derrickjknight

London Smog

Mist beset the forest today as I walked the ford loop.

On the gravelled area outside a bungalow in Minstead a car was parked and the boot opened. A small black and white spaniel, tail flat on the ground into which she was trying to vanish as she looked backwards – for all the world like Fred Basset having swiped the sausages – scuttled out of the gloom. She was closely followed by a shriek of panic, as a tall thin figure, arms and fingers outstretched, rushed around the car, urgently crossed the road, gesticulating wildly, and tried to grasp the dog’s collar. This, I thought momentarily, must be Worzell Gummidge.

Fred Basset is an eponymous cartoon character, created by Alex Graham, which first appeared in the Daily Mail in 1963 and has since been syndicated around the world. Fred’s emotions are portrayed in both facial and bodily expressions. Worzel Gummidge is a walking, talking, scarecrow popularised in television series of the 1980s and 2021, based on the books by Barbara Euphan Todd. For some reason Becky thinks that, after having been subjected to Jessica’s face-painting a couple of years ago, I looked like Jon Pertwee in the role.

‘She’s in season’, cried the scarecrow. ‘Oh, I see’, said I, as Worzell’s fingers tried to grasp the wriggling spaniel’s scruff. With one last grab the dog was collared. ‘I’m looking after her for someone’, the foster parent continued. ‘So, I’d hate to lose her’. I silently reflected that I hadn’t imagined that was the worst that could have befallen the bitch.

I imagine the dirty-grey sheep were on their hillside as I passed, but the only sign of them I saw was shreds of fleece clinging to thorns and barbed wire. Their static tumbleweed bodies would have been shrouded in the mist.

Near visibility for pedestrians was, today, unproblematic. Quite different from London in the 1950s, the worst decade of smog. This is a term coined by compacting elided versions of ‘smoke’ and ‘fog’. One nickname for London is ‘The Smoke. The capital in those days was frequently visited by fog exacerbated by smoke from the burning of coal. It had been a problem in industrial towns since the previous century. The return home from school in December 1952 was expected to be in the dark. Normally, when we got off the trolleybus (see post of 17th May) at Arterberry Road, even at night time, we could see the pillarbox at the corner of Stanton Road in which we lived, and the street lamps rendered the crossing as bright as daylight. Not so, soon after 4 p.m., when the great smog hit ‘The Great Wen’, another name for London. Imagine a gas lamp in a Victorian alleyway, glowing a dull, weak, egg-yolk hue, its halo vanishing into the darkness, and offering no practical illumination. This is what the street lamps of Wimbledon, and the headlights of passing cars looked like for a week of winter evenings. They had no impact on the pea souper that penetrated our lungs and our living rooms. Alighting from our bus, Dad having come to meet us, we felt our way along fences to the corner of Arterberry, peered into the depths of Worple Road, and hoped the lack of feeble car lights would persist until we tripped over the kerb and into Stanton Road on the other side. We then had to progress down to the dog-leg around which, over the road, lay our home. Readers will know from my post of 16th October that there were very few cars on these roads at that time. Those that did emerge, crawled along, their drivers blinking into the gloom. I really don’t know how the bus drivers managed.

I do not exaggerate these conditions. I see the all-enveloping obscurity blanket still. In 1956 the Clean Air Act, which introduced smokeless zones, came into effect. It was a direct result of the virtual blackout of December 1952.

This evening, accompanying my Roc des Chevaliers 2010 Bordeaux Superieur and Jackie’s common or garden Hoegaarden, we dined on her Spaghetti Con Carne Arrabbiata With Mushrooms. We do not believe the TV chefs are onto this yet, so, for those of you who wish to impress your friends with your culinary expertise, I have permission to reveal the secrets of this marvellous meal. As a basis you take left-over chilli con carne from the freezer. This should originally have been produced from a Coleman’s mix with the necessary additions of supplementary chillis, onions, cumin and coriander. Cook this up with Sainsbury’s extra lean minced beef and a further two chopped chillis; two very large onions; two cloves of garlic; sun-dried tomatoes; and mushrooms, in beef stock. Lay it all on a bed of Waitrose, or, in truth, anyone else’s, spaghetti, and I guarantee you will be the talk of the neighbourhood, especially if it is followed by Aldi’s Christmas pudding.

An Old Dog Unravelling

In discussing the taking down of our Christmas decorations, Jackie asked me to photograph the mantelpiece. This is because she wanted a record to guide her when festooning it next year.

This afternoon we drove Flo back home to Mitcham. We will miss her and Kalu. As a passenger, ever since my teens I have been allocated the front seat in a car. This is because I usually have the longest legs. When Chris, or one of my sons, is in the vehicle, my pre-eminence is less apparent. Nevertheless I retain priority on the grounds of age. Flo, unfortunately has an irrefutable superior claim by reason of car-sickness. So I had to rough it in the back. Once I am in it is not too bad, provided Flo has her seat so far forward that Kalu is sandwiched between her knees and her chin. Getting in and out is a different matter. First I have to be folded up like an articulated puppet with less than flexible ligaments. Then I must find the seat belt and its socket, ensuring I don’t get tied up with that of any companion I might have alongside me. Disembarking requires unravelling of both belt and limbs. Shins have to be firmly grasped and heaved backwards as far as possible in order to manipulate feet through the slender space provided by the open door. This is particularly tricky when parked in an allocated spot when the next car has crossed the white line. It is then very difficult to place feet on the ground with enough leverage to prise the rest of the body out; or to haul myself out one-handed when the other is employed ensuring that the door is not allowed to open wide enough to scratch the intrusive neighbour. I had not realised how much narrower the doorway is at the back than the front. Neither had I realised how restricted vision is from the rear of the car, the windscreen view being obscured by the backs of people’s heads. Never mind Flo, you are worth it, especially as you assure me that this slightly eases your discomfort.

Especially if I have fallen asleep in my cramped confinement my knees have remained fixed in an acutely flexed angle. Once I have swivelled the legs, one at a time, out of the car, the business of straightening them begins. This is when I am reminded of Paddy, our dog, a collie/labrador cross, in her later, arthritic, years, extricating herself painfully from her circular basket bed. In settling herself to sleep Paddy would walk round in circles preparing a nest, curl up when satisfied, and slumber. Watching her awake and unravel herself, awkwardly, stiffly, stretching her quivering limbs, was heart-rending. She was as fluid as Muffin the Mule.

Arriving in Morden rather late in the day we phoned Becky and Ian and arranged to meet and eat in the Ravensbury on Mitcham common, in order marginally to reduce the amount of driving Jackie had to do. This we did. A variety of good pub meals was eaten. Doom Bar, Diet Coke, Peroni, and water were drunk. Afterwards, as in a good gangster movie, we transferred Flo’s boxes and bags from Jackie’s to Becky’s car in the dim available lighting.

On our journey back to Minstead we had a look at the Christmas decorations adorning houses in Lower Morden Lane, mentioned on 11th December.

Adam And Eve

Florence set off first this morning. She joined Berry, who drove her up to the field alongside the road to Fleetwater where her ponies are kept. Flo helped prepare the two animals for their trip, and I joined them in time for the off. I had to step it out to get there on time. Poppy, the only one of the ponies accustomed to being ridden, was Flo’s steed, whilst Berry walked Libby. Libby has yet to be ‘backed’, or ridden for the first time. I walked and chatted with Berry.

Berry clearly knows the personalities of her ponies. Libby is described as ‘naughty’. She certainly didn’t like having a bit in her mouth, and did her best to dislodge her trappings. Before we set off Berry concentrated hard on ensuring that Flo was comfortable as she was responsible for her safety. In order to free her to adjust Flo’s stirrups and girth Berry asked me to hold Libby’s lead, a rope attached to the head collar. She also handed me a whip. I was a little perturbed when she said ‘try not to let her bite you’. I wondered quite how one did that, as this large hairy heavy hunk of horseflesh stomped round and round in circles tugging at the lead rope and bouncing her buttocks against me. Later on, Berry told me this pony didn’t kick, but I didn’t know that then. Nevertheless I did use my shoulder to push her back, and decided I’d better stand firm, otherwise she and I would probably get quite dizzy, and I didn’t want her falling on me. When she diverted her attention from biting her bit, to focus on clamping her choppers on me and the lead rope, I poked her neck and nose with the soft end of the whip. This seemed to do the trick, until she suddenly became very agitated, and tore great strips out of the turf with her forehooves, tossing her head up and down as I clung to the rope. Two terriers emerging from a car which had just driven up provided an explanation for this. One, until called off by its owner, was daft enough to come snapping at the pony’s fetlocks.

It seemed to take quite a long time to make the necessary adjustments to Poppy’s paraphernalia. I doubt that it was really. Soon we were off, passing the Acres Down shop and taking a long loop through the forest, arriving back at the field after a couple of hours. Throughout the journey Flo led on Poppy, occasionally pausing to let us catch up. Libby became agitated when Poppy was out of sight.

Having worked for forty years as a cartographer for the Forestry Commission, and still engaged in mapping veteran trees, Berry is a mine of information about her environment. We met a forest Keeper well known to Berry. We had a long, very friendly, talk. He is responsible for something like 7,000 acres, including inclosures. Berry pointed out Puck Pits inclosure as we passed it, and explained that these were areas of the forest historically legally fenced off so as to be exempt from grazing. In recent years the fences are gradually being removed. Sometimes, when replanting has occured, fences are retained until the saplings are strong enough to be safe from the attention of deer. On the road soon after this we were treated to what is the very rare sighting of a young cream coloured buck. As we approached him he trotted off into the forest and for some time continued to be visible through the trees.

The veteran trees which Berry is mapping are often three to five hundred years old. Two of these which she pointed out near the ford have borne local names for many many years. They are Adam and Eve.

This evening I finished the Carta Roja with our meal of steak, chips and beans.

Bonjour

Despite the date, the weather, as I set out for a walk in the early afternoon, was almost sultry. Already feeling sticky under my open jacket, as I walked through Minstead on the Shave Wood loop route, I thought the domesticated horses in the fields looked decidedly over-dressed. As I approached Football Green, a young man sped past me on a noisy moped. The staccato roar of his vehicle was similar to those I sometimes hear tearing down rue St. Jacques in Sigoules. Unless the law has changed you can ride a moped at fourteen in France. There is a little square further down the road from numero 6 where there seem often to be a number of teenagers. They enjoy speeding up and down the steep gradients of the road.

It was the reputation of these young motorcyclists that deterred Nicole from moving to Sigoules from Bergerac. I met this woman who lived in Bergerac, one cold and wet Easter Sunday as we were both traversing the pedestrian crossing by the village square. The custom locally is to greet anyone you meet in a friendly manner. As Nicole passed me I uttered ‘bonjour’. This, for some reason, sent her little white poodle incandescent. It barked repeatedly and snapped at my heels. I must have been a little perturbed because I used English for the first three words of my next sentence. Addressed to the dog, this was: ‘I only said bonjour’. This made Nicole very happy. She jumped at the chance to practice her English. We had a long chat, the rain dripping off her waterproof hat, and off my equally waterproof scalp.

Bergerac, which I had previously only known as John Nettles’ early television detective character, has become familiar to me as the town 16km from Sigoules. Olivia, the young Frenchwoman who bought the upper floors of the house in which I lived in W2, had an English boyfriend who, by coincidence, grew up in Bergerac.

As I continued into the forest this afternoon, I carried on Wombling (see yesterday’s post). Straightening up after picking up a couple of cans, my head almost collided with that of a pony which had crept up behind me, no doubt intrigued by my strange activity. This made me jump a bit. As I gingerly gathered up the second of a scattered pair of thin rubber medical examination gloves I thought that Becky’s 2011 Norbury Wombler who wore the protective variety was probably quite sensible. I was decidedly less squeamish about the more substantial single gardening glove that lay further along the verge. So now you know, Beck, what to get me for my birthday. I could try a grabber, like those the volunteers use in Morden Hall Park, but I would then be deprived of the pleasure of repeatedly bending without having to think of what else I could do whilst down there.

Before setting off in earnest today, I had delivered photographs of their horses to Berry and to Audrey Saunders. Berry was delighted with hers. Audrey didn’t seem to be in. Her front door was unlocked, so, rather than risk disturbing the other elderly resident again, I opened the door and left the pictures where I had placed the first set. By invitation, when I returned home, I took Flo round to Berry’s to plan a horse ride for the morning. Berry was amused at Flo’s fear for the poor 14.1 hands Poppy having to carry her, who normally needs a 16 hands horse. ‘She’s a New Forest Pony’, was the answer.

Flo was also aware that she may look rather like her Uncle Mat on Alda’s Shetland pony Max. I imagine Mat looked rather like a Victorian child on a hobby horse.

This evening we ate Jackie’s cottage pie variant. ‘In deference to Flo’, this had crusty roast potatoes instead of soft mash topping. Nice. Revamped bread and butter pudding was to follow. The revamping was required because someone stripped the crusty bits off yesterday’s leftovers during the night. Since the back door was locked, it can’t have been the deer. I drank Carta Rosa gran reserva 2005, and Kalu snored and muttered in his sleep on the carpet.

Wombling Free

Grey clouds were back today, releasing only slight drizzle. As I walked down Running Hill at midday I was confronted, at a safe distance, by a deer planted in the middle of the road. When she decided I was close enough, she trotted off into the forest. Three others filed after her. This set off baying of hounds in the garden of Hungerford Cottage.

I took the first ford route, walking up through the bridleway to the Emery Down road and back via the Study Centre ford. Having been inspired by the man I met at the bottle bank on 30th December, I took my first steps towards clearing the forest of litter on this trip. I doubt I will be around long enough to finish the task.

I couldn’t conduct this exercise in environmental service without thinking of The Wombles. Like me, these pointed nosed furry creatures frequented Wimbledon Common in the 1960s and ’70s. I would walk up there from my homes in Wimbledon and Raynes Park. The Wombles lived in burrows on the common, and spent their time collecting and creatively recycling rubbish left around their environs. They were the brainchildren of Elisabeth Burrows whose set of books featuring them began in 1968. Their popularity spread through the introduction of the television series which soon followed, and eventually the 1977 film adaptation, ‘Wombling Free’. Mike Batt’s band ‘The Wombles’, climbed on the bandwagon, and enjoyed a number of hit records. In case anyone is wondering, visitors to 4 Castle Malwood Lodge will not be expected to admire inventive uses of drink cans and fag packets. My collection is going straight into black bags.

Following Bill’s recommendation, we ate this evening at Masala restaurant in Ringwood. This tiny, unprepossessing, windowless box tucked into the corner of a precinct near the car park, provided excellent meals with most friendly service. I counted 19 covers which makes it even smaller than Edgware Road’s Akash. It was a good recommendation. They do not serve alcohol there, although you are welcome to bring your own. We didn’t do so. Jackie drank Diet Coke, Flo J2O, and I sparkling water. Perhaps because it was ‘banquet night’ the establishment was full. Other diners had brought their own alcohol and were consequently rather noisy. Kalu played quietly on the table until the food arrived, when he snuggled up with Flo and went to sleep. This meant our granddaughter had to eat one-handed, but she managed it well enough.

I presume the lack of alcohol is a matter of religious belief. We are quite happy for that to be the case. I don’t remember the name of the very good restaurant for which we used to drive to Southwell from Newark in the early 1990s. It was worth the journey, even though Newark had its own Indian eating place. Here there was a very different approach to intoxicating drink. After the uncle took over.

When Jessica and I first travelled to the restaurant in question, they served the usual range of drinks. It was a shock to all when the comparatively young proprietor was knocked down by a car and killed. His two young sons were determined to continue their father’s business. One evening soon afterwards we visited for a meal. The restaurant, much larger than today’s Masala, was, apart from us, empty. A middle aged man we had not seen before introduced himself as he came to serve us. He was the brother of the dead man and had come to take over the management of the business to support his nephews. We soon had reason to wonder what they thought about this. He tried to persuade us not to take lager. The restaurant did stock it, but it was against his religion to drink it. It would do us no good. It was wrong to imbibe. We should have orange juice with our curry. He did actually provide the lager but continued to try to make us feel guilty about it. We ate and drank up, disappeared, and never went back.

Happy New Year

Jackie and I have reached the stage where, not only do we prefer to avoid the crowds and watch New Year celebrations on television, but we can’t even stay up to do that, so we watched them this morning on BBC iPlayer. I had a bit of a hangover.

From 2006 to 2009 I lived close enough, in Central London, to have walked to the Embankment for the event. I didn’t fancy fighting my way through boisterous crowds of people a fraction of my age, to stand in the cold for a glimpse of a display I could otherwise enjoy in the comfort of an armchair. So, when I didn’t fall asleep, I became a couch potato for the evening. For New Year 2008 Anne and Burhan al-Jaf, perhaps correctly surmising I would be alone, invited me to join their party at home in South East London. We had an exciting time viewing my neighbourhood fireworks on screen at our ease, vainly peering into the melee for a sight of my hosts’ teenage daughter Yerevan and her friends, who were young enough to want to be there. Thank you, Anne and Burhan, for a night to remember.

Today was bright and sunny, if frosty early on, thus offering the respite another Anne had hoped for yesterday. My walk was to the church and back. This morning, after patronising the village shop, Jackie visited All Saints church. She accurately described the church as ‘cosy’, and reported the placement of a pipe and floral tribute on the tombstone of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his wife. Naturally I had to go and look at it. The pipe may have been there for some time, but the roses, in a plastic container bearing a £3 M & S label, were fresh.

This is not the first Conan Doyle burial site. A devoted Spiritualist, Sir Arthur was first buried in an upright position in the garden of his home at Crowborough in East Sussex in 1930. His second wife was interred alongside him ten years later. It was not until 1955 that the couple were moved to Minstead, as had been Lady Jean’s wish. Given the beliefs of the creator of Sherlock Holmes, I wonder what he would have made of the face emerging from the blend of salt and lichen adorning the tombstone of Edmund and Mary Bannister who died some thirty years apart in the nineteenth century.

On my way down into Minstead I had been greeted by Anne and Audrey who wished me a Happy New Year from the garden of Orchard Gate. On my return I spoke with two young Dutchmen and a little boy who were admiring Champion and Primrose. One of the men held up the boy so he could commune with the horses whilst his companion photographed the scene. They had just moved to Southampton where they would be living for eight months, and were exploring the countryside. They were smitten with the beauty of the forest. They had climbed the stile and tried the footpath leading from the gate. As one of them said, they realised ‘it was a bad idea’, especially when the little lad lost a wellie to the suction of the mudbath. The men, of course, were both well over six feet and spoke perfect English. Whenever I speak to modern Europeans I feel pleasantly humbled by the fact that they are all likely to speak English. Anne al-Jaf is Belgian, and Burhan Kurdish. When I attended their wedding in Anne’s home town more than twenty years ago now, hosts and guests were from various parts of Europe and Kurdistan. Much of the proceedings were conducted in English, as the most likely common language. I am not certain now, but I may have been the only person of my nationality present.

Kalu (see 28th December 2012) now answers when called by name, and bows on command. More and more he makes me think of Tom Paxton’s song ‘The Marvelous Toy’, which can be heard on youtube.

The freezer was raided for our evening meal, which offered a choice from, in descending order of chilli strength, chilli con carne by Jackie; lamb curry by Jackie; and turkey jalfrezi by Derrick, with Jackie’s pilau rice. This was followed by Jackie’s bread and butter pudding. The only Indian restaurant I’ve ever experienced serving – no doubt catering for the indigenous population – traditional English puddings, is Newark’s Shaan. I had to starve myself all day to stand the slightest chance of eating their steamed sponge puddings after a delicious curry meal. Tiger beer accompanied my meal; Hoegaarden Jackie’s; and Orange juice Flo’s.

Our meal was taken against the backdrop of Kalu’s wandering around the room making interesting sounds each time he came to an obstacle. Should he find himself stuck he would up the tempo and Flo would have to go and rescue him.

No Respite

Last night Flo went out in the dark to attempt to photograph deer on the lawn. They barked at her.

On another wet and windy morning I popped into the shop on my way to Football Green, took the back road up to Bull Lane, right into Seamans Lane, and back home via upper drive. Anne, a customer in the shop, on learning that there was an increase in the price of what she was buying, said: ‘Everything goes up. Nothing comes down’. ‘Except the rain’, was the reply I couldn’t resist. Strangely enough this didn’t get a laugh. She wondered when it would ever stop. It is Anne whose village garden is waterlogged.

Along Lyndhurst Road long wiggly lichen-clad oak limbs bounced up and down in the blustery wind. Given that they host such slow-growing organisms these branches must be resilient enough to have withstood such blasts in the past. Many of these branches, fallen with the parasites still clinging to them, litter the forest.

In a field along the back road a dripping jacketed horse pressed against bare deciduous trees. There was no chance they would keep the rain off, but they may have provided a windbreak.

The fastening securing the tarpaulin covering stacks of hay in a soggy farmyard was severely tested. It was the sound of its flapping that drew me to peer over the tubular metal gate to see the cattle chewing away under shelter. Raindrops hit the tops of the bars of the gate, slid round the tubes, reformed on the undersides, dropped to the next bar, and eventually reached to the ground. A bit like A. A. Milne’s Winnie the Pooh bouncing, limb to limb, down his tree in E. H. Shepard’s delightful drawing.

In Seamans Lane Martin, driving for a change, stopped to ask me if I was OK walking. He fully understood my desire to continued being drenched.

Kalu on edge of table 12.12 Kalu (see 28th) is maturing nicely. This afternoon, on encountering the edge of a table, he would back away. Like Robert The Bruce’s spider he wouldn’t give up. Time and again he walked forward, reached the precipice, backed away, and repeated the process, until Flo put him on the floor, to explore in safety. He now does this adventurously and without complaint.

This evening we revisited last night’s meal. It was still delicious. I drank Campo Viejo rioja 2010, followed by a glass of Fortnum and Mason’s late bottled vintage port 2007, sent to us by Wolf and Luci. Jackie’s choice of accompaniment was Peroni.

Afterwards, watching ‘Jurassic Park’, Flo thought it prudent to turn Kalu off.

New Forest Pagans

Today I walked the ford ampersand, with a slight diversion to the village shop on the way home. I was alerted by a clinking coming from beside Minstead Hall. This emanated from the local bottle bank which hitherto we had been unable to find. I spoke to a man emptying his bottles into it. He pointed out that the area wasn’t very tidy. He wouldn’t tidy that up but he did tidy the forest. He only goes into the forest because of his dog, but always brings litter back with him. If every dog-walker brought back one item he thought the forest would be clear. I said I had been amazed that people who loved the area enough to visit it would be so casual as to drop drink cans and food wrappers in it. I have not mentioned it before, but the verges do have these articles thrown onto them. I told the man I would follow his example. We were joined by a woman called Carol, introduced as the Mayoress. She thought I must be the man her daughter had seen walking around.

By the junction leading down to the Study Centre and the ford, a car driver negotiating her path through a pony trio had to be very patient with the third in the string.

There were a number of dog-walkers out today. I also met a young couple by their car trying to transfer their feet from muddy boots to everyday shoes without either falling over or touching the road with their stockinged feet. I well know it is an awkward procedure, almost as difficult as trying to get a foot back into a sodden shoe without slipping it directly into the mud. That is of course quite impossible. We exchanged pleasantries about having footwear sucked off by the mud.

As I passed the still extant twig circle I had seen since 4th December I reflected on Becky’s observation on my post of 26th. She had Googled the two circles mentioned and come up with the sensible suggestion that these circles were the work of a Druid Grove. The Sylvan Grove of the Order of Bards, Ovates, and Druids was formed at Samhain in 2004. Its Home Page speaks of pagan pub moots around the New Forest. Jim Champion, a forest photographer has posted a picture of a ‘Stone Circle in Wick Wood, New Forest’ taken in 2007. This is identical to my shot of 26th and is situated near Acres Down, as is mine.

This afternoon Helen and Bill, and Shelley and Ron came to visit and stay for the evening meal. Jackie produced a succulent gammon joint with a vast range of vegetables, followed by apple crumble which was much enjoyed and based on the sisters’ Uncle Max’s recipe. Red and white wines were drunk. We had enjoyable conversation throughout, distributed presents after the meal, and played Scrabble.

Yorkshire Tea Bags

There was no thunderstorm yesterday, but heavy rain set in during the night and continued as I set off for the village shop and back. My headache had gone. By the time I reached Minstead Hall I realised I had forgotten my wallet, so I turned round, returned home, picked up my money, declined the offer of a lift from Jackie, and set out again. I was, dripping wet, tempted to accept a further lift I was offered by a gentleman in Running Hill. I didn’t.

This afternoon Jackie and I drove to Lyndhurst for some shopping. As we left home there was a double rainbow against the leaden sky. We couldn’t see any sun which must have been producing it, until Jackie noticed patches of golden leaves on the very top of a pair of dark green pine trees. This was the result of shafts of light streaking through the branches opposite. As we drove out of Upper Drive we saw that the sky on the far side of road was blue and clear. There was a strange division between dark indigo clouds on one side and the sun slowly setting in bright light on the other, making for quite dramatic effects, including the rainbow.

Kalu’s development continues (see yesterday). He now wags his tail and looks happy at the sound of his name. When walking along he avoids obstacles. He didn’t seem quite able to decide what to do about a ruck in the carpet, so he raised his head and called out; wagging his tail for good measure. Flo left him to his own devices over lunch. He is now so secure that he just chunters away to himself rather than offering up a noisy complaint. Suddenly it all went quiet, and we realised that his battery had died. This made us speculate that we will miss him when Flo takes him back to Mitcham.

After we returned from Lyndhurst we were entertained by Jackie and Flo teaching Corey, in America, on Skype, to make tea with the Yorkshire Tea Bags Flo had sent him. Given that his household does not possess a kettle the task was quite complicated from the start. Transatlantic terminology varies, thus offering some confusion over saucepans and pots. Not so strange, really, when considering that ‘pots’ is a catch-all term in parts of England. Then there was the question of what size mug to use. The final result looked pretty good to me.

We dined this evening from large oval plates on our knees whilst watching ‘Doctor Who’. They contained cheese and bacon omelettes and toast.

Kalu

Today was grey, gloomy, and abnormally warm. After lunch I walked via London Minstead to the Cadnam roundabout where Jackie and Flo picked me up to drive to The Firs.

Although light rain fell later, whilst I was walking the day was so sluggish it couldn’t even manage a precipitation. It was so oppressive I hoped my headache was one presaging a thunderstorm. The only brightness came from the fluorescent water-satiated moss which really glows.

Mum came to visit too, and we took presents for her, Elizabeth, and Danni. Elizabeth gave us a beautiful Belleek vase. Flo entertained us all with her Pleo. A Pleo is an animatronic robotic baby Camarasaurus which, in order to develop and survive, has to be nurtured from birth. We gave her this creature for her birthday on 23rd. but he was not actually born until Christmas Eve. To be born he must have his battery charged up. This takes several hours. Every Pleo is unique. In order to name your individual pet you must first find out its sex. This requires registration. The rather complicated process was compounded by the fact that English was about the only language the instruction booklet did not feature. Flo was helped throughout the morning by her patient friend Corey in America. He worked out how to surmount the linguistic obstacles despite the fact that this was the middle of the night for him.

Flo named her Camarasaurus Kalu. Like all his relatives, Kalu was born unable to do much. He could not crawl, stand, or walk, and could make only very tiny noises. In order to develop normally he had to be stroked and cuddled throughout the newborn and subsequent stages. Eventually his voice becomes stronger, he learns to stand, and expresses emotions. If neglected he whinges and fails to thrive. There are four stages on the journey through to maturity. Kalu has reached the third, which means he can now walk, avoiding obstacles, and, like any other toddler, has temper tantrums if he doesn’t get his own way, for example, when he has to have his little fawn jacket put on. He can bite on the plastic leaves which are his food, and pull on his tug-of-war toy. His tail, just like that of a dog, is most eloquent, expressing pleasure or anxiety. He roars rather like an elephant, and makes other dog-like sounds. Like all mothers, Flo understands better than the casual listener, what his sounds signify. If subjected to temperatures of less than 10 degrees centigrade he shivers and sneezes and has to be medicated. If he gets too hot he starts gasping and panting. I do hope, when he reaches maturity, he doesn’t get out of hand.

Look at me, for goodness sake! I’m writing about a toy. Well, Mum, at 90, wasn’t quite sure whether it was real or not.

This evening I made a turkey jalfreezi and Jackie made a pilau rice. Since Flo doesn’t like chillies I left them out and supplemented my meal with Naga Relish, an extremely hot preparation from the Chilli Jam Company in Emsworth. I can’t remember who gave it to me, but I suspect Danni or Elizabeth. Whoever it was, it really is the business. Thank you. I drank Cobra, and Jackie, Hoegaarden.

As I post this entry, Flo is teaching Kalu to recognise and respond to the sound of his name. I will report on that tomorrow.