November 2017 – Page 2 – derrickjknight

Heirloom Or Paraphernalia

No less an accomplished novelist than P.D.James has provided a positive introduction to my Folio Society 1990 edition of Anthony Trollope’s ‘The Eustace Diamonds’. Ms James has accurately analysed the characters featured in the book, and rightly, highlighted Trollope’s understanding of the nature of women and the plight of those without an income in Victorian Britain.

Trollope’s novel is a lengthy saga based on the ownership and the search for the thieves of the eponymous jewellery. His usual skills of characterisation, dialogue, and flowing language are employed. I have to say, however, that my interest waned somewhere about the middle of the story, when I struggled with the writer’s philosophising. I began to feel that I didn’t care who owned the diamonds, or who had stolen them, if, indeed, they had been purloined. Nevertheless, I did persevere, and on balance, was pleased I had done so.

The Folio Sociaty remained committed to Llewellyn Thomas for the illustrations to this Palliser series. I have explained before why I do not like these.

This is just as well given that I spent most of the day wrestling with the installation of High Sierra, the new Operating System for iMac. By late afternoon, the outside light having disappeared, I had, with the help of Apple’s technical help advisers, learned that the procedure, now underway, would take another 9 hours. Not having the stomach to scan old film images and struggle with the Windows 10 alternative, I have produced no illustrations today.

But I did get to read the last 100 pages of the book.

One of the most interesting aspects of the story was the question about whether the diamond necklace was a genuine heirloom or paraphernalia. These are legal terms that Mr Trollope understood far more than I.did.

I gleaned enough from the book to establish the accuracy of Wkipedia’s comments on the subject:

‘In popular usage, an heirloom is something, perhaps an antique or some kind of jewelry, that has been passed down for generations through family members.

The term originated with the historical principle of an heirloom in English law, a chattel which by immemorial usage was regarded as annexed by inheritance to a family estate. Loom originally meant a tool. Such genuine heirlooms were almost unknown by the beginning of the twentieth century.^[1]

In the English legal system, any owner of a genuine heirloom could dispose of it during his lifetime, but he could not bequeath it by will away from the estate. If the owner died intestate, it went to his heir-at-law, and if he devised the estate it went to the devisee. The word subsequently acquired a secondary meaning, applied to furniture, pictures, etc., vested in trustees to hold on trust for the person for the time being entitled to the possession of a settled house. Such things were more properly called settled chattels.^[1] As of 1 January 1997, no further settled land can be created and the remaining pre-existing settlements have a declining importance in English law.^[2]

An heirloom in the strict sense was made by family custom, not by settlement. A settled chattel could be sold under the direction of the court, and the money arising under such sale is capital money.^[3] The court would only sanction such a sale, if it could be shown that it was to the benefit of all parties concerned and if the article proposed to be sold was of unique or historical character. The court had regard to the intention of the settlor and the wishes of the remainder men. ^[1]^[4]’

In the book, the debate centred around the Eustace family’s contention that the diamonds were an heirloom, and the widow, Lizzie Eustace’s claim that they were paraphernalia, described by the on-line free legal dictionary as

The Free Legal Dictionary (https://legal-dictionary.thefreedictionary.com/paraphernalia) describes paraphernalia as ‘the name given to all such things as a woman has a right to retain as her own property, after her husband’s death; they consist generally of her clothing, jewels, and ornaments suitable to her condition, which she used personally during his life.
2. These, when not extravagant, she has a right to retain even against creditors; and, although in his lifetime the husband might have given them away, he cannot bequeath such ornaments and jewels by his will.’

This evening we dined on breaded chicken breasts served on a bed of onions, garlic, and peppers; with roast potatoes and mushrooms; ans spinach. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the cabernet sauvignon.

The Rush Hour

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We had a very enjoyable time yesterday evening at Vicki and Barrie’s Golden Wedding Celebrations, organised by their children and grandchildren.

Pop records and TV adverts from 1967 were played on a monitor. Son, Steve, conducted a spoof ‘Mr and Mrs’ programme that his parents entered into with gusto.Oral tributes were made. The septuagenarians nimbly led the dancing.

A plentiful, varied, and fresh, cold buffet was supplied and we were invited to bring anything stronger than the soft cold drinks, or tea and coffee. We shared the bottle of Prosecco we had won at Ron’s party quiz.

The couple’s daughter, Angie took photographs on her mobile phone, and will e-mail me the results so I can add them to this post.

Late this morning, I watched yesterday’s recorded rugby matches between Scotland and New Zealand, and between England and Australia.

While I watched telly, Jackie tended plants in the greenhouse.

She is nurturing pelargoniums

of the more tender variety,

and begonias.

Hardy pelargoniums

survive outside,

as still do antirrhinums,

nasturtiums,

honeysuckle,

and somewhat battered Red Admirals.

Jackie has given the Kitchen Bed’s urn its winter planting.

In addition to roses we have, in the Rose Garden, clematis Duchess of Albany, her skin taking on the quality of parchment,

various fuchsias,

and penstemons.

Hydrangeas take on autumnal hues.

When I sat down to upload the above pictures, my Apple invited me to upload the latest operating system. I attempted to do this. An error occurred in this. The system is locked and I can’t do anything more with the computer. I had to give up, and eventually used the Microsoft laptop. Windows 10 has changed everything about importing pictures since I last used it, and it wasn’t easy to get my head round.

Off we then drove to Hatchet Pond in an effort to calm me down.

Not long before sunset

photographers

gathered;

waterfowl

paddled along;

swans trailed their wake.

The pond reflected

gold

tinged clouds,

rapidly turning red.

A jet plane streaked into the foaming flames.

So many photographers were now lined up that this seemed like rush hour on the railways.

The treatment worked. I retained my equanimity.

This evening Jackie produced succulent roast pork served on a bed of peppers and onions, accompnied by roast potatoes, carrots, and Brussels sprouts. I drank Concha y Toro cabernet sauvignon 2016.

Will The Tackler Bring Him Down?

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In anticipation of this afternoon’s televised rugby internationals, and not wishing to spend viewing time squinting through a camera viewfinder, I scanned a few colour negatives from October 1992, filmed during Sam’s Newark Under 13 rugby versus Melton.

A red-faced, wild-haired, Sam is at the back of the group in blue and white jerseys, his head above the ball.

He’s the one with the chunky legs.

This time he battles to hang on to the ball.

This lad has just received it

and sets off under siege.

Now Warren plays his customary role of battering ram as he charges into the opposition;

having broken through, he is lined up for a tackle. Will the tackler bring him down?

Should anyone desire a glimpse of me in my playing days

here are a couple of shots taken by Jessica. I was playing for Old Whigiftians in about 1982. More information appears in ‘Eureka’.

I watched the game between Wales and Georgia, and recorded the other two matches, because we will soon be travelling to Christchurch to attend the Golden Wedding Anniversary celebrations of Vicki and Barrie Haynes. Unfortunately I kept dozing off during the second half of the match, but woke up to witness the last bizarre quarter of an hour.

A Pannage Extension

CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE. REPEAT IF REQUIRED This morning we visited Lyndhurst in order to buy a couple of presents.

In order to benefit from the gorgeous autumn light, we took a diversion

down Shirley Holms.

Across fields to our left we admired the situation of a house nestling on the hill

and a chestnut horse blending into surrounding trees.

A pair of cyclists rounding a bend,

soon to be followed by a solo rider, laboured up the undulating tarmac. Note the speed limit.

Long shadows were cast across the

forest floor

fast receiving

autumn leaves,

some of which clung to shady banks,

and stood proud at intervals.

Ornamental trees animated a

splendid garden.

Having made successful purchases in Lyndhurst, we lunched there on Bertie’s excellent fish, chips, and mushy peas. We both drank tea which, rather unfortunately, resembled a dishcloth that needed boiling.

The Private Ear Clinic, this afternoon was based at Lymington Hospital. Our next visit was to this establishment where my left ear was relieved of the remains of its stubborn wax.

We then returned to the forest where, just outside Bramshaw,

we came across a sounder of swine slobbering

among ditches

leaves

and mud.

Occasionally with a loud snort they would trot across the road

to investigate the pickings on the other side. The pigs are revelling in a month’s extension of the pannage, possibly because of our stretch of mild weather.

This particular spot was doubly hazardous for drivers, because ponies

played the same leisurely game.

The speed limit in the forest is generally 40 m.p.h., but you would be well advised to reduce this on the serpentine roads. You never know what is around the next bend.

This evening we dined at Bartlett’s in the Church Hall at Bransgore. Jackie’s main meal was chicken tikka masala; mine was lamb madras. We take our own drinks. Jackie’s was Hoegaarden. I finished the madiran (WordPress, how many times must I tell you this is one word?).

The Schneider Trophy

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This afternoon Jackie drove us to Calshot and back in order to watch the sun go down.

The tide was up in the Beaulieu River, offering reflections of Beaulieu Palace House

and of private houses.

Along Rollestone Road the ancient and modern meet in the forms of ponies grazing freely on historic moorland and the towers of Fawley Power Station.

We arrived at Calshot shortly before sunset. The tide had ebbed; buoys were beached,

and large vessels glided past,

towards the low sun that lit the beach huts’ verandas.

Swirling clouds splashed around the western sun

while, to the east, smooth water reflected its effects.

Parked boats were mirrored in pools on the quayside.

Shallow water glistened

and gleamed,

as did the windows of Houston House

which bears this plaque.

Wikipedia tells us that:

‘The Coupe d’Aviation Maritime Jacques Schneider, commonly called the Schneider Trophy or Schneider Prize (sometimes incorrectly referred to as the Schneider Cup, a different prize), was a trophy awarded annually (and later, biannually) to the winner of a race for seaplanes and flying boats. The Schneider Trophy is now held at the Science Museum, South Kensington, London.

Announced in 1912 by Jacques Schneider, a French financier, balloonist and aircraft enthusiast, the competition offered a prize of approximately £1,000. The race was held twelve times between 1913 and 1931. It was intended to encourage technical advances in civil aviation but became a contest for pure speed with laps over a (usually) triangular course (initially 280 km, later 350 km). The contests were staged as time trials, with aircraft setting off individually at pre-agreed times, usually 15 minutes apart. The contests were very popular and some attracted crowds of over 200,000 spectators. An earlier trophy, also presented by Jacques Schneider in 1910, in France, was the Schneider Cup, which is now in the possession of the RAF College Cranwell.’

and

‘In 1931 the British government withdrew support, but a private donation of £100,000 from Lucy, Lady Houston, allowed Supermarine to compete and win on 13 September against only British opposition, with reportedly half a million spectators lining the beachfronts. The Italian, French, and German entrants failed to ready their aircraft in time for the competition. The remaining British team set both a new world speed record (610 km/h (380 mph)) and won the trophy outright with a third straight win.^[7] The following days saw the winning Supermarine S.6B further break the world speed record twice, making it the first craft to break the 400 mph barrier on 29 September at an average speed of 655.8 km/h (407.5 mph).’

As the sun gravitated towards

the horizon,

orange hues

spread

and deepened.

A jet trail pierced the indigo backcloth,

and the palette introduced red pigments

streaking

across the firmament;

finally dipping into the stream running alongside Jack Maynard Road.

This evening, for dinner, we enjoyed Jackie’s splendid beef and mushroom pie; boiled potatoes, carrots and cabbage, with which I drank more of the madiran.

‘What Could Be Better?”

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Nasturtiums are the yardstick of frost. When their thick tendrils go limp and soggy and the flowers droop, we know that frost has arrived. On an overcast morning of this unseasonably oppressively warm day, I wandered out in the garden to take the measure of them.

The flowers may look a little careworn, but they are bearing up well.

I then spent far too long fine-tuning my complaints letter to a partner of the O’Neill Patient legal firm before finally posting it by recorded delivery and e-mailing copies to our mortgage broker and to Becky. A much more pleasant task was the final bit of paperwork as an executor of my late friend Wolf’s estate.

This involved Jackie driving me to the Post Office in New Milton. We continued on to Tanner’s Lane in time for a pre-sunset look at

the shore,

where a weak sun gleamed on the water.

Gradually

the hues deepened.

While watching this, I became aware of distant exuberant voices, until one small boy rushed past me, came to a standstill,

and waited for another to join him. Perhaps you can’t run so fast in Wellies.

Off they both continued, still testing their lung capacity,

until a somewhat larger lad divided them.

Bringing up the rear was a young woman I took to be the mother of at least one of the runners. She said she often brought them down here, where they loved to run about or throw stones. They would rather do that than anything else. “What could be better?” she exclaimed.

As I returned to the car I admired the cloudscape over the Isle of Wight and The Needles.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s succulent steak and mushroom pie, creamy mashed potatoes, crisp cabbage and crunchy carrots. The Culinary Queen drank Hoegaarden and I drank Reserve des Tuguets madiran 2014.

Lifelong Friends

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This morning I enjoyed the attentions of our dental hygienist. The surgery having cancelled three appointments in a row, it was something of a surprise that this particular young lady was fit, well, and in attendance.

Today’s administrative tasks included revising the draft of my complaints letter to incorporate suggestions from our mortgage broker; exchanging e-mails concerning the sale of my French house, and send off a payment in relation to this; and ordering a supply of oil for our central heating system.

This afternoon I scanned a batch of colour prints from May 1993. These were of Louisa’s eleventh birthday party in the garden of Lindum House at Newark.

One of the highlights of a group of young people during the Newark years was Louisa’s annual birthday party. At least, it was for me. I think this was the first one involving a bouncy castle.

Here, Rebecca A shares a joke,

perhaps with Louisa.

They are certainly sharing one here.

Some had to wait their turn before

entering the castle.

Matthew C has managed to join Louisa inside,

where, collapsed in corner, he appears helpless with laughter;

recovers, and engages in a race with Adam.

Louisa seems to be assessing

how high she can leap.

Gemma L

and Hannah

take the measure of the lens.

Charlotte

attempt to keep herself upright by leaning on the clown’s knee

or clutching the roof, while Rebecca makes her way past,

and goes topsy turvy.

The seven is all hands

and feet.

Most of these children, some now with families of their own, have remained lifelong friends.

This evening we dined on roast chicken, sage and onion stuffing, mashed potato, carrots, and broccoli; followed by banoffi pie and cream. I finished the malbec and Jackie drank Hoegaarden.

Shades Are Recommended

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HEALTH WARNING: WEARING OF SHADES IS RECOMMENDED

Having spent much of the day composing and e-mailing a draft complaints letter to the dilatory and devious conveyancing solicitors firm that handled our recent remortgage to our mortgage broker, I was in need of a trip to Mudeford to watch the sun go down. The administrative exercise had involved trawling through documents, letters, e-mails, and such notes as I had made of phone calls or the absence of them; then collating them in a logical order in intelligible prose. Our mortgage adviser couldn’t access my attachment, so I had to cut and paste it and send it as the text of another e-mail.

The elements did not disappoint.

Shortly before sunset, the orb was bright, but the clouds still retained their slate colours intermingled with streaks of blue.

A rather large anchor is embedded in concrete on the foreshore. This provided a frame for the scene,

as did trees

and grasses.

Gulls perched

on moored boats

flew low over the water,

and gathered by the quayside.

Smoky hues spiralled around blue skies, and gold-tinged clouds,

gradually darkening as the sun descended.

All at once

an orange wash was

brushed over the skyscape.

As the sun sank the orange pigment

drizzled down the horizon,

its remnants

streaking above

silhouetted walkers

and their dogs.

For our dinner this evening, with which I drank Mendoza Argentina malbec 2016, Jackie produce Thai fishcakes on a bed of ratatouille served with breaded prawns, perfect roast potatoes, and crisp cauliflower.

Mad Max

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It was finger-tingling cold when Jackie continued her winter planting on this sun-bright morning and I photographed some still lingering blooms.

Outside the kitchen door pelargoniums, petunias, and erigeron vie for space.

More pelargoniums,

some with autumnal plumage, as in this urn shared with verbenas, continue to spread their colour around.

Rozanne geraniums add splashes of blue

palely reflected by clematis Comtesse de Bouchard

just about thriving on the gazebo

along with the winter flowering Cirrhosa.

There are still hardy fuchsias

I may not yet have featured.

This maple on the grass had been cut down when we arrived three years ago. We are encouraging it to come back to life.

Honesty seeds are masquerading as Pauline’s light catchers.

They are seen here in the Cryptomeria Bed.

The roses to the right of the tree rise over the Oval Bed. As can be seen, there are more to come.

Hot Lips salvia,

varieties of nasturtium,

and even of antirrhinum, still bloom.

On such a day a late afternoon forest drive was essential.

A pony in a field off South Sway Lane was more interested in the grass than in Sway Tower.

Opposite Longsdale View, where gorse blooms among the bracken,

the Isle of Wight is visible across the moors.

Along the stretch of Highland Water just outside Brockenhurst,

where stumps stand like ancient tombstones on one bank,

the deciduous trees

now wear their temporary autumn plumage;

the banks are becoming waterlogged

enough for arboreal reflections.

It was here that I was introduced to Mad Max, who had no fear of freezing his nether regions.

The forest road between Brockenhurst and Beaulieu displayed trees resplendent

with the last of their glowing golds

and burnished browns;

falling fast

to carpet the floor.

As we approached Beaulieu, a pair of backlit ponies prompted Jackie to park the car on the verge and me to wander back to photograph them. Maybe it was something I said,

for, in turn,

they turned tail,

and crossed the road,

to join companions enjoying greener grass.

The portions of our meal at The Raj two nights ago were so generous that we couldn’t eat it all and brought some home.. Jackie added samosas and onion bahjis for this evening’s repast, with which I finished the malbec.

“He’s Taken A Knock In His Undercarriage”

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This afternoon rugby’s autumn internationals began. On television I watched Scotland v Samoa; Wales v Australia; and the highlights of England v Argentina. I made a few photographs direct from the screen, cropping out the score lines from the top left hand corners in order not to reveal the results to anyone who has recorded the matches.

Here, in the first match, a player who has been tackled attempts to release the ball;

this time it has been released.

Here the chase is on,

ending with a tussle on the touchline.

Certain infringements result in the setting of scrums where the opposing two sets of eight forwards bind onto each other pushing for possession of the ball tossed between them by the scrum half, here standing poised;

and here placing the ball into the mêlée.

There are strict rules of engagement determining how the teams pack down, demanding a pause at each stage.

Sometimes loose scrums form in play. The ball is then sent back to one’s own side.

It is the scrum half’s job to pick it up and pass it back along the line of players.

This is how the teams position themselves when there has been a scrum wrestling over possession.

Tries are scored when the ball is grounded

across the opposing goal line.

Sometimes it is reasonably clear that that has happened;

at others it is rather less than apparent.

The man on the ground, having been scragged, has managed here to pass the ball to a team member who is heading for the try, or goal, line. The referee, in order to keep up with the game, is in hot pursuit.

A try is worth five points. Two more may be added by placing the ball on a tee

and kicking it

between the goal posts above the cross bar to perform a conversion.

Careful concentration is required

from the specialists who perform this task.

Instructions are periodically mouthed from behind the ball in order to prevent lip-reading.

Team mates generally attempt to pound along in support of those with

or chasing the ball.

Occasionally one man will get clean away

on his own;

or have a cluster of opposition players between him and his support.

Hands and feet compete with each other over the ball.

When the ball has been kicked into touch, or out of play, the two sets of forwards line up alongside each other, it is then thrown between them and caught by one of the players who may be lifted to aid his jump.

When spectators spot themselves on the large television screen at the ground, they generally attempt to catch the attention of their friends at home.

Others check out their own photographs on their mobile devices.

It is quite usual for medical attention to be required. Injuries may be comparatively slight;

if a player is bleeding he must leave the field to be stitched up and/or bandaged, and may be temporarily replaced by ‘a blood replacement’.

Medics may step onto the field to assess damage and offer assistance. When this gentleman took a break, the commentator offered the opinion that he had “taken a knock in his undercarriage”.

The opposing players may be tackled by wrapping arms around them as you charge into them.

This cannot be above shoulder height.

It is not permitted to tackle a player in the air;

and if you up-end him you are responsible for his landing safely.

For those unfamiliar with our more civilised national game, I hope this has made it a little more comprehensible.

This evening Jackie and I dined on Mr Chan’s Hordle Chinese Take Away with which I drank more of the malbec.