derrickjknight

A Talented Painter

Today Jackie and I drove to Helen and Bill’s in Poulner, near Ringwood; whence Bill drove us on to the funeral of the sisters’ Auntie Doreen. A celebration service was held at Christ Church, Frome, in Somerset. We went on to Bath for the cremation and back to cousin Chris’s home in Frome.

Helen and Bill were bird-sitting for their son David and his partner. Archie, their remarkable pet, given a free range in the sitting room, is a most exquisite turquoise colour and has a vast vocabulary. Dave and Jen must have spent hours teaching him some of his words, and he has clearly picked up some of his own accord. I commented that he offered more entertainment than the television. When we arrived he was talking to himself in the mirror. The family had owned budgies when David was a boy, one of which had been called Charlie.

When Jessica, Michael, and I had lived in Soho we had kept a parakeet, also called Charlie, given equally free range in our flat. Charlie’s cage was kept open, and he was free to come and go. He chewed the corner of the wooden box containing my facsimile copy of the Kelmscot Chaucer. One day in the 1970s Jessica answered a radio appeal. Jimmie Saville’s brother Johnnie, looked after an aviary in a psychiatric hospital in Tooting. Someone had undone its doors and allowed all the birds to escape. Donations of replacements were requested. Charlie was consequently offered and accepted.

After a moving service in the church, we were all struck by the splendid setting of the crematorium memorial chapel. A vast picture window framed a glorious rolling landscape.

Jackie’s Aunt, Doreen Barlow, was a very talented painter some of whose works were on display at the house she had shared in her later years with her son Chris and his family. Jackie, along with others, was invited to select some pieces for herself. She brought back some exquisitely painted flowers and chalk drawings. We were also shown early photographs of the Barlow and Rivett families; and the grand house in which Jackie had spent some of her childhood.

Sandwiches, cakes, tea, and sparkling French wine, were available in abundance.

Bins

Security is tight in In Excess in West End High Street. Jackie and I went shopping there this morning for six three metre long gravel boards, which were the last ingredients for the compost bins. Elizabeth had checked out yesterday that we would be given facilities to saw these up in the store, because they were too long to fit into Jackie’s car. Usually, when we have extra long items to carry, we stick them through the side between the passenger seat and the window. This means I have to try limbo dancing to enter the car. Given that the boards needed sawing to make the slats for the bins, it made sense to spare me that discomfort.

Having selected the boards I asked for the usual facilities. I was given a piece of paper with our purchases written on it and told to go to the cash desk and pay for them, where I would receive a receipt. I should take that to the door at the back of the shop, where I would be given a saw and a tape measure. On no account was I to walk through that door which led to the staff only area. Staff were walking in and out. To reach the other door to that area, which led outside the building, I had to leave the store by the front door, walk along the high street, down a side road, through the path leading to the Asda car park, and turn right. On reaching the back door I was asked where my car was. As we hadn’t known there was space for cars to load and unload by the back door, Jackie’s car was in the side road. ‘My wife is in the store’, I said, and made for the door to the shop, so I could tell her. My way was physically barred by two staff members. I swear that if I hadn’t stopped I would have been rugby tackled. To find Jackie and let her know she could bring the car round, I had to retrace my steps to the front door to get back inside. Whilst searching for her inside, I glanced through the window and saw her in the street. I walked back round and Jackie brought the car up.

On presentation of my receipt, I was given a saw. I had to plead for a measuring tape. ‘Where do I do it?’, I asked, eyeing the upturned black dustbin which the staff were using. ‘You can’t have that’, I was told, ‘use the wheelie bins outside’. The man, friendly enough, brought the boards through their workroom and leant them against the wall by three wheelie bins, which made a more or less secure sawhorse. Jackie held the boards as firm as was possible on the wobbly wheelie bins. I sawed them up and we took them to The Firs where the finishing touches were applied to the unwobbly compost bins. The recycling receptacles, apart from £58 worth of new wood, had been made with recycled material.

Whilst I had been building the compost bins, Jackie had been engaged in more pruning and clearance from shrubberies. She had filled nine large canvas garden waste sacks. We took them to the municipal dump, and, following family practice, I did not come away empty handed. I bought an etched glass half-pint tankard for 20p. Not having any change I gave 50p. for it.

This afternoon Elizabeth, Danni, and I moved desks around. This meant Jackie got a smaller potting table in the garage; her bigger one came upstairs for use as my computer table; and my computer desk went downstairs for Ellie, Elizabeth’s new assistant. Anyone who doesn’t remember Bernard Cribbins’s 1962 hit record ‘Right Said Fred’ should listen to it on U tube in order to get the flavour of our effort.

Paul and Lynne collected us this evening and Paul drove us to The Veranda in Wickham, where we ate an excellent Indian meal accompanied by various Indian lagers.

Worms

Jackie and I began the day on grandparent duties (see post of 28th. August), so Sam and Holly could have a lie-in. They had, after all, kept him quiet since 5 a.m. Elizabeth soon joined us for great aunt duties, whereupon Adam’s Transformer robot made way for robots in an i-pad game Malachi had shown her how to download. Jackie and I had given my grandson chocolate coated crunchy pieces and pink and white ice cream. Since he considered this wasn’t really breakfast he had cereal with his parents a bit later.

Not being very interested in helping us move the compost heap into the bins, Malachi went on a squirrel hunt with his Mum. The little family set off for London just before lunch.

Elizabeth and I then went foraging in the garage loft for off-cuts of wood with which to supplement the garden materials to complete the compost bins. Mum came to lunch and assisted in measuring the placement of stakes in the construction with dexterous application of her walking stick. Jackie had bought the stakes in Haskins garden centre.

Whilst watching our robin diving into the recently exposed juicy bits of the older compost, and scuttling off with spoils, I was reminded of our Newark plumber. This chirpy little fellow was a keen fisherman. An excellent craftsman who was both skilled and reliable, he had, some years before, recovered from prostate cancer. Very proud of this, he once insisted on undoing his trousers, reaching inside, and pulling out his colostomy bag to show Jessica and me. He believed our compost bins contained the best bait worms in the town, and regularly raided them to keep himself supplied for his trips to the river.

In the late afternoon Jackie drove me to Shelly and Ron’s where we also met Helen and Bill. Their home in Walkford is reached by a pleasant journey through The New Forest. We were treated to high tea of tasty sandwiches prepared by Shelly; an excellent spicy fruit cake baked by Helen; and strawberries with clotted cream. Helen told us about the German dough with which she had made the cake. Apparently it reproduces itself so that you can make cake after cake from the same original material. It operates much in the same way as a ginger beer factory. Helen described her race to get ahead of the dough before the cakes completely took over the freezer.

After this we watched a DVD of the South Anglia Savoy Players production of Ruddigore, which won the Buxton International Gilbert & Sullivan Festival competition this year. We were all agreed that it was no surprise that this flawlessly polished performance was the winner. It was hard to believe this was an amateur performance. Our particular interest was that among the cast were Jackie’s cousin Pat O’Connell and his daughter Olivia. It seemed to us that, for his comic turn, Pat received the greatest applause at the end. There were some splendid voices among the cast. I had experienced Pat’s work in directing the Godalming Operatic Society, but had not seen him on stage before.

Finally, I am indebted to Elizabeth for identifying yesterday’s butterfly as a comma.

Shane

I spent most of the day almost completing the wall for the compost bins. Jackie did a great deal of clearing and tidying up in the garden, whilst Elizabeth concentrated on making the house ready for the coming of Malachi, who was bringing his parents with him. Sam and Holly and Malachi were visiting the boat show and came to stay with us afterwards.

An unidentified butterfly visited the garden. Can anyone identify it?

Almost as soon as Malachi arrived, he asked: ‘have you got any toys?’ This sent Elizabeth on a search. Fortunately she was able to find a few that Adam had left behind, including a small radio controlled car which went down rather well. He did, at three and a half, ask her if she had any children’s games downloaded on her i-pad. It was her attempt to rectify her lack that revealed a flat battery. He had to make do with his mother’s i-phone.

Whilst eating his favoured green beans with his fingers the poor little chap bit into one. Finger, not bean. He really did cry, and eventually recovered on his father’s lap. Over the meal we got to talking about names. This arose because Holly is expecting another baby in November. As with Malachi, she is interested in names from her Irish heritage. As with Malachi, they are uncertain about which spelling to choose. He, of course, got the Hebrew version. Again, the parents have a front-runner as a name, which has several possible spellings. Holly’s two brothers, Hugh and Shane, are named after ancient Irish kings. It had been Holly’s mother, Gay, who had told me that Shane had such an origin. Until then I had thought the name came from the the 1953 film starring Alan Ladd. One afternoon just before Christmas in that year, Chris, Jacqueline, and I excitedly trotted off with Dad to Mary Jeffrey’s firm’s children’s party. Mary was a friend of our Auntie Gwen. A big disappointment awaited us. We were greeted at the door with the information that there were only two tickets. My stomach churning, and my lower lip quivering, I said: ‘it’s all right. I won’t go. The others can go’. Dad rewarded me by taking me to see the film, on current release at the cinema. It has remained my favourite film ever since. No doubt because of the circumstances rather than the picture itself, good as it is.

When I related this tale Elizabeth told us that the three of us older siblings had once visited the annual fun fair on Wimbledon Common without taking her. On discovering her sobbing in her bedroom, Dad had taken her to the fair. He obviously didn’t like to see his children disappointed.

Danni and Andy joined us for our evening meal. To go with the green beans that Malachi mistook his finger for, Jackie produced a fine array of vegetables and an excellent lamb stew. The Firs mess followed. The usual red wines, beers, fizzy water, and orange juice were drunk.

Chinese Boxes

Along the laurel hedge at The Firs there lies a heap of various items that might some day be useful. By the side of that there is a compost heap. There are parts of cemented brick pillars from the former pergola which blew down long ago; pieces of wood in various stages of decomposition; bamboos cut from what is now the hot bed; a picnic table which has seen better days; all bound together by vigorous ivy. Someone had the bright idea of building three compost bins and transferring the heap, layer by layer, to these containers. I decided to build a dry brick wall with removable slats at the front so that the soil can be easily extracted by shovel. Some of these joined layers of bricks are on concrete bases and very heavy. I learned fairly early on that it is not a good idea to attempt this task in sandals if you are apt to roll the layers of bricks over your foot. Don, I could do with your expert advice, guidance, and assistance.

Not having Don’s guidance, I struggled to make the wall stable. Locking the various, mostly cubed, shapes into place, so that any adventurous infant, tempted to climb, would be unable to topple my creation, was proving beyond me. After lunch we sought some advice from the more practical Geoff, and Elizabeth gave me the benefit of her muscle and more mathematical brain. We did enough to make us confident of success over the next day or two.

Whilst this was going on Jackie planted a clematis, lots of spring bulbs, and some violas.

The three year old Sam had demonstrated how children are prone to scale unstable constructions. Before he was born we had, as my readers will know, lived in Soho. Readers of my post of 21st. May will know that the Chinese supermarkets and restaurants in Gerrard Street would habitually put out wooden boxes which had contained various foodstuffs. Some uses of these have been described in that post. Another was the creation of bookshelves. Stacked on top of each other the boxes which may have contained such as jars of ginger, made excellent containers for books. They had the added advantage of saving further packing when we moved. I had no difficulty, when we arrived at Gracedale Road in Furzedown, in locking these variably shaped boxes into place, filling one wall with them, and filling them with reading matter. One day when Dad was visiting us, Sam decided to climb the stack. It wobbled like a house of cards when one too many has been placed on top. Dad, who loved such projects, returned with his tools and screwed each and every box individually to the wall. When we came to sell the house I was a bit apprehensive as to what any potential buyer might make of such a quirky adornment to the front room. In truth I felt that by now it was like a candle in an empty bottle of Mateus Rose. I needn’t have worried. The male buyer said that this was in fact a selling point. He liked the construction so much that, friends told us later, when he and his wife sold the house he claimed to have built it himself.

Next door to Eastern Nights in Thornhill lies The Frying Fish, which is of course a takeaway fish and chip shop. We have often wondered what it is like. Tonight we decide to find out. Elizabeth went off to buy ‘us tea’, which translates as our supper. Although we very soon realised why there is a always a queue there, the service was quick and friendly. Not knowing how the portions worked out, Elizabeth needed advice on the size of the chips portion to choose. For three people with good appetites she was told one small portion would suffice. If uncertain she could have one small and one child’s allocation. That is what she opted for. The woman serving offered to show her the small one and refund the money for the child’s if she decided that was enough. As scoop after scoop were helped into the wrapping paper, It seemed to be enough, and Elizabeth was given some of her money back. Since she had paid by card this was an unusual method of cash-back.

The fish was large, tasty, and perfectly cooked in thin, crusty, batter. The chips were equally crisp and flavoursome. The amount was ridiculous. A large portion of chips in Newark was too much for me to eat. This pile of my favourite potato made that look small. The three of us could not eat them all, and left anyone else’s normal-sized portion in the bag. Elizabeth and I shared a bottle of Prestige de Calvet Bordeaux 2011, whilst Jackie downed Hoegaarden of Belgium, best before 19.6.13.

Moving The Eucalyptus

I’m happy to say Jessops sorted out my computer problem, so I was able to add photographs to yesterday’s post. We then drove back to The Firs, arriving just after midday. The Three Graces, first mentioned on 11th. September, is, in fact, a bird bath. When we arrived, a pigeon was drinking from it.

In the first stage of preparing compost bins to replace the heap we have at the moment, Jackie and I moved the trunk of a deceased eucalyptus tree. This had originally been carried from one side of the garden to the other by two strong young tree surgeons. We now wanted it in yet another corner in order to make space to build the bins. As this was rather a complicated procedure for a couple with 134 years between them, it may be helpful for it to be outlined. The most simple method is, of course, to borrow a chain saw and massacre it. Unfortunately the lady of the manor wishes to make a garden feature of what is an attractive, if extremely heavy, piece of timber. Woodlice are already enjoying it, and it would be very unkind to disturb them more than is necessary. So, what you do is obtain a sack barrow. That was the easiest bit, because Elizabeth bought a strong antique one quite recently. You push this under the middle section of the trunk and gradually lever it into position. Then you find you can move neither it nor its load. Then you get Jackie to think about it. She suggests one person positioned with the barrow at one end, as shown in the diagram, with two people at the other end to lift it so it can be gradually swung round until it is facing in the right direction. Unfortunately we didn’t have two people at the relevant end, so I got the job. Well I couldn’t lumber Jackie, could I? Once pointing in the right direction you stagger along, a few feet at a time, until the person without the barrow yells ‘drop it’. If your ground is uneven, the barrow is bringing up the rear, and the person at the front is the stronger, you may have to switch places for a while in order to make the wheels go round. It may need a push uphill. This is repeated as often as necessary until you have the tree somewhere near what you hope will be its final resting place. Then the swinging round manoeuvre described earlier is repeated in order to refine the positioning. If your tree trunk is not exactly straight it is apt to swivel of its own accord, which can become rather awkward. It is then likely to fall off the sack barrow end. If the opposite end is higher and you have been forced to drop it in the process and can’t get out of the way in time it may potentially strike you a nasty blow. If this does happen and you are forced either to leap about or double up in pain, it is advisable to inform your partner, as soon as possible, that it is only your thigh which has been hit. This whole process is best tried before you do your backs in by sitting on bench seats at The Globe Theatre, as described yesterday.

Jackie and I shared an early meal in Eastern Nights before I went off with Paul for a drink at The Hampshire Bowman in Dundridge, near Bishops Waltham. This is an old style pub serving real ale which is accessed along one of those country roads where it is impossible to pass oncoming traffic without using one of the passing bays at its side. It is also known as the dog pub, because it appears to contain more dogs than people. I had to share an upholstered bench seat with a lurcher that kept stretching its legs in its sleep, thrusting them into my thigh as it did so. It has a very friendly atmosphere.

A Night At The Globe

I began the day by photographing the corner of the garden in which the new fernery is located, so that Danni can see where it is.

Jackie then drove us back to Morden in readiness for a visit to The Globe Theatre this evening. Sam and Holly had given me two tickets for Richard III for my birthday. Disaster then struck. I had left the lead for transferring photos from my camera to my laptop at The Firs. I therefore walked to Jessops at Colliers Wood and back, to try to purchase a new connection. They do not sell them, but sold me a Multi Card Reader. Since I have been using a card reader system at Elizabeth’s, I thought this would be fine.

In the precincts of Abbey Mills Centre by the river Wandle, a heron was offering suggestions to a puzzler.

Walking back through Morden at school finishing time, I was reminded that I had left rural Hampshire for the end of the Northern Line, gateway to the South, as Peter Sellers put it when chanting of Balham. I had to weave my way through milling schoolchildren, taking care to dodge their icecreams and sticky sweets; make way for mothers pushing buggies; elude shoppers with wheelie bags, endangering my sandalled feet; and avoid motorised vehicles for people with disabilities. I was back on familiar territory.

Settling down with my laptop I followed the meagre instructions which came with the reader. Nothing was happening. I could not download my pictures. I telephoned Jessops, whose representative said it sounded as if the reader was faulty, and advised me to reboot my laptop and if it still didn’t work return to the store. It didn’t, so I will return to Jessops in the morning and hope to be able to add photographs to this post.

This evening we travelled by underground to Sam Wanamaker’s gift to the world. Our mode of changing trains at Kennington is best described in Jackie’s words. As we approached a train about to leave for Waterloo she reports that I flung myself into the closing gap in the doors and left her standing on the platform. I turned, held my hand up to the window and raised one finger. This was to indicate that Waterloo was one stop away. Contemplating the amused glances of the other passengers, I felt grateful that it wasn’t two stations away.

Some twenty eight years earlier I had been taking Sam and Louisa on the underground for a trip somewhere or other. Sam was walking beside his sister in her pushchair. He trotted into the train just as the doors were closing. Having just taken Louisa out of it, I quickly shoved the puschair into the gap. The doors simply pushed the wheeled vehicle out of their way. This time it was Louisa and me left on the platform. I found a station employee. He rang down the line. Two young men on the train who had seen what had happened escorted Sam off the train at the next station. Louisa and I followed on, and left, the next train at the same station. A perfectly happy Sam, munching chocolate, was resting in the arms of a huge London Transport man. Panic over.

Walking along Blackfriars Road Jackie spotted, through a gap in the streetscape, The Shard, hailed as Western Europe’s tallest building. Sun reflected from this edifice causes the blinds to be drawn in her office on the eleventh floor of Morden’s Civic Centre. The view of the skyline we enjoyed as we walked along the Thames to the theatre can clearly be seen from that same office window.

We had a meal of meze at The Real Greek, a couple of doors away from The Globe. This was so good we wished we had had more time. Our only complaints might have been that the small tables were rather cramped together, and someone had taken a bite out of the bowl in which my excellent beetroot salad was served. Jackie drank Mythos, a Greek beer she enjoyed. I was less adventurous and sampled Kronenbourg.

The Globe is a replica of Shakespeare’s famous original. In The Bard’s day those who could afford them sat on hard wooden benches under a thatched roof. Those who couldn’t, known as groundlings, stood in the central enclosure, open to the elements. So it is today.

Neither of us knew the play and we were therefore surprised at its comic nature. The theatre was jam-packed with spectators, and we had to force our way through the groundlings to reach our bench, which was fully occupied. The play having just begun, we stood silently on the stairs until a steward approached, moved another couple out of our places, and, equally silently, ushered us in. Almost polished away by the many bums on these seats, our numbers were just discernible. This splendid production held our struggling attention until a wave of activity in the central open area, punctuated by the patter of raindrops, rendered what was happening on stage inaudible. The cast soldiered manfully on. I say ‘manfully’ because, as an authentic rendition of Shakespearean times, women’s roles were being played by men. Suddenly the activity in the pit became frenzied. The downpour drummed on the roof. The lighting illuminated vertical sheets of rain. Torrents bounced off hastily donned hoods and scarves. Shirts and blouses of those who had come unprepared became transparent second skins. Hair was plastered to scalps, and rivulets ran down necks. Some who had brought umbrellas were told to close them. A few who sat on the stairs we had vacated were instructed to leave and stand in the rain because they were blocking an emergency exit. Staff, and the occasional fortunate child, were issued with clingfilm wrappers by a young woman circulating among the rapidly diminishing throng of saturated, unsheltered, spectators. Whilst this continued the cast strutted their stuff on stage. I am sure they must be quite accustomed to such interruptions. After all, Shakespeare’s groundlings made an awful din. It will, however, be apparent from the attention I paid to all this going on in front of me that I had lost the plot. So had Jackie.

P.S. Dated 21st January 2014. Roger Lloyd-Pack, who was speaking as the Duke of Buckingham through the worst of the din, died a week ago. A splendid actor, may he rest in peace.

A Fernery

First thing this morning I watched savage nature in action. The early sun glinted on a side-lit spider’s web, displaying the splendid shape of this wonderfully crafted construction. A child’s chalk drawing of an airplane streaked across the clear sky above. A bright blue fly darted straight into the unwound skein. In a fraction of a second, a spider emerged from a corner and was on the fly. Quick as a flash, I was upstairs in search of my camera. Quick as I was, on my return the spider had already wrapped up its prey which now looked like a ball of grey wool almost as large as itself. My attempt at securing a photograph was rushed, and consequently out of focus. During the brief moment it had taken me to ascertain this, arachnid and prey had disappeared. I could not locate them in the foliage. After a great deal of persistence I spied the predator so well camouflaged against a dying leaf as to be well-nigh invisible.

I found another golf ball on the lawn. This set me wondering whether to emulate Winchester City Mill. They have a web-cam carrying out an otter watch. Otters can then be filmed whenever they investigate the millstream. If we set up a web-cam we could satisfy ourselves as to the identity of the phantom supplier (see 8th. September post).

After lunch the three of us visited Arturi’s garden centre to buy some ferns for a new bed Jackie has created. She and I drove Elizabeth back to The Firs and shopped at Hillier’s for snowdrops, narcissi, and grape hyacinth bulbs; pansies; and all-purpose compost. I then finished mowing the lawns I had begun this morning, and Jackie planted up her fernery. This fills a very shady corner bearing compacted soil covering massed tree roots. Our head gardener has created a decorative container for shade-loving plants by encircling a nutritious mix with the sawn up sections of the acacia which fell down during the May storms (see 26th. May). The mix consists of a layer of pond weed extracted a year ago which has produced wonderful compost; then seaweed enhanced plant growth stimulant; next a layer of bracken, and finally multi-purpose, composts. The centrepiece is a garden ornament known by us as ‘The Three Graces’, which had previously stood at the edge of the front lawn.

For our evening meal Jackie produced fillet steak with which she drank Hoegaarden and Elizabeth and I Roc des Chevaliers Brodeaux 2010.

The Stockpot

Last night Elizabeth told us she had found a golf ball on her bedroom floor (see post of 8th. September).

It was a pretty drizzly day today. Michael came down and spent the morning with us, after which Jackie drove me to Winchester to collect the plants left behind yesterday. As she was on holiday she thought she would like an ice cream, which she consumed with a superb chocolate eclair whilst I drank a double espresso in two mouthfuls. A boy in his first year or so at school, with his finger up his nose, kept asking, at full decibels, what was his father’s favourite colour. Being unable to quieten his son the man offered the opinion that perhaps his teacher should be asked to focus on his behaviour.

A young, very tanned, man sat cross-legged in a doorway. We wondered whether he was the owner of the bicycle bearing a placard asking people to ‘SAVE TIBET’. A rather older gentleman carrying a folding white stick told us, as he put up his rain hood and tightly buttoned his coat, that the weather was going to deteriorate from tonight. We thanked him for the information. The young man seemed unconcerned.

We wandered down the High Street and into the Cathedral precincts. There was such a wealth of history in the buildings that a piece of Roman pavement in a corner of the Deanery could seem to have been forgotten and almost buried in what is now a second-hand bookshop, selling what look like donated books in order raise funds for the cathedral. I delighted the custodian by selecting a P. D. James novel. We held a mutual belief that it is the depth of her characterisation that marks her out as an author. Jackie was interested in my other choice, a book on Elizabethan England by A.L. Rowse.

Following the signs to the Water Meadows we found ourselves by what we took to be the river Itchen, and strolled along it for a while. At one point we were intrigued by

a conversation between a grasshopper and a snail perched on either side of a bent umbellifer stem.

For our evening meal, Jackie fried another couple of sausages and added them to the still plentiful left over sausage and bacon casserole. A Firs Mess (see 2nd. September) completed the meal, which, for Elizabeth and me was complemented by Villapani 2011, and for Jackie by Buddweiser. The now very tasty stock from my original casserole turned the conversation to stockpots. The only person I know who now keeps a traditional stockpot is my friend Norman. This is a continuing pan of juices from cooked dishes which is constantly reused and added to over a period of time. In the old days this never left the kitchen stove. Because Norman doesn’t have the old kitchen range, and doesn’t cook every day, he keeps his pot in the fridge. I can assure you it is put to good use. Ann, the late wife of my friend Don (see 10th. August), told me she knew of a woman in Cerrigydrudion, where they had their Welsh home, who had kept a stockpot going for fifty years. A small chain of restaurants in the very heart of Central London is one of Norman’s favourite haunts. Given their situation, these establishments offer an incredibly cheap, very well cooked, range of basic, tasty meals. Norman is something of a gourmet, and his recommendation is not to be discounted. I know, I’ve followed it. The chain is called The Stockpot. As the founder has retired they are all on a franchise now.

Winchester

Whilst seated in the arbour at The Firs this morning, Jackie and I speculated about how the hedgehog had got itself perched up on the top of an unidentified tree.

Mike Kindred telephoned me and we talked through my views on a new Listener Crossword he is preparing for publication. Although there were a couple of clues I didn’t greatly appreciate, the general idea and its execution I thought were excellent. As we usually solve each other’s puzzles cold, that is without any assistance, and this one involved cracking a code, I spent rather a long time on it and had to confess myself beaten. Codes in advanced cryptic crosswords are my weak point. We agreed that Mike’s title for the puzzle doesn’t quite work, and are both therefore thinking about another.

Leaving Jackie to the gardening, Elizabeth and I went off to Winchester with Mum to change a couple of pairs of slippers which didn’t fit. We had a great deal of trouble finding a parking spot. Even disabled bays were all full. At last we found a space in what turned out to be a loading bay. Mum is now able to walk a short distance with the aid of two sticks. We helped her out of the car and I walked her to the first of the shoe shops she was to visit, while Elizabeth sorted out the car. We sat on seats in the shoe shop, explaining that we needed to change Mum’s slippers which would be arriving in a minute. I assured the puzzled assistant that they did not possess magical qualities, and would be carried in by Elizabeth. When my sister entered the shop she said parking was not allowed there and several people had tickets. A woman in a car in front was disabled and had not been given a ticket, so Elizabeth felt sure she would herself be safe from being charged with transgression. I wasn’t so sure, and volunteered to go back and stand guard over the car. Soon after I arrived a large, fully loaded, car drew up and the driver asked me about parking facilities. I recounted our fruitless search, and told him what I was doing. As a woman and two children emerged from his car, he decided to do the same.

Naturally we got talking. James, the driver, was a very large opulent looking gentleman who had driven all the way from Croydon, to transport his friends to Winchester to buy school uniform. A very friendly man, he sported a huge jewelled cross around his neck and wore a decorative shirt and cream winkle-picker shoes. He was proud of the boy he had brought down from Lewisham, because he had won a scholarship to a school which cost £35,000 a year. His siblings, the children of a wealthy Nigerian family, not being so intelligent, were fee-paying pupils. I didn’t ask how many there were.

My conversationalist began to wonder how he was ‘going to get out of here’. He indicated some rather confusing traffic signs. He thought they must mean he should turn right, but there was another sign forbidding this. My reading was that cars should go straight on. This would mean ploughing through pedestrians enjoying shopping in the sunshine. And we didn’t think, if he left first, Mum would be able to get out of the way. We were in a one-way street. Every car which travelled down it whilst we were there, either turned right, or reversed back up to the entrance to the street. I told James that Elizabeth would know what we were meant to do. She did. She explained we should go straight on and turn left at Monsoon. He didn’t look convinced. We went straight on and Elizabeth did a pretty good impersonation of Moses parting the waves of the Red Sea.

We went on to visit the National Trust’s Winchester City Mill. This is a mediaeval mill, recently restored to full working order. Elizabeth dropped us off as near to the mill as she could and I walked Mum to the mill, holding up the traffic for her to cross the road. Our mother was justifiably pleased that she could negotiate several flights of steep steps and take herself across a metal grill with only the help of a handrail, because her sticks would have gone through the grill. Always a determined character, she was dead set on seeing the mill works. I bought Elizabeth some hardy perennial plants which we left at the till until we left the mill. At least, that was the intention. As we were reaching West End, I remembered them. They are still at the till. Until Elizabeth collects them.

It had been a beautiful morning, but the sky clouded over soon after we returned. I was able to trim the lawn edges preparatory to mowing, which will have to wait until tomorrow.

This evening Elizabeth, Jackie, and I relaxed and ate in Eastern Nights. We were their only dining in customers, and the new waiter who recognised us from another restaurant whose employment he had just left, spent a lot of time chatting to us.