On this dull, wet, day we decided we might as well go somewhere that was already damp, so Jackie drove us to Highcliffe for her to do the charity shop round and for me to walk. On the approach to Emery Down, my greying Easy Rider, long locks flying, pedalled vigorously towards us, passing on the other side of the road.
Leaving the car in Wortley Road car park we went our different ways along the High Street. I turned right at the end and walked to the cliff, down to and along the beach to my right, and eventually back along the footpath along the top.
Ever seeking a different view of the Isle of Wight and The Needles, as I peered from above across the choppy seas I found they had been moved. If not by Mike who I was to meet later, perhaps they were just obscured by the mist.
A few scattered walkers were out contemplating the waves, and one lone dog walker occasionally came into view. 
Crunching along the shingle watching and listening to the breakers crashing against what I was to learn were the groynes and the revetments, I occasionally ambled the length of these structures jutting out to sea, standing where Sam and Malachi had done on 13th January last year, and peering across the Channel. Planted in a pile of the stones was what I took to be imaginative piece of modern sculpture that may have been a contender for the Turner prize.
As I progressed along the beach the sound of sliding pebbles receded like the advancing waves slipping back into the sea. They competed unsuccessfully with the chug chug and rattle of a heavy digger in the distance. As I approached, it dumped a huge boulder that I imagine must have come from area of disturbed sand left between similar rocks strung out in a row.
By the time I reached the machine it had been silenced and its operator, standing by the grabbing end wrenched at the clawed structure attached to the crane. The very friendly man was Mike, who was Neptune, the company contracted to maintain the Dorset coast at this point. His firm’s patch extended from Hengistbury Head to Chewton Bunny. More than happy to stop what he was doing and engage in a most informative conversation, Mike was about to ‘do some digging’ for which he needed a different grabber. 
Seeing him operate the heavy machinery and his wrench gave me some idea as to what he owed the grip of his handshake.
It was Mike who told me the terms for the rocks that jut out to sea, the groynes; and the piles along the shingle, the revetments. Groynes offer protection from the seas, and revetments keep the embankments in place. It is Mike’s task to redesign and maintain these defences. In describing this constant activity he called himself a dung beetle, which I thought a lovely image. This hardy individual, ever since playing here as a boy, has learned the nature of the tides, the winds, and the currents and how each effects the coastline.
It 
seems to me a tragedy that the current political and economic climates have already reduced, and are likely to jeopardise the rest of, his operation.
On previous visits I have been puzzled by lines of smaller rocks stretching down from the cliff top at regular intervals. These stones cover membranes much, I imagine, like those used to suppress weeds in a garden. Having been put in place by Neptune, they are draining the cliffs. My informant considers this a major difference between Highcliffe and Barton on Sea where there is no drainage and the cliffs are constantly in danger of subsidence.
Our evening sustenance was provided by sausage casserole (recipe), carrots, rich green broccoli, and mashed potato containing chopped chives. Creme caramel was to follow. I finished the Cahors and Jackie drank another glass of the Nobilo.
Author: admin
Prawn Risotto
When I was a child in the 1940s and ’50s, we regularly had two posts a day. By this I mean two deliveries of mail by a postman (I don’t think women were delivering letters in those days). This is a different kind of post and I only deliver two when I press Publish prematurely, as I did this afternoon.
So, in order not to disappoint those who wish to know what we had for dinner, here is today’s second post.
We enjoyed glistening prawn risotto with which I drank La Patrie Cahors 2012 and Jackie Nobilo Limited Reserve sauvignon blanc 2013 from Marlborough, New Zealand.
Not having made this before, it was something of an experiment to which our chef would make some amendments next time. Having every confidence in them (ratio of stock to wine, and addition of black pepper) I will present the meal with the projected changes included.
To my mind there was nothing awry with the consumed version, but I bow to Jackie’s discernment.
To serve six generous portions:
Take 3 medium chopped onions; 2 fat crushed cloves of garlic; 50 gm of butter and a little olive oil; 1 litre hot vegetable stock containing half a dozen good shakes of Maggi liquid seasoning; 1 large glass of white wine (and one for yourself – Jackie’s choice was the Nobilo mentioned above); juice of 1 lemon; 2 tbsp chopped fresh basil if available, if not, 1tbsp dried softened in boiling water; 400 gm of Italian risotto rice; most of a packet of frozen peas; 300gm packet of Sainsbury’s basic frozen prawns (any prawns will do, even kings – if fresh they need less cooking, just until they go pink). Black pepper seasoning.
A garnish of grated parmesan cheese is optional. We tried each in turn. I preferred mine without; Jackie didn’t mind which.
Method: Cooked in a wok.
Begin by frying the onions and garlic in the oil and butter until soft. Then throw in the rice and stir for about 5 minutes then add the wine until it bubbles. Then gradually, add the stock one dollop (strange word for liquid, but that’s what she said) at a time, stirring each one in until it is absorbed.
Don’t be frightened if the mixture looks too watery. This rice is very absorbent and soon swells out. I should know, for I did some of the agitation.
With the last addition, (large spoonful, I’d say), add the peas, prawns, basil, and lemon juice and stir for a few minutes until the frozen ingredients are cooked right through. At some stage season with the black pepper.
When I’ve posted this, we will watch episode 1 of the third series of ‘Call the Midwife’, on BBC iPlayer.
Transitional Objects
When I am tired or less than engaged by what I am reading, I sometimes wander off in my head, suddenly come to my senses, and realise my eyes have scanned the last paragraph or so with no idea how I reached my current point. This means retracing my steps to keep me on track. Rather like my forest rambling really.
I experienced this probably not unusual phenomenon once or twice whilst ploughing through the collection of Voltaire’s philosophical tales that, with ‘Songe de Platon’, I finished this morning. This particular sketch, translating to ‘Plato’s Dream’, was too short to send me off into my own reverie. It is a brief dream in the form of a Platonic discourse about the dual nature of humanity and the universe.
Easy to read if you are not working too hard to understand their allegorical nature, the stories are useful for brushing up your rusty French literature.
This morning we drove to West End to visit Mum, who was looking well. She has recently undergone eye injections of a different prescription for her macular degeneration, and is bearing up well. It is to be hoped that her sight may improve enough for her to continue with her cross-stitching.
After this we did a big Hedge End Sainsbury’s shop. I believe it is usually women who collect soft cuddly toys and array them at home on their pillows. I was therefore quite surprised to see an elderly gentleman pushing what, from my angle of vision, I took to be a set of these treasures in a buggy in the store.
Upon closer inspection I discerned that the exposed hand was a little incongruous with the head that turned out to be a hat. The scene reminded me of a photograph I had taken In June 1967 at Bernard Gardens:
It is of Michael and Babba.
Babba was Michael’s Teddy Bear. Does anyone know where the toy is now?
Wrapped round our son is a dressing gown Vivien bought me for Christmas, probably in 1960. For some years after her death, just as Babba was Michael’s transitional object, so the garment, in a sense, was mine. Transitional object is a psychoanalytic term denoting a comforting item carried about by a child moving from one stage of development to another. The child is in transition between phases of life and the object is transported wherever the infant goes. Loss before the young person is ready to abandon it can be quite traumatic.
Security blanket is the lay person’s variation on this phenomenon, perhaps the most famous example in literature being that belonging to Charlie Brown’s Linus. These objects, in reality, can become awfully smelly, and washing out the aromas sends to be extremely unpopular. Foster parents and residential care workers soon learn that the smells are an integral part of the comfort to which their charge is clinging.
P.S. I’ve pressed Publish prematurely again. Maybe I’ll add something later.
Through The Underpass
This morning I decided to walk through the Malwood Farm underpass and see how far I 
got before I gave up on what I expected to be a rather soggy terrain. It probably would have been a better idea to have stayed on the roads, or at least worn Wellingtons instead of walking shoes.
Even before I’d left our garden, I could see that more trees had come down, and the steep downhill track leading to the underpass confirmed this, so I was not surprised to see the extent of the damage wrought by the winds, once I ventured into the forest itself.
The large shrub that has fallen in the garden lies across the stump of the recently deceased cherry tree. I think it is a buddleia.
This is just one of the recent falls on the short stretch to the underpass.
The sight of Malwood Farm in sunlight at the end of the tunnel was welcoming, and the promised return of the wet, windy, weather did not materialise until this afternoon.
The terrain, however, was rather less inviting. It was indeed soggy. Pools lay, and new streams flowed, everywhere. Mud patches inhaled deeply in an attempt to snatch my shoes.
It would have been unprofitable to have tried to pick out one of last year’s safe paths. The way would be blocked by either a quagmire or newly fallen trees, or both. As is usual in these circumstances, I followed pony trails.
The animals are at least a little likely to attempt to avoid the suction underfoot, although I would not have been surprised to find one or two stranded in the mud.
I had thought to take a rain check on the sandbagged ford before deciding on whether to cross it or not. Forget that. I didn’t even venture across the mud bath leading to the sandbags. It seemed politic to stay on our side of the winding stream I call Malwood.
I walked along it for a while, then retraced my steps and returned home.
Walking back through the forest to the side of the farm fences, I noticed much beautifully shaped pastel coloured lichen clinging to fallen twigs featherbedded by a mulch of deep dark brown autumn leaves.
My share of the five-egg mushroom omelette with toast that was for lunch, went down very well.
This afternoon I finished reading Voltaire’s story ‘Le Taureau Blanc’. Here the philosopher, in advocating the search for human wisdom and happiness, is having an ironic pop at the fantasy of the Old Testament. At least, that is the sense I make of this fabulous tale.
This evening we dined on succulent sausage casserole with creamy mashed potato, crisp runner beans and cauliflower, followed by creme caramel. I drank more of the Bergerac.
Jackie’s sausage casserole has an interesting provenance. What she has done is perfect my adaptation from Delia Smith. This is the tops.
For four to six servings:
Take 12 sausages; lots of shallots; plenty of button mushrooms; a packet of Sainsbury’s cooking bacon, chopped into bite sized pieces; 3 big cloves of garlic; 5-6 bay leaves; 1 heaped teaspoonful of dried thyme; 3/4 pint of pork stock (if pork sausages – today’s were Milton Gate pork and apple from Lidl which provide a touch of sweetness); enough red wine to cover the contents of the dish.
Red peppers provide a bit of colour, but are not essential. Similarly thickening with the help of gravy granules or cornflower may be required.
Method:
Fry the sausages until browned on all sides and set aside. In the casserole dish then fry the bacon and shallots with the crushed garlic. Add the stock and wine; bring to the boil, turn down the heat, add the bay leaves and thyme, pop the sausages back in and simmer for 3/4 hour. (The simmering refers to the cooking heat. It doesn’t mean you have to adopt a suppressed emotional stance).
Then add the mushrooms and simmer for further 20-30 minutes.
Jackie cooks this dish without a lid until the sauce looks rich enough, if necessary adding one of the thickening agents.
The final touch of the peppers may be added in the last few minutes.
Driving Hazards
This morning was cold and bright as I walked down to Football Green, up through the rear entrance to Minstead Lodge, and back home via Seamans Lane.
On Running Hill I was reminded that last year’s foals are catching up their parents in height. The black mane sported by the younger pony in the picture no doubt has been passed on by its all black father hiding behind the tree.
During my years of commuting from Newark to King’s Cross, I sometimes chatted with another tall traveller, just a little younger and shorter than me. One day, he noticed a still younger and taller man. ‘They are catching us up’, he said. It is, of course, true that, on the whole, each subsequent generation outstrips the previous ones. We have found this when looking at very old houses, like the crick-framed one in Kings Somborne, in our search for a new home. Centuries ago, people were considerably shorter, which is why King Henry VIII, at 6 feet 2 inches or 1.88 metres, was, in Tudor times, considered a giant.
One of the casualties of the recent winds has been a rose bush bent so far across the verge as to screech against the car passenger window when we drive past. Experiencing this in the dark reminds me of M.R. James’s spooky story ‘The Ash-Tree’, in which the eponymous intruder scratches at a bedroom window. At close range in daylight the hips look quite harmless really.
Ever since I saw so many rooks in Morden Park when we lived in Links Avenue, I have tried, with very limited success, to photograph one in flight. Normally they are up and away at first glimpse of me. 
Today, unless they were crows, I managed it at Football Green. Wherever there are ponies these birds gather together and peck at the grassy terrain.
Like a number of others in the area, the cattle grid to Minstead Lodge is currently filled with ochre-coloured water.
A group of students from the Minstead Training Centre, in the charge of volunteers, were making excellent progress in the building of the goat shelter. I took the opportunity to pop in and visit Noura, who had given me an open invitation to do so on 7th December. Apart from being very personable and friendly, this Head of Care is quite smart. I was given coffee, introduced to the Volunteers Coordinator and the Director, and presented with a volunteers application form. And I’d only popped in because she had asked me to ‘come for a cup of tea’.
On the drive leading to Seamans Lane, the very large sawn stump of a fallen tree now bears reflectors to alert motorists of its comparatively recent presence. It is another driving hazard not quite clear of the tarmac. The ponies, of course, such as those featured in ‘Shoo!’, are permanent encroachers onto the roads. But then they own them, don’t they?
This evening we dined on a selection of our choice from chilli con carne and mixed meat curry with pilau rice, followed by creme caramel. Of course we each had some of everything. I opened a fresh bottle of the Bergerac. The coriander that was already at least three weeks old on 22nd, was, having been kept according to Jackie’s method, still reasonably fresh today.
In order best to extract the flavour from cinnamon sticks when using them in her rice, Jackie softens them by boiling them first in some of the water.
Classic Cars
Through the kitchen diner window at yesterday’s party we witnessed a very brief thunderstorm, with one flash of lightning, one roll of thunder, and heavy rain. Afterwards all was clear, and we arrived home to a starlit sky with winds getting up. Soon the rains returned, for the night and the next day on which our soggy, windswept, lawns were festooned with broken pine branches. The less brittle oaks swayed with the gusts. It was a day for concentrating on vintage photographs.
In case anyone is unaware, the reason we British talk about the weather all the time is that we never know from one day to the next what we will experience. And certainly the last couple of years have been exceptional.
In the Bernard Gardens years Dad would take us all for a day at the seaside. I don’t know where number 44 in the ‘through the ages’ series was photographed, but Hayling Island and West Wittering were favourite destinations. This scene, the ancient print of which needed considerable retouching, was probably captured in 1960, by a person unknown. Here Dad and Joe are building a sandcastle and I seem to be adopting the role of Clerk of Works.
It was at that time that our father bought his first car, which, according to collective memory – at first – may or may not have been a Sunbeam Alpine. Mum reported that whatever it was as a ‘big blue very dangerous car’ that had to be replaced by a Singer Hunter.
A few phone calls and long-distance ploughing through Google images jointly with brother Chris, and we came up with what we think is the definitive answer. The car that Mum remembers had seen better days was an Austin A40 Devon. We all survived the trip.
After this came a Daimler Consort that was used as Elizabeth and Rob’s wedding car driven by brother-in-law Jack Jewell on 25th August 1973.
In these wedding photographs Elizabeth and Dad stand beside the splendid car as he prepares to give her away, and the chauffeur stands beside the bride and groom, the two men in full 70s sartorial elegance. Dad, you will notice, had the sense to dispense with flares, and wasn’t quite up to the fashionable hair lengths.
The Daimler was eventually sold because of the expense and limited availability of parts. After this, Dad’s vehicles became rather less ambitious.
I spent much of the afternoon on a secret archive project.
This evening’s meal was a mixed meat curry with pilau rice and cauliflower bhaji. The meats were lamb, pork, and chicken. Although the ingredients of the curry and the rice were different from those described on 22nd, Jackie tells me that the methods are roughly the same. The meal was delicious, even though not a combination one is likely to find in a restaurant. Once you have the basic recipe under your belt you can really do anything with it. Bread pudding and custard was to follow. I drank more Bergerac, and Jackie drank Cobra.
‘All Is Flux, Nothing Stays Still’
After a night of steady rain following an unrelentingly graphite-layered day on which the sun never got out of bed, it stirred itself this morning, weakly lifted its head, peeped through the trees on the Eastern side of the garden, sent exploratory fingers across the lawn, then stared through the living room windows.
Just before noon, when the sun was making its way painfully to its evening resting place on the Western corner, I wandered around the garden before we set off in the car for Clapham and Wolf’s 85th Birthday Party. 
Not always managing to penetrate the cloud cover, it did manage a feeble salute for Gladstone’s sequoia.
Yesterday, on the forest verge of Upper Drive I had noticed a recently exhumed skull of some forest creature. I wondered how it had found itself there, and, indeed, what it had belonged to. It is still in situ.
Our journey to Wolf And Luci’s home for the afternoon party took just over three hours, sixty five minutes of which was a slow crawl from the moment we left the A3 at Shannon Corner near Raynes Park on the A298 straight through to Clapham on the A24. We hardly ever reached above 7 miles an hour. Consequently we had the opportunity to look about us and see the changes to the landscape that is rows and rows of buildings on either side which are constantly undergoing evolution.
Tooting, which had just a few Asian shops when I lived there thirty years ago is now dominated by establishments reflecting the Indian sub-continent. The Colliers Tup opposite Colliers Wood tube station has, in just over a year since we left Morden, had a complete facelift and been renamed the Charles Holden. As recently as 31st October 2012 I photographed Delhi Heights which had, before it was that fusion establishment, been an English pub. It is now Istanbul Meze Mangal, offering Mediterranean Cuisine. On the 16th of that same month The Emma Hamilton in Wimbledon Chase was no longer operating as a public house. I photographed it in its reincarnation as a car wash enterprise. It has now been pulled down and has developers’ hoardings surrounding the space it had occupied.
Even the Nelson Hospital, where our children Matthew and Rebekah were both born, has now disappeared. One part is, the boards tell us, allocated to a McCarthy and Stone residential enterprise. The rest, retaining its facade, but otherwise demolished, bears the NHS logo on its protective barriers.
To the side of the Istanbul restaurant in the picture above can be seen the ‘black elephant’ of Colliers Wood. This is a building which is apparently unsafe either to use or demolish because it stands over the underground railway. It has, I am told, been empty for many years.
It was the ancient Greek philosopher Heraclitus who said: ‘All is flux, nothing stays still’.
Some things however, do remain constant. One of these is my forty-five year friendship with Wolf Blomfield, whose party it was today. At a small and convivial gathering Jackie and I enjoyed the company of the great man and his wife Luci, and renewed some old acquaintances, notably Wolf’s children Vishvapani and Sarah who Jackie and I knew when they were children. Grandchildren were represented by Leo and Anna. Some others there have known Wolf longer than I. One goes back seventy years.
We were provided with a feast of tasty sandwiches, samosas, scones with jam and clotted cream, and finally chocolate birthday cake. A variety of drinks was on offer. I enjoyed some very good red wine.
Kiti, who managed the catering, and Luci took a number of photographs. If our friend can take a hint she may e-mail some to me so that I can add one or two to this post. In the meantime, here is one Luci took of Wolf and me not so long ago.
St George To The Rescue
I took an early walk of the postbox loop this morning, and because we were promised intense rain all day from 11 a.m. onwards, settled down to scanning old positive film. In fact the day was extremely dark and dingy with no rain, no light source penetrating, and the forecasters putting forward the timing of the storm by the hour. It began at 5 p.m.
My last foray into my ‘posterity’ archives produced a colour slide of Vivien, Michael, and friends from the Yorkshire Insurance Company.
Mike Vaquer, one of those present, took this one of our little family in May 1964.
It won’t need very close inspection to see one of my cauliflower ears, the result of binding down in the second row of the scrum, and grating them against props’ thighs. I am happy to say that once my playing days were over these blemishes subsided somewhat. I also appear to look rather like Jack Palance, but I think my broken nose is simply a trick of the light. Palance was an American professional heavyweight boxer of the early 1940s who became a film actor with a career spanning fifty years. He had great presence.
Archie, an appropriately named architect, was our neighbour in Gracedale Road in the 1980s. On our first meeting in the street, I glanced at this South African born giant’s ears and asked: ‘Second row?’. ‘You too?’, he replied, nodding. We hadn’t even mentioned rugby. I wouldn’t have fancied my chances against him.
Three months after the family shot was taken, we visited my grandparents in Staines. Grandma is seen here among Grandpa’s roses giving Michael his first taste of ice cream. Just as I had been Annie Hunter’s first grandchild, my son Michael was the first of her next generation of offspring. My sister Elizabeth, photographed on the same day, looks as if I probably prevailed upon her to admire another rose as a prop.
Three years on, in July 1967, I discovered St Botolph’s Church at Hardham in East Sussex. A simple two-cell stone building of very early Norman style that is Grade 1 listed, this place of worship, dating from the 12th century, contains the earliest almost complete series of wall paintings in England, and in particular the earliest reproductions of St George, the patron saint of England. Like many such wall decorations these lay under whitewash for centuries until they were uncovered in 1866.
Wishing to photograph the paintings in natural light with my Olympus OM2, I only found one scene that I thought would be in receipt of sufficient illumination. To me, at that time, it was just a man with a rather long spear on horseback. The light coming from the single east window on that day must have been shining on me as well, for I had unwittingly photographed St George fighting at Antioch in 1098, at which engagement he was believed to have made a miraculous appearance to help the Crusaders, about 
which I have only read comparatively recently. Here he smites the infidels with a lance. He was thought to have turned the battle.
We dined this evening on roast pork and the vegetables you see here. 
The crackling was crisp, crunchy and scrumptious. Spicy bread pudding and custard was to follow. I finished a bottle of the Bergerac.
Should you wish to emulate the crackling of the woman I am fortunate enough to have cooking for me,
The method is:
Rub salt into the skin some hours beforehand. Roast the joint on very low heat, gas mark 1-2 or 150C for about three hours. Then for the last 20/30 minutes turn the heat up to the maximum when the crackling will bubble up and live up to its name.
Jackie says that had she know this meal would be on display she would not have served the roast potatoes and parsnips in the dish in which she cooked them.
By Appointment: Photographer To The Tourists
Just before midday Jackie delivered me to Southampton Parkway for the London train. Wandering along the car park, killing time because I was early,
I contemplated car wheels, many of which were reflected in the numerous puddles. This reminded me of a recent conversation with Jackie’s brother-in-law Ron, in which he had informed me that no cars had been built with hub caps for many years. I had not noticed.
I got talking to a taxi driver who told me that the aluminium alloy wheels were made with a mixture of aluminium and rust. He didn’t know what the special properties of rust were, but said the reason we didn’t see that any more either was that scrap metal merchants collected it for the manufacture of this material.
From Waterloo, I walked across the modern version of the Hungerford Footbridge from 
which there was a clear view of Waterloo Bridge and the skyline beyond, in which St. Paul’s still holds its own among the taller modern buildings.
Passing through Charing Cross Station and across The Strand, I skirted Trafalgar Square of which the fountains sparkled splendidly in the sunshine. I took the pathway by the left of 
the National Gallery to Leicester Square and carried on up Wardour Street which sported vibrant decorations, no doubt in readiness for the Chinese New Year at the end of this month.
At the entrance to Gerrard Street a tourist couple asked me to take their photograph with the gentleman’s mobile phone. As usual in these situations, I asked if I could capture them on my camera. 
They were happy to oblige.
From Shaftesbury Avenue I proceeded to Piccadilly where I shopped in Waterstones and the market in St James’s Churchyard.
I continued to Green Park intending to travel the one stop to Victoria by tube to visit Carol. This was not possible. The Victoria line was closed because of flooding at the terminal station. I took the Piccadilly Line to South Kensington, and the District one to Victoria. Chaos prevailed as the crowds seeking alternative routes struggled to understand the several options open for various destinations given out on the public address system. I didn’t get a seat, but I did get to Carol’s. After my time with her I took my usual journey back to Southampton whence Jackie drove me home.
On the 507 bus a gentleman with a stentorian voice who was clad in a greatcoat and a candlewick bedspread provided us all with information about food; alternately expressed true sorrow and profound gratitude for what he had become; and spared a thought for elderly people with arthritis, which, thankfully he hadn’t come to yet. He staggered off the vehicle struggling with a huge, cumbersome, laundry bag. Most other passengers silently focussed on their electronic devices.
Back home, we dined on lamb curry and pilau rice, every bit as tasty as yesterday. I drank sparkling water.
A Link
This morning was another splendidly spring-like one. I walked down to the Village Shop and back, to collect my dry cleaning. In an open-necked shirt and unbuttoned jacket, I raised a sweat. Not bad for January.
As I approached the Trusty, dazzled by the high sun, I was uncertain, until she’d passed me, whether the driver of the trap pulled by a familiar white pony clopping up the road was my friendly acquaintance from Seamans Lane. It was. She slowed the horse to a walk, and we exchanged smiles and waves.
The weather reverted to white cloud this afternoon, and I had a trawl through my posterity collection, coming up with colour slides from 1964.
Two members of the group of friends pictured with Vivien and Michael in May of that year were to provide a link with the next stage of my life of which I was unaware at the time. Seated in one of our two rooms in my parents’ house at 18 Bernard Gardens, from the left next to Vivien are Felicity, soon to marry Tony Dowdle who is beside her; Mike Vaquer; and David, whose surname I have forgotten. The three men were work colleagues at the Yorkshire Insurance Company. It was Mike who had introduced me to photographing the West End Christmas lights.
Three months later we attended the wedding of Tony and Felicity in a church in Killieser Avenue, Streatham.
Felicity looked all the Bluebell Girl she was. Interestingly, she seemed a great deal more happy to be photographed then than she had appeared in May. Alan Murray, best man, I think, and company seemed rather determined to ensure that Tony was covered in confetti.
Vivien was to live barely a year after this wedding.
A further year on and I was to return to Killieser Avenue for visits to Jackie who was then sharing a flat with her friend Janice. Who could have known?
Even less predictable was it, given the intervening years, that Jackie would be feeding me a wonderful dinner this evening of lamb curry and pilau rice, accompanied in my case by more of the Bordeaux.
For her fans, she has provided a description of the preparation of first the curry, then the rice.
Lamb curry (serves 8):
For the sauce finely chop 4 medium onions; 4 fat or 5 medium cloves of garlic; 3/4 bird eye chillies, and fry them in a little mustard oil mixed with vegetable oil.
When this mixture is softened and golden, throw in 3 tsp ground turmeric, 2 tsp cumin, 2 tsp coriander powder, 2tsp garam masala; 2 tbsp white vinegar, 2tbsp red wine and stir until a lovely paste is formed.
Stir in 2tbsp tomato puree and 500g Passata
The lamb (1lb), which has been pre-cooked should then be added. Our chef has used trimmed rump steaks boiled, with a little water and a lamb stock cube, in a pressure cooker for 6 minutes. If you have no pressure cooker simmer in stock until tender.
Add the lamb and its juices to the mixture above and simmer on a low heat until you have a nice thick sauce.
At some stage before then add a cupful of broad beans.
Pilau rice:
Take 8 oz basmati rice and one pint of water. Pour a little of the water into a small saucepan with 4/5 bay leaves, 2 inches of cinnamon stick, 8 green cardamoms and 8 cloves. Simmer until soft and squashy and water full of flavours.
In the meantime fry another finely chopped onion with a couple of cloves of garlic in 2oz butter then stir in the rice and throw in the saucepan of wonderful spices, the rest of the water and 4 good shakes of Maggi seasoning. (Jackie may have been a bit carried away here. For ‘throw in’ I would substitute ‘gently pour in ‘, but what do I know? Make up your own mind. PS you can leave out the saucepan itself).
Boil until all the water is gone. Garnish with toasted almonds and chopped coriander leaves.
Anyone caring to zoom in on the rice may well spot a few peas, sultanas, and yellow pepper. That is because you can add a little of whatever your fancy dictates and you have available.
Finally, a tip on keeping coriander fresh. Neither freeze it nor leave it in water. Wrap it in cling film and leave it in the fridge. That which garnished today’s meal had kept its youthful quality for at least three weeks, and there is more in the fridge.