derrickjknight

Post On A Till Roll

When she learned through on-line Scrabble chat that I walk every day regardless of the weather, my friend June suggested that I must be mad. This would be a view shared by the head of Bromley’s Probation service during the 1980s. One of my freelance contracts was to facilitate a support group for senior probation officers. During one particularly bad winter, possibly 1986/7, I was due to take a session one morning when the snow lay thick upon the ground. Traffic was in chaos. Trains were suffering from ‘the wrong kind of snow’. But I had my running shoes. Provided I was careful, and sometimes ran off piste, I could cross London quite quickly. On this occasion I arrived in Bromley, on time, having run from Gracedale Road in Furzedown, SW17. I was the only group member in attendance. The manager didn’t want to pay me, because she thought it a bit out of order to have turned up on a day like that. However, I had a contract which I had wished to honour. After some negotiation I received half my fee, which seemed a compromise I would have to accept.

This morning we had been promised heavy rain making its way from Southampton. A cock crew as I set off early down Running Hill in an effort to beat the blast. The Met Office must have been in touch with the sheep on the road up to Furzey Gardens because they had sought shelter from the open field. Further on, our neighbour Bill was walking his two Old English sheepdogs which he said were shorn when the sheep were shorn.

A solitary equestrian rider passed me on the heath beside the waterlogged cycle track. And the end of this I took the road towards Fritham and turned off left to a sign marked Linwood which I made my goal.

Before the turn-off I noticed, strewn at irregular intervals, oranges on the right side of the road. My puzzlement increased as I continued along the road, until, on the left hand side I discovered a further crop that had been ditched. The teeth marks on one of the discarded ones suggested this was a variation of the popular Halloween pastime involving apples and a tub of water.

The clopping of coconut shells by a cinematographic sound effects man on the road behind me signalled the extremely rare sight of galloping ponies. They had possibly been attracted by the arrival of a mini coachload of ramblers, whose lack of proffered goodies probably disappointed them and brought them to a standstill. Their more cynical companions who hadn’t bothered to cross the road, merely glanced up and continued cropping the heath.

It was my nostrils on the Linwood road, that alerted me to the controlled burning that culls the bracken.

I turned right at a road junction to which a gang of Hampshire council workmen were working their way replenishing the grit on the verges, in an attempt to stem the tide, thus reducing the numerous rock pools. Having walked past and through some deep enough to harbour crabs, I was able to tell them what they were in for. They were going need a few more lorry loads.

The storm struck just as I reached the Red Shoot pub at Linwood. I got pretty wet seeking a phone signal in order to ring Jackie, tell her where I was, and, since I was expecting her to drive me home, invite her to lunch. She also had to bring my wallet. The hospitality of the staff at this excellent establishment extended to offering to start me a tab so I could have a drink whilst I was waiting. They also lent me a couple of lengths of till roll and a biro with which to amuse myself writing notes for this post.

Roast chicken was our evening accompaniment to the last of the burgundy for me and the Latitude 35 degrees S for Jackie.

How Do You Slice A Cottage Loaf?

It is becoming more difficult to summon up the enthusiasm for a sloshy, muddy, tramp around waterlogged streets and footpaths. However, I managed it once again this morning. After problems on the A31 brought about several changes of plan and direction, Jackie drove us to Sainsbury’s at Hedge End. She went shopping and I went for a walk. As I struggled along Tollbar Way it was the rain that did the driving. The headwind and other conditions were very similar to the first time I ran the Leicester marathon in 1983. This had me thinking of the very kind woman I never met who had sponsored me for whatever charity I was running for on that occasion. She wrote me a letter complimenting me on my finishing time in such unpleasant blustery weather.

There are many similar roundabouts leading to the Hedge End Park. Coming away from there I crossed a major road and took a footpath alongside Hedge End Retail Park. These two shopping areas, as my post of 21st October last year makes clear, are definitely not to be confused. The path led along the backs of houses until it came to Goodalls Way in Hedge End. At this point a stream runs under the main road and continues through meadow and woodland on the other side. There is a recently constructed elaborate set of steps in a reinforced embankment that seems to be going nowhere but to the bed of the stream. I can only imagine it is there to provide access to clear a passage under the road when the stream is filled with loose mud, gravel, and vegetation.

Across the road lies Goodalls Meadows. A few minutes in there was enough. It was far too boggy. I walked along Goodalls Way and, at the far end of a side road, spotted a dog owner with her pet, entering the wooded area. I followed. This was a nature reserve that was even too wet for ducks. The woman told me of a good gravel path that would take me back, eventually, to Sainsbury’s. She then told Barney, her lurcher, that he’d had enough for today and they were going back. Along the ensuing path there were a couple of signs directing walkers to a footbridge to the superstore. This had to be Sainsbury’s, which helped me know I had followed directions reasonably well. The footbridge wasn’t over the stream. It was a massive construction spanning the motorway and leading directly to the car park. Had I known that I wouldn’t have ignored it in the past, and would have been saved my battle with the headwind. I took the bridge, and was grateful that the railings were high enough to prevent me from either being blown or jumping off it.

The logo of this huge store is so distinctive and brightly coloured that it was clearly visible from my perch through the bare branches of substantial trees. This had me reflecting on how much this concern had grown and developed from the High Street grocers of my boyhood. Then, assistants in aprons stood behind a counter stocked with goods. They used a mechanical till. Tins and jars were on the shelves behind them. Fresh cured meat was sliced in front of you and wrapped in greaseproof paper. I don’t remember cling film. Cheese was cut from a block with a wire. You could buy just the quantity you wanted, not a whole bagful, and BOGOF had not been invented. In immediate postwar days the amount of each item you could purchase was rationed. Each household had a ration book and had to hand over coupons from it with their cash. The penny that Holly found on 13th would have bought quite a few sweets if you had enough of that era’s stamps.

As arranged, I met Jackie in the store’s cafe, and once more stared at the misty spray from cars in front on the journey home. One of her purchases was a cottage loaf. For those who are not familiar with this type of bread, it looks rather like two different sized rounded pieces of dough, one on top of the other. It was a childhood favourite. When it came to slicing this for lunch, I had just cut a couple of sections from a Walker’s, greatly to be recommended, pork pie. Now, there are several schools of thought about how to slice a cottage loaf. Not being sure what Jackie’s preferred option was, I asked her if she subscribed to the view that the smaller, top, section should be removed and tackled first. She was incredulous at the idea, and said she wanted a slice, not a chunk. Well, if you cut a slice from the loaf as a whole, you only get a small one because it doesn’t reach the smaller, top piece. When you reach the top section, it is likely to fall off from the first two or three cuts, because the join is so thin, so you in fact get two slices.

So you can see, I was a bit discombobulated. And I’d just taken a wedge of pork pie. This must have been in my subconscious, because I attacked this rounded loaf in the same way as Jackie had her chocolate cake yesterday. And anyway, what she had served was a slice of cake, wasn’t it? I proudly produced a small but perfectly formed wedge of bread. She didn’t think it was a slice. So I then cut a bit off the crusty side. The result was a kind of zigzag assault. The reason Jackie hadn’t wanted to take the top off was that she didn’t want the opened part to dry out. I think I rather defeated the object. In fairness to me, the division between top and bottom sections is usually more marked than this one was. What would you do?

Opting for safety, Jackie served up slices of a farmhouse loaf with our oven fish and chips this evening. We drank Latitude 35 degrees S chardonnay/semillon 2010 with this.

Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed, Something Blue

Birds on Jackie’s feeder are becoming braver. Today we were able to watch, through the kitchen window, a blackbird, a robin, and a long-tailed tit. It would probably be a good idea to clean the guano off the window before I take another photograph.

I had less luck with a woodpecker I heard at its work whilst I was walking the Shave Wood loop. When I backtracked to seek out this avian chippy its pecking ceased and I was unable to discern its whereabouts. I suspect it is of the lesser spotted variety.

In London Minstead a disinterested pony hitched to a trap found the opportunity to sample the hedgerow more fascinating than me. Its owner was content to watch the birdie and smile. She said many other similar photographs had been taken.

I believe photograph number 9 in the ‘through the ages’ series was taken in the late 1970s by Jessica in Gerard Street, Soho, probably during the Chinese New Year celebrations. We always attended these colourful occasions which took place a stone’s throw from our flat. I seem to have been having some problem with my camera. Whatever it was, it cannot have been as disastrous as the freezing of the shutter on my Olympus. That fault developed some ten or a dozen years later when I was the ‘official’ photographer at Jessica’s cousin Anthony and Geraldine’s wedding. When asked to perform this role for friends and family I am always afraid something will go wrong and they will have no record of their great day. The only time I ever did totally fail, on account of not loading the film properly, I was saved by my father-in-law Don Rivett who had shadowed me. I am grateful to Helen for recently being kind enough to remind me of this effort at her own wedding to Bill forty-odd years ago.

For Anthony and Geraldine’s wedding I had done my utmost to bring along a properly loaded piece of equipment in full working order. This involved numerous visits to a Newark camera shop whose owner was meant to be repairing my old Olympus; a final explosion of my own blue touch paper; a borrowed Pentax; and a brand new Canon belonging to the groom. The shutter had stuck rigidly about three or four months earlier. Every time I called in for the camera I was treated to a waffle. And I don’t even like them. The shop owner knew exactly when, why, and where I needed to be fully operational. It is not often, after all, I imagine, even a professional has a commission in Rugby school. One would have thought that should have carried some clout.

I was finally promised faithfully that I would have the camera on the morning of the wedding. Off I trotted, in my topper and morning suit, round the corner to the repair shop. No repair. That was when the sparks flew. ‘Well, you will just have to lend me one’, said I with my best calm, firm, yet menacing tone. A Pentax was promptly produced. I had a practice run with it in the garden, and all seemed well.

You have perhaps realised by now that this was in fact a poorly Pentax. I discovered that when having a further testing session in the hall at the school. It didn’t even have the decency to suffer from a different complaint. Yes, the shutter jammed.

Fortunately Anthony was on hand with his untried model. As he thrust it into my grasp I had a moment of panic. It looked digital. Anyway when I half-pressed the shutter with my own trembling digit, the Canon did things, but only took a picture when the button was fully depressed.

With Geraldine and her father emerging from a wedding limousine, there was no time to practice. I just had to click into action. The result was a first photo of the bride and her Dad out of focus and wonky; one walking down the aisle towards the eagerly waiting groom, out of focus but reasonably upright; and thereafter a set of probably the best wedding photos I have ever taken. I do hope Mr. Schnapps forgave me for the first two shots of his momentous occasion.

This evening we dined on chicken jalfrezi with peas pilou rice and Cobra beer.

Sisyphus

Continuing with my scanner compatibility problem I telephoned Epson, to learn that the two different downloads Apple advisors had sent me were incorrect. I dragged those into the trash, and the Epson man sent me another which worked. It is not quite the same as I’m used to, but I’m getting there. I have scanned and enhanced the two earlier photographs from Elizabeth’s series, but have decided not to change them in the posts, as it is all part of the story. Not only that, I can’t be bothered.

While doing this I received an e-mail attachment of an inspiring photograph from my friend Geoff Austin. Well into his sixties he turned out at the weekend in the front row of the scrum for an Old Whitgiftian testimonial match. The mud on the hooker’s face is reminiscent of the many muddy hours I spent in the second row in my thirties and forties rubbing my ears against Geoff’s thighs. Purely in order to raise cauliflowers, you understand. Like me, Geoff can be identified by a white beard. Before my short-lived first retirement, from the Old Wimbledonians, in 1972, at the age of thirty, I was joined in the second row by a sixty five year old who had been pulled out of the spectators to fill a gap. I’d always thought our combined age took some beating, but I think Geoff and his colleagues have probably pipped it. Although we turned out regularly for Geoff’s Old Boys team every week, Alan Warren, another member of our Social Services Area Team, and I, could not at first appear on a team sheet. This is because we had never attended Whitgift School. Geoff had inveigled us into playing one day when his XV was a player or two short. So I got my boots out again and didn’t put them away until we moved to Newark in 1987. Forty five seemed to be a bit old to join a new club. Not too old to be playing, of course.

What Geoff forgot to mention was that the lower sides of his club were always a player or two short. But Alan and I could not officially make up the numbers, because this organisation was a closed club. This meant we outsiders could not join. After a game or two with the fourth team, we became regulars with the third. At about the time I had gravitated to the second side and was being considered for the first, the fact that this was all unofficial and required some steadfast members to be kept in the dark, suggested something must be done. Alan and I were duly made Associate Members of The Old Whitgiftians Association. That meant we had to pay subscriptions, but it was a small price to pay. For me to play for the first XV remained, however, out of the question

Jackie and I moved more belongings into the garage today. I then ordered some bookcases from IKEA on line. When asked for my feedback on the remarkably smooth process, I commented that it ‘beats trailing round the store’.

Before venturing for a walk to the church and back via the ford footpath, I waited for the hail to stop. John, who was mowing the lawn when the thunderous storm came, was forced to divert his attention to raking gravel. By the time I returned there had been no further precipitation, and our gardener was continuing to mark the centuries old rocky, undulating moss-covered lawns with perfect mowed lines. This man, once a week in the summer and fortnightly thereafter, works like a Trojan on this four acre communal plot. When we first arrived in November his task was clearing the fallen leaves. It was then that Jackie gave him his nickname, not Trojan, but Greek. In that country’s mythology, Sisyphus was a king of Ephyra who was punished by the gods, being given the task of pushing a huge boulder uphill. Whenever he reached the top the stone rolled back down again. As John was blowing together one pile of leaves, others were torn down by gusts of wind and followed on after him. And of course his pile was blown about as well. Do it all again was the order of the day. A nice simile. John will be forever Sisyphus.

As I rounded the house, approaching the back door, I sensed wonderful curry smells. Not imagining I could be given a brilliant chicken jalfrezi, such as to do all the local restaurants out of my business, so soon after a chilli con carne, I wondered who else in the building enjoyed and cooked such food. The anwer was no-one. Jackie was cooking our evening meal which she later served up with pudding rice to follow. I started on an excellent Bouchard Aine & Fils red burgundy harvested in 2010. Thank you Helen and Bill for this Christmas gift.

That’s What Wellies Are For

David and Jen also gave us wine and stilton for Christmas this year. It was therefore appropriate that their box should take the tie overflow (see yesterday’s post). But who wears ties these days?

Once again we were waterlogged. Knowing, when I set out to walk the Emery Down loop via Mill Lane, that I would encounter an otherwise impassable road and some pretty soggy footpaths, I wore my Wellington boots. These, as we shall see, came in handy.

Sporting yellow-rimmed dark glasses, Audrey was gamely trying to ensure that her ponies, Primrose and Champion, enjoyed a feed of dry hay. When I passed them on my return, a little over two hours later, Primrose was stuffing the last of it inside her. Champion, who was now showing little interest was probably already stuffed.

The pool that was Lyndhurst Road at the point at which I had once, un-wellied, turned back, was full to spraying. Some vehicles slowed down to a snail’s pace, others went tearing through showering all about them. I wonder whether a snail could actually have made it through.

As I neared the highest part of Mill Lane, a trail of bobbing antlers glided silently past, just beneath the brow of the hillside slope. On the far side of the field they gathered into seminar formation. I became quite excited when, changing my angle of vision, I realised that the course facilitator of this stag party was the legendary white one. I rather blew it when I got a bit too close and they elegantly pranced off with the poise of Kate Moss on the catwalk.

Walking past the Mill Pool I encountered a young man pushing a wheelbarrow down the muddy track towards me. Once I had realised that this was not Robert (see 17th February), I carried on a conversation with Barry, who had been given the night off by his wife. Barry was not surprised that the brief respite we had had from the rain ended as we stopped to speak. You see, his wheelbarrow contained his fishing gear and his tent, so, of course it was bound to rain. There must be worse ways of spending a night, but offhand I can’t think of one.

As I neared Emery Down I rather rashly took a diversion onto a footpath. Well, if truth be told, I needed a pee, and reckoned no-one else would be daft enough to venture onto it on such a day. There I saw a sign which gave me some insight into the farmer’s perspective on the availability of ramblers’ footpaths controversy.

Throughout my walk I found myself seeking out the puddles on the road, so that I could walk through them and clean off some of the mud from the more cloying footpaths. I began to feel like a three year old trying out his new footwear and stamping in the pools sending up his equivalent of the car spray mentioned earlier. Many a time have I offered a remonstrating parent the opinion that ‘that’s what wellies are for’.

On my return I decanted a few more items into the garage, then rang the Apple Help Line. This required two calls of approximately an hour’s duration, one of which required me to spend some time listening to music which I completely failed to categorise. I expect it is up to the minute. I was guided to downloading the relevant software. James and Joseph, the two young advisers could not have been more helpful. Unfortunately the problem, even after half an hour’s downloading, remains. I expect I will have to talk to Epson, who make the scanner. Another day.

This evening we both ate more delicious Chilli con carne; I drank more zinfandel, and Jackie abstained.

Of Cabbages And Knights

Most of the day was spent finding space in the flat for the belongings we had brought from The Firs yesterday. This required a certain amount of ingenuity; some binning; and some decanting to the garage that comes with the flat. Despite all the rain that has descended on it for the last six months, and the saturated nature of the surrounding lawns, the garage is bone dry inside, which is a bonus. We put some items straight in there last night and I noticed then that those of last autumn’s leaves that have found their way in still crackle underfoot.

A minuscule percentage of my books had been at Elizabeth’s. These are now in our living room. Brains are still being racked to imagine what to do with the rest when they arrive. Maybe the garage could become a library. To make room in the wardrobe, shirts are now divided according to season of wear. Summer ones, instead of being hung up, are folded and put away in a cupboard. Should it ever stop raining, that is probably when the winter ones will take their place.

Do you ever keep attractive boxes that you don’t know what to do with, but are too good to throw away? We have a beautiful Fortnum & Mason hamper which came, filled with goodies, from Wolf and Luci some years ago. Good for picnics. This year’s wonderful wooden brass-hinged box from the same sources had not yet been allocated a purpose and, since Christmas, devoid of the port and stilton it came with, sat on a shelf just waiting for us to know what to do with the tie overspill. Jackie’s inventiveness came to the fore. She rolled up a selection of ties and placed them in the box. Thinking she had thus found a home for all my ties, she was somewhat disappointed to be informed that there were a lot more hanging in the wardrobe. Never mind, these will no longer keep falling on the floor. Jackie did discover that one or two, as she said, had my dinner on them, and should probably pay a visit to the dry cleaners.

Sam’s father-in-law, Mick O’Neill, has a cheerfully flamboyant collection of vintage pictorial American ties which go very well with his image on stage as a banjoist in Perth’s popular Bluegrass Parkway band. He keeps his neckwear hanging, but I wonder if he has ever thought of a few exclusive Fortnum & Mason wooden boxes. I doubt it. His collection deserves to remain on permanent display.

I have still been unable to get my scanner working properly, so girded my loins and rang the Apple helpline. A machine advised me to call back during business hours. There was nothing for it but to return to carting stuff into the garage. As the sun sank behind the row of automobile’s homes, I thanked my lucky stars for the lack of electricity in ours, and came inside and had a beer.

A few days after Christmas 1974 (see yesterday’s post), Jessica, Michael, and I went to spend the first few days of New Year 1975 with Jessica’s parents at Bulcote Lodge, Burton Joyce in Nottinghamshire. Photograph number 7 of ‘Derrick through the ages’ was taken by Jessica in her mother’s vegetable garden. It was still warm enough for coatless gardeners, Jessica – who probably scraped the mud off her fingers before taking the photo – and Michael, to pick cabbages.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s marvellous chilli con carne followed by treacle sponge and custard. Jackie drank Hoegaarden. My wine was Palomar Creek 2011 zinfandel.

It Was Christmas Day In Islington

Before I was reunited with Jackie, my life was much simpler. My belongings were only in three different places. In particular, clothes, books, other personal items, and the furnishing for one room resided in The Firs. The idea was that I would spend half my time there and half in my house in Sigoules in the Dordogne area of France. Then Jackie and I began to share a home again and we furnished another flat, eventually relocating to Minstead, just twenty minutes drive from Elizabeth’s. We were happy, especially if we were to continue maintaining my sister’s garden, to leave our belongings in her care.

Then came Danni. My niece is to return to her family home for a while and would rather like her old room back. Today, therefore, was spent moving us out. Beforehand, Elizabeth gave us lunch, we had a look at the garden, and Jackie tended to the plants in the greenhouse. The tete-a-tete daffodils were just one of the varieties of bulb Jackie had planted last autumn. It was very pleasing to see they, among others, had survived our long winter.

Late in the afternoon, two car loads of books, clothes, and other belongings left The Firs in convoy and sped to Castle Malwood Lodge. It was a race against the rain. We just got the last of the books inside before thunder, lightning, hailstones, and rain struck. This was such a storm that when we set off afterwards to Lyndhurst for a meal at Passage To India we were puzzled as to what was the white stuff in strips on the road, that is the part not under water. It turned out to be hail, that, in the restaurant car park, still lay thick and crunchy underfoot. We enjoyed the usual top quality meal at this establishment, accompanied by Kingfisher.

This has been a long, very wet winter, not particularly good for roses. In 1974, however, the season was much more clement. That year was during a previous period of unsettled rented accommodation. Then Jessica, Michael, and I lived in a house belonging to The Peel Institute, a boys’ club in Lloyd Baker Street in Islington. It was our home on condition that I performed not very onerous caretaking duties in the clubhouse. The Lloyd Baker Estate is a very trendy area in which to live. For us, it was short-term, pending the refurbishment of the very elegant house. We enjoyed a beautiful garden which I was happy to maintain. On Christmas Day 1974 I picked a bunch of fresh, vibrant roses. I still have the colour slide of Jessica’s photograph to prove it. Unfortunately I cannot, this evening, get my slide scanner to work properly, so I can only reproduce the substandard early version which is all that Elizabeth had to work with in producing number 6 of ‘Derrick through the ages’. If I manage to solve the problem I will replace the photograph in this post.

P.S. The problem is solved, but I’ll keep this as it is – it is part of the day.

Return to The Smoke

Against the odds, Jackie got me to Southampton Parkway in the nick of time for the London train for my visits to Norman and Carol.

Today being Red Nose Day, the culmination of national efforts to raise money for children’s charities, Red Noses gathered on Waterloo station concourse, from where I walked to Bond Street station and boarded the Jubilee Line train to Neasden.

As usual photographers were shooting their companions against the backdrop of London monuments. When a young oriental gentleman saw what I was doing, he insisted on returning the favour. At least, that is what I thought he was saying. But then language wasn’t really a problem. His intentions were clear.

This time I took the direct route from Piccadilly, up Old, then New Bond Streets. The class of the shops and the expense of their goods reduces somewhat once you have passed the flower stall alongside Churchill and Roosevelt still amusing each other at the graft linking Old and New.

Forests of flags festooning their upper facades proclaim the outlets, and the retailers’ displays, both inside and out, are as colourfully artistic as ever.

Huge, stony-faced doormen stand guard before the exclusive jewellers; a less scary uniformed attendant stands at the entrance to Burlington Arcade; and, as elsewhere in London, staff stand outside their workplaces smoking cigarettes. Two young men were most amused to be thought of as an integral part of the capital’s modern scene. The metropolis has, for different reasons, borne the nickname ‘The Smoke’, since at least Victorian times. This is because of the number of coal fires that were lit throughout the city during that era. The great smog of 1952 described on 6th January was instrumental in having a stop put to this.

The contrast between this most opulent thoroughfare and Church Road, NW10 could not be more marked.

Norman served up tuna steaks, pilau rice, and roasted vegetables, followed by raspberry trifle, complemented by an excellent Pinot Noir. Thus replenished I returned to the tube for a trip to Carol’s in SW1.

At Neasden I met and spoke with a peaceful Egyptian Muslim. His view was that religion should not be mixed with politics. No faith required us to kill people. Although he was too young to have known him, he spoke fondly of Anwar Sadat, whose assassination I had seen reported on French television in 1981. He told me that those behind the death of the former president were now in power and a revolution was being mounted to oust Mohamed Morsi, who would not leave voluntarily. More bloodshed was inevitable. Arab Spring had brought this about.

It had rained on and off all day in London, and when Jackie collected me at Southampton it was pouring there too.

The Freehand

Given that I had an appointment in Lyndhurst at 5.50 this evening, I saved my walk until I could reach there, via Emery Down, by that time. It was a beautiful day and I arrived just before sunset. The appointment was with a GP to have a wart burned off my face. This was a very quick, not quite painless, process. It stings a bit and the doctor said it might blister but he wouldn’t be worried about it. I did wonder whether it had occurred to him that I might be worried about it.

Jackie met me to take me home where I reheated the chicken jalfrezi I had prepared in the afternoon. Jalfrezi, in this case, refers to the method of cooking left-over meat. I don’t think any self-respecting Indian or Bangladeshi chef would recognise it. First of all, we like our gravy, so I always add some stock. This I make from the bones of a stripped roast bird. Between us, we managed this morning to boil the stockpot dry. Jackie rescued the bits that weren’t actually stuck to the pan, added some water, and got it going again. This was indeed a labour of love because she cannot understand why I don’t use stock cubes like any other chef.

The ingredients today suggested an approach nothing short of reckless. We were lacking some of the usual components, like broad beans and peppers. So what were included were left-over mashed potato and swede, carrots, garden peas, and cauliflower cheese; and a tin of drained kidney beans. Remarkably enough this was delicious, and had a sauce rather thicker than I usually manage. The mash probably aided the consistency. It was accompanied by Cobra.

In 1976 my Social Services Area Team in Westminster always relaxed in the William IV pub off Harrow Road after work on a Friday night. Wherever you finished up your day, you always knew that you would have company if you repaired to the William. This is probably when and where photo number five in the ‘Derrick through the ages’ was taken by Jessica. More than thirty years on, that group of like-minded individuals organised the first of what are now regular reunions. The most dedicated member of those groups at the time was Howard Leigh, who was not actually employed by Social Services, but worked for DHSS. We felt that Howard was one of us, and it is Howard who has been the driving force behind the reunions. The smoking tree stump protruding from my mouth is actually a briar pipe, of a model known as freehand. This indicates that the maker has been given a free hand to follow the natural shape of the root and leave the top all knobbly and gnarled. When enjoying a complex Dunhill mix over the hour or so it took to smoke a pipeful, the smoker didn’t usually have a free hand at all, being required to prop up the tree in order to avoid straining the jaws. The photograph clearly shows the free hand supporting the chin.

A-Hunting We Will Go

Sam and Holly brought Malachi and Orlaith to see us today. Mal was straight into the garden, through the rhododendrons, and exploring the forest, before his parents had paused for breath.

Orlaith, having herself been fed, lay contentedly on the floor while the rest of us partook of a splendid Jackie vegetable soup. After this all except Jackie went on foot on a pony hunt. We walked the London Minstead, Bull Lane, Football Green loop. Walking Malachi is like walking a dog, in the sense that, because he is constantly running backwards and forwards he covers twice the distance we do. He did actually perch on his father’s shoulders for the last twenty minutes. Since Sam already had a sleeping baby sister strapped to him, he had quite a load on for the last uphill stretch.

Malachi enjoyed any sights of horses, even the jacketed farm type. He climbed on gates for this pleasure. When I led the family down Bull Lane so they could see cattle in a farmyard, my grandson showed far more interest in a stream running outside it. He made believe catching fish, and his mother caught a real piece of treasure. Lying on the gravelly bottom Holly found a penny bearing the head of young Victoria, so thick and unworn as to suggest it had been there for a very long time.

Until we reached Football Green we saw no ponies. That area made up for the absence elsewhere. We squelched through the mud and streams still lying on this open space, so that we could observe the creatures and Malachi could photograph them. The picture of the ponies below was taken by this little chap who is not four until Saturday.

On our return a further hunt took place. This was for Easter Eggs. Malachi was very excited every time he found one of his fourteen eggs, and wouldn’t eat any until he had his whole collection arrayed before him. Jackie’s photographic clues idea was very successful. Holly accompanied him around the house, helping him identify the objects in the pictures, whilst Sam sat with Orlaith.

Having already experienced an early Easter, Mal then enjoyed an early birthday celebration. The actual day is Saturday, but we gave him our presents today. The dinosaur card and book went down well, as did the Lego petrol tanker.

The next treat was an early dinner of Jackie’s smoked haddock and cauliflower cheese combination, followed by blackberry and apple crumble with cream, custard, and/or green jelly. Sam drank Marston’s Double Drop and the rest of us – not including the children – shared a bottle of Roc Saint Vincent sauvignon blanc 2011.