derrickjknight

No Escaping Noel Manchee

Last night I read C. Day Lewis’s foreword to the Folio Society selection of Robert Frost’s poems. This was very readable and a good introduction to the poet. Why Paul Muldoon’s dense introduction was deemed necessary seems a mystery to me.

Lilac is now blooming in our garden,

as are vibernum,

and osteospermum.

We had a ‘Mum’s so lucky’ moment this morning, when I tripped over the cord of the electric iron whilst I was pressing shirts, sent the iron flying, spilled its water content, and broke the lid to its reservoir. And wrenched my troublesome knee . Not too badly, I hope.

This afternoon I worked my way through more of the photographic prints Elizabeth has returned. There were just three from 1982/3 that have not already featured in posts. This was during the period in which I was printing in black white, using an enlarger and chemicals.

Matthew was a wonderful big brother to his younger siblings. He enjoyed playing with them, and introducing them to interesting exploratory experiences like this one.

His guiding hand can be seen in the image scanned from a 10″ x 8″ print.

This is my favourite early photograph of Louisa. I made a number of varying sizes. This one happens to be 5″ x 7″.

Wherever you ran a road race in Southern England in the 1980s, you were likely, a day or so afterwards, to receive an envelope containing proofs or contact sheets portraying you in your hours of glory. These would, on the reverse bear this stamp:

You were invited to buy 10″ x 8″ prints. I generally did. So, Mr Manchee, if you read this you will know that my title is tongue in cheek. Actually, I thought it a pretty smart activity, the rewards for the runners exemplified by my being able to lay hands on this photograph taken in 1983, during the Windsor Great Park half marathon. Thank you.

That silly moustache was short-lived.

This evening Jackie drove me to Milford on Sea to collect my repeat prescription from the pharmacy. We then dined at the Britannia Thai restaurant which lived up to the various recommendations we have received for it. The ambience was pleasant, the music gentle, and the food excellent. The efficient service took a while to warm up, but was friendly when it did. My choice was a starter of tiger prawns on a bed of carrot and spring onion juliennes in a spicy chilli sauce; a main course of sea bass in another excellent sauce; followed by banana fritters. Jackie drank Singha beer and I chose Kingfisher.

Who Were The Other Photographers?

Prompted by Facebook comments from Becky and from Jackie, I began the day by adding a postscript to yesterday’s post. Becky had noticed a fascinating aspect of Murphy’s signature, and Jackie pointed out a detail from her memorabilia side of the fridge. Her copies of those two school photos are far less besmirched than mine. I knew I’d seen them somewhere. It’s amazing how, when things become part of the wallpaper you stop noticing them.

Clustered around much cleaner copies of two of the school photos are pictures of Flo and a family thank you card from Easter.

Something else that has also escaped my notice is a profusion of oak apples in a scrawny tree on the verge just outside our back drive. I could have saved myself a search in the hedgerow, for there they were, all the time, right above my very nose.

The work of scanning and replacing the prints that Elizabeth has returned to me continues. Today’s selection spanned 1974 to 1981. Some have appeared in previous posts and need no repetition here, except perhaps for the 1974 portrait of Jessica that appears in my post entitled Chamberlayne Road.

I don’t know who took the photograph of Jessica and me, Carole, and the top of Becky’s head, on the steps of Marylebone Registry Office where we married on 1st March 1980. It may have been Matthew.

Similarly unknown is the person who focussed on Jessica and a very floppy Sam that June;

or this one of me from 1981. I don’t even know where it was. What I do recognise, however, is the woollen tie Helen gave me sometime in the 1960s. I wore it on and off for years, and was sad when I found that I had lost it in one of my moves after 2008. Now, of course, no-one much wears ties. I wonder if ‘Flog It’, the T.V. programme for antiques punters, would be interested in my collection?

I do know who took this one of Sam reaching for an Indian brass incense burner in front of a bookshelf, in Gracedale Road that same year;

and this of Becky and Sam frolicking in the Drapers’ pool at Meldreth. It was me.

The Dore’s London was a present from Jessica’s sister Sue. As usual, iPhoto asked me when I entered that photo, ‘Is This Orlaith?‘.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s scrumptious cottage pie; piquant cauliflower cheese; Juicy carrots, onions, and garlic bake; and tender spring greens. The cook drank Hoegaarden, whilst I imbibed Heritage de Calvet Cotes du Rhone Villages 2014.

School Photos

The potentilla in the front garden is fully in bloom, as are the pansies in Jackie’s window boxes on the wall.

This morning a woodpecker took advantage of its long, sharp, beak to penetrate the suet balls suspended from the crab apple tree.

I took a walk as far as Roger’s field footpath and photographed oak apples nestling in the hedgerow. I had noticed these on a day too dull to produce a picture. It took me some time to find them again.

A.P. Maintenance completed their work on the back drive when Aaron and Robin concreted the entrance.

Today I began replacing the photographic prints Elizabeth had returned to me yesterday. The first album starts in about 1923 and runs to 1978. Before I set them back in their vacant pages I scanned them and put them into iPhoto. One theme running through was that of school photographs. The style and quality of these has changed over the years, but all bear one general characteristic. That is that if they reach home uncreased they are bound to eventually become rather gunged, and many are so badly treated that they never reach adulthood.

My paternal grandparents’ ‘Norwood School for the Sons of Gentlemen’ was small enough not to suffer the fate of other, earlier panned shots of the entire staff and pupils, where some clown would always start out on one edge of the group, and dash round the back to plant him or her self on the other side before the lens reached them, thus appearing twice for posterity.

When I was at school, the photos we proudly carried home were still group images, but now in individual classes or forms as we called them. They were still in black and white.

The form master in the first of these, taken, I think, in 1956, was Richard Milward, who features in ‘No-one Forgets A Good Teacher’; the second, in 1957, Fr Hamer S.J., on whom I focus in ‘Look At That Book’.

That 1957 class can’t be the only bunch of boys who thought it would be cool (‘though we didn’t have that use of the word then) to sign the back of the photo.

These pics, despite having spent most of their life in an album, are somewhat wrinkled.

By 1974, school photograph production was rather more sophisticated. They were now portraits in colour and came in a variety of sizes according to the parental purse. Those of Matthew and Becky have clearly been cut from sheets, probably of four copies which would be distributed among Mums and Dads and grandparents. These bear the stains of an early life partly spent clutched by sticky fingers; partly subjected to spillages one can only speculate at; and possibly twelve months beneath a fridge magnet. I took out as much muck as I could in iPhoto, but cropping was all I could do to rescue this one of Matthew, taken at Holly Mount school in Raynes Park:

Attending that same school was Becky, photographed in 1974 and 1976, when she, too, signed the back of the copy she brought to me.

Michael is also pictured in 1974, wearing the uniform of his Raynes Park school of The Sacred Heart,

and in 1977 at Islington Green school, where uniform was not required.

This evening Jackie drove us to Lymington, where we dined at Lal Quilla. We both drank Kingfisher, and shared an egg paratha. My main course was King prawn Ceylon with special fried rice. Jackie’s was an interesting new chicken dish with pilau rice.

P.S. Here is a Facebook observation from Jackie:

‘What do you mean the school pictures stay under magnets on the fridge for 12 months ?! I still have my school photo’s of Mat and Becky on the fridge here! They have travelled with me for over 30 years! Love ’em.’

and a very acute one from Becky: ‘Interesting that Paul George John Murphy has signed his name in a ring(o).’

Magnus V. Kings Grantham

As yet unacquainted with Robert Frost, last night I read Paul Muldoon’s introduction to the Folio Society’s selection of his poems. I must admit I found it difficult, and hope I will get on better with the poetry. Whilst I have been unable to render much help in the garden, Jackie has continued with her sterling work. Among other tasks, she has created two more beds where the log pile once lay. Separated by a boundary formed from a tree root and bricks, the one at the rear is an as yet inchoate shrubbery, and that in the foreground, filled with flowers. The clematis Montana, emanating from beneath the poorly-looking, bright yellow-leaved tree, has been trained, with the aid of a branch pruned from another, to form an arch between that and the dead trunk, down which it now cascades. The tub in the left foreground of the first picture is destined to be adorned with a pot of flowers. To its left is a retrained fuchsia, yet to bloom. The weak morning light, filtered by cloud cover, is kinder to the photographer of white petals, obviating burning out the detail. Yesterday’s prints are contained in my photograph album spanning the period from December 1994 to August 1995. Today, I scanned another batch, this time from January ’95, recording a rugby match between Magnus, Newark; and Kings, Grantham schools.

Sam, the Magnus captain, to our left of the referee, faces his opponent at the kick-off.

Here, Sam’s great friend, Lewis Cove makes the ball available with scant regard for his own safety. Lewis was as recklessly rampant, putting his body on the line all over the field, as was his Leicester and England namesake, Lewis Moody. Five years later, our Lewis was coaching in South Africa, and Sam was captaining Wadham College, Oxford.

Sometimes it is best to shut your eyes and hope for the best.

The referee pulled a muscle;

a replacement pointed the finger; the game continued

under new direction, and Sam went foraging in a ruck.

With the ball on its way, forwards are poised for the line-out leap.

At half-time there was the usual tactical talk.

Kings Grantham’s scrum seems to have collapsed.

Someone has obviously screwed up here.

Finally, Sam is prepared for a leap, as I was in Jessica’s 1982 photo.

Elizabeth had this last print in a folder of my pictures that she ‘borrowed’ for an album she made for Mum’s 80th birthday. She has only kept it for 12 years. She brought the whole selection back this evening, so we had to feed her. That was fair and reasonable really.

The meal consisted of roast lamb, parsnips, potatoes, and vegetables; crisp cauliflower and cabbage; and onion and red wine gravy, followed by pineapple syrup sponge and custard. Elizabeth and I finished the rioja.

I must be getting rather blasé about this blogging lark. WordPress have sent me a happy anniversary notice, celebrating my third. I had forgotten.

Emily Goes Wandering

On a warm, overcast, morning I repeated yesterday’s promenade matinale. The staccato stabbing of a staple gun applied by a young man working on the ‘massive’ project of Hallmark builders in the grounds of The Spinney, followed me down the lane.

Having been prompted by two WordPress friends, who thought yesterday’s blossom may be apple, I probed further into the hedgerow and came to the conclusion that they were right. There appear to be two espaliered trees. Perhaps there was once an orchard here.

For a while during the 1990s I returned to using negative, as opposed to positive, film. These negatives became jumbled and possibly lost during the move from Lindum House. I therefore used a print from one of my vast collection of photo albums for the VE Day 50th anniversary picture published yesterday. During that May of 1995 we enjoyed particularly fine weather. Today I scanned a batch of prints of photographs taken that month. Our Newark garden was a typical Victorian one, and therefore boasted an orchard.

I wonder whether the flower beds still contain

irises,

lupins, and aquilegias.

Does the stone path laid by Matthew about five years earlier, using material found in the garden, still survive alongside the kitchen wall?. Here Jessica, Michael and Emily stroll along it.

Michael and Heidi’s daughter Emily was my first grandchild. This was the occasion of one of the family’s regular holidays at Lindum House. Oliver and Alice had yet to arrive.

You may be forgiven for thinking that it is my hair that Emily tousles in this shot,

but the locks belonged to her frighteningly realistic doll, which she must have left on the asphalt path when she went wandering.

The swing seat in the top left of this final shot of Emily on the lawn was suspended by Melvin Garret from a lofty branch of the acacia beneath which I was seated in yesterday’s picture. Grandchildren and neighbours’ offspring enjoyed it for fifteen years or so.

This evening we dined on roast chicken breasts marinaded in piri-piri sauce; roasted leeks, mushrooms, and peppers; and boiled potatoes. I drank Campo Vieja rioja 2013, while Jackie drank sparkling water.

Fifty Years After The Party

Today was polling day.

Junk mail is a fact of life. I understand that it doesn’t take many punters for the cost of sending out such paper material by the normal postal system to be recouped. Recipients can, however, just bin it. Cold telephone calling is more annoying, because you have to get out of your chair and answer the phone, before replacing the receiver with, or without, expletives. The machines are frustrating because asking them politely not to call you again is a waste of time. For the poor unfortunates who actually ring in person, it is their bad luck they they may have to hear a piece of your mind.

Now we have the internet and e-mails, so we can be flooded with spam, far less palatable than its processed meat namesake. Naturally, therefore, this morning I received my usual message, allegedly from David Cameron, who will never have heard of me, thanking me for all I have done for him over the last five years, and encouraging me to help him get back into power. It was the same last time. Numerous mailshots from various members of the Conservative party on the run-up to the election, and, afterwards, one from the leader, thanking me for tramping the streets on their behalf. In fact, I did no such thing. As a floating voter who attempts to make up his mind based on what he has experienced and what he gleans from all the media coverage, I never nail my colours to the mast in advance.

I do not flatter myself that I have personally merited this attention. My e-mail address has simply been purloined and added to a data base somewhere in the clouds. With the press of one button, no doubt everyone on the list is similarly intruded upon. None of the other parties pesters me in this way. Are they crediting us with making our own choices; are they so backward in the use of I.T.; or do they have less resources?

On a calmer, balmy, morning, I ambled down the garden and the lane as far as Roger’s field and back.

The first of our red hot pokers proudly stood erect,

as did the sinuous tellima saxifrage, flexible enough to have withstood yesterday’s blasts.

The magnolia Vulcan basked in its hour of sunshine.

The tree peonies and the dwarf azalea have survived intact.

Cow parsley, in its rightful place, on the verges of Downton Lane,passed the time of day with dandelion clocks.

Pale pink blossom I cannot identify has appeared in the hedgerows,

as have the first golden buttercups.

Ferns were unfurling,

and petals floating on a puddle were reminders of the gales.

As I sat down to upload these photographs, Louisa rang me to announce that she had a project for me for the day. Tomorrow being V.E. (Victory in Europe) day seventy years on, my granddaughter Imogen has to prepare a presentation for her school class. My daughter thought it would be good for Imogen to produce the image of her grandfather and great uncle Chris taken when they attended the Victory Street Party of 1945. She wondered if I had any more of interest.

I had this one taken by Jessica in the garden of Lindum House on 8th May 1995:

Seated on a circular bench built around the acacia tree by Errol’s Uncle Frank, I point to myself in my photograph album. The 1945 picture of that memorable event is featured in ‘Holly’.

I e-mailed both the pictures to Louisa. Apparently it took granddaughter Jessica less than a second to pick me out of the Street Party group. She said I looked like my grandson Oliver.

This afternoon Jackie drove us to Milford on Sea where we cast our votes at the Church Hall, and our empties at the car park bottle bank.

Tonight’s dinner consisted of sausages roasted with peppers and mushrooms; mashed potato in superb, thick, chunky, gravy which could have been a meal in itself, and crisp carrots, cabbage, and runner beans. Custard tart was to follow. Jackie’s beverage was sparkling water, whilst mine was Doom Bar.

Could You Have Done That If You’d Tried?

Last night Andy drove us home from Spice of India in Danni’s car. We were some time getting under way. Perched on the front passenger seat, I was unable to fit the seat belt. Now, this is a fairly automatic task which doesn’t normally require too much attention. Stretching out the belt with my left hand, I passed it to my right, and groped for the receiving slot. The slot was unreceptive. Thinking my aim must be awry, I had several stabs at it. To no avail. In the gloom of the car park, I peered at the stubborn fixture. There seemed to be a coin therein. A search for a nail-file ensued. One was produced from a handbag in the back. Andy prised out the offending item, which revealed itself to be a button. It seemed, as was subsequently confirmed, likely to be one from my back trouser pocket. Andy dropped it on the floor. We didn’t find it. Could you have done that if you’d tried?

Today’s gale force wind was even stronger than yesterday. The North West of our garden seems to suffer the most.

As I wandered around today I noticed an untied rose stem hanging down from its arch, one of the struts of which had been blown loose. I refixed the the arch and tied the rose back up. The buds on that particular section had remained intact, but others had been torn off. One rested on the Ace Reclaim bench; another hung by its neck.

Nearby, an as yet unidentified clematis clings to the helping hands of a fir tree, and the magnolia Vulcan risks blooming. Clouds, too, were sent scudding across the sunlit sky, giving us alternating light and shade, which meant for shadows to appear and reappear, never in the same place. This can be seen in the two bench seat shots. In the first, foliage had been blown into position, not to return for the second.

The weeping birch was not permitted to droop its flimsy filigreed branches for long before they were tossed aloft.

Flames of a yellow Japanese maple flickered like those of the red one pictured yesterday.

A solitary, hungry, bumblebee, struggled to gain purchase on a cluster of heucheras. It had about as much success as I did in keeping it in focus.

We have what I consider to be an invasion of cow parsley, which also bent its back in the face of the violent gusts. I am all for pulling it up before it drops its seeds, but, unfortunately, the head gardener has overruled me, and I am no Alan Titchmarsh. Jessica, too, had found these plants attractive. She collected seeds from the wayside around Newark and scattered them in the orchard, where they rapidly germinated, flourished joyfully, and spilled their seed in turn. It took us several years of taking out the tops to eradicate it.

The pink-leaved pieris on the lawn shelters under the protection of the Nottingham Castle bench,

and low-level plants like calendulas smile in the sunshine.

Another rhododendron has battled its way through the North Breeze jungle next door. It is probably grateful now that it is surrounded by brambles.

This evening we dined on Mr. Pink’s exquisite cod and chips and Garner’s pickled onions. Jackie drank Hoegaarden, and I finished the Bordeaux. It wasn’t a good idea to ruin the taste of the wine by contaminating it with the vinegar from the onions, but it had been open a day or two, and may soon have tasted of vinegar itself. Alternating it with water helped a bit.

Destruction Of Tulips

When I was ill earlier in the year, our friends Margery and Paul gave me a copy of ‘Winespeak’, Ronald Searle’s illustrated ‘Wicked World of Winetasting’. The author, a highly original artist, claims that ‘All the phrases in this little book have been plucked from unacknowledged but absolutely authentic sources’. Souvenir Press’s 1983 edition presents Searle’s ( until I insisted, WordPress changed this to Seattle) grotesque caricatures alongside his chosen phrases.

Here is one example: This is an excellent coffee table book. I dipped into it again last night. This morning Jackie drove me to our G.P.’s surgery in Milford on Sea, where the practice nurse removed my stitches. As, razor sharp unpicker poised, she approached my hand, she said, ‘I think I’ll get my glasses’. ‘Please do’, I laughingly replied. She explained that she didn’t really need them, but found that the off-the-counter pair beautifully magnified the knotted spiky strands of stiff line sticking out of my hand as if it were a pin-cushion. The wavy course of the blue material looked like a design for my Mum’s cross-stitching. This filled me with confidence, and she carried out a perfect operation, slipping the tiny knife under the tight knots, slicing through the thread, and drawing out any hidden residue with her gentle fingers. As my palm is rather scenic, and thinking that a description of the procedure presents the picture, I will spare my readers a photograph. Today’s gale force winds were running at about 40 m.p.h. when we made this trip. On the way back we stopped and parked by the cliff top.

In order to photograph the violent seas below, I braced myself, attempting to remain upright against the gusts tearing across The Solent. The thrift clung to the ground far more securely than I did. I wasn’t about to stand too close to the edge. Actually, I couldn’t really see what I was doing. By mid afternoon the gusts reached more than 50 m.p.h.,

setting the Japanese maples aflame, foliage flickering in the sunlight.

Some flowers, such as aquilegias partnering bluebells in enforced fandango, survived the gales.

Sheltered mimulus and libertia simply basked in warmth.

The clematis Natcha, gyrating wildly, nevertheless kept its head.

Not so those tulips that, yesterday, had stood proud atop their chimney pot.

When we left at 9.30 this morning, they had begun to shed petals,

by lunchtime revealing their stamens,

becoming even more exposed as the afternoon progressed.

By 6.30 p.m., when we left with Elizabeth, Danni, and Andy to dine at Spice of India, this is what was left of them:

On the left of this picture stands a crinodendron hookerianum, otherwise known as the Chilean lantern tree. It will soon be in bloom. (Last year I erroneously termed this the Chinese lantern tree.)

The food and service at the restaurant, owned by Andy’s friend Sid, was excellent. My starter was succulent prawn puri, and my main course Naga chicken with special rice. I drank Cobra. I didn’t really take in what the others had.

The Task Ahead Of Me

A.P. Maintenance have done a grand job on the back drive. The section in the foreground, abutting the road, is to be concreted next weekend.

The clematis Montana is now spreading down the dead trunk.

More rhododendrons are in bloom.

Yellow flowers, like those now appearing on tree peonies, attract insects, such as this iridescent-winged fly.

Today I finished reading ‘To Kill A Mocking Bird’, Harper Lee’s masterpiece from 1960. So many people have responded to yesterday’s post saying that it is one of their favourite books, and even more that it is on their reading list, that I will not give details here. Instead I will describe its impact. Set in 1935, this is a tale told through the eyes of a little girl from the ages of four to eight. It can be seen as an insightful piece of character building based on keen observation and a knowledge of what childhood was like. It also deals in a sensitive way with a profound social issue that was still relevant in 1960. For good measure there is a side-issue of a mystery beautifully solved at the end.

The writing is fluid. It has a gentle pace that picks up fast as the story unfolds. Characterisation and descriptions of small-town life are perfectly credible.

I did not want to put it down, and therefore consumed it in two sessions, one of several hours.

If it’s on your list, read it. If you intend to return to it, do so.

I probably won’t, because I’ll never manage to open many of my unread books. As I popped my Folio Society edition, that is enhanced by the fine pen and ink sketches of Aafke Brouwer, back onto it’s shelf, I was reminded of the task ahead of me.

The eight volumes on the left are some of my Heron Books set of the works of D.H. Lawrence from 1969, a reasonably produced cheap illustrated edition within the budget of a young family man. I have read most of them, which is more than can be said of the John le Carre quintet. I have read The Night Manager, but don’t remember much about it. ‘Our Game’, hasn’t even been removed from its cling film wrapping. The Aladdin I bought because of Errol le Cain’s illustrations. The next four I haven’t opened. I may have read ‘A Very Long Way From Here’, which I think was aimed at teenagers, although I was much older. Of the rest, only Doris Lessing’s ‘The Fifth Child’, and the two by Andrea Levy have been read. ‘Small Island’ describes the disappointing experience of early Jamaican immigrants to England; and ‘Fruit of the Lemon’, the, equally disillusioning visit of a descendent to the island from which her family originated. If you like ‘To Kill a Mocking Bird’, you will like these. Doris Leslie’s ‘Peridot Flight’ is part of my Auntie Ivy’s collection, given to me when she moved into a care home at the end of her life. Maybe I’ll read that before my days are over. Maybe I won’t.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s delicious sausage casserole (recipe), mashed potato, with crisp carrots, cabbage, and runner beans, followed by profiteroles. I drank Alexis Lichine cute exceptionnelle, Bordeaux superieur 2013, and Jackie imbibed Hoegaarden Belgian beer best before 15.08.16.

A Day With A Book

I thought I would be helpful this morning and make tea and coffee for Aaron and his friend Darrel, who were finishing off spreading the gravel on the back drive. Although my left hand is much improved it is still a little difficult to apply the plunger to the small cafetiere. The inevitable happened and I upset the implement and spilled the contents. I thought I had made a good job of clearing up, but, hearing a sigh from Jackie, and asking what was the matter, elicited the response ‘Mum’s so lucky…..’ Ever since 18th September 2013 when the sausage casserole ended up on the kitchen floor, this has been an occasionally repeated phrase. Becky, you see, had, on that day, commented, somewhat irreverently, on the Facebook link to my post: ‘How lucky is mum, to have you help out in the kitchen like that?’.

The two men completed work on the drive in good time, and were able to weed the rose garden plot in preparation for laying its paths.

I spent most of the day reading more than two thirds of Harper Lee’s wonderful novel ‘To Kill a Mocking Bird’. At the time of writing I have 80 pages to go, so probably won’t finish it tonight. I will leave comments on the author’s work until I have done so. In the meantime, here is a scan of the covers of my Folio Society edition bearing illustrations by Aafke Brouwer:

This evening we dined on succulent chicken Kiev; roasted peppers and mushrooms; mashed potatoes and swede; piquant cauliflower cheese; and crisp carrots and green beans. Neither of us drank anything.