June 2013 – Page 2 – derrickjknight

Sod’s Law

On the train from Southampton to Waterloo, to which Jackie delivered me this morning, an extremely rowdy, already drunken group of young men bearing beer cans and plastic wine glasses, accompanied by very tiny fascinators flickering and wobbling above very weighty women wearing dresses to match, fortunately alighted at Winchester. One of the men rested his shod foot on a window. As they left, two of them didn’t know which way to turn with their unwieldy plastic packing case containing further cans. I wondered how they would fare at Ascot.

I finished reading John S. Morrill’s ‘The Stuarts’ and began Paul Langford’s ‘The Eighteenth Century’ in the Oxford Illustrated History of Britain.

We paused outside Clapham Junction where the embankment was incongruously meadow-like.

The Ascot crowds convening at Waterloo displayed far more elegance and fascination than my earlier companions on the train.

Having previously determined against it, my trip of a couple of days ago demonstrated that whichever way I walked I was not going to escape the global influx, so I took my usual route to Green Park to catch the Jubilee Line train to Neasden, and Norman’s for lunch.

The London Eye attracted its usual long queues.

A little girl riding along the Embankment perched on her father’s shoulders reminded me of Becky’s superbly adapted Fathers’ Day card.

She, too, will not have forgotten that climb up Mount Snowdon. I had walked up and down the Miners’ Track with her on my shoulders. Although I copped out of the last bit to the summit I had walked up this route regarded as the easy one without too much trepidation. That was because we were walking through clouds.

On the way down when they had cleared I realised that there was a sheer drop either side of the narrowest section of the path.

After I’d got past it, my shirt was wringing wet. The only trousers available in the 1970s were that sartorial aberration, flares. This made me think of a glorious episode of ‘Minder’ set in the 1980s when they were no longer de rigueur, and the hapless Arthur Daley, played so well by the marvellous George Cole, bought a bargain box of jeans. The dismay on his face when he opened the container elicited amused delight from Dennis Waterman’s beautifully depicted Terry, and howls of laughter from me. The garments were, of course, flared.

Westminster Bridge was slightly less populated than usual. A carnation (see post of 28th February) had been discarded on the pavement. Further along a vociferously combative middle-aged woman demanded £20 from a reluctant young man on whom she had planted another.

A London taxi had broken down in a most unfortunate spot. The driver alternated between tinkering outside with the engine and revving up the accelerator inside his cab.

Basking on their rocks, St. James’s Park’s pelicans enjoyed the spray from the fountain which cooled them on another sultry day.

Building works had brought single lane traffic to St. James’s Street. One had to weave around stationary taxis to negotiate zebra crossings. As the meters continue to click over whilst the cabs are not able to move, I dread to think what the fares cost.

As I sat down to Norman’s roast pork dinner, I burst out laughing. In response to his query I related a conversation I had had with Jackie last night. While we were enjoying her roast pork dinner she had said: ‘You will have roast pork tomorrow’. ‘Eh?’, said I, ‘How do you know what Norman will give me?’. ‘Sod’s law’, she replied.

This prompted Norman to tell his sod’s law story. ‘When you drop a slice of bread and jam on the floor it always lands jam side down’. ‘Yes……’, said I, sensing there was more to come. ‘Except’, continued my friend, ‘when you are demonstrating sod’s law’. Perfect.

Carta Roja gran reserva 2005 accompanied today’s meal that was completed by summer pudding which he knows is one of my favourites.

I went on to Carol’s and thence back to Southampton by my normal routes, and Jackie drove me back to Minstead.

Hanging By A Thread

The following were the human beings I saw when walking The Splash ampersand this sultry morning: a few isolated car drivers on the road; a postman getting into his van outside the study centre; a woman in a nurse’s uniform leaving a house and walking to her car; one man crossing a road to another house; a psychotherapist walking from her home to post a letter in the box on the green opposite; two woman chatting in a cottage doorway; and a teacher with a group of schoolchildren having a lesson in a shady spot by The Splash. That’s it. Contrast the peace with yesterday’s heaving pavements. By mid-day, even the birds were mostly quiet. The rhythm of my sandals slapping the tarmac was at one point interrupted by the sound of a squealing gate that emanated from a donkey in need of lubrication.

A very small lamb was silhouetted against the sky visible through a hole in the Furzey Gardens road hedge.

A bunch of horses in a Fleetwater field had me wondering whether Kevin Pietersen had branched out into equestrian breeding.

Beside The Splash it was the eager voices of the schoolchildren I heard first. Peering through the foliage I spied the sun-dappled group seated around the stream. For them it was a quite different experience than that of the children I had heard yesterday in Shrewsbury Road.

On my return to the flat, the painters were, in a most relaxed fashion, availing themselves of the facilities offered by Jackie. John Broad expressed the idea that they should cancel next week’s job and come back here instead. Dean was exchanging texts with a friend to whom he had just sent photographs of the setting in which they were working.

I am experiencing a niggling discomfort very similar to one I suffered when I was a child in about 1949. It is strange to feel the same annoyance from a nagging gnasher at seventy as I did at seven. I have a wisdom tooth the root of which was partly exposed many years ago when its next door neighbour was extracted. It is now gradually attempting to prise itself loose from its moorings. If only I could get a good grip on it I feel certain I would be able to help it on its way, just as Mum did with one of my milk teeth. I whinged all day because it was sore, but couldn’t pluck up the courage for the final lift off. Neither would I let my mother near it. I had seen a cartoon in either the Dandy or the Beano where a parent tied a string round a bad tooth and the other end to a door knob, slammed the door shut, and had the tooth literally hanging from a thread. When I eventually allowed my mother to wrap her fingers around my molar it came off in her hand with no tugging at all. It had been metaphorically hanging by a thread. This enables me to imagine what it was like for six year old Jessica just before her front teeth fell out.

This evening, sitting in the garden before dinner, we watched a thrush competing with a blackbird and various tits for theirs. The thrush actually seems to be more alarmed by other birds now than by us.

Dinner was Jackie’s slow roasted pork with superb crackling (tip) and crisp vegetables, followed by sticky toffee pudding. My accompaniement was Berberana rioja 2012; hers was Hoegaarden.

Alex Schneideman

On another oppressively humid overcast day Jackie drove me to Southampton whence I had an uneventful journey to Waterloo. From there, along, it seemed, with the rest of the world, I walked across Golden Jubilee Bridge which runs parallel with an older railway one; past Charing Cross; through Trafalgar Square; along Pall Mall; up Haymarket to Piccadilly Circus; along Oxford Street to Marble Arch; through to Bayswater Road, where the throng thinned a little; right into Leinster Terrace; then via Craven Hill Gardens and Porchester and Queensborough Terraces, weaved my way to the top end of Queensway; along Westbourne Grove, and finally into Sutherland Place.

A little early for my appointment to make the inventory of my belongings soon to be removed from number 29, I sat for a while in Shrewsbury Gardens at the end of the road, watching dogs crapping on the grass, and listening to gleeful children in the Catholic primary school playground alongside.

An American gentleman, seeking former residences of Marconi, on whom he was doing some research, sought St. Stephen’s Square. Neither I nor a 67 year old woman who had lived in the area all her life, knew of this. We came to the conclusion that it may have been bombed during the war, built over, and renamed.

A couple more greenery figures (see post of 5th June) are chatting over their garden fence in front of the Royal Festival Hall on the South Bank.

The coping surrounding the fountains in Trafalgar Square and the steps of the National Gallery provided perches from the young of the globe. A boy on a rocking horse attempted to leap over one of the lions which Matthew had scaled with such trepidation in September 1976. (If you haven’t already twigged this, clicking on the images enlarges them. This is sometimes necessary to see the detail of the pictures and possibly the points of my jokes.)

A chalked plea for the people of Turkey was inscribed on some paving stones.

In Haymarket a group of portly businessmen tottered out of a wine bar promising each other e-mails in the morning. It is to be hoped that at least one of them remembered.

As I walked down Regent Street I thought of Simon (see post of 10th June) who had sought a memento of the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee, and speculated that he would have liked the pennants strung across the road. I ignored the ‘crossing not in use sign’.

Returning my smile, a young woman in Oxford Street distributing leaflets advertising a waxing service refrained from offering me one.

The Halepi and Zorbas (no apostrophe) restaurants featured in ‘Feng Shui’, posted on 9th January, are situated in Leinster Terrace.

Contrary to expectations, Zorbas seems still to be in business.

After the planning of the final move from Sutherland Place, I walked down to Notting Hill Gate, took the Central Line to Bond Street, and changed to the Jubilee Line which carried me back to Waterloo. I read more of John S. Morrill’s ‘The Stuarts’ on the train, and Jackie drove me back home and fed me on chili con carne (recipe) with which I finished the Maipo merlot and she her Hoegaarden.

In 2009, whilst living in Sutherland Place and preparing the photographs for ‘The Magnificent Seven’ (see 7th April post), I realised I needed some training in how to get the best results from Photoshop. The first tutor was one of those awful teachers who has to do it all for you, too speedily to follow, let alone make coherent notes. He also messed up my scanner settings, making it impossible to scan anything at all without channeling it through Photoshop. I could no longer save a picture in jpg format, and he didn’t know how to put it right. I didn’t ask him back.

Wandering up Portobello Road one day I came across the stunning window display of a professional photographer which carried a card advertising Photoshop tuition. If the man could produce the images on show he probably had something to teach me. I rang the number on the card, and the photographer soon visited me at home. He was a completely different kettle of fish. A sensitive and artistic young man, he had all the patience needed to guide me through the processes and enable me to take notes. He never tried to pack too much into a session. This was Alex Schneideman who has since become a good friend and incidentally told me how to start a blog on WordPress.

After the second of our three two hour tutorials Alex asked me if he could photograph me. This he did in the sitting room of 29 Sutherland Place, and placed a set on his website. He also made me a present of number 21 in the ‘through the ages’ series. Another was number 20, which I reproduce here, and which demonstrates the photographer’s skill in relaxing his subjects. The photograph on the windowsill is of Michael and Heidi on their wedding day. I don’t think my portraits still adorn the website, but for anyone interested in imaginative, intuitive, photography www.alexschneideman.net is well worth a visit. Or, better still, pop along to Portobello Road and meet the man himself and also view the beautiful second-hand illustrated books in which his equally engaging wife deals.

Raq

Jackie is now providing morning coffee for Brown Brothers Builders, who are painting the downpipes. I am not sure whether or not Gladys is doing the one o’clock tea (see post of 4th June). I will soon expect a queue of tradespeople offering their services.

The atmosphere was dull, warm, and humid as I walked the Football Green/Bull Lane loop. Cattle and ponies on the Green were settling down for the promised storm.

I had originally planned a different route but was diverted by two collies racing in pursuit of I didn’t know what. As I neared them I noticed John Edward Bartlett, otherwise known as Jeb, throwing something. On closer inspection it proved to be a slingshot used to launch a rubber ball. The dogs clearly enjoyed the game. When the ball landed inside the roped off area, the smaller animal waited for permission to retrieve it, nipped through the gate, and gathered it up. I am thinking of submitting my photograph for a Spot the Ball competition.

G. Bramwell Evens, Romany of the BBC, broadcast nature programmes in the 1930s and ’40s. He also wrote numerous books. His dog was a spaniel whose name caught the attention of my first brother-in-law, Bernard Murray who, in the 1960s, as a young teenager, named his pet after Romany’s companion.

Jeb described himself as head gardener of Malwood Lodge. He was happy for me to photograph his activity and offered the names of his collies, ‘for [my] records’. He had acquired the smaller dog first, and had always wanted to name a dog after Romany’s. He hadn’t told me the story of the name when I demonstrated that I knew how to spell it. He stopped me relating it, so he could do so himself. The name was Raq. Obviously being a man after my own heart he could not resist calling the second one Ruin.

When I was introduced to Soay sheep on 29th May, I had been told their lambs were black. This was very clear today.

A shopping trip to Ringwood was followed by a diversion to Bransgore to have another look at the outside of 93 Burley Road (see 14th June post). It’s still there. Back at our flat we sat outside for a drink before our meal. The temperature today has been 23c and we did not receive the expected rain. Jackie’s hanging baskets are now full of colour. Unfortunately they are all clustered on the lawn outside the back door because of Brown Brothers’ work on the house. We also pondered about the little brown circular patches in the grass. Probably nothing to do with the builders. My guess is that they represent the toilet facilities for a small bitch who is brought out at 6 a.m. each morning to be emptied. They are rather like those Paddy left on occasion on the Lindum House lawn.

Jackie made a delicious chili con carne (recipe) for our dinner. I enjoyed it with Maipo reserva merlot 2012, while she drank Hoegaarden.

NITS (2)

Father’s Day was celebrated in style in the Thompson household. I was given a decorated pebble inscribed ‘My Dad Rocks’. Errol was presented with breakfast in bed delivered by his daughters. I would have received that too had I not got up very early to post yesterday’s blog entry.

Reflecting on yesterday’s performance Jessica and Imogen treated us to a rendering of Gangnam Style dancing to accompany Psy’s recording. This was hilarious and exciting, for the entertainers especially.

Louisa, Imogen and I then began the planned gardening project. This was the creation of a bed along the right hand fence in which to grow flowers and shrubs. Imogen quietly beavered away the whole time. She had a bit of a dig; took on the task of throwing the weeds into the brown wheely waste bin; fed worms to the chickens; and later, did some watering

Jessica had to be prised from the laptop to come into the garden, but soon she and her Dad joined in the fun. She planted out a sunflower she had been nurturing in a pot from seed.

We had made very good progress before Louisa provided us with a brunch of egg and bacon muffins, after which we completed the preparation. Jackie had not been able to find her gardening gloves so was unable to do the graft, although she served two very useful purposes in giving advice on planting and fulfilling the role of project photographer.

An hydrangea that had not been doing too well, having lost most of its access to the sun to larger foliage, was transplanted to the opposite side of the garden by Louisa and her daughters after Errol had carefully dug it up.

The soil having been prepared to our satisfaction, Jackie, Louisa, and I repaired to Brookfields Garden Centre to buy some plants to fill in some of the gaps. A fuchsia, a choisya, three heuchera, and a cotinus were our choices, and Louisa and the girls lost no time in planting them on our return.

This had been another successful performance by NITS, or Nearly Instant Transformation Services.

Early in the afternoon Jackie and I made tracks for home, giving Kate, the satnav, one more chance. The route chosen after Errol’s reset was a better one and didn’t involve a diversion to central London. The coming and going of the route on screen continued, and I twice had to divert a demo. So, it looks as if a new one will be required. As we left the car in our parking slot I poked Kate into the glove compartment, saying ‘we’ll leave her there for now in case of emergencies, and if anyone chooses to nick her it serves them right’. Lying on the floor of the boot were Jackie’s gardening gloves. They had obviously fallen out of her bag when we had arrived at Mapperley Top.

Jackie knocked up a tasty Spanish omelette, chips and baked beans for our evening meal.

NITS

15.6.13

Today we motored up to Louisa and Errol’s home in Mapperley, Nottingham. We had not used our Tom Tom satnav for a couple of years, and it took its revenge. Throughout the journey it pleased itself whether it showed the road map for a second or a minute or at all. It kept switching from one place to another, and after about an hour suddenly halved the distance and time we still had to go. After much frustrating investigation I realised it was taking us to my one-time address in London, W2. Fortunately this discovery came before it would become crucial. Once, whilst we were travelling along the M1 the device took us on a diversion round a roundabout and back onto the motorway. It had, without being asked, taken us on a demo trip.

Normally when using the satnav, we have Kate’s voice turned off. This young lady’s directions are those we programmed the device to produce. She irritates Jackie, who finds her confusing. I hold the machine and forewarn my driver of movements she has to make. For example I will say: ‘in 300 yards turn left’. Without the screen showing the route, I couldn’t do this so the voice stayed on. That, at least, was consistent.

I became rather less than my calm, laid-back, self. ‘More than somewhat’, as Damon Runyon would say.

Passing through Oxfordshire the skies were full of kites. The avian variety. In Leicestershire, a livid, jagged, lightning scar suddenly split the grey cloud screen ahead, and we were driving through torrential rain, forcing our speed down to about 35 miles an hour. This did not last last long.

We stopped off at Cherwell Valley Services which is a massive fast food facility. There were two one-armed bandit areas, and various other amusements for travellers taking a break. I heard a woman trailing around ask ‘is there anything else to see?’ The place was like Waterloo station in the rush hour. Jackie queued at Upper Crust for her baguette. I tried the Cornish Pastie stand. I stood for a while only to learn that the traditional variety would not be ready for another half hour. So it was a Burger King for me, where I chose a Triple Whopper. As I bemoaned the fact that there was nothing to eat it with, Jackie proclaimed that this was not the place for delicacy and I should just pick it up and take a bite out of it.

Our journey took somewhat longer than anticipated, and, by the time we arrived at Haywood Road, two little girls were sitting on the wall with their Mum, waiting for us to drive off immediately to Lower School for Jessica’s dance show. Errol’s driving was a calm interlude after the previous few hours of mounting stress.

We then sat watching groups of Nottingham’s finest primary school children performing on stage. Everyone had a fun time as those we had come to watch entertained us with gusto.

There was some delay due to technical hitches, and the emcee was forced to apologise for an unfortunate un-Bowdlerised opening phrase in one of the soundtracks. I was full of admiration for the dedication of young teenaged trainers of these after-school groups in enabling the children to achieve idiosyncratic, individually co-ordinated contortions to the cacaphony of sound illuminated by flashing red lights as they emerged from the darkness at the back of the stage. My attempts to photograph this left something to be desired.

Of the several popular numbers performed, ‘Gangnam Style’ was noticeable for being almost as entertaining as South Korea’s Psy’s unlikely hit of last year. Indeed, it was when she heard the introduction to that piece that Jessica, previously a little bemused, became most animated.

Occasionally visible from the folds in the curtains in the wings would be glimpses of the elegant limbs of a conducting choreographer who performed the movements the children were meant to be making. Then we realised why so many of them constantly swivelled their heads sideways. There was the inevitable child who was too small for her skirt and was consequently restricted to one-armed movements as she hitched up the elusive waistband.

This took me back to summers in Newark during Louisa’s early schooldays. These were when we were subjected to NITS, the Nearly Instant Theatre Sessions directed by Alan. Children of varying degrees of talent would throw themselves enthusiastically into rehearsals for the grand opening performance. I seem to remember Louisa, one of the keenest cast members, enjoying a dialogue on stage in ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’. She has forgotten it.

Back at the Thompson home we were greeted by a surprise visit from Emily and Michael. My son was moving his daughter from Nottingham University to Birmingham where she will be staying for the three months holiday period.

Errol had a go at resetting Kate. We’ll see how we get on on the way home. The problem had been that we had not done this trip from Hampshire before, so we should be more successful even without her assistance.

Louisa made an excellent sausage casserole whilst Emily read the bedtime stories. Jessica and Imogen’s cousin had to be rescued by Errol because the children had, of course, quadrupled the number of chapters Mummy always read to them.

Naturally we stayed the night.

‘

On 11th May I described Imogen’s continuation of the Easter egg hunt. Once she had reprised the hunt several times, she forgot where she’d hidden all the little chocolate rabbits. Jackie found another one this morning.

We ventured on another property window shop today. The first option, at Cadnam, was within walking distance for me, so I set off earlier than Jackie who drove there to meet me. This involved me walking along the A337, which, by virtue of the trees all being in leaf; the verges being covered in summer growth; and wide caravans being driven along the road that has no footpath, is getting pretty dicey for a pedestrian. I decided to take a chance across country at the first opportunity. This was the grounds of Cadnam Cricket Club that could be entered by crossing a cattle grid. The rest of this A road as far as the Cadnam roundabout is fenced off from the forest in order to prevent ponies from straying on to it. It is one thing for them to take possession of the lanes and minor roads, quite another for them to exercise their right of way on major ones.

Where a youthful forest pony cannot pass, a human septuagenarian would best not try. So, leaving the cricket club area I set off into uncharted waters. There was no slip of the keyboard there. Waters it was. Boggy streams criss-crossed the terrain. I was, however, encouraged by a makeshift wooden bridge over one, and pursued the route. Miraculously it bore my weight. The land was a bit boggy, and there were no more bridges, but I did come to an old established footpath that left the line of the road and took its own diagonal off to the right. I was aiming for a property on Romsey Road, which was one of the turnings off the Cadnam roundabout. I figured that this path might just bring me to somewhere on that road and all I would have to do is turn left or right. As everyone knows, I can always be relied upon to guess the correct choice.

A jogger approached me and, without causing him to break his stride, I asked him if I was headed for Romsey Road. ‘I don’t know, I’m not from around here’, was his easy breathing reply. Isn’t that always the way? Soon I could see a road ahead with an optimistic number of cars on it. Old Cross Road at the end of my path took me to what could possibly be Romsey Road. On the other hand………

I crossed the road and enquired at the Cadnam Conservative Centre, to learn that I was in Southampton Road. Ah…… All, however, was not lost. I could see the roundabout on my left. It was but a short distance to my landmark and Romsey Road. All in all, I’d say that was a result. I’d like to claim that it was a little more than sheer good fortune. But I don’t suppose anyone would believe me.

Jackie drove into The White Hart car park as I reached it, then we motored on to the dwelling we wished to see. As always she had walked the walk on the internet and knew that the house was opposite Fran’s Flowers.

A few day’s ago Helen Eale’s posted a photograph of a menu board exemplifying the phenomenon of the wandering apostrophe. Its a problem thats always intrigued me, too. As we tried to park, avoiding Frans dropped kerb, we noticed a beautifully painted sign advertising the establishments ware’s. Jackie felt it needed a bit of amendment, and suggested a nocturnal visit to remove jams punctuation mark. Especially as the handmade sign’s to the left of the professional board, and some of the other produce on that advertisement displayed a certain lack of consistency, I favoured sneaking along with red and white paint and a black permanent marker to make the necessary addition’s.

Having torn ourselves away from this little diversion, we had a look at the house opposite. Unfortunately the estate agent had forgotten to mention that it was faced by a large static caravan, and the photographer had, of course positioned him- or herself so as to ensure that no prospective buyer could imagine that that would be thrown in.

Our next visit was to Bransgore and 93 Burley Road. This is a rather old thatched cottage that from the outside looks pretty attractive. Bransgore is a large village with all the necessary amenities and set in the heart of the forest. Having ogled that, we went on to Sopley for lunch at The Woolpack. Certain visible changes and a notice at the bar informed us that there has been a change of ownership. So, sisters and brothers-in-law, if you have any wine vouchers, you can recycle them, for they are no longer legal tender in The Woolpack. The previous owners had encouraged customers to save tokens for conversion into wine with a meal. Any that have been hoarded are, like Sainsbury’s money off vouchers after a couple of days, obsolete. ‘For the time being’, according to our barmaid, the food will remain unchanged. The chef is still there.

I enjoyed a steak, mushroom, and Guinness pie with chips and vegetables. Jackie’s choice was the gammon steak with egg, pineapple, chips and salad. I drank Doom Bar, she drank Stella. A light salad, accompanied in my case by Piccini chianti riserva 2009, and in Jackie’s by Hoegaarden completed our day’s sustenance in the evening.

P.S.: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-39459831?SThisFB

The Wrong Date

I have begun reading Peter Roberts’ short history of Minstead in the seventeenth century.

On a cold, dark, and dank morning in this flaming June…….. just a minute, what flaming June? We like to think of this early summer month as sunny and warm, so we call it ‘flaming June’. That hardly applies. I’ll use my grandmother’s ‘flaming’. Grandma, you see, used ‘flaming’ as an euphemism for something else, of which I fondly hope she was unaware. So, as I was saying, on a cold, dark, and dank morning in this flaming June, I walked the two fords loop, finishing, via the church footpath, at The Trusty Servant Inn where I was to meet Heather for lunch.

Unknown hands had fashioned a ring of rhododendron petals beside the bridle path at the top of the hill coming up from the first ford. Just before I descended to The Splash, I noticed the twig circle, the mystery of which was unravelled on 11th January, has reappeared. This all suggests that parties of schoolchildren are returning to the Study Centre just above that ford.

The church footpath was unexpectedly drier than usual, clearly having benefitted from maintenance work. A bit of a ditch has been dug into the upper verge and channels have been cut across the path so water from the higher field is channeled into the lower one.

The Trusty Servant Inn was functioning during the period of Mr. Roberts’ history. Perhaps the building itself has been reincarnated since then. Heather and I reached the car park at the same time, and, never having met before but faced photographs of each other for about a year on the on-line Scrabble board, recognised each other even before she emerged from her car. We knew we would get on because of the rapport we had shared on the game chats. It was a most enjoyable lunch capped by my new friend coming back to our flat to meet Jackie and spend another hour or so with us both.

Heather and Brian live at Horndean, where Mum and Dad had their last home together. Dad died in his bed there and is buried in the cemetery at nearby Catherington. The date of his death was Christmas Day 1987, just two weeks after Jessica and I had moved with our children to Newark. This has always made Christmas an especially significant date to remember. In my ‘Would You Believe It?’ post of 7th August last year, one of the uncanny stories that provided the theme was that of completing the posthumous pastel portrait I began the following Christmas Eve and finished in the early hours of Christmas morning.

In August 2012 I was in Sigoules with Don and did not have my copy of the portrait with me. I am now, with the aid of technology nearly forty years on from December 1988, able to reproduce it here. What I have is an enlarged photocopy of the original given to my mother. In those days we did not have our own scanners and printers and the pc to operate them. We visited the local shop, usually a stationers, equipped with a photocopying machine. Osborne’s in Newark possessed one with a facility to enlarge what was to be reproduced. Now I can photograph the framed picture behind its glass with my little Canon S100, walk across the room, slip the SIM card into the back of my computer, fiddle about a bit with the image, save it on the desktop, upload it to my WordPress blog, finish the post, and send it round the world via the server. Had any one told me this would one day be possible whilst I stood by the stationer’s machine, wondering how to operate it, would I have believed it?

Returning to 1987, whilst Dad’s body was being lowered into the grave, I noticed the date of death inscribed on the coffin’s brass plate was 24th December. The family consensus was that I should ask the undertakers to change it. I asked them to do so after the burial. I do not know whether they ever did. I don’t suppose it matters much now. We know.

Following the plentiful ham, egg, and chips I had for lunch, we dined on pizza, salad, and trifle. I drank Cocker Hoop ale, which name suggests that Jennings, the brewers, are proud of it.

Sir Garfield Sobers

A growling has emanated from the car in the last few days whenever Jackie has applied the brakes. I could have understood it had it come from passengers, especially when she put her foot down heavily, but it definitely came from the vehicle, and only when the pedal was gently caressed. We therefore decided to have the problem examined by Wells garage in Ringwood. Jackie has found this firm, recommended by Helen, to be reliable, efficient, reasonably priced, and offering friendly service.

We drove to the garage this morning and left the car there whilst Bill drove Jackie to the Eales’ home in Poulner, to which I walked. This took me along Northfield Drive at the end of which I turned right and on to Southampton Road which leads to The Mount, where Helen and Bill live. Not having made this journey on foot before, I needed to be pointed in the right direction. It was then almost straightforward. There is, in Poulner, a Tudor period house which has been for sale for a very long time, it seems since soon after it was built. It serves as a very useful landmark, so when it came into view I knew where I was. I thought.

I am used to travelling in Jackie’s car. So I knew that I should walk past the house, continue for perhaps a quarter of a mile, turn around, go back past it, and take a left turn just before reaching Southampton Road again. This, therefore, is what I did. (In fairness, that only happened once, but it reads better as if it were a regular occurrence, especially as that really is what I did.)

Today’s rain was unrelenting. The car’s brake pads needed replacing and would not be ready until late afternoon, so it was quite pleasant to stay the rest of the day with Jackie’s sister and brother-in-law, chatting and playing Scrabble. Helen gave us a good salad lunch with her crusty home-made bread which reminded me of the smell of muslin-covered dough left overnight in my grandmother’s glazed earthenware mixing bowl.

The Scrabble led us to discuss the debacle of the on-line version which has been corrupted by Mattel, and the fact that many of the original players are moving to the more traditional Lexulous. Helen and I are both what the Daily Mail has called silver surfers. She has yet to try Lexulous which I recommended to her.

Before lunch, while Jackie and Helen were making plans for the sisters’ forthcoming camping weekend, Bill and I chatted in the sitting room. Inevitably we spoke about sport, and he told me of how he acquired his treasured Walter Hammond four-star cricket bat. That is his story, so I won’t steal his thunder, but it did remind me of how I secured Frank’s trophy. Frank was a friend of the family in Newark. Quite coincidentally, because Louisa met her husband after our friend had returned to Jamaica, Frank is Errol’s uncle.

Having spent his working life in England, this warm and friendly Jamaican and his wife Pansy decided to return to the land of their births when they retired. I wanted to mark this with a suitable present. It had become a tradition for Becky, Frank, and me to visit Trent Bridge for one day of the Test matches, so I had a good idea of a suitable subject. But what would be the most apt gift?

Art on Glass in Bridge Street had, for many years, displayed in its window a perfect engraved portrait of probably the greatest all-round West Indian cricketer who has ever lived. This was on a delicately coloured green glass which had been imported from Canada. That was it. That was Frank’s present. Not the right island, but never mind, I thought.

I asked the proprietor to sell it to me. The answer was a definite no. The situation called for tactful persistence. I explained why I wanted it. He countered with the fact that this was the original of three he had made. One of the others was auctioned at a local Country Club by the subject, who himself retained the other. This of course made it all the more desirable. I must have looked suitably crestfallen. It has always been my policy to rely on people’s good nature, rather than try to beat them into submission. The man offered to make another. He was not prepared to do it on anything other than the Canadian glass. That would take a little time, but we had about six months. Well, the suppliers constantly let the craftsman down. As we got nearer and nearer the departure date, and as my visits of enquiry became more and more frequent, I all but gave up hope.

Two weeks before the due date, the artist also gave up on the glass. He announced that I could buy the original. Frank was able to return to his native land with the very first copy of a most unusual portrait of Sir Garfield Sobers.

Back home this evening Jackie produced cod, chips, and mushy peas followed by bread and butter pudding for our dinner. Good traditional English nosh.

Picking Up The Tab

Although the weather cleared this evening, it was through steady rain and silvery mist that Jackie drove us on a second window shopping trip. The windows in question being of course attached to residences we wanted to check out from outside. We scoured bits of Hampshire and Dorset.

First on the list was Ossemsley Manor. Taking a rather different route than yesterday we managed to find it this time. One reason for our previous confusion had probably been the sign that read Tiptoe and Sway, which, until we realised it was leading to a couple of villages, we had thought was an indication of how we should proceed. It would, in any case, have been quite difficult in a car.

The problem with Ossemsley is that it is in the middle of nowhere, yet not far from Bashley. As far as we can tell, even the correct road through tree-lined lanes, is exceedingly pock-marked. We decided we would need to invest in a 4X4 for a suitable measure of sturdiness. The house itself is a wonderful Edwardian castellated folly. We loved it and its ambience. Not that we went inside or saw anyone. There was evidence of children in a summer house, shells laid out on a table, a sand pit, and a boat; someone like Jackie had filled various pots with flowers, and even constructed a raised bed in a frame that contained various vegetables. The mature gardens contained a giant redwood tree, and a pheasant emerged from a hedge. There is an idyllic view across sloping fields. A string of cattle of differing ages hugged the tree line in an attempt to shelter from the rain. This prospective dwelling tugged at our hearts but Jackie insisted that we should think about what it would be like when we grew old and she couldn’t drive and I couldn’t walk. Why did she have to bring in a note of good sense?

Have I mentioned that only a small part of this building, in the shape of a flat, is either available or vaguely affordable? And there would be nothing left over for a jeep. Well, one can only dream.

From there we viewed the outside of a similar flat in a possibly older building in Salisbury Road, Burton. Far less romantic, it had the advantage of proximity to the village green with all necessary amenities including a GP which should come in handy for the aged. We could just see the patio garden that came with this apartment. This is, of course, a plus for my lady, the lack of which is a minus for the first place.

Then it was on to North Street, Bere Regis to recce a corner house and the village. We wandered by the side of the house next door in an attempt to see the garden which wasn’t visible from the road. A very friendly couple called Rachel and Phil invited us to the very top of their steep terraced garden in an attempt to satisfy our curiosity. In fact, all the gardens were perpendicular and needed layering with steps. We still couldn’t see much, but we did learn that whoever bought the house would have very friendly neighbours. Sadly, what was originally two cottages didn’t have much kerb appeal. Phil told us which of the two pubs to patronise for lunch, so, after a walk down the main street, we repaired to Drax Arms in West Street, and enjoyed a cheese and bacon sandwich and cheesy chips, and cod and chips, with Kronenbourg and Badger’s First Gold.

We congratulated the barmaid on the food, told her Phil had recommended her establishment, said goodbye, and toddled off down the road. A few minutes later the rather discombobulated young woman called after us. She came to a standstill and the piece of paper in her hand told me I had forgotten to pay. She was far more embarrassed than I was; after all, I do it often in Le Code Bar; so I apologised profusely and gave her a gentle hug which she appreciated. Back I went inside and settled up.

Jackie is now beginning to get a little worried about me, for, in the shop attached to the petrol station where she filled up on our way there, I had picked up a Bournemouth Echo newspaper from a pile in one of those metal frames that usually contain London’s freebie newspapers. As I walked out, the assistant called to let me know that ‘that costs 65p’. I’d only picked it up for the advertisements that usually fund free newspapers, but I thought I’d best look big, and handed over the cash. I could hardly say I didn’t want it if I had to pay for it. It was a daily newspaper. And there weren’t any housing adverts either.

The bottle of Canti prosecco that Don brought Jackie at the weekend was the perfect aperitif and accompaniment to her superb roast chicken and vegetables meal this evening. Don, you must have sought the advice of your favourite wine merchant who has scored again.