derrickjknight

Best Before

Seated with our coffees in the arbour this morning, Jackie and I noticed that the area around the bird bath was alive with tits and other birds. They were in and out of the bath, but mostly flitting and swooping from shrub to tree. We thought this must be because it is a seed season.

This prompted us to drive out to In-Excess in Ringwood. We had noticed this on our recent trip to Helen and Bill’s. Here we found a first-rate garden centre very reasonably priced. We had gone for squirrel-proof bird feeders and birdseed. We found them. Take Jackie to a garden centre and she fills the car up with plants. I thought I was bad enough with bookshops. Today was no exception. We came back with more than enough to fill the new bed.

Before returning, we had lunch in the centre’s tea rooms. All the staff here were very friendly and helpful. They even guided us through the maze that led to the hidden loos. The young woman who brought Jackie’s baked potato and my Full English breakfast made us feel that it was a real pleasure for her. There was ample room for a gentleman in a wheelchair to manoeuvre himself to a table and settle himself comfortably for his meal.

One of the bags of birdseed we had bought was specifically designed for robins. Our robin, clearly preferring fresh food, stayed with the woodlice and slugs disturbed by our tidying up the remaining unused sections of brick pillar. Another swooped from tree to tree from another direction, landed on the feeder and flew away. Maybe he thought the swinging container a bit unstable. Maybe our presence put him off. Maybe he feared being seen off by the robin who has claimed this as his territory. We hung two feeders on the pergola, and two on the tree by the pond. Later, our own robin, now sporting a fine adult red breast, took possession of his new feeder and gratefully chomped away.

Jackie spent the afternoon planting our new acquisitions, especially those for the bed I created yesterday. While she did this I began a print-out of my blog posts which I intend to bind and present to Mum for her 90th. birthday in October.

This evening Jackie presented us with more left-overs soup; shepherd’s pie; and, in my case, bread and butter pudding, in the ladies’, lemon souffle. Elizabeth and I drank Namaqua 2011, and Jackie, Hoegaarden.

During conversation, we spoke of best before and sell-by dates. Knowing that the provenders are bound to be on the conservative side, I tend to rather dismiss these precautions, preferring to rely on my nose. I did this in 2006 in Newark, when I found a jar of Indian chutney at the back of a kitchen cupboard. This had been shipped over to this country. I could tell that because even the script on the original label was unintelligible to me. Pasted across this was a sticker in English proclaiming a best before date of 1999. ‘Well’, I thought, ‘it’s pickle after all’. I used it. It was hot and strong and delicious. The wife of a friend of Matthew’s, on the other hand, would not entertain anything unless it was well within the recommended time scale. Shopping with Mat one day, she refused to buy an avocado, because it did not carry a sell-by date.

Medical Advice

Today’s gardening projects were a base for a seat for Jackie, and yet another new bed for Derrick. We have quite a few bricks left over from the compost bins. Some were used for the seat base, some others are being placed around the garden as plinths for ornaments or pot plants. We moved one today into the scented bed I began a couple of weeks ago.

The area that received today’s additions is the the site of the former compost heap. Jackie dug out some grass and earth to create a bed for her base. This received a layer of bricks, on which was placed the seat, after a few plants had been inserted. I dug over what was now quite a bare patch, having been covered for so long in compost. This was a comparatively easy task, although there were a lot of pernicious tendrils (see 27th. August post) of ivy. Our friendly robin divided his time between my bed and the disturbed pile of old bricks which harboured a number of types of livestock.

During the 1990s in Newark, I had used bricks in a similar way for a number of purposes. These had come from a Victorian greenhouse which had fallen down before we bought the house. My creations had included a floor for an arbour which we gave a canopy of wisteria and climbing white roses. I had made a paved area for a seat near a pond which I had dug out with Penny Craven’s son, Nicholas. There had even been steps, for none of which I had used cement. My herring bone patterns were not as elegant as Jackie’s splendid curves.

When bashing bricks into place, I used the handle of a club hammer. This was to protect the bricks from the iron head. Had they been struck with that, they would have crumbled. I was, on one occasion, building a small set of steps up a slope to provide access behind a brick shed. Merrily, rhythmically, striking the stepped bricks into place, all was going smoothly. Then I missed. You see, the handle isn’t very wide. With all the force at my disposal, the thumb holding the handle crashed, end-on, into the corner of the brick I was attempting to manoeuvre. When I had finished leaping about in agony, and dared to look at the bloody mess that was the end of my digit, it was quite clear what I had to do next. Off I went to the casualty department of Newark Hospital. Apparently I had taken the top off my thumb. Being somewhat squeamish, I took the doctor’s word for it. The wound was dressed and I was given a follow up appointment. When I attended orthopedics for the checkup, the registrar said I’d come to the wrong place and should have gone to the skin clinic because I would need a graft. Fortunately the nurse had read the notes. She informed her senior colleague that it had not just been skin and a bit of flesh that had been knocked off. A bit of bone had gone too. She pointed to the relevant section in the casualty notes and said: ‘but the thumb is broken, doctor’. ‘Oh, is it?’, he asked, and had a read. I was informed that I should go home with a new dressing and return if it didn’t heal. Fortunately it did heal. I hope that doctor always read his notes in the future.

Jackie produced a three course meal this evening. We began with left-overs soup. The main course was roast pork. This was followed by bread and butter pudding. Jackie drank Hoegaarden. Elizabeth and I had Brindisi 2007.

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.