July 2014 – Page 3 – derrickjknight

Objéts Trouvés

11th July 2014
Lydie’s husband, whose name I have forgotten, collected me this morning to drive me to Bergerac airport for my return home. En route, I had good cause to be thankful for the French I do have. The driver does not speak English, but we managed reasonably well. On the approach to Chateau Cousteau he asked my if I had received his wife’s message telling me it would be him picking me up. I was just about to say that I had a very poor signal so probably hadn’t received it, when I realised I had to say something else. Quickly.
This was: ‘Please turn round and go back. I have left my phone in the bathroom’. Then I went into the explanation of why the phone had been left there. It is because normally the only feeble signal I receive is when the mobile is perched on the shelf behind the loo. This was somewhat entertaining in translation. No harm was done, and I arrived in good time for the plane which arrived ten minutes early into Southampton where Jackie was waiting for me.
On my return I wandered around the garden to see what had progressed in my absence. Everything is coming on nicely.

Of particular interest now is that section of Jackie’s portable garden that fronts the garage doors that have become a library wall.

Probably more than in most gardens, we find all sorts of bits and pieces, such a polystyrene, seafood shells, plastic bags, pegs, old bits of metal, and CDs. I was mystified about the CDs until Jackie told me they were hung up to rotate in the wind, thus making useful scarecrows. Of course, I then recollected I had seen them about.
I spent most of the afternoon putting right my post of 8th, and publishing those of the last two days that I hadn’t been able to enter in France.
Although on my brief trip this time, thanks to Saufiene I had not been deprived of spicy food, we still went for the traditional returning home curry this evening, to The Jarna, which is the current favourite.

The Pizza

10th July 2014
Yesterday evening I finished reading Cicero’s Orations. The two final pieces are not forensic. The first, ‘Pro Marcello’, is a panegyric, and the second ‘Phillipics II’ an invective. Marcellus is not really the subject of For Marcellus. It is a document of forthright praise for Caesar, whose generosity in pardoning one of his most implacable enemies had astounded and delighted the writer. The far more lengthy tirade, Phillipics II, astounds this reader. In his response to Mark Antony’s verbal attack on him in the senate, Cicero pulls no punches. His language is florid, accusatory, insulting, and unequivocal. If ever there was an character assassination speech, this is it. In my view, it was also suicidal. He closes by stating that he welcomes death if it makes the state more secure. It did bring about his brutal murder.
This morning I walked up the D17 to the lofty village of Pomport, and back down the narrow, steep, winding, road that passes Chateau La Gironie and links back to the major route in the refurbished leisure centre now termed ‘Pomport Beach’. Given that this complex is, I believe, further from the sea than is anywhere in England, that would seem to be a rather misleading name, especially as it is posted in English. When I arrived in Sigoules, late in 2008, the financial crash had just hit the world. This burgeoning French village did not escape the consequences. A number of local developments ground to a halt. One of these was the Pomport leisure centre which has only this year seen what looks like completion.
Wild sweet peas illuminated the verges, as did cornflowers the fields. I even encountered a sweep of mare’s tails.Vines were being sprayed by a purpose-built vehicle that moved between them quite quickly.
The only pedestrian I met was a woman pegging out her washing. There were, however, a number of cars on the D17, one of which, for a second time, was driven by Lydie, who stopped and greeted me as warmly as ever.
Having begun it yesterday evening, I finished Michel Benoit’s novel ‘The Thirteenth Apostle’. This was a captivating and thoroughly researched historical thriller telling of the murder of a monk who ‘possessed proof of the existence of a thirteenth apostle and an epistle stating that Jesus was….and inspired prophet, not the Son of God’, and another who, under grave threat, conducts his own investigation. The Vatican, Mossad, and Fatah all wish to keep this secret, and will stop at nothing to prevent its exposure. It is well written enough for me to have read 360 pages in two sessions. I was reminded of the difference between the religious reactions to this imaginary novel and that of Salman Rushdie’s ‘Satanic Verses’ which earned him a Fatwa.
As I closed the book, Saufiene and his wife Carole arrived to collect me for dinner at their home in Saint Medard de Mussidan. This was the day before their daughter Eya’s birthday, and was a family affair. Other daughters Cleya and Xena, son Geoffrey, nephew Johannathan, and Jerome, were all present. It was good to meet Geoffrey again after a couple of years, and to spend the evening with a likeable and convivial French family. We managed pretty well with Franglais, and found this blog a useful medium for introducing photographs of my family, home, and garden.
Saufiene prepared an excellent Tunisian meal which was too much for me to eat. I only regret that I did not try the wonderfully piquant salad before I had reached satiation. I enjoyed the meal and the company very much. The host, who drove me back, did not drink alcohol, but I relished a superb Saint Emilion and the others drank rose.
Unfortunately Carole’s pizza was no longer available because it had already been eaten by the neighbourhood cats. Saufiene, who we saw last year can be kind to cats, thinking the pizza was a little old, had jettisoned it in their direction. One white and two grey felines tucked in rapidly, forcibly excluding the black one which gazed plaintively up at the watchers on the second floor balcony, who, with great hilarity, demanded a photograph be taken for my blog.

Twice Assassinated

9th July 2014
Yesterday evening I read Cicero’s oration ‘Pro Murena’ (For Murena). This was a speech in defence of Lucius Murena, accused of having, in BC63, gained election as consul by bribery. It was the custom of losing candidates, in the hope of supplanting the winners, to prosecute those rivals after the event. Of the two elected consuls, Sulpicius, the plaintiff, actually a good friend of the great orator, picked on Murena. Following Cicero’s successful plea, the accuser had to wait another twelve years to hold office.
Delivered cogently, with both humour and seriousness, this piece reads as freshly and fluently as if it had been written today. Also focussing on the interests of national security, Cicero paces his argument well and stakes his own reputation on his closing commendation.
The next in The Folio Society’s selection of Cicero’s Orations, which I went on to read, is ‘Pro Caelio’ (For Caelius). Possibly because the jurors, on account of the nature of the case, had been forced to forgo a public holiday, the advocate set out to entertain them. The fury of a woman scorned, it was Cicero’s contention, was behind the charges laid against his client. He stated that they had been brought ‘to gratify the whim of a licentious woman’, Caelius’s ex-lover. It seems to have been the practice in Roman courts to deprecate the characters of the protagonists. Cicero therefore defends his client’s reputation, and slays that of Clodia, the lady in question, saying very little about the actual charges of violence he was meant to refute. This is skilfully done, often indirectly, and with innuendo. He makes the woman out to have led the young man astray. The tone is light-hearted, with free use of irony, wit, and satire. It did the trick.
Gangs roamed the streets of ancient Rome at the behest of wealthy men. Two of these were Milo, and Clodius whom Cicero hated. In ‘Pro Milano’.which I read this morning, the author defended Milo, charged with Clodius’s murder. This is how it came about: From other, independent sources, it is clear that the two gangs mat by accident on the Appian Way. They fought. Clodius seems to have been victorious, but was soon afterwards murdered by his enemy, and dumped in the street. There was speculation in the city that one had laid a trap for the other. Cicero’s false case rested on Clodius having set the snare, and Milo simply defending himself. This time the jurors did not buy it. Despite a brilliant speech, full of the orator’s customary eloquent techniques, they found the defendant guilty. Clodius was twice assassinated. Once in reality by Milo, and later, figuratively, in court, by Cicero.
Mouths were agape in Le Code Bar this lunchtime, not poised over plates, but trained on the TV. It was not the flavoursome noodle soup; the crisp calamari in batter; the succulent pork kebabs, rice, and ratatouille; nor the gorgeous creme brûlée; but the aftermath of Brazil’s defeat by Germany, 7-1, in the World Cup semi-final, that grasped their attention.
This afternoon Saufiene drove me to Eymet and beyond in search of a charger for my HP laptop. Despite helpful assistants opening up various boxes we shared defeat with both Brazil and Cicero.
As I watched the Sigoules sunset, I reflected on my friends Majid in London, and Saufiene in Acquitaine, both observing Ramadan, and now able to break their fast.

Ramadan

Somewhat against the clock, Jackie sped me to Southampton airport early this morning for a trip to Sigoules. The reason for the haste was that once again there had been a problem with the on-line check-in and I anticipated the same difficulties as last time when, because my surname had been registered as JohnKnight, the airport machine had been unable to read my passport. In the event there was no queue and a polite young woman saw me through immediately.
In the lounge I overheard a conversation between three people I initially thought must be Dutch. One turned out to be a Geordie, one a Liverpudlian, and the third from Northern Ireland. My confusion was compounded in the boarding queue where I entered into an exchange with a gentleman with a Scots accent who claimed to be Australian and was wearing an American T-shirt. My difficulties with the local French parlance almost paled into insignificance.
Only almost, because I spent a couple of hours with Saufiene and his team, and I really needed his English to help me understand the others. The now customary champagne was produced, but Saufiene did not partake because he is observing Ramadan. He cannot eat, drink, or smoke until sunset, which, in France at this time is not until 10 p.m. It is a long fast for him.
Apparently my next door neighbours are so impressed with the painting Renov Conseil 24 have undertaken at the front of the house, that they want similar work carried out on their property.
My flight was uneventful. We had a smooth crossing above the clouds, and the landing, implemented by a female captain, was the gentlest I have experienced.
Sandrine, of Taxi Eymetois, met me at Bergerac airport and drove me to rue St Jacques, where the builders were in attendance.
This may be the last post I can publish in the next day or two, because my Kensington universal charger does not fit my new HP laptop.
I am also having trouble uploading photographs, so they may have to follow later too. Otherwise everything is hunky dory.
PS. 11th July 2014
I have now sorted out a bit of garbling that was done with this post. My technical problems were compounded by a very intermittent signal in Le Code Bar where I was working on it.

No Mod Cons

This morning Jackie drove us to Ringwood to collect two pairs of my shoes from the repairers, and to do some banking. On our return we visited the Marine restaurant in Milford on Sea to investigate the menu to glean whether we might wish to dine there this evening. The ground floor cafe was open but not the restaurant which would naturally open this evening. A very helpful young man with a smart haircut reminiscent, as I told him, of about sixty years ago, – I’m sure every male visiting Old Compton Street’s 2i’s coffee bar sported one – attempted to give me the information I required. Very soon we realised he had handed me the Sunday lunch menu, and it is Monday. He went up to the restaurant to find a fuller one. He came down empty handed, and had a further hunt downstairs. In the end I was referred to the internet. On looking it up later, we decided it wasn’t quite what we were seeking.
As she drove down Downton Lane, Jackie was required to stop and park so that I could listen to a reading of an extract from ‘The Gruffalo’s Child’ by Julia Donaldson and Axel Scheffler. Well, it’s not every day that your five year old grandson (Malachi) telephones you from his new house in Australia to wish you a happy birthday, and proceeds to demonstrate the reading prowess for which he has recently received an award.. You wouldn’t want to be driven out of reach of a mobile signal. Well, not during the first fifteen minutes or so anyway.
Shelly dropped in this afternoon with a birthday present and had the obligatory tour of the garden. Today’s new lily was another deep mauve/red one.
Given that today is my seventy second birthday it seemed appropriate to revisit Elizabeth’s ‘through the ages’ series. Number 51 was taken by Jessica, in probably around 1976. I only visited the cottage in the foothills of Snowdon a couple of times, which, I believe, is one more than our friend Maurice Schnapps.
Seen with me in the picture are, from left to right, Michael’s friend Pete, Michael, Matthew, and Becky. It rather looks as if the children were somewhat reluctant to pose.
The establishment outside which I believe we were photographed, was a favourite holiday abode of Jessica’s. She and the children were made of sterner stuff than Maurice and I. We preferred a little luxury when away from home. The cottage had been bought by an uncle of Jessica’s as a stopover point when taking bands of boys from Rugby school to climb Mount Snowdon. As such it was definitely character-building. My regular readers will understand that the climb wasn’t my cup of tea either. Speaking of cups of tea, I cannot remember exactly how one would have been produced in that abode, but I am sure it would have involved a trek outside and a little ingenuity. There was, you see, no running water, and, of course, no electricity. Water was produced from a pipe on the hillside. H2O did penetrate from somewhere, because the place was exceedingly damp.
Do I hear you asking what happened to poo? Ah, well. You had to dig a hole at the beginning of your stay, fill it with bucket loads as the week progressed, and cover it up afterwards. Simple enough, you may think. Ah, but. The cottage was semi-detached. To reach your chosen site for refuse, you had to walk past a pair of rather savage looking and sounding dogs tethered on fairly long leads. Perhaps it was the smell of what you carried that encouraged them to strain to reach you. When past them, and applying your spade, you rather hoped you would pick a spot that hadn’t been used before. It was best not to carry out this operation in the dark. For those unfamiliar with today’s title, it is a shortened form of ‘No Modern Conveniences’, usually slightly differently expressed, in advertisements for holiday cottages, as ‘All Mod Cons’.
I do apologise to those who loved that place. I’m just a soft townie.
Jessica and Imogen, Malachi’s rather less couth cousins from Nottingham, chose to telephone me and give me a rendering of ‘Happy Birthday’ just as Jackie and I were sitting down to the usual excellent meal at The Jarna. Their version hinges on the couplet: ‘Happy birthday to you, Put your head down the loo’, followed by uncontrollable giggling.

The Crab Pot

Many attractive trees and shrubs, like this beautiful green-barked maple, are simply in the wrong place and require sadly severe treatment. This one was denying access to the potting shed and encroaching upon the path, forcing other plants to do the same. We trust it will recover from this morning’s extensive amputations.

Elizabeth drove Mum over from West End for lunch and to view our new home, with which she was very taken. Before lunch, we had a tour of the garden. Our mother, in her ninety second year was determined and delighted to see everything. Concentrating hard on her two sticks, she walked with me every step of the sometimes uneven paths, whilst Jackie and Elizabeth wandered rather more quickly at will.

The chimney pot planting is now well established, with such as scented petunias looking splendid. A Lysimachia, Jackie has also introduced, is in full bloom.

Heucheras are grown for the beauty and variety of their leaves. Described by our resident horticulturist as ‘the gardener’s dream’, they are hardy plants which can tolerate shade and grow in any type of soil. Needless to say we now have a great many adding colour to most beds. Their clusters of small flowers, blending with their foliage, cling to long slender stems.

The snake bark maple is now beginning to wear its autumn colours which stand out well against the weeping birch leaves. We hope that this early display is not a sign of something sinister, and simply perhaps that it is a native of North America.

Another delicately hued yellow lily is attractive not only to us but also to hoverflies;

a deep magenta penstemon is rewarding us for freeing it from choking brambles;

and honeysuckle has now taken over decorative duties from the roses around the entrance to the front garden.

It is three years since our mother, who lives in a bungalow, has tackled any stairs at all, let alone our rather steep ones. She did, however, with me climbing ahead, and Elizabeth behind, manage to ascend to our first floor and suitably admire the rest of the abode. This was after we had enjoyed another of Jackie’s lavish salad lunches.

Back in the late 1980s, when she was much fitter, Mum regularly drove up to Newark for an annual two week holiday. One year she admired some artefacts in an architectural salvage establishment in the town, saying she would quite like to buy one. I had no recollection of this until she reminded me today, but I had bought it for her and taken it down to Horndean where she was living at the time.

She has developed a practice of, when appropriate, returning presents long since forgotten by the giver. Today, she and Elizabeth both brought me gifts for my birthday tomorrow. Mum’s came with a card which apologised for returning ‘this’ in a tatty state, but perhaps I might like to make a project of it. It was that very same iron and rope crab pot I had given her about 25 years ago. Apparently it has lost its rope handle. But who cares?

After our visitors had departed it was a while before we felt like eating, when fish fingers provided a more than adequate snack.

Escape From Alcatraz

Today’s Lily, yet another different variety, has two layers of petals.
After Jackie, making use of a couple of plates from the rail of the too large IKEA wardrobes,

had repaired the bed head screwed to the weeping birch, we spent a long day completing the work on the clematis montana fence in the kitchen garden.

Fortunately, when clearing the bed head bed of brambles, I had managed to preserve what turned out to be crocosmia lucifer, now blooming above the erstwhile wooden ornamental feature.
Had I not been familiar with what the DIY efforts of our predecessor had perpetrated inside the house, I may have had trouble believing what, once we had cleared away enough foliage, he had attached to our neighbour’s fence. But there was no mistaking his technique for putting in awkward nails.

A stout post had been driven into the ground from our side, and a beam attached to it at one end of the fence. He must have possessed only one sustaining post because the other end of the long strut was nailed directly into the top of the fence. The diagonally driven nail wasn’t really doing much by now, and was fixed in exactly the same manner as a rough-hewn piece of deal placed across the jamb of one of the kitchen doors which had been blocked up by our vendors’ fridge.
What I described yesterday as wire netting was more like the grille at a prison window. Even Clint Eastwood, as Frank Morris, in the 1979 film ‘Escape from Alcatraz’, would have had trouble getting through that. Heavy duty staples had bound it both to the upright wooden post and to the horizontal beam. A smaller variety, driven into the planks of the fence, Jackie had been able to tap out with a hammer and screwdriver. The large, thick, ones would not budge. The grille itself was going to have to be cut.

Some kind of black plastic material had been wound around the clematis and bramble jumble at the top of this structure. I can only imagine its purpose was to prevent the brambles that had rooted on the other side of the fence from returning home.
Milford Supplies once more had the benefit of our custom, as Jackie drove off to buy a suitable implement, whilst I continued to move brushwood to the site of the bonfire and chop it up. She returned with mini bolt cutters which looked just the job. No such luck. They barely dented the metal.

I had to hack off with a saw each piece held by a staple. Eventually we pulled the whole frame towards us, left it standing, and had some lunch. Afterwards I broke up the frame and hacked off all the bits of grille.

Long after I was done for the day, Superwoman continued to open up the entrance to this part of the garden even more. In doing so she discovered that underneath the earth and rubble are signs of a brick pavement.
After that, she fed us on chicken jalfrezi (recipe) and onion, peas and sweetcorn rice, with which we drank Cobra beer. This was followed by Post House Pud, with summer fruits as the base.

Why The Birch Weeps

It is seven years today since Jessica’s death. Sam and Louisa can here be seen climbing under her jumper in a detail from a photograph I took, in a coppice in Surrey, in 1984, a large print of which hangs in our daughter’s sitting room.

Louisa posted it on Facebook this morning.

Honeysuckle now adorns the hedgerows of Downton Lane where I met Bryan Raby on my way to the Spar shop this morning. Bryan was strimming the verges alongside the caravan sites. He is a handyman from Zimbabwe who also carries out plumbing and carpentry. I took his card.

Further on, an escort blocked the road whilst, just beyond a ‘road narrows’ sign, a huge static caravan, being delivered to Shorefield Country Park, edged up the slope. The camper van perched on the distant hillside would have found the approach rather easier.
Luci and Wolf, on their way home to Clapham from Kilmington, made a diversion to visit us. Jackie prepared an excellent salad lunch, and we took our time enjoying it and each other’s company. From a friendship spanning so many years there was much available material, some reflecting on our differing childhood experiences.

Having seen our guests on their way Jackie and I sat for a while in what is now the fourth seating area of the garden. It was not until last night that the concreted south west corner was finally cleared of the pile for burning. When we arrived at our new home there was evidence of a bonfire having been lit on this spot. As our neighbours over the back often have a window open in a very vulnerable position, I decided to move our fire further down the back drive and to negotiate when it would be reasonable to light it, since it would require them to close their windows. We have come to a most amicable agreement. Bev is only happy to be consulted, since that had not been their previous experience.
In the left foreground of the picture above, stands a brick structure on which lies a tub of recently potted plants. The nasturtium appears to have survived being transplanted from the kitchen garden. This construction has been erected by Jackie to conceal the pipe that once held a circular washing line and still protrudes from the path.
Our predecessors preferred a more traditional line stretched across this area for their washing. As the final contribution to clearing this spot, Jackie took down the line which currently still hangs from a corner post. Above the fence to the right of this picture can be seen a TV satellite dish. The only activity that Bev had warned me against was melting this dish, which had apparently been achieved before. That was one more reason for moving the bonfire.
I have described earlier the bed head screwed to the weeping birch tree at the other end of the washing line. That would be enough provocation to arboreal distress.

Our tree has, however, been subjected to more prolonged torture by being the second post to which had been tied the plastic coated washing line. The tether tightly constricts the tree. It has bitten in so deeply that we cannot remove it. Some day, maybe, a dendrochronologist will be able to assess the age of the tree before it was so molested, and how many years it has been in pain.
After that lunch, scrambled egg on toast was ample for our evening meal.

Fuchsias

This morning we completed a task Jackie had begun yesterday. We had a very leggy fig tree that practised the can-can through the foliage of surrounding trees. We have now reduced it to a much more modest level, trusting that it will soon be wearing a billowing skirt of suitable leaves.

Near this plot, suspended from one of the arms of a tree that now has no fig’s legs wrapped around it, hang two galvanised buckets filled with potted begonias. Wherever there is a hook or a place to put one, Jackie is inclined to attach a hanging basket, or anything else that might serve the purpose, containing an array of different flowers. One of her favourites is the fuchsia. A selection of these comprises of:

La Campanella, Harry Gray, Pink unknown, and Jennifer Anne.

There are many more that are either past their first flush, or have not yet reached it.

Another plant that is also manifested in numerous forms in our garden, is the day lily. We have two more new ones today. One is a deep mauve/red, the other, the most delicate pale yellow.

But, I couldn’t dwell among the flowers all day. This morning I finished cutting down the brambles and clematis from the kitchen garden fence whilst evading the dodgy wire network. This afternoon Jackie and I worked together to move the last of the cuttings pile nearer to the defunct wheelbarrow in which they shall be burnt.

Early this evening we did a big Tesco’s shop in preparation for our guests tomorrow.

As is usual, Jackie made enough chicken jalfrezi yesterday for us to enjoy it once or twice more. Tonight’s dinner was the once. It was accompanied by Cobra beer.

Problems With Networks

This morning we took a trip by car to the municipal dump which is a short distance away, between home and Lymington. Following our tidy up of the skip pile we took down the back seats of the Modus and

loaded it with the dog-sodden carpet (one of the items the previous owners had left for us thinking they might be useful); the rancid toilet seats; a few stale paint pots; bits of lino and other carpet; and a some other small objects, and joyfully tossed them into the various bays in the waste disposal and recycling centre. True to family tradition, we did not go away empty-handed, because Jackie bought four plastic window boxes from the Sales Area.
Flushed with the success of recovering the garden’s irrigation system, Jackie applied herself to the apparent ornament in the form of a sunburst which she thought must be a sprinkler.

She rigged it up, attached a hose, turned on the tap, and the sun spiralled spinning arcs of water around an area large enough to keep us leaping for dry land. There must have been a rainbow somewhere, but I couldn’t see one.

Yesterday afternoon I had begun tackling a tangled mass of ancient clematis Montana and brambles, each with stems as thick as small trees, which were pushing the kitchen garden fence onto the shrubs next door. It wasn’t long before I realised that our neighbours were suffering an invasion such as the lonicera one that beset us on the other side of our property. I needed to discuss with Bev what I planned to do. She was out. I left her a message. She responded a little later than I would have wished to start, so we agreed to meet this morning. Our very friendly neighbour was happy for me to deal with our side and said she would take care of theirs. A young horse chestnut that had no business being there was providing boughs to add to the jumble. That would have to go as well.
On our return from the dump, I got stuck in to the task. And the brambles got stuck into me. Unbelievably, three very old members of the most prolific of clematis specimens had been trained against the fence and never pruned.
During our lunchtime break our phone emitted a squeak and we lost our telephone and broadband connection. We waited a while for it to right itself. It didn’t, so I girded my loins and made the call. On my mobile, of course. BT, like all conglomerates that have outgrown their user friendliness provides a machine to respond to customers. I am sure my readers are all familiar with the rigmarole that I was presented with, so I won’t go into great detail in a rant. I will say, however, that it is no help whatsoever to be given choices of reporting either a problem with the phone or with the broadband when you have problems with both. Eventually I conveyed to the robot’s voice that we had a fault. I was put on hold whilst this was checked. Whilst on hold I was told, repeatedly, that I could go on line and use the self-help facility. The chance would have been a fine thing.
Eventually I received confirmation that we had a fault and an engineer would be arranged. Should the fault lie with our own equipment this would cost £130. If the fault was their fault I presume it would then be repaired free of charge. The problem would be resolved by the end of the day on 7th of this month.
I raged back into the garden to take out my frustration on the clematises. Whilst I was doing this Jackie came out to tell me we were back on line. The BT machine had taken my mobile phone number and promised to keep me updated by text. Or I could follow progress on the website. I wasn’t told how I could do that. I received one text confirming this. No more. Had Jackie not periodically checked, we would have been none the wiser. At no time was I ever given the option to talk to an adviser, which is what they usually call a real person.

I managed to clear two of the clematises, and to remove the offending conker tree. Whoever had trained the plants, had fixed a thick wire network reaching a foot above the six foot fence. When I came to the third tree that should have been a shrub, I found that the weight of the tangled mass had brought the top section of the network forward, so I had that vying with the brambles to take my eye out.
Already ragged from the BT experience, and letting forth a somewhat less than mild imprecation, I determined to tackle that one tomorrow;

admired the new poppies, and lit a bonfire.
Having burned some more of the cuttings pile I joined Jackie for a

delicious meal of her juicy chicken jalfrezi (recipe) which was just the job. Ice cream was to follow. I drank Las Primas Gran Familia tempranillo 2013.