then. The most exciting thing anybody did was perhaps a bit of apple bobbing in the back garden with somebody's Mum supplying the towels to dry yourself off and the sausage, mash and beans afterwards. At school, you might make the obligatory mural display of witches, pumpkins and spiders with black pipecleaners and bits of orange crepe paper and Teacher might read a mild ghosty story (in my school the nuns always managed to get in the one of Little Johnny falling down the well because he was a Bad Boy and Baby Jesus beating off the evil witches to save him - but my school was far from normal). 'Trick and treating' was something you watched Yank kids do in films... even as late as when ET was 'THE film' the trick and treating scene was very much something 'foreign'. The whole 'modern' (ie. American) experience of Halloween to me is a 100% imported grotesque merry-go-round merely encouraging people to spend more money because 'the kids want it'. Tough luck kids, if any of you dare to come trick-or-treating up the Chateau Angevin drive - you will be told you are engaging in a form of begging our current society misguidedly sanctions, asked if you are American and if not, told to go away before I call the police and do you and your parents for trespass. If you ARE American, you will be asked more politely to go away and stop pestering me with your imported cultural activities. We don't get the local Jewish kids pestering us Gentiles for 'gelt' at Hanukkah; so you can follow their example, thank you.
Moving country now, there was a bit of fuss this week when the Czech Prime Minister, Mirek Topolánek, smacked a photographer who was trying to get some snaps of him. If it had been as simple as that, I would have fully approved of the photographer doing Topolánek for assault; but it WASN'T that cut and dried. Looking at the video of the event, http://www.javno.tv/en/index.php?id=10955f7094915168 , it seems pretty clear to me that here was a guy just taking his new-born son out for a walk in the pram when he was pounced on by a group of photographers and reporters behaving in a highly intrusive way. I have a lot of time for Czechs, having been to Prague and its environs a fair few times, they seem family-oriented sensible people, and I'm surprised there hasn't been more comment saying Topolánek was quite right in dishing out a bit of old-fashioned discipline to the annoying little scrote intruding on his privacy. It was quite clear the the guy was trying to take pictures of the baby and that's why I suspect Topolánek reacted. If somebody can't even take his baby out without being treated in this rude way I think it's quite sad. I'm afraid I probably would have lamped the pest too.
Lastly, I may have mentioned on here before one of my greatest pals, Tim, is off on a charity walk on Everest in November. I was therefore a bit worried to discover it's been snowing in Tibet since Sunday, which is earlier than usual, and so far over 2ft of snow has fallen, creating major chaos. Puts in perspective all the fuss we've had in the UK about a few flakes falling in October, doesn't it?? I'm not sure whether this will affect Tim's walk, so I'll keep you posted. I think he's bonkers, but if it's raising money for a good cause then I can sort of understand why he's doing it... as long as he doesn't expect me to treat him like Edmund Hilary when he comes back! He could, after all, have confined himself to the Original Mountain Marathon (which the media are STILL bleating about) mentioned in a previous blog-post so we could all have had a laugh at him ... perhaps I'll suggest he thinks about this next year?
Firstly, regular readers of this blog, whoever you are, will be surprised as yet I haven't made a comment on the forthcoming US elections. This is not a mistake on my part, but just deep boredom with the whole process, I'm afraid. There is also a bit of me which thinks the sort of obsessive interest in ANOTHER COUNTRY'S elections is a bit peculiar - we don't pay this much attention to elections in, say, Italy, now, do we?; a brief mention on the international news round up is all one could realistically expect there. As many of you will know, I detest the slow, or indeed not-so-slow creep of US culture into this country and I regard the whole election process over there as more akin to a circus than a serious piece of political activity; moreover a circus which is being increasingly copied by our so-called leaders here.
However, today I had a long old think about the whole thing. I'm not American, so it matters little who I think is the best man for the job; however, I do think it is pretty obvious that Barack Obama is certainly the more statesmanlike of the two candidates. He is patently a thinking man, and one whom I believe would not hesitate to take advice if he was out of his knowledge-depth on a particular issue: something which has been sadly lacking in recent years and which I suspect would be deeply unpopular with, for example, the military. McCain is, in my opinion, far more of a hothead and we'd just have more of the same lunacy we've experienced already if he were elected. Furthermore, he's a much older man... and if anything happened to him the grisly spectacle of that creature Sarah Palin stepping into his shoes raises its ugly head. I'd sooner put Mini in charge of a nuclear arsenal than I would that woman, frankly. However, the Americans were stupid enough to elect Dubya twice so I wouldn't put anything past them.
All this having been said, a bit of me hopes Obama will NOT be elected. Mainly because I don't think he'd even get close to standing for his second term because some lunatic would undoubtedly assassinate him well before that time. Americans love shooting their leaders (the rest of us just dream about shooting their leaders), and, as the first 'black' President, Obama's time would almost certainly be numbered - there are just too many nutters of varying hues in the country who would feel perfectly OK with claiming 'God told me to' as an adequate defence. I understand he's already had death threats and has a souped-up bodyguard force... my advice would be 'Get out now, Mr Obama'. I don't want to see the TV coverage of his widow and small children at his funeral, frankly - the world has too few decent men already. So, if Mr Obama is elected - you heard my predictions regarding the probable outcome here first, boys and girls.
Staying with America, today, as everybody who has trogged down any High Street for the past month or so and had to push past the various tacky 'displays' of witches' hats and plastic spiders is aware, is Halloween. Now I make much of being an old moo, but I'm still a long long way away from getting my bus pass, so the Angevin childhood is not THAT long ago... and yet I cannot remember any of this hype and commercialism going on then. The most exciting thing anybody did was perhaps a bit of apple bobbing in the back garden with somebody's Mum supplying the towels to dry yourself off and the sausage, mash and beans afterwards. At school, you might make the obligatory mural display of witches, pumpkins and spiders with black pipecleaners and bits of orange crepe paper and Teacher might read a mild ghosty story (in my school the nuns always managed to get in the one of Little Johnny falling down the well because he was a Bad Boy and Baby Jesus beating off the evil witches to save him - but my school was far from normal). 'Trick and treating' was something you watched Yank kids do in films... even as late as when ET was 'THE film' the trick and treating scene was very much something 'foreign'. The whole 'modern' (ie. American) experience of Halloween to me is a 100% imported grotesque merry-go-round merely encouraging people to spend more money because 'the kids want it'. Tough luck kids, if any of you dare to come trick-or-treating up the Chateau Angevin drive - you will be told you are engaging in a form of begging our current society misguidedly sanctions, asked if you are American and if not, told to go away before I call the police and do you and your parents for trespass. If you ARE American, you will be asked more politely to go away and stop pestering me with your imported cultural activities. We don't get the local Jewish kids pestering us Gentiles for 'gelt' at Hanukkah; so you can follow their example, thank you.
Moving country now, there was a bit of fuss this week when the Czech Prime Minister, Mirek Topolánek, smacked a photographer who was trying to get some snaps of him. If it had been as simple as that, I would have fully approved of the photographer doing Topolánek for assault; but it WASN'T that cut and dried. Looking at the video of the event, http://www.javno.tv/en/index.php?id=10955f7094915168 , it seems pretty clear to me that here was a guy just taking his new-born son out for a walk in the pram when he was pounced on by a group of photographers and reporters behaving in a highly intrusive way. I have a lot of time for Czechs, having been to Prague and its environs a fair few times, they seem family-oriented sensible people, and I'm surprised there hasn't been more comment saying Topolánek was quite right in dishing out a bit of old-fashioned discipline to the annoying little scrote intruding on his privacy. It was quite clear the the guy was trying to take pictures of the baby and that's why I suspect Topolánek reacted. If somebody can't even take his baby out without being treated in this rude way I think it's quite sad. I'm afraid I probably would have lamped the pest too.
Lastly, I may have mentioned on here before one of my greatest pals, Tim, is off on a charity walk on Everest in November. I was therefore a bit worried to discover it's been snowing in Tibet since Sunday, which is earlier than usual, and so far over 2ft of snow has fallen, creating major chaos. Puts in perspective all the fuss we've had in the UK about a few flakes falling in October, doesn't it?? I'm not sure whether this will affect Tim's walk, so I'll keep you posted. I think he's bonkers, but if it's raising money for a good cause then I can sort of understand why he's doing it... as long as he doesn't expect me to treat him like Edmund Hilary when he comes back! He could, after all, have confined himself to the Original Mountain Marathon (which the media are STILL bleating about) mentioned in a previous blog-post so we could all have had a laugh at him ... perhaps I'll suggest he thinks about this next year?
Thursday, 30 October 2008
Hahahaha
My sides are aching after watching two of my hens, both of whom haven't experienced winter before, trying to 'catch' snowflakes.
I think I'll stop paying my license fee, the BBC can't compete with comedy of this quality...
I think I'll stop paying my license fee, the BBC can't compete with comedy of this quality...
Getting around...
... is sometimes harder than you might think in the lovely UK. (btw this is also why I felt constrained to write about the Ross/Brand/Sachs debacle after being perforce unable to escape the news coverage on the subject yesterday)
Yesterday was my day for getting my hair cut and otherwise dealt with by the lovely Robert, my hairdresser of years and years, a good chum and probably one of the more outrageous gays in my acquaintance. I always look forward to my visits - an opportunity to catch up on the gossip and just take some time out from La Vie Angevin. The main hassle with visiting Robert, however, is that he lives in darkest Wimbledon; which is not just like popping down the road from the Gloucestershire fastness of Chateau Angevin: visits therefore take some organisation.
There was a problem yesterday - the person whom I'd arranged would look after Mini decided, at the eleventh hour, they couldn't. Not wanting to disappoint Robert and let him down, I decided to drop Mini on his grandmother (in Birmingham), hare it down the M6/M1 to Wimbledon and then hare it back up again to pick him up after a lovely time playing with Grandma. This is not as mad as it sounds - the old girl is always bleating on about how she doesn't see enough of the darling boy, so I thought I'd kill two birds with one stone; do the familial thing, give her a whole afternoon of sprog's company, AND get what I needed to do done. The only fly in the ointment was my mobile isn't working at the moment (I MUST make that call to Orange!) so I'd be out of contact once I left Grandma's Cottage - but I thought that would probably be OK - let her have a taste of what I deal with 24/7 hehehe...
All started well - the M5 behaved itself and we arrived at Nanna's in good time, enough time for me to have a cup of tea and explain in detail the contents of Mini's food sack which I'd taken up so Nanna wasn't tempted to unleash the unspeakable rubbish she produces on Mini and then experience the latter's very verbose disgust when he's faced with grub he finds substandard. Job done, I blithely made my way down the M42 without a care in the world.. and that's when the trouble started. Not being completely familiar with the layout of the M42/M6 interchange I misjudged which lane I needed to be in to access the M6 South sliproad... and could't get into it courtesy of a complete pig of a van driver who spotted me indicating AND SPEEDED UP (complete with obscene gestures) to ensure I couldn't change lane in time. 'Never mind', I thought... 'I'll just take the M40 instead', not realising the M40 was closed owing to some chump spilling his lorry load of lard all over the road. Still blithely optimistic I thought 'Oh well, they are bound to have diversions in place, that'll be OK, I've got plenty of time...'
Silly me. I forgot this is the UK, not France, and the traffic authorities couldn't organise an orgy in a brothel. There was NO sensible plan in place and therefore I sat in a queue as soon as I got past the Oxford junction. And sat... And sat... At one point I hadn't moved for an hour and 20 minutes (and had indeed availed myself of the cups of tea one bloke was making in his caravan)... hence my extreme boredom with the news. As I didn't have my mobile, I couldn't ring anybody to update them either. Eventually getting off the M40 after THREE AND A HALF HOURS of sheer torture, and now despairing of having my much needed haircut, I fought my way through the chaos on the motorway side roads, through Henley and onto the M4, thinking I could at least give Robert his money so he wouldn't miss out financially. Two minutes before getting on the M4 I discover some muppet has broken down and there are delays from the very junction at which I would enter, for about 10 miles. Sigh.
The enforced thinking time as I then juddered my way down the M4 made me consider which way I'd go now. There are multiple ways of getting to Wimbledon from the M4, but as it was dark and the weather was foul I thought I would do the sensible thing and stay on the motorways and major roads as much as I could and zip round the M25 and up the A3. Oh, how I laughed when my radio informed me the M25 was 'horrendous' from the junction with the M4 to the junction past the A3 - but at least I found out BEFORE I got on the M25 this time, and consequently decided to 'do the South Circular thing'. Which wasn't too bad actually - just tedious.
Arriving at Robert's at 7pm - ie. over 7 hours after I left Birmingham - I found the old boy virtually in tears thinking I'd had a car accident or something, because he knows me well enough to know if I say I will be somewhere I WILL be there (admittedly usually running 5-10 minutes late, but you can't have everything- 5 hours is a bit of a record even for me, it has to be said). Whisking me in, he did the biz on my hair in record time (I wasn't expecting this, but he insisted) and swooped in delight on the jam and chutney I'd brought him. At least I'd achieved something, then.
I wasn't stupid enough, however, to think the gods had had enough of torturing me on the roads.. and I was right. Although not nearly as horrible as my M40/M4 experience earlier in the day, the M1 back to Brum was rather congested, the situation not helped by the wet snow trying to fall. Eventually getting back to Grandma's Cottage at about 11pm, to find Mini grumpy and still awake and Nanna virtually falling on my neck with relief that I was taking her small inquisitor away at long last, I had enough time to ingest some further caffeine before getting back on the M42/M5. Again suffering a bit from the wet snow, but at least Mini was asleep almost as soon as the car started, I was never so glad to see Chateau Angevin (and my bed) as I was at about 1.30 am. End of nightmare.
Now, there are some people who would say I was completely mad in the first place for thinking it was even reasonable to drive Gloucs-Brum-London-Brum-Gloucs just for a haircut, but they would be missing the point. Firstly, that Robert is a friend before he is my hairdresser and not only would he have been losing out financially if I just cancelled my apppointment, but also he'd be missing out on the chance to talk about a few of his current difficulties with me, which I know is valuable to him. It seemed to me driving around a lot was a small price to pay to give a friend something. Secondly, it gave me the opportunity to let Mini spend some real time with his grandmother - something which doesn't happen very often - thus making HIM realise I'm not as bad as he thinks I am sometimes and making HER realise when I get on the phone tearing my hair out about his behaviour I don't just whinge about nothing. Thirdly, relationships with mothers-in-law being what they are, I was more than aware I could not be accused for a good long time of being an evil daughter-in-law who limits contact time with the grandchild. So, it's a bit more than a haircut, really, isn't it?
And what has this experience taught ME?
1. Never, ever, assume the transport authorities have a functioning brain-cell.
2. Never, ever, take out reading material from the car in an effort to keep it tidy.
3. Never, ever, take prawns (even cut-price ones) to Grandma's to serve as Mini's snacks again, because it just reinforces the old bat's convictions regarding me being a complete lotus-eater who squanders money on luxury food. Explaining to her they are a good source of zinc, which hyperactive children are usually short of, is a waste of time.
4. Give more consideration to picking up the phone and just saying 'no' sometimes. Robert would probably have whinged about me cancelling my appointment, but I know he found it a bit embarrassing I would go to such lengths to avoid upsetting him.
Lastly
5. Always get the number plate of offensive van-drivers... whoever the little scrote was who stopped me getting on the M6 South, I hope he gets food poisoning...
Yesterday was my day for getting my hair cut and otherwise dealt with by the lovely Robert, my hairdresser of years and years, a good chum and probably one of the more outrageous gays in my acquaintance. I always look forward to my visits - an opportunity to catch up on the gossip and just take some time out from La Vie Angevin. The main hassle with visiting Robert, however, is that he lives in darkest Wimbledon; which is not just like popping down the road from the Gloucestershire fastness of Chateau Angevin: visits therefore take some organisation.
There was a problem yesterday - the person whom I'd arranged would look after Mini decided, at the eleventh hour, they couldn't. Not wanting to disappoint Robert and let him down, I decided to drop Mini on his grandmother (in Birmingham), hare it down the M6/M1 to Wimbledon and then hare it back up again to pick him up after a lovely time playing with Grandma. This is not as mad as it sounds - the old girl is always bleating on about how she doesn't see enough of the darling boy, so I thought I'd kill two birds with one stone; do the familial thing, give her a whole afternoon of sprog's company, AND get what I needed to do done. The only fly in the ointment was my mobile isn't working at the moment (I MUST make that call to Orange!) so I'd be out of contact once I left Grandma's Cottage - but I thought that would probably be OK - let her have a taste of what I deal with 24/7 hehehe...
All started well - the M5 behaved itself and we arrived at Nanna's in good time, enough time for me to have a cup of tea and explain in detail the contents of Mini's food sack which I'd taken up so Nanna wasn't tempted to unleash the unspeakable rubbish she produces on Mini and then experience the latter's very verbose disgust when he's faced with grub he finds substandard. Job done, I blithely made my way down the M42 without a care in the world.. and that's when the trouble started. Not being completely familiar with the layout of the M42/M6 interchange I misjudged which lane I needed to be in to access the M6 South sliproad... and could't get into it courtesy of a complete pig of a van driver who spotted me indicating AND SPEEDED UP (complete with obscene gestures) to ensure I couldn't change lane in time. 'Never mind', I thought... 'I'll just take the M40 instead', not realising the M40 was closed owing to some chump spilling his lorry load of lard all over the road. Still blithely optimistic I thought 'Oh well, they are bound to have diversions in place, that'll be OK, I've got plenty of time...'
Silly me. I forgot this is the UK, not France, and the traffic authorities couldn't organise an orgy in a brothel. There was NO sensible plan in place and therefore I sat in a queue as soon as I got past the Oxford junction. And sat... And sat... At one point I hadn't moved for an hour and 20 minutes (and had indeed availed myself of the cups of tea one bloke was making in his caravan)... hence my extreme boredom with the news. As I didn't have my mobile, I couldn't ring anybody to update them either. Eventually getting off the M40 after THREE AND A HALF HOURS of sheer torture, and now despairing of having my much needed haircut, I fought my way through the chaos on the motorway side roads, through Henley and onto the M4, thinking I could at least give Robert his money so he wouldn't miss out financially. Two minutes before getting on the M4 I discover some muppet has broken down and there are delays from the very junction at which I would enter, for about 10 miles. Sigh.
The enforced thinking time as I then juddered my way down the M4 made me consider which way I'd go now. There are multiple ways of getting to Wimbledon from the M4, but as it was dark and the weather was foul I thought I would do the sensible thing and stay on the motorways and major roads as much as I could and zip round the M25 and up the A3. Oh, how I laughed when my radio informed me the M25 was 'horrendous' from the junction with the M4 to the junction past the A3 - but at least I found out BEFORE I got on the M25 this time, and consequently decided to 'do the South Circular thing'. Which wasn't too bad actually - just tedious.
Arriving at Robert's at 7pm - ie. over 7 hours after I left Birmingham - I found the old boy virtually in tears thinking I'd had a car accident or something, because he knows me well enough to know if I say I will be somewhere I WILL be there (admittedly usually running 5-10 minutes late, but you can't have everything- 5 hours is a bit of a record even for me, it has to be said). Whisking me in, he did the biz on my hair in record time (I wasn't expecting this, but he insisted) and swooped in delight on the jam and chutney I'd brought him. At least I'd achieved something, then.
I wasn't stupid enough, however, to think the gods had had enough of torturing me on the roads.. and I was right. Although not nearly as horrible as my M40/M4 experience earlier in the day, the M1 back to Brum was rather congested, the situation not helped by the wet snow trying to fall. Eventually getting back to Grandma's Cottage at about 11pm, to find Mini grumpy and still awake and Nanna virtually falling on my neck with relief that I was taking her small inquisitor away at long last, I had enough time to ingest some further caffeine before getting back on the M42/M5. Again suffering a bit from the wet snow, but at least Mini was asleep almost as soon as the car started, I was never so glad to see Chateau Angevin (and my bed) as I was at about 1.30 am. End of nightmare.
Now, there are some people who would say I was completely mad in the first place for thinking it was even reasonable to drive Gloucs-Brum-London-Brum-Gloucs just for a haircut, but they would be missing the point. Firstly, that Robert is a friend before he is my hairdresser and not only would he have been losing out financially if I just cancelled my apppointment, but also he'd be missing out on the chance to talk about a few of his current difficulties with me, which I know is valuable to him. It seemed to me driving around a lot was a small price to pay to give a friend something. Secondly, it gave me the opportunity to let Mini spend some real time with his grandmother - something which doesn't happen very often - thus making HIM realise I'm not as bad as he thinks I am sometimes and making HER realise when I get on the phone tearing my hair out about his behaviour I don't just whinge about nothing. Thirdly, relationships with mothers-in-law being what they are, I was more than aware I could not be accused for a good long time of being an evil daughter-in-law who limits contact time with the grandchild. So, it's a bit more than a haircut, really, isn't it?
And what has this experience taught ME?
1. Never, ever, assume the transport authorities have a functioning brain-cell.
2. Never, ever, take out reading material from the car in an effort to keep it tidy.
3. Never, ever, take prawns (even cut-price ones) to Grandma's to serve as Mini's snacks again, because it just reinforces the old bat's convictions regarding me being a complete lotus-eater who squanders money on luxury food. Explaining to her they are a good source of zinc, which hyperactive children are usually short of, is a waste of time.
4. Give more consideration to picking up the phone and just saying 'no' sometimes. Robert would probably have whinged about me cancelling my appointment, but I know he found it a bit embarrassing I would go to such lengths to avoid upsetting him.
Lastly
5. Always get the number plate of offensive van-drivers... whoever the little scrote was who stopped me getting on the M6 South, I hope he gets food poisoning...
For what it's worth...
...my comments on the Russell Brand/Jonathan Ross/Andrew Sachs fiasco which is obliterating everything else on the news just now.
1. Andrews Sachs (and his agent) gave his number to the BBC knowing it was for a Brand/Ross broadcast. Even *I* know a combination of those two presenters is not going to produce a result of which Parky/Paxman would be proud: both Sachs and his agent should have therefore realised they were likely to be the subjects of the usual asinine-rubbish-passing-as-entertainment from those two. Call me cynical, but if Sachs lands a nice plum role after all this, I shall be very suspicious indeed of his 'I'm just an innocent 78 year old' act.
2. As has been endlessly repeated in the reporting on this subject, the offending item was pre-recorded. Who, exactly, are the editors on this show? - because THEY are the real offenders, not Brand and Ross who can't reasonably be expected to behave in anything other than the jejeune manner in which they normally do.
3. That strange creature, Sachs' granddaughter, is quite right in saying that anything which occurred between her and the equally peculiar Brand was a private matter and should therefore not be aired publically. Why, then, was SHE plastered all over the Sunday newspapers bleating about it and spilling more beans than Brand did in his mercifully short broadcast? Call me a suspicious old moo, but given the lady's vitriol, I suspect Brand dropped dear Georgina like a hot potato after their sordid little liaison and the said fragrant Georgina is now taking every opportunity to get her own back... compare her 'sack both of them' attitude with the more philosophical response of her grandfather. If she doesn't want to be embarrassed publically she shouldn't sleep so readily with public figures who have as few inhibitions as does Brand with regard to hanging out his dirty linen. Now Brand has resigned, and therefore Georgina's got the revenge she wanted, I hope we'll hear less sanctimonious nonsense from her.
4. I seem to recall that Brand said somewhere in this broadcast or in his subsequent comments on the same that you could virtually commit genocide in this country but you couldn't make fun of Manuel. Well, he was bang on the money, really wasn't he? We are in danger of turning into a caricature of ourselves on this one, guys.
5. Frankly, there are a lot more important and far-reaching things going on in the world just now than a couple of 'comics' going OTT on another entertainer. And yet even the Prime Minister has waded into this particular little row. Let's get some perspective, for goodness' sake.
1. Andrews Sachs (and his agent) gave his number to the BBC knowing it was for a Brand/Ross broadcast. Even *I* know a combination of those two presenters is not going to produce a result of which Parky/Paxman would be proud: both Sachs and his agent should have therefore realised they were likely to be the subjects of the usual asinine-rubbish-passing-as-entertainment from those two. Call me cynical, but if Sachs lands a nice plum role after all this, I shall be very suspicious indeed of his 'I'm just an innocent 78 year old' act.
2. As has been endlessly repeated in the reporting on this subject, the offending item was pre-recorded. Who, exactly, are the editors on this show? - because THEY are the real offenders, not Brand and Ross who can't reasonably be expected to behave in anything other than the jejeune manner in which they normally do.
3. That strange creature, Sachs' granddaughter, is quite right in saying that anything which occurred between her and the equally peculiar Brand was a private matter and should therefore not be aired publically. Why, then, was SHE plastered all over the Sunday newspapers bleating about it and spilling more beans than Brand did in his mercifully short broadcast? Call me a suspicious old moo, but given the lady's vitriol, I suspect Brand dropped dear Georgina like a hot potato after their sordid little liaison and the said fragrant Georgina is now taking every opportunity to get her own back... compare her 'sack both of them' attitude with the more philosophical response of her grandfather. If she doesn't want to be embarrassed publically she shouldn't sleep so readily with public figures who have as few inhibitions as does Brand with regard to hanging out his dirty linen. Now Brand has resigned, and therefore Georgina's got the revenge she wanted, I hope we'll hear less sanctimonious nonsense from her.
4. I seem to recall that Brand said somewhere in this broadcast or in his subsequent comments on the same that you could virtually commit genocide in this country but you couldn't make fun of Manuel. Well, he was bang on the money, really wasn't he? We are in danger of turning into a caricature of ourselves on this one, guys.
5. Frankly, there are a lot more important and far-reaching things going on in the world just now than a couple of 'comics' going OTT on another entertainer. And yet even the Prime Minister has waded into this particular little row. Let's get some perspective, for goodness' sake.
Monday, 27 October 2008
A mixed bag of thoughts
Well, it's the start of another week and, surprise surprise, I'm no more organised than I normally am. Despite the good intentions I had over the weekend to catch up with the housework/ironing/million little things I know I SHOULD do, I didn't really do very many of them outside cooking the usual feasts for Mini and whoever-else-turns-up-here-looking-hungry, a bit of laundry and some fairly desultory tidying up. Because, and this won't come as a big shock to people who know me, as I get older my hearty distaste for trivial domestica gets worse.
Although I'll happily stand for hours cooking I have always absolutely loathed cleaning. The problem is I DO like things to be clean and tidy - which places me between a rock and a hard place really. The situation isn't helped by being Welsh - the Welsh are by and large fanatical about housework and I can virtually hear preceeding generations of Angevin womenfolk spinning in their graves as I put the kettle on, open another book and stick a mental two-fingers up at the hoovering. This incipient guilt is further enhanced by the fact I feel constrained to apologise for my midden every time somebody comes round... if the visitors are members of my family I can virtually SEE them thinking 'Ah well, she had an English father', even as they pounce upon my permanently full cake and biscuit tins like the proverbial plague of locusts. It doesn't really matter to them I feed them like kings. It doesn't matter my pantry (the Ray Mears Nuclear Survival Store) is stocked with all sorts of things I've put time and love into making which you normally wouldn't expect to find outside the pages of Anne of Green Gables or Little House on the Prairie. It doesn't matter there are beautiful things everywhere which I've spent time and love sewing. It doesn't matter that Mini, home-educated by me, is streets ahead of his peers, actively loves finding out about things and engaging with the world generally. No, what matters is that the worktops should be uncluttered, the floor swept and not a speck of dust visible. And I am made to feel like a subhuman piece of poo because more often than not, the place looks like Steptoe's yard.
Now although a big bit of me feels hugely resentful about this injustice; because I was brought up to believe a clean and tidy house is a 'proper' house another bit of me heartily despises myself for being such a slob. So, every so often I'll make resolutions to spend the day scrubbing. Usually only to be seduced by a book I've ordered JUST arriving from Amazon (well, it won't hurt if I put the kettle on and have JUST half an hour dipping into it, will it?); or my embroidery calling to me to JUST finish that little motif (well it won't hurt if I put the kettle on and JUST 'do' that particular colour, will it?); or Mini JUST wanting to know about something he's unearthed from somewhere (well it won't hurt if I put the kettle on and JUST spend half an hour talking about it, will it?); or even JUST wanting to spend a half an hour sitting on the swing seat in the garden, taking advantage of the unseasonable good weather, laughing at chicken antics and enjoying a cup of tea. You get the picture.
So this week is starting with the usual good resolutions. The Cillit Bang is primed and ready on the worktop. The new rubber gloves have been unleashed from their wrapping. The vacuum cleaner has had a new bag fitted. And what am I doing?? Well, I'm JUST spending half an hour updating this blog, aren't I?
Although I'll happily stand for hours cooking I have always absolutely loathed cleaning. The problem is I DO like things to be clean and tidy - which places me between a rock and a hard place really. The situation isn't helped by being Welsh - the Welsh are by and large fanatical about housework and I can virtually hear preceeding generations of Angevin womenfolk spinning in their graves as I put the kettle on, open another book and stick a mental two-fingers up at the hoovering. This incipient guilt is further enhanced by the fact I feel constrained to apologise for my midden every time somebody comes round... if the visitors are members of my family I can virtually SEE them thinking 'Ah well, she had an English father', even as they pounce upon my permanently full cake and biscuit tins like the proverbial plague of locusts. It doesn't really matter to them I feed them like kings. It doesn't matter my pantry (the Ray Mears Nuclear Survival Store) is stocked with all sorts of things I've put time and love into making which you normally wouldn't expect to find outside the pages of Anne of Green Gables or Little House on the Prairie. It doesn't matter there are beautiful things everywhere which I've spent time and love sewing. It doesn't matter that Mini, home-educated by me, is streets ahead of his peers, actively loves finding out about things and engaging with the world generally. No, what matters is that the worktops should be uncluttered, the floor swept and not a speck of dust visible. And I am made to feel like a subhuman piece of poo because more often than not, the place looks like Steptoe's yard.
Now although a big bit of me feels hugely resentful about this injustice; because I was brought up to believe a clean and tidy house is a 'proper' house another bit of me heartily despises myself for being such a slob. So, every so often I'll make resolutions to spend the day scrubbing. Usually only to be seduced by a book I've ordered JUST arriving from Amazon (well, it won't hurt if I put the kettle on and have JUST half an hour dipping into it, will it?); or my embroidery calling to me to JUST finish that little motif (well it won't hurt if I put the kettle on and JUST 'do' that particular colour, will it?); or Mini JUST wanting to know about something he's unearthed from somewhere (well it won't hurt if I put the kettle on and JUST spend half an hour talking about it, will it?); or even JUST wanting to spend a half an hour sitting on the swing seat in the garden, taking advantage of the unseasonable good weather, laughing at chicken antics and enjoying a cup of tea. You get the picture.
So this week is starting with the usual good resolutions. The Cillit Bang is primed and ready on the worktop. The new rubber gloves have been unleashed from their wrapping. The vacuum cleaner has had a new bag fitted. And what am I doing?? Well, I'm JUST spending half an hour updating this blog, aren't I?
Sunday, 26 October 2008
I couldn't leave this one in oblivion...
In case people reading this haven't realised, I did a silly thing last night and whilst trying to tidy up my blog, inadvertently deleted six or so postings from the last couple of weeks.
Thanks to the genius-going-by-the-name-of-Panther I've managed to find three of them (see the 'reinstated post' articles), but the rest are gone forever. So, no longer will you be able to read about my laughing at the Brummies for officially having three of the ugliest buildings in the country or marvel at my inspired resurrection of a manky pudding (courtesy of the indoctrination I experienced at the hands of my mad Welsh grandmother). However, the last one deals with a tale I am still giggling about several days later: it CANNOT be just left to float off into the ether... so here it is.
I was chatting online to a friend of mine who admitted to having had a sly smile and thought of me at work when, whilst having coffee with some of his pals, one of the guys was going on about the general fabulousness of the eggs his two hens provide. However, it seems all is not well in the chicken-coop, as apparently some pesky neighbours have been kicking off about the noise and have asked questions along the lines of 'Do your deeds permit you to keep chickens?'.
Now, normally I'd have said something along the lines of 'tell the nosey parkers to shove their deeds where the sun don't shine' or similar tactful observations germane to the fostering of good neighbourly relations. But then it occurred to me we were talking about HENS, not COCKS - ie. inoffensive, quiet little biddies who don't normally create any fuss, noise-related or otherwise. So what's been going on here?
My friend admitted apparently the culprit is not the hens - it seems, such is the bloke's jubilation whenever he goes out and finds a newly-laid egg, HE does cock impressions, along with the accompanying strutting and crowing....
...there's one born every day...
Thanks to the genius-going-by-the-name-of-Panther I've managed to find three of them (see the 'reinstated post' articles), but the rest are gone forever. So, no longer will you be able to read about my laughing at the Brummies for officially having three of the ugliest buildings in the country or marvel at my inspired resurrection of a manky pudding (courtesy of the indoctrination I experienced at the hands of my mad Welsh grandmother). However, the last one deals with a tale I am still giggling about several days later: it CANNOT be just left to float off into the ether... so here it is.
I was chatting online to a friend of mine who admitted to having had a sly smile and thought of me at work when, whilst having coffee with some of his pals, one of the guys was going on about the general fabulousness of the eggs his two hens provide. However, it seems all is not well in the chicken-coop, as apparently some pesky neighbours have been kicking off about the noise and have asked questions along the lines of 'Do your deeds permit you to keep chickens?'.
Now, normally I'd have said something along the lines of 'tell the nosey parkers to shove their deeds where the sun don't shine' or similar tactful observations germane to the fostering of good neighbourly relations. But then it occurred to me we were talking about HENS, not COCKS - ie. inoffensive, quiet little biddies who don't normally create any fuss, noise-related or otherwise. So what's been going on here?
My friend admitted apparently the culprit is not the hens - it seems, such is the bloke's jubilation whenever he goes out and finds a newly-laid egg, HE does cock impressions, along with the accompanying strutting and crowing....
...there's one born every day...
Reinstated post #3 Yes, I admit it, I am completely crazy
Yes, OK, I admit it, I am completely crazy
Yesterday was truly foul (no pun, honest) as regards weather - pouring all day and blustery wind - but that was only because the weather gods knew I was planning to clean out the chicken sheds. I hope they had a good time looking down at me from their fluffy cloud-seats as, despite cunningly choosing to scrape the straw out upwind, rogue blusters inevitably contrived to direct hanks of straw-plus-chicken-detritus my way. Thank God for Barbours, is all I can say, although even that article was soaked through by the time I finished. Praise be also for the mains-pressure shower I had the foresight to install - I can't begin to describe the bliss of standing underneath a Niagara-like near-scalding torrent when you enter the cubicle freezing, damp and smelling vaguely of chicken poo.
My poor little birds (I use the term advisedly as I breed Brahmas - one of the biggest hens around) sat around looking dejected all day despite the treats (slightly squishy tomatoes and a couple of wrinkly apples) I bunged their way to cheer them up. At least they seemed pleased by the nice clean straw beds they clambered into of an evening, so my trial-by-flying-poo ordeal earlier in the day had not been in vain.
Given all this doom and gloom, I was hugely cheered by seeing some sunshine today when I staggered out of the pit and pulled the curtains open and decided to give the fowl a treat - chicken porridge. Yes, you DID read that correctly. Chicken porridge is normally something they only get when I'm feeling really indulgent or it's been freezing cold and it's exactly what it says on the tin; porridge oats prepared for chickens - with water, linseeds and sultanas (plus a blob of pro-biotic yoghurt on top if there's any to be had). Having made this gloop - and fought off Mini because he thought it was for him - I advanced on the chicken sheds anticipating their happy little faces when they spotted what I was carrying. I wasn't disappointed - Edgar's jubliant clucking could be heard on the other side of the yard. However, this time it attracted rather more than his usual entourage - when I passed by a couple of minutes later I was treated to the sight of Edgar, Rosie and Molly (two of his ladies) sharing their special treat with Tiny and Twm (two of my cats who normally give Edgar a wide berth because he's bigger than they are).
Mmmm... should I be developing cat-porridge too?
Yesterday was truly foul (no pun, honest) as regards weather - pouring all day and blustery wind - but that was only because the weather gods knew I was planning to clean out the chicken sheds. I hope they had a good time looking down at me from their fluffy cloud-seats as, despite cunningly choosing to scrape the straw out upwind, rogue blusters inevitably contrived to direct hanks of straw-plus-chicken-detritus my way. Thank God for Barbours, is all I can say, although even that article was soaked through by the time I finished. Praise be also for the mains-pressure shower I had the foresight to install - I can't begin to describe the bliss of standing underneath a Niagara-like near-scalding torrent when you enter the cubicle freezing, damp and smelling vaguely of chicken poo.
My poor little birds (I use the term advisedly as I breed Brahmas - one of the biggest hens around) sat around looking dejected all day despite the treats (slightly squishy tomatoes and a couple of wrinkly apples) I bunged their way to cheer them up. At least they seemed pleased by the nice clean straw beds they clambered into of an evening, so my trial-by-flying-poo ordeal earlier in the day had not been in vain.
Given all this doom and gloom, I was hugely cheered by seeing some sunshine today when I staggered out of the pit and pulled the curtains open and decided to give the fowl a treat - chicken porridge. Yes, you DID read that correctly. Chicken porridge is normally something they only get when I'm feeling really indulgent or it's been freezing cold and it's exactly what it says on the tin; porridge oats prepared for chickens - with water, linseeds and sultanas (plus a blob of pro-biotic yoghurt on top if there's any to be had). Having made this gloop - and fought off Mini because he thought it was for him - I advanced on the chicken sheds anticipating their happy little faces when they spotted what I was carrying. I wasn't disappointed - Edgar's jubliant clucking could be heard on the other side of the yard. However, this time it attracted rather more than his usual entourage - when I passed by a couple of minutes later I was treated to the sight of Edgar, Rosie and Molly (two of his ladies) sharing their special treat with Tiny and Twm (two of my cats who normally give Edgar a wide berth because he's bigger than they are).
Mmmm... should I be developing cat-porridge too?
Reinstated posting #2 The last week of October
Haha tracked down some more...
The last week of October
... and the first real frost of the winter this morning. Wakened rudely by a cold Mini clambering into bed with me (he WILL not keep his quilt on him!) I spent a few minutes enjoying the sunshine coming in through the bedroom windows, before venturing outside to let the birds out. It was then I realised that part of the reason for the morning's brightness was the frost lying quite thickly everywhere - very pretty if you are inside a nice warm house but, I can assure you, less welcome as the cold seeps through your wellies if you are lazy like me and can't be bothered to put socks on first!
It WAS beautiful though - I wish I'd had my camera on me as the sunshine sparkled on the frost and shone on Sebastien (my HUGE light-blue boy) because it looked like a picture from a fairy tale about the Ice Queen. He, however, was more interested in scarfing up what remained in his food bowl - typical man.
It's things like the first frost which remind me it's not long now before November and the start of Samhain (in Welsh Nos Galan Gaeaf) - the old Celtic Feast of the Dead - which I still keep, although admittedly not in the serious way the old folk did when I was a child. To me, it's a time for hunkering down next to the Aga with some good friends and family, good food (and of course good wine!), and talking about the old times (and the times to come). The candles will be in my western window and although I don't share the old belief that the dead can come and commune with the living again, an extra place will be set at the table and we'll do the other little things which, to me, are the small thread running between myself and my family, alive or dead. For Mini, it's a time where people come and visit, we have even more substantial meals than normal, and we talk about people of whom he can know nothing but whose names will hopefully live on in his memory. For nobody has truly died as long as they are still remembered....
The last week of October
... and the first real frost of the winter this morning. Wakened rudely by a cold Mini clambering into bed with me (he WILL not keep his quilt on him!) I spent a few minutes enjoying the sunshine coming in through the bedroom windows, before venturing outside to let the birds out. It was then I realised that part of the reason for the morning's brightness was the frost lying quite thickly everywhere - very pretty if you are inside a nice warm house but, I can assure you, less welcome as the cold seeps through your wellies if you are lazy like me and can't be bothered to put socks on first!
It WAS beautiful though - I wish I'd had my camera on me as the sunshine sparkled on the frost and shone on Sebastien (my HUGE light-blue boy) because it looked like a picture from a fairy tale about the Ice Queen. He, however, was more interested in scarfing up what remained in his food bowl - typical man.
It's things like the first frost which remind me it's not long now before November and the start of Samhain (in Welsh Nos Galan Gaeaf) - the old Celtic Feast of the Dead - which I still keep, although admittedly not in the serious way the old folk did when I was a child. To me, it's a time for hunkering down next to the Aga with some good friends and family, good food (and of course good wine!), and talking about the old times (and the times to come). The candles will be in my western window and although I don't share the old belief that the dead can come and commune with the living again, an extra place will be set at the table and we'll do the other little things which, to me, are the small thread running between myself and my family, alive or dead. For Mini, it's a time where people come and visit, we have even more substantial meals than normal, and we talk about people of whom he can know nothing but whose names will hopefully live on in his memory. For nobody has truly died as long as they are still remembered....
Reinstated post #1 Taking Off
Right.. managed to find ONE of the five bits I deleted - THANKS PANTHER, you're a star - so here it is..
Taking Off
I had to have a giggle today during my normal reading of the BBC News Website -
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/7686911.stm
For those who can't be bothered to read it, it seems the smelly component of what my great aunt would probably politely term 'wind' (hydrogen sulphide) may also play a part in keeping one's blood pressure down. Lots of learned stuff about experiments etc, but it did just occur to me in humans perhaps the effect may be accentuated by the giggles which inevitably follow an episode of 'the angels speaking'?? Just a ffort!
Farting, to employ the term normal people use, is a bit of a hot topic at Chateau Angevin, mostly because my side of the family is what you might say a bit prone to it. The fact they all find bottom burps absolutely hysterical, usually to the immense irritation of those who have the bad luck to marry into the family, may also have something to do with it: but they are all pretty much unapologetic about the issue - if you don't like it, go to another room is by and large the attitude. I suffered for years at the hands of my father, who was a legendary exponent of the technique of dropping a silent-but-really-smelly example behind me in public places, and then scampering off to howl with laughter as he observed the dirty looks people were giving ME. At parties, Le Petomaine had nothing on my dear old Dad.
As the old boy unfortunately quit this world to go and stink out somewhere else more than 10 years ago now, my more recent shopping trips have been relatively embarrassment free, that is, until Mini grew old enough to accompany me. Oh yes... Mini seems to be carrying on the familial tradition, I suspect aided and abetted by some of my more unsavoury cousins. Having a quiet cup of tea in the genteel surroundings of Highworth's more upmarket teashop recently, Mini's nether regions let out a truly earth-shaking roar which, in my embarrassment seemed to go on for several minutes, but was probably only a few seconds. Silence descended, and the eyes of a dozen or so old ladies swept round to our table, to see me cowering in abject humiliation and feeling about four again and a Very Naughty Girl. Was Mini bothered?? Judging the way in which he bounced up and down on his seat I would suggest not - but any doubts were dispelled by his screech of 'Mummy, Mummy, my bottom said hello!'.
Flashback about 25 years to Boots, and my Dad doubled up with laughter at the other end of the aisle as I copped the disgusted stares of about six people who had been almost choked by the miasma which he'd deposited and run away from. The fits of giggles and the expression of joy - which would put the nauseating sprog on the Werther's ad to shame - were identical. Mini is a virtual clone of my big brother, but just then he looked like a small, unwrinkled and mop-headed version of my Dad. Welcome to the next 25 years of embarrassment...
Oh, and in case you are wondering if I'm party to this particular family trait I would point out I'm female and us girls don't do things like that, now, do we?
Taking Off
I had to have a giggle today during my normal reading of the BBC News Website -
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/7686911.stm
For those who can't be bothered to read it, it seems the smelly component of what my great aunt would probably politely term 'wind' (hydrogen sulphide) may also play a part in keeping one's blood pressure down. Lots of learned stuff about experiments etc, but it did just occur to me in humans perhaps the effect may be accentuated by the giggles which inevitably follow an episode of 'the angels speaking'?? Just a ffort!
Farting, to employ the term normal people use, is a bit of a hot topic at Chateau Angevin, mostly because my side of the family is what you might say a bit prone to it. The fact they all find bottom burps absolutely hysterical, usually to the immense irritation of those who have the bad luck to marry into the family, may also have something to do with it: but they are all pretty much unapologetic about the issue - if you don't like it, go to another room is by and large the attitude. I suffered for years at the hands of my father, who was a legendary exponent of the technique of dropping a silent-but-really-smelly example behind me in public places, and then scampering off to howl with laughter as he observed the dirty looks people were giving ME. At parties, Le Petomaine had nothing on my dear old Dad.
As the old boy unfortunately quit this world to go and stink out somewhere else more than 10 years ago now, my more recent shopping trips have been relatively embarrassment free, that is, until Mini grew old enough to accompany me. Oh yes... Mini seems to be carrying on the familial tradition, I suspect aided and abetted by some of my more unsavoury cousins. Having a quiet cup of tea in the genteel surroundings of Highworth's more upmarket teashop recently, Mini's nether regions let out a truly earth-shaking roar which, in my embarrassment seemed to go on for several minutes, but was probably only a few seconds. Silence descended, and the eyes of a dozen or so old ladies swept round to our table, to see me cowering in abject humiliation and feeling about four again and a Very Naughty Girl. Was Mini bothered?? Judging the way in which he bounced up and down on his seat I would suggest not - but any doubts were dispelled by his screech of 'Mummy, Mummy, my bottom said hello!'.
Flashback about 25 years to Boots, and my Dad doubled up with laughter at the other end of the aisle as I copped the disgusted stares of about six people who had been almost choked by the miasma which he'd deposited and run away from. The fits of giggles and the expression of joy - which would put the nauseating sprog on the Werther's ad to shame - were identical. Mini is a virtual clone of my big brother, but just then he looked like a small, unwrinkled and mop-headed version of my Dad. Welcome to the next 25 years of embarrassment...
Oh, and in case you are wondering if I'm party to this particular family trait I would point out I'm female and us girls don't do things like that, now, do we?
OH bugger...
... whilst trying to 'tidy up' - I should stick to what I do best, shouldn't I, and tidying definitely doesn't fall into that category - I accidentally deleted about five postings, some of them described as legendary by my readership...
I will try to get them back, but if it's technically impossible, my apologies. Somebody slap me the next time I try to be clever with a computer...
I will try to get them back, but if it's technically impossible, my apologies. Somebody slap me the next time I try to be clever with a computer...
Schadenfreude
It's beneath me, I know, but I admit to having had a huge guffaw at the 3,000 or so fell-runners who have had to give up the Original Mountain Marathon in Cumbria today because the weather was too severe.
'Serves you bleddy right' is pretty much my attitude. That'll teach all the smug, uber-fit obsessives to stay in bed on a Saturday and only venture forth for a decent cooked breakfast and the morning papers, like any sensible creature. Scampering around mountains, laden with tent, food and other proofs of an unhealthy interest in exercise is unnatural and as far as I am concerned, today's downpour is God trying to tell the loonies something.
I only hope the mountain rescue guys aren't damaged in any way getting this lot out of their self-inflicted problems, because they are by and large lovely chaps who share my opinion the weekend-fitness-hobbyists are entirely deranged. Leave the mad buggers on the mountains, boys, and come to Chateau Angevin to have some steamed pudding - you know it makes sense....
'Serves you bleddy right' is pretty much my attitude. That'll teach all the smug, uber-fit obsessives to stay in bed on a Saturday and only venture forth for a decent cooked breakfast and the morning papers, like any sensible creature. Scampering around mountains, laden with tent, food and other proofs of an unhealthy interest in exercise is unnatural and as far as I am concerned, today's downpour is God trying to tell the loonies something.
I only hope the mountain rescue guys aren't damaged in any way getting this lot out of their self-inflicted problems, because they are by and large lovely chaps who share my opinion the weekend-fitness-hobbyists are entirely deranged. Leave the mad buggers on the mountains, boys, and come to Chateau Angevin to have some steamed pudding - you know it makes sense....
Tuesday, 14 October 2008
Another bit of historical griping
I am getting increasingly sick of the hysteria surrounding the inclusion of Marie Stopes in a series of Royal Mail stamps commemmorating 'Women of Distinction'. The PC-brigade have pounced on this, saying Ms Stopes was a eugenicist, sent poems to Hitler and advocated the compulsory sterilisation of those she saw as 'unfit for parenthood'. I'm not arguing with any of this - there is bountiful documentary evidence that Stopes did indeed believe in and do these things but my point is SO DID AN AWFUL LOT OF OTHER PEOPLE AT THE TIME.
Once again, we are up against the ignorant and poorly-educated activitists who simply can't see the wider historical picture outside their own beliefs. The sad fact is that people in the past wholeheartedly believed in quite a number of things which would be condemned outright today; it's called context, and to condemn the remarkable achievements of historical figures just because other parts of their lives or belief-systems wouldn't pass scrutiny when viewed through 21st-Century goggles is frankly pathetic. For example, there is some debate as to whether Winston Churchill had anti-semitic beliefs (my opinion is he would have been highly unusual given his social class and the period in which he was brought up if he HADN'T), it is generally agreed that Shakespeare did too, despite his 'hath not a Jew eyes' speech from The Merchant of Venice, and even the Iron Duke of Wellington is a bit suspect in this regard. Are we therefore to condemn Churchill, Shakespeare and Wellington and demand their achievements are not honoured? Virginia Woolf is on record as saying imbeciles (her word) should be 'killed' - should we demand therefore that Mrs Dalloway and To the Lighthouse are taken off school and university reading lists? (Personally I'd take them off on grounds of their navel-gazing self-indulgent tediousness, but that's just me). Of course nobody's going to suggest this, and I think the real reason for Marie Stopes being singled out for such venom has absolutely nothing to do with some of her more questionable opinions and an awful lot more to do with the fact she's mostly remembered for the impact she had on people's sex-lives.
The English have always had a peculiar attitude to sex, and their nudge-nudge wink-wink prudery combined with a distasteful sort of prurience when faced with the subject was bound to be in conflict with Marie Stopes' direct, objective and unsentimental approach. Naturally at the time a lot of this was subliminated through 'the Church' - that all-purpose convenient cloak for a whole number of quite questionable inclinations - and a mention of Stopes' work in the field of contraception is enough to get a few Churchmen writhing in condemnation even today. The fact Stopes was a WOMAN made the situation even worse - she flew in the face of the social conventions regarding femininity and 'what nice girls say/do/know about'. You'd think, given the almost 24 hour exposure to all things sexual we experience in modern society and the tedious 'wimmins' rights' movement shoving their particular concerns down our throats at every available opportunity people would have got over this by now... obviously this is not the case. We have a situation here where somebody's profound achievement working OUTSIDE the social mores of their time is being ignored in favour of the areas in which they corresponded with prevailing opinion. Thus, the so-called 'liberal' fraternity are merely displaying their own cultural facism - ie. 'you have to think like us or we'll suppress you' - and what is worse, trying to eradicate or diminish historical record too.
I'm not sure whether the Royal Mail has actually already produced the controverial stamp in question, or whether it's just discussing it, but I sincerely hope, if the latter, that they'll stick two fingers up at the ignorant lentil-knitting PC-mob and allow Marie Stopes' image to appear in the series. To honour somebody who made such a difference to the lives of women in particular (and indeed family life in general), from all classes, is surely a worthwhile thing, regardless of what she believed in other areas. An explanatory leaflet telling the aforementioned mob where they can learn a bit of historical context wouldn't go amiss either...
Once again, we are up against the ignorant and poorly-educated activitists who simply can't see the wider historical picture outside their own beliefs. The sad fact is that people in the past wholeheartedly believed in quite a number of things which would be condemned outright today; it's called context, and to condemn the remarkable achievements of historical figures just because other parts of their lives or belief-systems wouldn't pass scrutiny when viewed through 21st-Century goggles is frankly pathetic. For example, there is some debate as to whether Winston Churchill had anti-semitic beliefs (my opinion is he would have been highly unusual given his social class and the period in which he was brought up if he HADN'T), it is generally agreed that Shakespeare did too, despite his 'hath not a Jew eyes' speech from The Merchant of Venice, and even the Iron Duke of Wellington is a bit suspect in this regard. Are we therefore to condemn Churchill, Shakespeare and Wellington and demand their achievements are not honoured? Virginia Woolf is on record as saying imbeciles (her word) should be 'killed' - should we demand therefore that Mrs Dalloway and To the Lighthouse are taken off school and university reading lists? (Personally I'd take them off on grounds of their navel-gazing self-indulgent tediousness, but that's just me). Of course nobody's going to suggest this, and I think the real reason for Marie Stopes being singled out for such venom has absolutely nothing to do with some of her more questionable opinions and an awful lot more to do with the fact she's mostly remembered for the impact she had on people's sex-lives.
The English have always had a peculiar attitude to sex, and their nudge-nudge wink-wink prudery combined with a distasteful sort of prurience when faced with the subject was bound to be in conflict with Marie Stopes' direct, objective and unsentimental approach. Naturally at the time a lot of this was subliminated through 'the Church' - that all-purpose convenient cloak for a whole number of quite questionable inclinations - and a mention of Stopes' work in the field of contraception is enough to get a few Churchmen writhing in condemnation even today. The fact Stopes was a WOMAN made the situation even worse - she flew in the face of the social conventions regarding femininity and 'what nice girls say/do/know about'. You'd think, given the almost 24 hour exposure to all things sexual we experience in modern society and the tedious 'wimmins' rights' movement shoving their particular concerns down our throats at every available opportunity people would have got over this by now... obviously this is not the case. We have a situation here where somebody's profound achievement working OUTSIDE the social mores of their time is being ignored in favour of the areas in which they corresponded with prevailing opinion. Thus, the so-called 'liberal' fraternity are merely displaying their own cultural facism - ie. 'you have to think like us or we'll suppress you' - and what is worse, trying to eradicate or diminish historical record too.
I'm not sure whether the Royal Mail has actually already produced the controverial stamp in question, or whether it's just discussing it, but I sincerely hope, if the latter, that they'll stick two fingers up at the ignorant lentil-knitting PC-mob and allow Marie Stopes' image to appear in the series. To honour somebody who made such a difference to the lives of women in particular (and indeed family life in general), from all classes, is surely a worthwhile thing, regardless of what she believed in other areas. An explanatory leaflet telling the aforementioned mob where they can learn a bit of historical context wouldn't go amiss either...
Monday, 13 October 2008
For once, a gripe which has nothing to do with the BBC news website...
Today it was my intention to catch up on some outstanding tasks, including making some sweetcorn relish out of the cobs which Riverford have been delivering lately (none of us really like corn on the cob in the raw, as it were). This not being the sort of thing one does everyday, I had a trawl around the net for suitable recipes, selected one and then remembered the black ink cartridge in the printer needed changing. Obviously this would have to be done before I could trot back to the kitchen and get started on stinking the house out with boiling vinegar again.
So what? I hear you all shout, 'Surely she's not so technophobic as to be completely incapable of changing a printer cartridge?'. Well, you'd think this would be a relatively simple task, wouldn't you? Dream on, gentle reader. Opening the new cartridge box (a trial in itself as it seemed to be packed to withstand several nuclear winters) I discovered these cartridges have chips attached, which you have to transfer from old to new before the things will do their job. Prising the annoying little item out of the old cartridge was next to impossible and I only succeeded by levering it off with that most old-fashioned of implements - a HB pencil. Then ensued the pantomime of trying to get the wretched little thing into the new cartridge - into a space which bore little resemblance to its corresponding part on the old cartridge. Bear in mind this chip is about 2mm square. Several minutes of swearing, crawling around on the floor trying to see where the chip had decided to leap to now, and still not having any luck persuading it into the space where it was meant to go, I attempted to stick it in with a tiny piece of folded-up Sellotape. This at least held it in place, and I got it into the printer OK, but then the printer didn't seem to recognise the fact the new cartridge was fitted. (I suspect the sellotape wasn't letting it make a connection with something crucial). Taking it out again, I realised the thing was leaking everywhere and quickly bunged it into the nearest waterproof receptacle - a milk jug. My hands looked as if I'd been doing an audition to play Al Jolson, but thankfully none of the ink seems to have gone on the carpet.
I am sure all of you who know me can imagine what a rage this fiasco put me in. Scrubbing my hands free of black ink, the levels of abuse directed at printer and cartridge manufacturers, inventors of microchips and whichever muppet had the bright idea of chipping printer cartridges in the first place gradually subsided until I could think more philosophically about the issue. What sort of society do we live in where people will go to the trouble to microchip small pieces of plastic so they can grub more profit out of printer-consumables than they do out of selling the printer in the first place - but aren't prepared to give old people enough money to keep themselves warm over the winter? It just shows where the community's priorities are, doesn't it? I hope if any of my readers are involved in the printer consumables industry they are royally ashamed of themselves.
For your information, my recipe was duplicated by the Neanderthal means of my copying it by hand from screen to paper with the help of the aforementioned HB pencil. The cartridge and its Godforsaken chip is now in the bin.
So what? I hear you all shout, 'Surely she's not so technophobic as to be completely incapable of changing a printer cartridge?'. Well, you'd think this would be a relatively simple task, wouldn't you? Dream on, gentle reader. Opening the new cartridge box (a trial in itself as it seemed to be packed to withstand several nuclear winters) I discovered these cartridges have chips attached, which you have to transfer from old to new before the things will do their job. Prising the annoying little item out of the old cartridge was next to impossible and I only succeeded by levering it off with that most old-fashioned of implements - a HB pencil. Then ensued the pantomime of trying to get the wretched little thing into the new cartridge - into a space which bore little resemblance to its corresponding part on the old cartridge. Bear in mind this chip is about 2mm square. Several minutes of swearing, crawling around on the floor trying to see where the chip had decided to leap to now, and still not having any luck persuading it into the space where it was meant to go, I attempted to stick it in with a tiny piece of folded-up Sellotape. This at least held it in place, and I got it into the printer OK, but then the printer didn't seem to recognise the fact the new cartridge was fitted. (I suspect the sellotape wasn't letting it make a connection with something crucial). Taking it out again, I realised the thing was leaking everywhere and quickly bunged it into the nearest waterproof receptacle - a milk jug. My hands looked as if I'd been doing an audition to play Al Jolson, but thankfully none of the ink seems to have gone on the carpet.
I am sure all of you who know me can imagine what a rage this fiasco put me in. Scrubbing my hands free of black ink, the levels of abuse directed at printer and cartridge manufacturers, inventors of microchips and whichever muppet had the bright idea of chipping printer cartridges in the first place gradually subsided until I could think more philosophically about the issue. What sort of society do we live in where people will go to the trouble to microchip small pieces of plastic so they can grub more profit out of printer-consumables than they do out of selling the printer in the first place - but aren't prepared to give old people enough money to keep themselves warm over the winter? It just shows where the community's priorities are, doesn't it? I hope if any of my readers are involved in the printer consumables industry they are royally ashamed of themselves.
For your information, my recipe was duplicated by the Neanderthal means of my copying it by hand from screen to paper with the help of the aforementioned HB pencil. The cartridge and its Godforsaken chip is now in the bin.
Saturday, 11 October 2008
Now I've heard it all...
Having a swift second pint of tea after the weekend cooked breakfast, I was, surprise surprise, flicking through the BBC News website when I came across this...
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/wales/7664523.stm
Now, on some levels, it's quite reassuring to know that some councils are taking school nutrition seriously. So bravo Ceredigion Council (that having been said I'd love to see what they serve the kiddies for lunch as I'd put money on there being chips on the menu somewhere). I'm also chuffed, and not at all surprised, to see this is all going on in Wales - God's own country and somewhere where people take food seriously. On the other hand, you'd think some basic common sense could be applied, wouldn't you?
Chateau Angevin is a Bovril, not a Marmite, house it has to be said, but the same rules apply and we tuck into the black sticky stuff on toast on a fairly regular basis. Yes, it has salt in it, but it also is a good source of Vitamin B2 and niacin - substances which are shoved into breakfast cereals one notes. Amongst all the hysteria about salt I think people have lost sight of the fact we do need SOME in our diet, and whilst cutting down for most people is a good idea, cutting it out entirely is extremely foolish. As I don't use salt AT ALL in my cooking, not even in potatoes etc (I find if you use herbs instead nobody notices the difference) I don't see what is so wrong with the odd plate of Bovril on toast. I suspect Ceredigion have few scruples about using salt in their cooking, so perhaps they should look at this before they start banning Marmite at breakfast.
Another point - Ceredigion admit they use (low sugar) jam and marmalade, which is as far as I'm concerned merely adding to the training of childrens' palates to enjoy sweet things rather than savoury, something I'm quite keen to avoid with regard to Mini. I've long been of the opinion that children only like sweets etc because they are given them, which is why I'm fairly Stalinist when it comes to sugar. It's very noticeable that Mini, given the choice during his early morning unsupervised raids on the fridge, happily scarfs up cheese or prawns rather than the dessert remnants which are usually lurking in there (even when one of the lurkers is chocolate mousse). He'd much rather have really dark chocolate than rubbish like chocolate buttons and has in fact been known to hand the latter back to anybody who has given him a packet with the comment 'I don't like that'. The immunologist who 'does' his vaccinations says he Mini is one of only two children he's encountered in a 30-year career who would rather have raisins as a treat after the evil deed than chocolate. This is not to say that the poor little lad is totally deprived - he loves (home-made) strawberry jam sandwiches or a proper cream tea, but the crucial point is it's all IN MODERATION. He'd equally as happily scoff a ham sandwich or a sausage roll or have a banana. So as far as I'm concerned, I've done him a favour by not making him have the sweet-tooth cravings which are the legacy of the woolly-minded 'this is what kids do' mentality which in my opinion is half the cause of childhood obesity. Children eat what they are given and if they are routinely offered sweets or crap or fast food they assume that is the 'norm' and their palates are adjusted accordingly. Again, Ceredigion might think about that before it happily shoves jam, even low-sugar jam, down kiddies at breakfast.
Which brings me on to my next point... breakfast clubs. Again, I'm in two minds about this. On one hand, I can see they are a pretty good idea for working parents, who can drop their kids off early and know they are safe, being given a decent meal and having a good time with their pals. I'd also put money on the stuff being served for breakfast at the club being generally better for the children than some of the things they'd have at home, if indeed breakfast even makes an appearance in the home routine which is so often does not. The Chateau Angevin breakfast is an extremely important part of the day, it has to be said made much easier to accomplish by the fact Mini is home-schooled and I don't have a 9-5 job - the issues of school-bus, school run and timekeeping at work do not apply.
The downside, I feel, is the fact that if parents are dumping their kiddies off as early as they can in the morning, it's yet another erosion of family life. As so many parents also take advantage of afterschool clubs too, I suspect quite often they don't see their children between 8am and 6pm most days. As the weekends are probably spent catching up on housework or other essential things, or even just having some relaxation time which everybody needs if they are working a full week, I have a creeping feeling that most parents these days just don't have the same level of contact with their children that our parents or grandparents had with their offspring. Is it therefore, then, any surprise that the media is full of articles about the breakdown of family relationships and indeed, communities if we as a society have created conditions in which it's difficult for families to even start the day together because they have to rush off to earn enough to keep the financial ship afloat?
I know there isn't an easy answer to all this and in most cases both parents HAVE to work just to survive. But given every study I've ever read about confirms my beliefs that children are happier, better adjusted and thrive more when there is a parent at home surely the Government should be taking this issue a lot more seriously? Oh, silly me.... I forgot that two parents working means two sources of taxation for the Treasury... which sadly explains why all the 'initiatives' and 'pilot schemes' have been and I suspect will continue to be aimed at getting mothers back to work as soon possible after they leave the maternity ward. Never mind the mental health of both parent and child, or indeed the social health of our country....
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/wales/7664523.stm
Now, on some levels, it's quite reassuring to know that some councils are taking school nutrition seriously. So bravo Ceredigion Council (that having been said I'd love to see what they serve the kiddies for lunch as I'd put money on there being chips on the menu somewhere). I'm also chuffed, and not at all surprised, to see this is all going on in Wales - God's own country and somewhere where people take food seriously. On the other hand, you'd think some basic common sense could be applied, wouldn't you?
Chateau Angevin is a Bovril, not a Marmite, house it has to be said, but the same rules apply and we tuck into the black sticky stuff on toast on a fairly regular basis. Yes, it has salt in it, but it also is a good source of Vitamin B2 and niacin - substances which are shoved into breakfast cereals one notes. Amongst all the hysteria about salt I think people have lost sight of the fact we do need SOME in our diet, and whilst cutting down for most people is a good idea, cutting it out entirely is extremely foolish. As I don't use salt AT ALL in my cooking, not even in potatoes etc (I find if you use herbs instead nobody notices the difference) I don't see what is so wrong with the odd plate of Bovril on toast. I suspect Ceredigion have few scruples about using salt in their cooking, so perhaps they should look at this before they start banning Marmite at breakfast.
Another point - Ceredigion admit they use (low sugar) jam and marmalade, which is as far as I'm concerned merely adding to the training of childrens' palates to enjoy sweet things rather than savoury, something I'm quite keen to avoid with regard to Mini. I've long been of the opinion that children only like sweets etc because they are given them, which is why I'm fairly Stalinist when it comes to sugar. It's very noticeable that Mini, given the choice during his early morning unsupervised raids on the fridge, happily scarfs up cheese or prawns rather than the dessert remnants which are usually lurking in there (even when one of the lurkers is chocolate mousse). He'd much rather have really dark chocolate than rubbish like chocolate buttons and has in fact been known to hand the latter back to anybody who has given him a packet with the comment 'I don't like that'. The immunologist who 'does' his vaccinations says he Mini is one of only two children he's encountered in a 30-year career who would rather have raisins as a treat after the evil deed than chocolate. This is not to say that the poor little lad is totally deprived - he loves (home-made) strawberry jam sandwiches or a proper cream tea, but the crucial point is it's all IN MODERATION. He'd equally as happily scoff a ham sandwich or a sausage roll or have a banana. So as far as I'm concerned, I've done him a favour by not making him have the sweet-tooth cravings which are the legacy of the woolly-minded 'this is what kids do' mentality which in my opinion is half the cause of childhood obesity. Children eat what they are given and if they are routinely offered sweets or crap or fast food they assume that is the 'norm' and their palates are adjusted accordingly. Again, Ceredigion might think about that before it happily shoves jam, even low-sugar jam, down kiddies at breakfast.
Which brings me on to my next point... breakfast clubs. Again, I'm in two minds about this. On one hand, I can see they are a pretty good idea for working parents, who can drop their kids off early and know they are safe, being given a decent meal and having a good time with their pals. I'd also put money on the stuff being served for breakfast at the club being generally better for the children than some of the things they'd have at home, if indeed breakfast even makes an appearance in the home routine which is so often does not. The Chateau Angevin breakfast is an extremely important part of the day, it has to be said made much easier to accomplish by the fact Mini is home-schooled and I don't have a 9-5 job - the issues of school-bus, school run and timekeeping at work do not apply.
The downside, I feel, is the fact that if parents are dumping their kiddies off as early as they can in the morning, it's yet another erosion of family life. As so many parents also take advantage of afterschool clubs too, I suspect quite often they don't see their children between 8am and 6pm most days. As the weekends are probably spent catching up on housework or other essential things, or even just having some relaxation time which everybody needs if they are working a full week, I have a creeping feeling that most parents these days just don't have the same level of contact with their children that our parents or grandparents had with their offspring. Is it therefore, then, any surprise that the media is full of articles about the breakdown of family relationships and indeed, communities if we as a society have created conditions in which it's difficult for families to even start the day together because they have to rush off to earn enough to keep the financial ship afloat?
I know there isn't an easy answer to all this and in most cases both parents HAVE to work just to survive. But given every study I've ever read about confirms my beliefs that children are happier, better adjusted and thrive more when there is a parent at home surely the Government should be taking this issue a lot more seriously? Oh, silly me.... I forgot that two parents working means two sources of taxation for the Treasury... which sadly explains why all the 'initiatives' and 'pilot schemes' have been and I suspect will continue to be aimed at getting mothers back to work as soon possible after they leave the maternity ward. Never mind the mental health of both parent and child, or indeed the social health of our country....
Sunday, 5 October 2008
How to apply money?
Having a quick flick through, you've guessed it, the BBC News front page, I noticed an article saying the Coleridge Collar is coming up for sale:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/7653348.stm
Knowing my obsession with history you won't be surprised to learn I read it with some interest - it seems this article is going to auctioned early next month, the first time it has ever come up for sale.
So what? I can hear you all shout. Well, firstly, this is quite a unique piece - it's the only surviving entire livery collar from the Tudor period. Henry VIII only had about 20 or so of them made, for his special pals, and all the rest have either been broken up or their eventual demise has been lost in the centuries between then and now. Even the, regretfully usually fairly philistine, BBC have described it as "one of the most important surviving relics of the Tudor age", and if it's managed to penetrate their dumbed-down cerebral corteses it MUST be fairly significant. Secondly, the workmanship is quite extraordinary - those readers who know me beyond the pages of this blog and are therefore familiar with the seriousness with which I approach my own 'craft' activities, and those of others, therefore won't be surprised to discover I'm fascinated by the design and skill required to make such a piece. Lastly, and again those who know me and my avid reading of detective novels will not find this out of character, the collar was only discovered recently, lurking in the house of the poet Samuel Coleridge Taylor. So it's really like a bit of long-hidden treasure - an notion which is appealing to my kiddie 'let's find a secret' side.
What is bugging me is WHY for pity's sake is an item of this national importance going up for sale in a public auction house? SURELY, even in this credit-crunched environment somebody in charge of one of our collections (most appropriately the V&A I would suggest) must have noticed this item pop out of obscurity and recognise it really should be on public display? NO mention of that in the BBC article.
My hope is that the collar WILL indeed be purchased for the nation, or at least some enlightened public figure will dip in their own pocket to secure it. After all, if the ghastly J K Rowling can manage to stump up £1m for the Labour party - surely its not unreasonable to ask for a third of that amount to be used to to secure something of far, far more value to our cultural and historical life than a bunch of over-exposed self-publicising third-rate politicians?
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/7653348.stm
Knowing my obsession with history you won't be surprised to learn I read it with some interest - it seems this article is going to auctioned early next month, the first time it has ever come up for sale.
So what? I can hear you all shout. Well, firstly, this is quite a unique piece - it's the only surviving entire livery collar from the Tudor period. Henry VIII only had about 20 or so of them made, for his special pals, and all the rest have either been broken up or their eventual demise has been lost in the centuries between then and now. Even the, regretfully usually fairly philistine, BBC have described it as "one of the most important surviving relics of the Tudor age", and if it's managed to penetrate their dumbed-down cerebral corteses it MUST be fairly significant. Secondly, the workmanship is quite extraordinary - those readers who know me beyond the pages of this blog and are therefore familiar with the seriousness with which I approach my own 'craft' activities, and those of others, therefore won't be surprised to discover I'm fascinated by the design and skill required to make such a piece. Lastly, and again those who know me and my avid reading of detective novels will not find this out of character, the collar was only discovered recently, lurking in the house of the poet Samuel Coleridge Taylor. So it's really like a bit of long-hidden treasure - an notion which is appealing to my kiddie 'let's find a secret' side.
What is bugging me is WHY for pity's sake is an item of this national importance going up for sale in a public auction house? SURELY, even in this credit-crunched environment somebody in charge of one of our collections (most appropriately the V&A I would suggest) must have noticed this item pop out of obscurity and recognise it really should be on public display? NO mention of that in the BBC article.
My hope is that the collar WILL indeed be purchased for the nation, or at least some enlightened public figure will dip in their own pocket to secure it. After all, if the ghastly J K Rowling can manage to stump up £1m for the Labour party - surely its not unreasonable to ask for a third of that amount to be used to to secure something of far, far more value to our cultural and historical life than a bunch of over-exposed self-publicising third-rate politicians?
Friday, 3 October 2008
October, and..
... I've been in bed for two days with the first lurgi of the new season. Ho hum.
Emerging from my pit, mostly because it's Friday and therefore 'Graham the Veg-man Day' I was disappointed when I missed the guy as he was off up my drive like a ferret up a drainpipe once he'd delivered my order - I guess Veg Men too have busy days! Not having spent time scarfing back tea and having a chin wag, I decided to Do Something about the stockpile of apples from the orchard. Unfortunately, these don't really 'keep' and therefore rather than see them go wrinkly and end up as chicken-or-compost-bin-fodder I decided chutney was probably the best bet. Pottering around with industrial quantities of dark soft brown sugar, cider vinegar and a varied selection of jars from my spice cupboard, I think I may have discovered the new remedy for the remnants of lurgi as the resulting heady miasma permeated the house - it certainly cleared out my sinuses. Several hours later and more jars have been added to the store cupboard - fondly nicknamed the 'Ray Mears Nuclear Survival Store' owing the amount of stuff hoarded in there. It's just a matter of waiting the requisite 8 or so weeks now until the syrupy gloop matures....
Mini, however, was not impressed. "What's the stink?" was his comment on proceedings. Which beggars the question what is he going to make of tomorrow's effort - pickled pears, to be ready in time for the Christmas cold meat feasts?
Emerging from my pit, mostly because it's Friday and therefore 'Graham the Veg-man Day' I was disappointed when I missed the guy as he was off up my drive like a ferret up a drainpipe once he'd delivered my order - I guess Veg Men too have busy days! Not having spent time scarfing back tea and having a chin wag, I decided to Do Something about the stockpile of apples from the orchard. Unfortunately, these don't really 'keep' and therefore rather than see them go wrinkly and end up as chicken-or-compost-bin-fodder I decided chutney was probably the best bet. Pottering around with industrial quantities of dark soft brown sugar, cider vinegar and a varied selection of jars from my spice cupboard, I think I may have discovered the new remedy for the remnants of lurgi as the resulting heady miasma permeated the house - it certainly cleared out my sinuses. Several hours later and more jars have been added to the store cupboard - fondly nicknamed the 'Ray Mears Nuclear Survival Store' owing the amount of stuff hoarded in there. It's just a matter of waiting the requisite 8 or so weeks now until the syrupy gloop matures....
Mini, however, was not impressed. "What's the stink?" was his comment on proceedings. Which beggars the question what is he going to make of tomorrow's effort - pickled pears, to be ready in time for the Christmas cold meat feasts?
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