On a miserably wet yet warm morning Jackie transported three more paving slabs from the back drive to the side of the house.
Following his hospital period at the end of September Giles is now comfortably settled in a long term rest home very near his own house. I visited him there this afternoon. He was content and cheerful in a very spacious and well appointed room with very friendly staff.
Afterwards I received a haircut at Sears Barbers and began reading Agatha Christie’s short story ‘The Under Dog’.
This evening we dined on a repeat of yesterday’s Southern fried chicken meal with the addition of a melange of fried onions, peppers, mushrooms, and tomatoes. I drank more of the Fleurie.
We learn something of Hercule Poirot’s taste in women in this second story in the Crime Club’s Choice Collection “The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding” – a tale of an impossible murder into which his reluctant investigation was cajoled by Lady Chatterton, “…..one of the brightest jewels in what Poirot called le haut monde. Everything she did or said was news. She has brains, beauty, originality and enough vitality to activate a rocket to the moon.”
This “entrée” is introduced with a description of the famous detective’s efficient secretary who “seemed to be composed entirely of angles – thus satisfying Poirot’s demand for symmetry. Not that where women were concerned Hercule Poirot carried his passion for geometrical precision so far. He was, on the contrary, old-fashioned. He had a continental prejudice for curves – it might be said for voluptuous curves. He liked women to be women. He liked them lush, highly coloured, exotic….” This quotation exemplifies Christie’s humour and fluid prose. As usual she has complete control of dialogue.
Poirot can be “obsessed with beautiful women, crimes of passion, jealousy, hatred and and all the other romantic causes of murder” especially as this one appeared to have only one generally accepted possible solution which he found inexplicable.
We were led down a blind alley before Poirot proved what had really happened.
Agatha Christie’s own genius was to tie her plot into Shakespeare’s story of Othello with its themes of jealousy, murderous intent, and the naive innocence of a femme fatale.
Yesterday Jackie began transporting paving stones from the stack on the back drive to the side of the house for use behind the shed. She continued today, and I added a few. 21 of 28 have now been moved with the aid of sack barrow and wheelbarrow.
This evening we dined on Southern Fried Chicken and Jackie’s savoury rice with which I drank Collin Bourisset Fleurie 2022.
After more stimulating conversation Louisa, Geri, and Coco left us at 10 a.m. this morning.
Jackie then set about removing the tree roots impeding the level of the area behind the garden shed, and photographing her work.
I bagged up the waste roots.
We have a number of areas where the soil has recently been thrown up in what are now molehills produced by these normally solitary animals burrowing underground in search of a mate. One of these is the new footpath into the Weeping Birch Bed.
The Head Gardener also photographed the Cryptomeria Bed;
and roses Lady Emma Hamilton, aloha complete with raindrops and a fly, an Absolutely Fabulous bud, and Mamma Mia also bejewelled with rainwater.
This afternoon we took a forest drive. On a shaded bank at the corner of Bistern Close and Bennett’s Lane a squirrel scampered while the woodland behind enjoyed the sunshine.
This being bonfire season our nostrils often sniffed woodsmoke like this in the smoky landscapes seen from Picket Post carpark.
The rippling stream flowing fast under the ford at North Gorley reflected the footbridge above.
This evening we repeated last night’s meal of chicken and vegetable stewp and focaccia bread.
We enjoyed a pleasant morning with Louisa and her Cockapoos, Geri and Coco.
After lunch my daughter and I took the dogs on a forest drive.
The first stop was on Wootton Common.
Louisa photographed me venturing to cross the road to join them,
where they enjoyed splashing in the sodden pools.
Louisa parked the car beside the stream at Holmsley Passage and took her pets for a walk across the moorland and back.
I remained beside the car and focussed on the stream and on the landscape.
Coco kept me company on our return home.
Later this afternoon Helen and Bill joined us for more convivial conversation.
Elizabeth joined us for dinner which consisted of Jackie’s wholesome chicken stewp with focaccia brought by Louisa. I drank more of the Shiraz and my sister drank FeeDamm non-alcoholic lager.
Exactly 74 years ago to the day from this date Collins Crime Club published
In her foreword to this delightful first entrée Dame Agatha speaks of her own joyful childhood memories, acknowledging their part in the celebration which brought an adamantly reluctant Hercule Poirot into the party through the diplomatic persuasion of Mr Jesmond acting on behalf of the Commonwealth. “If one wanted to sum up Mr. Jesmond in a word, the word would have been discretion. Everything about Mr. Jesmond was discreet. His well-cut but inconspicuous clothes, his pleasant, well-bred voice which rarely soared out of an agreeable monotone, his light-brown hair just thinning a little at the temples, his pale serious face. It seemed to Hercule Poirot that he had known not one but a dozen Mr. Jesmonds in his time, all using sooner or later the same phrase – “a position of the utmost delicacy.” ” is an example of the writer’s skill in penning a complete portrait with few phrases. Each of the personalities in the tale are equally well presented – with insight, sensitivity, humour, and knowledge of people from all walks of life.
In her well-crafted style Christie presents the characters attending the Christmas and Boxing Day events, the possible crime, the suspected perpetrators, and the perspicacious Poirot.
We have an excellent description of the dinner and its traditions; a nice confusion over which puddings to serve when; a practical joke which backfires; a touch of mystery; and a few surprises.
The jacket of this first edition owes to its cellophane wrapper its rather more pristine condition than that of the ex-library edition pages. One of the collection bequeathed to me by my Auntie Ivy, I suspect she bought this as discontinued, for it bears the turned down corners produced by multiple readers not using bookmarks and
various stains I would prefer to imagine as those of the eponymous puddings, which, of course put me in mind of my own book featured in
The two now much older grandchildren who cooked the pudding mentioned above are currently fully occupied on their own matters, preventing them from joining my daughter Louisa on her own visit today when she will stay for two nights.
Louisa suffered much delay on her journey from Nottingham. ETA is now 8.30 p.m.
When she arrives we will all dine on succulent roast lamb; mint sauce; boiled new potatoes; soft spinach; firm broccoli, cauliflower, carrots, Brussels sprouts, and tasty gravy, with which I will drink Paarl Shiraz 2023.
This is the third of Federico García Lorca’s Three Tragedies in the Folio Society edition of 1977. As usual I have presented the illustrations by Peter Pendrey as they lie on their pages in the context of the author’s clear scene directions.
The play has an all female cast, with the only male character, being the focus of conflict and rivalry never appearing on stage.
We have an embittered controlling woman who battles to maintain appearances of harmony in a family of daughters barely concealing seething hatred. “I’m not interested knowing what you’re feeling inside; that’s your business; but I like to see an illusion of harmony at least.” “Do you understand?” – this last sentence is an indication of her domination over all but her youngest, whose equal spirit seeks the changing life of the future, while her mother clings to the old ways.
The poet’s language includes such as “until she looks like a squashed lizard when the children have finished with it” or “I love the way that priest sings…..his voice soars up and up like water filling a bucket little by little”. Songs in verse carry repeated phrases like “Open doors, open windows, /Village maidens draw near/The reapers beg roses/For the hats they wear”, yet the perception of the condition of women is encapsulated in this three sentence conversation: A. “Men get away with everything.” Another A. “It’s the ultimate punishment to be born a woman.” M. “Not even our eyes are our own.”
The appearance of the eldest, possibly dementing, woman in the final act symbolises loving mothering as she tenderly carries a baby lamb.
As the oppressive heat out in the village threatens an impending storm, so the stifling suppressed conflict among the sisters portends an emotional explosion within the airless house of mourning.
Sue Bradbury’s translation is fluid and seems to me who has no Spanish to convey the original language.
Here are Peter Pendrey’s last two accurately expressed lino-cut illustrations.
This evening we dined on a rack of pork spare ribs in barbecue sauce; Jackie’s special fried rice; carrots, cauliflower, broccoli, and runner beans, with which I finished the Cabernet Sauvignon.
Late this morning, in steady rain, we transported 11 bags of garden refuse and a broken spade that even we couldn’t recycle, to Efford Recycling Centre and came back with a print of a painting of flowers which Jackie had been given because unsold contents of the Reuse Shop were undergoing periodic culling.
Our warm, wet, weather of recent weeks has provided breeding grounds for a myriad of irritating midges. During our dump drive a number of these emerged from the damp rubbish and will be reminding us for a day or two to come.
We call our downstairs loo The Print Room on account of the number of my photographic prints.
Here is today’s new addition.
My lunchtime antiques TV programme doze was interrupted by a telephone call from Alice who was to carry out my BCG procedure at Southampton General Hospital tomorrow. This has been postponed to next week because the vaccine has not arrived.
Later, I finished reading a delightful short story, the draft of a review of which I will use my bonus time to write tomorrow. It will not be posted until Thursday 24th, for reasons which will become clear when it is.
This evening Jackie both produced and photographed our dinner of tempura and salt and pepper prawn preparations; with duck spring rolls on a bed of her colourful savoury rice and a side of succulent ratatouille, accompanied by another glass of the Cabernet Sauvignon for me.
Today the air remained stock-still until late afternoon, with the result
that the crab apples hung in portrait format.
There was very little damage from yesterday’s storm.
Jackie righted a heavy pot which had been blown over and straightened the Nerine which had bowed under pressure.
The white begonia remained lowered to the ground; dahlias and hydrangeas were undisturbed.
Jackie has removed a large cluster of mushrooms that threatened to choke Rosa Siluetta Lavender encircling the Weeping Birch trunk, and began clearing the footpath to the tree beside which the chair has lost a leg and will be converted to a plant stand elsewhere.
We jointly transferred more spare paving to bear a temporary throne to replace the rusted chair for The Garden Queen to strike a regal figure clutching her spade sceptre.
Afterwards she began planting up the large pot positioned beside it.
The Summer Wine rose continues to cling to Martin’s Arch.
Just as Jackie finished her planting a heavy shower watered it in.
This evening we dined on flavoursome baked gammon; succulent ratatouille; boiled baby potatoes; firm carrots, broccoli and cauliflower, and tender runner beans with which I drank Coonawarra Cabernet Sauvignon 2022.
Storm Ashley treated us more gently than expected today, only blowing over one heavy potted pot, so I stayed in and reviewed ‘Blood Wedding’.
The second of Federico García Lorca’s three tragedies in the Folio Society’s collection has a different approach to the story of feuding families and forbidden love than that of Shakespeare’s better known Romeo and Juliet.
Lorca focusses on contrasts, alternating prose with verse; dark with light; music and gaiety with tension and a sense of doom; warm colours of pink and yellow with colder white, grey, and blue.
Lyrical language and the tuneful verse of the happier moments exemplify the poet’s ear. It is noticeable that the joy of the guests is not reflected in the apprehension of the Bride.
As usual the author is very clear in his scene directions to set the mood of the sequences,
noticeably those introducing Act One, Scene Three (the room, the Maid’s character, and the unease of the Mother and son).
The Beggar Woman symbolises Death and Doom, while Moon casts light as the inevitable tragic conclusion unfolds, perhaps not quite as expected.
Peter Pendrey’s linocuts are here presented as set in their pages, shared with examples of the author’s writing.
Regarding Shakespeare’s play of a similar theme I have previously posted
featuring an altogether different set of illustrations.
Elizabeth visited us for a short time this afternoon, because Efford Recycling Centre where she was booked to tip some rubbish was closed, presumably on account of the storm.
This evening we dined on Royal Spice home delivery of excellent Murgh Masala (only one chilli strength) and plain paratha for me, which I drank Kingfisher; and paneer shashlik for Jackie. We shared special fried rice.
Today’s warm-still-sunshine weather belies the anticipated 46 m.p.h. winds of storm Ashley expected to strike tomorrow.
We therefore went into full batten down the hatches mode as we lowered items bound to be blown down.
Next, we filled six more compost bags with clippings Jackie had accumulated over the last few days.
Mushrooms continue to proliferate on the spread roots of the dead Weeping Birch. The head gardener added some these to a bag.
Later I read most of García Lorca’s ‘Blood Wedding’.
This evening we dined on slow-baked gammon; creamy mashed potatoes; crunchy carrots; firm cauliflower, and tender runner beans. with which I finished the vińa San Juan.
