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The Topper And The Times

Our resident pheasant is becoming more accustomed to human presence. This morning, instead of taking, squawking, to the air, it strutted silently off along the paths as Jackie walked up the garden. From indoors, we can hear it conversing with other birds. Soon the greenfinches will spend whole days at a time shrilly screeching from the beech tree. The sharp grating tones of the larger bird should certainly syncopate with this, thus intensely irritating the head gardener.

My knee pain is responding to the medication, and, with the aid of the stick, I am getting around the house and garden more comfortably.

Yesterday I had scanned colour slides from the summer of 1971. Today I travelled two years further back in my archives to June 1969, where Michael was taking as much delight in entertaining Matthew as he was Becky in August ’71. Indeed, Michael’s expression in the second picture below is identical to that in the daisy image yesterday.

Whatever Mat was being taught to do with the dried stalks, he looked quite pleased to have got the idea.

I was intrigued to see The Topper comic lying on the parched grass. This is because at the beginning of 1953 we had eagerly awaited the first copy of this publication from the stable of D.C. Thompson & Co. Ltd, which appeared on 7th February. The imminence of this new entertainment had been advertised in The Dandy and The Beano, featured in ‘Her Very Own Seaside’. Maybe Jackie had experienced the same anticipation because, as our Mum had bought it for us, her Dad bought it for her and her sisters. It was Jackie who bought it for Michael.

Matthew is pretty smart at sorting out anagrams. It seems highly likely that he acquired this skill by assisting me with The Times crossword on the lawn at Amity Grove.

On a day as sunny as that pictured above, Aaron, apart from additional shingling, completed work on the back drive. Unfortunately there wasn’t quite enough room for Jackie to make the three point turn that was planned. Our under gardener therefore took down a remaining few posts and began shifting rubble in order to extend the turning area. This enabled Jackie to make a 333 point manoeuvre. The space will be further adjusted next week.

This evening we dined on fish, chips, baked beans, and pickled onions, followed by rice pudding. I drank Lidl’s Cotes du Rhone 2013, and Jackie abstained.

A Little Tart

This morning the brilliant neck of the pheasant, joining the pigeons and doves scavenging for scraps from the smaller birds’ breakfast table, occasionally emerged from the pieris camouflage and peered expectantly awaiting the next morsel to be dropped.

After our coffee I scanned some more colour slides from 1971. The photographs were all taken in the garden at 76 Amity Grove.

In April Jackie had borrowed my Old Wimbledonians rugby jersey. There was quite a strong body of opinion that suggested she looked better in it than I did.

By May, blossom was clothing the apple tree that featured in ‘Becky’s Book’. Michael and his friends Shaun, Jay, and Jamie, turned it into a tented house which they reached by scaling a ladder. I don’t imagine they all four managed to sit on the seat together.

Fruit had been produced by August. From the expressions on Becky’s face she may have found her first apple a little tart.

The marguerites were past their best, but Michael had found smaller daisies, and dandelions, thriving. Becky’s pink plastic one needed no nurturing.

This, the last day of the Six Nations Rugby Tournament, was the most thrilling of my lifetime. I watched all three matches on television. The championship was wide open, three teams being in a position to win it, and if they all won their contests today, it would be decided on points difference. This meant we were treated to three open games where the teams were all aiming to score as many points as possible. The three sides were Wales, Ireland, and England. Wales beat Italy in Rome 61-20; then Ireland beat Scotland at Murrayfield 40-10. I won’t bore you with the match, but this meant that England, in the final match, at Twickenham, needed to beat France by 26 points. England won the game 55-35. Ireland won the championship.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s luscious lamb jalfrezi, egg fried rice, and vegetable samosas, followed by rice pudding. Her choice of accompanying beverage was T’Sing Tao; mine was Kingfisher.

‘Carer Fills The Dosset Box’

After yesterday’s trip I have to accept I can no longer just wait for my right knee to heal itself. Today, apart from a drive to the GP’s, I have furniture walked, with not a glimmer of polish. Given that Jackie is awaiting surgery on her left knee, she has speculated that we might do quite well in a three-legged race.

Once again, I am grateful that we live where we do. A phone call to the GP surgery in the morning resulted in an emergency appointment with the excellent Dr Simon Moody-Jones; medication prescribed, and collected; a recommendation that I dig out a stick I had used before the previous surgery; and back home with a completed application form for a perhaps optimistically termed walk-in x-ray in the afternoon; all in time for Bargain Hunt at 12.30.

A Dosset box is designed to contain medication marked to help people remember whether they have taken their pills or not. Little compartments are laid out according to days of the week and intervals in the days. The idea is that carers can fill them for patients otherwise unable to carry out the procedure. Whilst in hospital after my hip replacement five and a half years ago, I thought it amusing to tell a nurse that I had such a box, because we thought it a good idea for anyone. Jackie was fascinated to read in the notes on the clipboard at the foot of the bed, that ‘carer fills Dosset box’.

Obviously taking this allocated role to heart, she inserted Co-codamol for the pain, Naproxen for the swelling, and Omeprazole to counteract potential stomach damage from the Naproxen, to see me through the week ahead.

I am not sure quite what I said to earn the silent inverted gesture that went with it.

This afternoon we were in and out of Lymington Hospital’s X-ray unit in about twenty minutes, most of which was occupied by me walking from the car.

On our return I was delighted to receive an alert informing me that, under a blog post entitled ‘Dissection of a Wedding Party’, my friend Alex Schneideman on www.alexschneideman.net has produced enlarged images of individual portraits of the members of the group in my ‘Revealing The Ancestors’ post. Alex’s site is well worth a look.

We had never thought of Kenwood as a producer of dishwashers when we bought one on special offer from Curry’s. We had an initial problem getting it going but that was fixed under guarantee. What has always been metaphorically, and today literally, a pain has been that the tray runners don’t operate smoothly and are held in place by plastic wheels which frequently fall off into the rear nether regions of the machine, and are very difficult to manoeuvre back into their correct positions. A fiddly enough process at the best of times, today, feeling as if one of the knives had also fallen from its container and lodged itself in my knee, I had to give up and hand the job of recovery to Jackie.

She was then able to load up the dishwasher, normally my job, with the pots, crockery, and cutlery from our delicious evening meal of her lamb jalfrezi, egg fried rice, and vegetable samosas. Jackie drank T’Sing Tao and I drank Kingfisher.

Life

I must warn readers that this post is controversial and may distress some people.

Jackie drove me to New Milton this morning and back home this evening for me to travel to St Thomas’s Hospital to join Luci in visiting Wolf.

From Waterloo I took the tube to Westminster and walked across the bridge to the hospital.

Today’s demonstration in Parliament Square was by www.abort67.co.uk. It was only after reading the information given to me by Liz, one of the volunteers distributing leaflets, that I realised that the photographs on display across the road were of aborted foetuses after their destruction. For those who wish to see, a clear view of these can be had by zooming in on the image.

This organisation aims fully to acquaint people with what actually happens in an abortion. They have links with PASE (post abortion support for everyone). My Social Work and Counselling practice demonstrated the importance of this.

Here is what the website of Education for Choice has to say about the history of the UK abortion laws:

‘The Abortion Act 1967

In the time between the Bourne ruling and the 1967 Abortion Act some women did have abortions for urgent medical reasons or, with the consent of a psychiatrist, to protect their mental health.

Wealthier women were more likely to be able to pay to see a psychiatrist who could agree to a safe abortion, but many would have had no option but to seek illegal methods for ending a pregnancy.

The cost to women’s health of illegal abortion was high with around 40 women dying each year and many more injured. Doctors, politicians and members of some religious communities worked together to pass a law that allowed for abortion in some circumstances.

The Abortion Act was passed in 1967, a time of lively political campaigning, and is sometimes seen as one of the triumphs of the women’s movement. The reality is that it was not passed to give women rights, but to respond to a public health problem.

The law gave the rights and responsibility for decision making to doctors not women. It did not legalise abortion, but allowed for exceptions to the illegality of abortion.

Much of the law is open to interpretation and asks doctors to make a judgement based on weighing up risks rather than specifying particular circumstances in which abortion would be legal.

There have been several attempts in Parliament to restrict abortion law further by those who do not support a woman’s right to choose abortion. Those who do support the right to choose are also unhappy with the law, which is perceived to be unclear and too restrictive.

In 1990 the 1967 Act was amended by the Human Fertilisation and Embryology Act, which reduced the original time limit of 28 weeks to 24 weeks for most abortions.’

This time limit reduction indicates forensic uncertainty about the viability of life.

When does life commence? My own view is reflected in this quotation from Professor Micheline Matthews-Roth of Harvard University Medical School, in the brochure ‘What do you think about abortion?’: ‘It is scientifically correct to say that an individual human life begins at conception.’ There are other quotations, detailed information, and further graphic illustrations in this publication.

Without going into the rights and wrongs of the dichotomy that exists in UK legislation, I will simply say, that, since 1967, we have permitted the destruction of unborn children, yet deny terminally ill people the right voluntarily to end their lives with dignity. I am not here advocating euthanasia, simply pointing up the differences in stances taken.

Given that we are told that 97% of UK abortions are funded by the NHS, I spare a thought for the medics who are charged with having to carry out the task.

In a bizarre reflection of what happens to the embryos, a number of the leaflets had been ripped up and discarded on the surrounding pavements like this one on Westminster Bridge. Others found their way into waste bins.

Liz, having sought my permission, seeing that I was struggling to walk, placed her hand on my shoulder and offered up a prayer for my joints.

As I limped across the bridge I was accosted by the woman, claiming to be a gypsy, whom I had photographed railing at a tourist on 20th June 2013. Advancing on me like a Fury she plonked both her hands, clutching artificial carnations, onto my chest and proceeded, pounding my sternum and spraying spittle on my waistcoat with every word, to castigate me for refusing to accept one. ‘We gotta live,’ she cried. ‘Well do it another way. Don’t con people.’ I replied, extricated myself and hobbled off.

Opposite the hospital is an estate agent called ‘LIFE Residential’, its sign nicely juxtaposed with that of the gift shop next door.

Soon after leaving St Thomas’s, I met a man who told me he had, last night, stood on Westminster Bridge contemplating taking his own own life. Another gentleman had talked him out of it.

On the train I finished reading the third book of G.K. Chesterton’s ‘Father Brown Stories’, ‘The Incredulity of Father Brown’, and began the next one, ‘The Secret of Father Brown’. These tales are all about the taking of life.

Jackie and I both drank T’Sing Tao beer with our Chinese takeaway this evening.

Back In Time For Bargain Hunt

We now have quite a variety of daffodils in the garden. Here are some new ones:

Once they start turning an attractive ochre colour, the camellias develop an additional beauty.

Numerous different pansies, some newly planted, some having prospered through the winter, enjoyed a warm, sunny day.

Hyacinths are really indoor plants, but it is always worth placing the bulbs in the garden once they have finished flowering, on the off-chance that they might survive. Some Jackie inserted last year have bloomed.

Just before mid-day Jackie drove us to Lymington Hospital for her post-scan consultation. She does need surgery to repair knee damage, and her name has consequently been put on a waiting list for an operation at the Nuffield Hospital in Chandlers Ford. Once again we were impressed with the friendly efficiency of the Lymington service. Where else could you drive six miles each way for a hospital appointment for 12.15, for which we admittedly arrived a few minutes early, and return home having missed only ten minutes of T.V.’s ‘Bargain Hunt’ which started at 12.30?

We have so many hellebores shyly hanging their heads in the garden that Jackie decided to encourage the blooms to show their faces, and thus allow us to enjoy their variety without having to crouch down to look them in the eye. She cut a selection and placed them in a bowl of water. This ceramic was made by Jill Tattersall, a Newark friend.

The Happy Wok in Ashley was Jackie’s choice of Chinese takeaway dinner this evening. The portions are plentiful enough to feed us for a further day or two. She imbibed T’Sing Tao beer, whilst I consumed more of the claret..

Up For Auction

Yesterday’s mystery print was of a brass steam dome reflecting the rest of its engine.

This morning I watched part of my least favourite television programme. There I was, minding my own business upstairs while Jackie was watching one of her choices, ‘Homes Under The Hammer’, when she called me to come and watch it. Some of my American and continental correspondents have commented about how crazy are the real estate prices in UK. One of the reasons for their escalation is the ‘Buy to Let’ practice which enables people to buy homes specifically for the purpose of renting them out. After the exposure of Peter Rachman’s exploitation of tenants in the 1950s and ’60s, various rent acts have protected tenants, and for a time it was not possible to obtain a mortgage on a property bought for the purpose of letting it. Since the late 1990s, however, the practice has burgeoned.

‘Homes Under The Hammer’, follows the progress of largely neglected dwellings through the auction houses to their refurbishment or demolition and redevelopment of the site. The programme focusses solely on profit, bringing in local estate agents to weigh up the benefits for developers of resale as against rental. Some people, of course, make the improvements to turn dilapidated houses into family homes for themselves. That is a different matter.

‘You’ll never guess what’s in ‘Homes Under The Hammer’, Jackie cried. She was right. I didn’t. But as soon as she told me, I was down the stairs like a shot, pausing only to grab my camera from my desk.

In several posts, including ‘Derelict’, during our time in Morden, I wrote about an uninhabited dwelling. This boarded up house suffered more and more graffiti and vandalism whilst we lived in Links Avenue. Today it featured in the programme, which, following the normal formula, began with the presenter investigating the property on offer.

Normally, the young woman would have toured the inside of the building, but access was denied her by the measures taken to prevent people from sleeping, or worse, in there.

Viewers are the taken to the auction rooms to watch the sale, hyping up the escalating bids and pointing out by how much the guide price has been exceeded. The packed Savills venue demonstrates both the popularity of this method of sale, and the multi-cultural nature of this part of London.

At the end of the proceedings the camera focusses on the successful bidders who are then congratulated by the presenter who discusses their plans with them on site.

The original intention had been to demolish the wreck and replace it by four new attached buildings. After two unsuccessful applications to the Council’s Planning Department, the buyers settled for one larger, more luxurious, dwelling. Letting this out was not in their minds, as they intended to sell what they built.

Allowing a reasonable amount of time to elapse, the film crew return to see what has been achieved. In this case, after two unsuccessful applications to the Council’s Planning Department, who had paid attention to neighbours’ objections, the developers had settled for one larger, more luxurious, dwelling.

Although not yet finished, it was now possible for the filming to take place inside.

This new build has been estimated by local estate agents on completion of the work to be valued at £800,000 – £850,000. I imagine, looking at what’s on offer, my readers from abroad may be rather shocked.

This evening Jackie produced a dinner of succulent Muscovy duck breasts roasted in redcurrant jelly, crisp roast potatoes, and crunchy carrots and cauliflower, with a tasty gravy. I began the excellent 2010 claret from Fortnum and Mason given to us in a hamper by Luci and Wolf for Christmas 2013.

The Missing Slides

According to Wikipedia, ‘The Bluebell Railway is a heritage line running for 11 mi (17.7 km) along the border between East and West Sussex, England^] It uses steam trains which operate between Sheffield Park and East Grinstead, with intermediate stations at Horsted Keynes & Kingscote.

The first preserved standard gauge steam-operated passenger railway in the world to operate a public service,^[1] the Society ran its first train on 7 August 1960, less than three years after the line from East Grinstead to Lewes had been closed by British Railways.

On 23 March 2013, the Bluebell Railway commenced running through to its new East Grinstead terminus station. At East Grinstead there is a connection to the UK National Network, the first connection of the Bluebell Railway to the national network (in 50 years) since the Horsted Keynes – Haywards Heath line closed in 1963.

Today the railway is managed and run largely by volunteers. Having preserved a number of steam locomotives even before the cessation of steam service on British mainline railways in 1968, today it has the largest collection (over 30) of steam locomotives in the UK after the National Railway Museum. The Society also has a collection of almost 150 carriages and wagons, most of them pre-1939.

By August 1969, therefore, the steam trains that had run past 29a Stanton Road, where I grew up, no longer ran past the maisonette. Perhaps that is why Jackie and I, with Michael and Matthew, joined our then friends, Sue and Keith Bannister for a ride on the Sussex tracks. Keith and I both took our cameras to record the event.

Today I scanned most of my batch of slides. The first set were taken inside the historic train. Matthew probably didn’t appreciate a camera being pointed in his direction.

These old corridor trains contained carriages in which two rows of people occupying upholstered seats that can be seen in the first two pictures faced each other. Not counting those who, in the rush hour, were forced to stand, there was room for perhaps a dozen passengers in each compartment on the national railways. The story of how two of my classmates ensured their sole occupancy of such a set of seats at such a time is told in ‘The Drain’.

Keith and Michael each spent some time standing at the windows in the doors.

It is not possible, as is often done in period dramas, to open these doors on the move, and looking out of the windows was not recommended. This is because there were no electronic locking devices in those days. The window was lowered or raised by adjusting the notches holding a leather strap, and the door had an albeit strong levered catch. If you wished to hang outside the carriage, either to get a breath of fresh air or to escape a would-be murderer, you could. Similarly, by doing what Keith was doing, you could risk being decapitated as the conveyance careered through a tunnel. Michael was still short enough not to be tempted into such risky behaviour, and Keith would, no doubt, have drawn his head in when necessary.

The differences in approach to photographing the trains in their yards between Keith and me was interesting. Keith concentrated on the whole train in its setting, whereas I focussed on sections in close up. Unfortunately only one of my efforts has survived. This is because I was so pleased with them I had some A3 prints made by a professional and somehow managed to lose the original slides. Only one of the prints is still in my possession, and that is too large for my scanner.

So how was I to reproduce it for this post?

Obviously I needed to photograph the photograph. But I am no Ken Morse, and without his rostrum camera, there was bound to be some distortion at the edges of the new picture. A very small amount of trimming was required.

Here is the sole representative of an afternoon’s exploration of beautifully polished brass, heavy wheels, and all the other delightful examples of that machine age:

I always delight in asking viewers of this print what they think is being portrayed. What do you think? The answer will be provided tomorrow.

This evening we dined on pork rib rack with a barbecue glaze, stir fry peppers and onions, fried rice and green beans followed by rice pudding and strawberry jam. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Bordeaux.

Dandy’s Spread

This morning, I managed my umpteenth pheasant focussing failure.

Saying this is surely simpler.

For lunch, Jackie drove us to Elizabeth’s at West End, where we had been invited to join the Mothering Sunday party.

Present were three mothers: Jean, Elizabeth, and Jackie.

Jean, of course, is the mother of both me and my sister,

who is the mother of Danni, our Mum’s granddaughter.

Danni and her partner Andy, now affectionately known jointly as Dandy, had, for Mothers’ Day, spent a great deal of time and effort in preparing quite the most splendid succulent roast beef dinner the rest of us had ever enjoyed. I am confident that even Jackie, whose culinary expertise is well known to my readers, would agree with me.

The spread was laid out on the circular kitchen table from where we helped ourselves, filling up our capacious plates and trying to make steady enough progress into the dining room to avoid having to eat any of our food off the spotless newly painted wooden floor.

The roast beef, potatoes, and parsnips were just as I like them; the gravy was full of goodies; there were tasty pigs in blankets (small sausages wrapped in bacon); the carrots, brussels sprouts, green beans, and sweet potato were suitably crisp; small button onions and whole cloves of garlic had kept the potatoes company in their roasting dish and naturally joined them on our plates. If you think I could have overlooked any elements of this magnificent repast, I suggest you click on the image above, and examine it closely.

After this we enjoyed lemon tart and apricot flan with cream. Plentiful cheese and biscuits were on offer later, because no-one could contemplate eating anything else immediately after the first two courses. Knowing I prefer bread to biscuits, Elizabeth had bought a very special crusty white loaf just for me. I was unable to cut into it, settling simply for a small square of mature cheddar.

Red wine, fruit juice, and Peroni were variously imbibed, and coffee was to follow for those who had room for it.

Much of the inevitable reminiscing has already been recorded in previous posts, but as is often the case when we have shared a good meal together, we spoke of other foods, calories, and dieting; and, in particular, what we had enjoyed as children. Mum, of course, could go back much further to her own 1920s childhood. One of her father’s favourite meals was tripe and onions. Tripe is the edible offal from the stomach of a cow, a pig, a sheep, or an ox. Although I’ve never tried it, I don’t think it tastes of much, although that of an ox appears to have the most flavour.

This illustration is of what is called the honeycomb type which comes from the animal’s second stomach. The counties of Lancashire and Yorkshire have differing methods of cooking it, viz:

‘Original Receipt in Marjory Houlihan’s ‘Tripe – A most Excellent Dish‘ (2011);

LANCASHIRE
2 Spanish Onions
½ Pint milk
1½ lb pre-cooked tripe
seasoning
1 oz flour
pinch nutmeg
1 oz butter
toast
Peel the onions and stew them with the tripe, just covered with water, until tender. Drain, reserving half the pourings. Cut the tripe into pieces; chop the onions.
Melt the butter in a heat-proof dish and mix in the flour, slowly add the tripe and onion pourings.
Stir until boiling, add the milk, seasoning, tripe and onions, and simmer for 10 to 15 minutes.
Serve with toast. For four people.

YORKSHIRE
1 lg dressed tripe
1 oz butter
1 lb sliced onions
1 oz flour
salt and pepper
2 tbsp grated cheese
½ pint each milk and water
Cut the tripe into bite-sized pieces and put into a saucepan with the onions, milk and water; season to taste.
Bring to the boil, cover and simmer gently for an hour, or until the tripe is tender.
Mix the butter and flour together, and when all the flour is absorbed break into small pieces and put into the tripe, stirring all the time until the liquid thickens.
Transfer to an ovenproof dish, sprinkle grated cheese over the top and brown, either in the oven or under a hot grill.’

In our family this could have been interesting, for Grandpa Hunter was from Yorkshire, and Grandma from Lancashire.

P.S. Inevitably I forgot something. I am grateful to Kate Loveton for mentioning the Yorkshire pudding.

Procrastination

This morning was spent making up for procrastination in various ways. My desk sits in the hall that doubles as a study. Despite the fact that I know where everything is, it does become a little untidy. Jackie never complains, but I know she would rather visitors saw some sort of order when they entered the house.

Before moving some of the material from on and under the desk into the hall cupboard this required a little repair. The door of the Chinese cabinet is hinged with wooden dowels, one of which was broken in the move to Minstead in November 2012. The damaged piece needed to be drilled out to make room for a replacement which Jackie had bought soon after our arrival at Castle Malwood Lodge. I thought I had better get around to that, and fixed it before tidying up the desk. When they were children, Matthew and Becky bought me the slate coasters that are now visible and can serve their proper purpose instead of delegating that to any bit of paper or blotter that could be reached.

It looked even better after Jackie had got at it, made a few adjustments, and cleaned the computer screen.

For a while we have been meaning to check the contents of the oil tank. I did that. It was a bit low, but not crucially so. A similar task was arranging the next emptying of the septic tank. I did that by e-mail.

It must be four or five months since I last had a haircut. Again, we have been saying for some time that I needed one, especially as anyone might think I was trying to recover my long haired days, which would probably be a bit sad. Jackie did it in the kitchen this morning whilst I sat and watched tits, robins, chaffinches, pigeons, and sparrows flitting past the window and enjoying their breakfast.

When asked to photograph her handiwork for the blog, Jackie had the bright idea that I should repeat my previous unwitting image of a good haircut, so I photographed my nice clean Apple screen.

It was another Six Nations Rugby afternoon. I watched it on television. In the first, quite the best game of the tournament so far, Wales, in Cardiff, beat Ireland 23-16. In a rather less intriguing contest at Twickenham England beat Scotland 25-13.

Aaron continued his work on the back drive, which is looking very good.

This evening we dined on pork rib rack marinaded in barbecue sauce, and Jackie’s egg fried rice and stir fry vegetables with teriyaki sauce. I drank Chateau Les Mourleaux Bordeaux 2012, and Jackie didn’t.

She Stoops To Conquer

Jackie lunched with her sisters yesterday. As is not that unusual this resulted in a printing project for me. She brought back three more photos of her parents.

The first was of her mother and her friend Sheila, the pairing who had featured in ‘A Statuesque Beauty’. My task today was far more difficult than the scanning and printing of the earlier photograph. Indeed, it was the most daunting challenge of this nature that I have, naturally most willingly, taken up. This time I was presented with a print of 8 x 5 centimetres, including the margin, in size. It was badly torn, ink stained, and taped up on the reverse. The tearing had effectively created holes in the print. Correction of all this requires careful application of the retouching tool.

As I understand it, the essence of retouching is that you are transferring pigmented pixels from neighbouring areas in order to mask blemishes. The missing sections are effectively blank paper, and beyond my skills to cover completely. This is what the original looks like:

And here is the result of my effort:

These two sixteen year olds were dressed in their outfits for their school presentation of Oliver Goldsmith’s comedy, ‘She Stoops to Conquer’.

Compared with this, scanning and printing a couple of photographs of Don Rivett c1959 was a piece of cake. From the little wallet in which these have been contained, they are the work of Penge Studios of 82 High Street, London S.E.20. That building is now occupied by a cycle shop.

Jackie’s father wears his uniform of the Kent branch of the Civil Defence Corps. Wikipedia has this to say about the organisation: ‘The Civil Defence Corps (CDC) was a civilian volunteer organisation established in Great Britain in 1949 to mobilise and take local control of the affected area in the aftermath of a major national emergency, principally envisaged as being a Cold War nuclear attack. By March 1956, the Civil Defence Corps had 330,000 personnel.^[1] It was stood down in Great Britain in 1968, although two Civil Defence Corps still operate within the British Isles, namely the Isle of Man Civil Defence Corps and Civil Defence Ireland (Republic of Ireland).’

My favoured paper for making these particular 5″ x 7″ prints is Ilford Gallerie pearl. I only had one sheet left, so this afternoon Jackie drove us to Wessex Photographic in Ringwood, which is the nearest outlet where I have found it. They didn’t have any, so I bought some Canon Photo Paper Plus Glossy II, which is all they had in the size I wanted. As this is also the only place where I can be certain of finding my Series 8 inks, although I didn’t think I needed any, I bought a few spares. Almost as soon as I had begun printing, two of the inks were exhausted. One that I had just acquired was Cyan, and I hadn’t already got a spare. The Canon Pro 9000 printer uses 8 different inks, and, even if you are printing in black and white and have an active black ink, it will not work if there is just one colour missing. So it was a bit of luck to have bought the right one.

This evening Jackie drove us both down to Mr Pink’s Fish & Chips shop in Milford on Sea, to buy our takeaway dinner.

We enjoyed cod and chips, pickled onions, and gherkins. So free of grease is this superbly crisp food, that ‘The Great British Take Away’ paper bags in which it is presented are perfectly fit for recycling. Not least is the requirement for pickled onions to be kept crisp. The one on the plate was bought at Mr Pink’s. Those in the jar are Garner’s. In order to retrieve them from their container, we now use the “Auto” silver plated retro pickle fork complete with its original box that Elizabeth bought me for Christmas. If I don’t mention that I was very confused about how to use this very simple implement the first time I tried, I am sure that one of my dear family readers will make the obvious comment.