Ramblings
On this sunless sultry morning Jackie watered, I dead headed, and Martin carried out the heavier garden maintenance. Before he left, I printed him an A4 portrait I had produced on his last visit.
Later, I wandered around with my camera. As usual, individual titles can be found in the images gallery.
This evening all except Ian dined on oven fish, chips and peas with which Jackie drank Entire-Deux-Mers white wine 2020, and I finished the Shiraz.
In March 1968, two and a half years after the death of Vivien, my first wife, Jackie and I were married. Nine months later, our son Matthew was born. This second marriage was to last a little less than four years. So distressing was the ending that it took each of us seven years to wed other spouses. Jessica, whom I married in 1980, was herself to die in July 2007.
Tess then came into the picture. Tess is Matthew’s lovely wife. In December 2008 she held a surprise 40th Birthday Party for the son Jackie and I shared. On other such special occasions a choice had clearly been made about which of us, who had not met for years, to invite. This time we were both to be at the event in The Plough at Upper Dicker.
With some trepidation I travelled down on the train, walked from the station, duly arrived, and surprised our son. Jackie, however, was absent. I circulated, chatting among the other guests, most of whom I knew well. My wandering through the bars took me past the door to the car park. It was then I did a double take.
The solid door was lit by a small, head height, window, perhaps 50 cm. square. There, neatly framed, in three-quarters profile, was my previous father-in-law, Don Rivett. But, this could not be. Don had died many years earlier.
The door opened, and in walked Jackie.
We conversed a little, then joined separate groups, but somehow or other, often found the groups merging. When Sam was the last to leave one particular table and we found ourselves alone, what now seems obvious began to dawn on me.
By the summer of 2010 Jackie and I had moved into a flat together, the proceeds of sale of our first marital home providing most of the funds necessary to buy our current house.
To borrow the words William Shakespeare put into the mouth of Dimitius Enobarbus when describing Cleopatra: ‘Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety’. Jackie is not the reincarnation of Don, but she is of the muse of my youth.
As I write I realise that each time I have been widowed marriage to Jackie has followed.
I have often made chicken stock from bones – usually when preparing a curry – but never as tasty as Becky’s.
This morning I followed her suggestions.
After lunch Jackie and I took a forest drive before visiting the Milford pharmacy to collect medication.
Along Tiptoe Road a group of ponies and foals slept, lolled, suckled or grazed among the buttercups and daisies.
Others we saw sought shade from the excessive heat in the usual places like Burley Lawn
and Forest Road, where we had plenty of time to peruse the back of Pests, Birds, and Bugs van, as it crawled along. The first witticism was having the company’s Limited in full therefore offering a pun; the next was the number plate; and finally one of the pests in the list.
We eventually realised that the vehicle had been following a foal up the road
lined with the exposed roots normally found along such ancient hedgerows.
The little chap had wandered into the woodland where her own offspring was attached to a grey who wasn’t interested in him. Thudding hooves behind me
and a piercing neighing brought the stray running to the comfort of his Mum.
The pair soon left this spot to join others
clustered in dappling shade.
It would have been a waste to have used this morning’s stock on a curry, so Becky made one of her flavoursome chicken risotto’s with it. There was a side of green beans. The cook drank Zesty, Jackie drank Hoegaarden, Ian drank Peroni, and I drank more of the Shiraz.
After lunch today I posted https://derrickjknight.com/2022/06/21/a-knights-tale-139-i-hope-that-wasnt-too-patronising/
Later, Becky drove Jackie, Flo, and me to Lymington where our daughter and granddaughter browsed in the High Street while Jackie and I remained quayside – Jackie in The Ship Inn and me wandering about with my camera.
I will let my pictures speak for themselves.
Becky collected us at the end of the afternoon where we met and chatted with Richard from Kitchen Makers who was working in a quayside house.
This evening Becky produced fall-off-the-bone roast chicken; crisp chips; fresh salad; and garden peas, with which she drank Zesty, Jackie drank Hoegaarden, Flo drank water, Ian drank Perroni, and I drank Swartland Shiraz 2020.
Later, Becky sent me this photograph of a sparrow that had virtually snatched her food from her at lunchtime at The Beachcomber at Barton on Sea.
After Jessica’s death I returned to London and rented. After the fiasco at Hyde Park Square I moved into Leinster Mews on 23rd. December. Once the removal men had gone I looked at all the stuff I had to unpack, and decided to go to the pub on the corner for a meal. As soon as I closed the door I realised I had left the keys inside. When my panic subsided I walked up to Harrow Road police station, which I had known well in my days as a Social Services Area Manager, to ask if they could recommend a locksmith. It was freezing cold. Fortunately I was wearing an overcoat. Given the proximity of the pub, I might well not have been.
Full of the Christmas spirit, the desk sergeant said he would contact locksmiths himself. This turned out to be a rather good idea, since it took him an hour and a half to get anyone to come out. From the waiting room I could hear his patter. This is what he told each person he called: ‘Got one of our elderly parishioners here. Poor old boy’s a bit confused and gone and locked himself out. It’s such a cold night I don’t want him standing outside too long.’ At some stage in the conversation he would interpolate: ‘He’s a really lovely old boy’, and when he finally got someone to agree to a visit, he added: ‘Do your best on price. He’s only a pensioner.’ Once he had been successful, he said to me: ‘I hope that wasn’t too patronising. I wanted to make sure they came out.’ I just found it hilarious.
Two men then met me at the house, gained access by credit card in about two minutes, and told me I’d done that, hadn’t I? They took the policeman seriously and were doing their best on price. In their report they claimed that by the time they arrived I had got back inside. This, they said, would mean I would not get a bill. Their management must have been wise to this, because I did receive a bill, which I happily paid. The next day, I left the house as it was and took my myself off to Mat and Tess for Christmas.
This morning I made a good start on clearing the upstairs sitting room for occupation. The many pictures have been stacked up for final sorting – those for passing on, others which have frames that may be useful to Charity Shops, and those which can be ditched. Eventually various items of furniture will find their own positions.
This afternoon I posted:
Later, Jackie and I took a forest drive.
Our first stop was on Brockenhurst Road where ponies often gather and vie for shelter beneath two spindly trees.
An equine Kindergarten was taking place at the corner of Rhinefield and Meerut Roads. It was sleep time for the younger foals.
Further along bright woodland reflections lit the surface of the stream slowly flowing under Rhinefield Road.
This evening we all dined on tender roast lamb; roast potatoes, including the sweet variety; firm cauliflower, carrots, and broccoli, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden; Becky, Zesty; Ian, Moretti; Flo, Elderflower Cordial; and I more of the Cabernet Sauvignon.
Alison Lurie’s 1984 novel ‘Foreign Affairs’ was the winner of the 1985 Pulitzer Prize for fiction, which I finished reading yesterday.
The book immediately grasped my attention which it held throughout 279 pages of this tale of donnish and less intellectual American temporary residents and tourists and their interwoven relationships with each other and with English natives.
Displaying an intimate knowledge of London in particular and the theatrical and academic milieus of her protagonists; blessed with a wide vocabulary, descriptive skills, and witty and insightful understanding of the minds and dialogue of her characters; and a knowledge of how those on either side of the Atlantic regard each other, Lurie weaves a complex story with delightful aplomb.
As usual I will not relate details of the tale, save to say that the final few chapters contain surprises to which the writer lays subtle unstated clues along the way.
Maybe readers will need to be of a certain age to know why I unsuccessfully searched Google for links between this book and Kathleen Harrison, a wonderful English character actress from the middle decades of the twentieth century.
I have no idea how I came by my copy, an Abacus paperback with browned pages, bearing this inscription and containing the owl bookmark. I have only ever known one Leonie, who was Director of the Phyllis Holman Richards Adoption Society to which I was a consultant from 1986 onwards. She returned to her native South Africa some years later. If you should happen to read this, I can’t imagine that I purloined your book Leonie.
Yesterday evening Jackie finished weeding the rest of the Brick Path, and today tackled the circular set of bricks around the filled in well.
Not only has Flo added considerably to the Head Gardener’s planting in pots, urns, and hanging baskets, but she has kept them all flourishing during our recent dry spell by constant canned irrigation.
This is merely a selection. I had to stop somewhere, even if she hasn’t.
I spent the afternoon finishing my reading of Alison Lurie’s ‘Foreign Affairs’ which I will report on tomorrow, because we are just leaving to enjoy a Fathers’ Day dinner.
Early this morning Jackie and I bought more bedding plants from Ferndene Farm Shop, then continued into the forest.
Much of the day, though still warm, was overcast with the occasional smattering of rain. As we drove up Bolderwood Drive the contrasts in the woodland light from
dull
to sun-splashed was quite marked. As usual each of the above images bears a title in the gallery.
Jackie parked the car at Milkham so that I could walk back to photograph these ponies occupying the landscape.
She photographed me walking back through the heather laden moorland.
Further along the road a group of ponies and their foals wandered onto the tarmac. All along this stretch of road the only possibility of vehicles avoiding nose to nose confrontation is by waiting in the designated passing spots, so it will be obvious that the approaching cyclists had more chance of evading the ponies than we did.
Off the road a pair of adults groomed each other, whilst a foal wandered off.
When we reached Appleslade, a similar youngster left his mother’s side until
she began frantically to roll
from side to side,
arching her back,
in a desperate attempt to
dislodge the flies that tormented her lactating teats.
It was a miracle that her hoofs did not clatter into her anxious progeny
who then emulated his mother.
This afternoon I watched the thrilling rugby Premiership cup final between Leicester and Saracens.
This evening we all dined on Jackie’s tasty pasta Bolognese supplemented by left over pizzas with which she drank Hoegaarden, Becky drank Zesty, Ian drank Amoretti, and I drank more of the Cabernet Sauvignon.
This morning and the early part of the afternoon
Jackie continued her work on the Brick Path.
My morning task was returning our bedroom to normal now that Nick has finished his clean decorating. This involved shoving the bed back into position; removing many items from the en suite bathroom, having the advantage of allowing me a shower;
returning some to the bedroom and others to become temporary lumber, in the redecorated sitting room. Some of these items will furnish the room while we will have many pictures to cull.
Nick’s work leads these the eye smoothly through these two rooms.
This afternoon, accompanied by my trusty camera, I carried out more dead-heading and pulled up a few weeds. As usual this gallery provides a title to each photograph.
It was only yesterday that I was conversing with Anne of Something Over Tea about our mutual dearth of butterflies, and today we were visited by a solitary Red Admiral.
This evening we all dined on the patio on Papa John’s pizzas with which Jackie and Becky drank Zesty, Ian drank Hoegaarden, and I drank Coonawarra Cabernet Sauvignon 2020.