derrickjknight

Continuing Themes

This morning I strolled into the footpath leading up to the mosque; skirted the London Road edge of Morden Park; crossed this road into Central Road; bore right into Green Lane; wandered through the Haig Homes estate; travelled back to London Road; and returned to Links Avenue via the park.

Cars were streaming down Links Avenue and into the path by the side of the railway. People were pouring into the mosque in their thousands. Jackie tells me that the view of this sea of people from the eleventh floor of the civic centre was amazing. At the entrance to the worshippers footpath, another young man was standing with a board announcing that the Eid (15th. August) car park was full. A very well organised and friendly group of young men, many using mobile phones, were directing the swarming traffic to the meadow I had seen being mown on Friday. The reason for the mowing was now clear. It was a vast overflow carpark. The marquee I had seen being erected was in fact three. These were filling up fast. As in the mosque itself (see post of 18th. May), there was separate accommodation for men and boys and for women and girls. I thought I’d best not photograph the women’s tent. This is a pity, because they were all wearing splendid attire. Until lunchtime I could hear singing and speeches from our flat.

I spoke to two Community Support officers who were counting the cars coming into the arena. Like me, they were disgusted at the flytipping which continued. The pile I had seen on Friday was still there, and had been supplemented by another huge heap which had been dumped in what seemed to be an attempt to block the route to the temporary additional parking area. We speculated that anyone caught tipping would probably save money by paying the fine incurred, rather than covering the expense of legitimate disposal. One of the officers pointed out that general rubbish was also strewn among the brambles which were providing one the ingredients, being collected by two women, for blackberry and apple pie.

Another two women, in Green Lane, asked me if I knew St. Anne’s school. I had to acknowledge that I didn’t. There are Haig Homes on either side of Green Lane. Haig Place lies alongside a very well kept estate provided by this organisation. These little houses all have beautifully tended gardens. I chatted with an elderly woman who lived in one. She identified a screeching coming from the trees as the call of squirrels. I had not knowingly heard a squirrel before. She said they are at their noisiest at night. She enjoyed the sound. More so than the cranking of magpies.

On 13th. August, I had confessed my own vagueness about Douglas Haig. I had therefore been amused at the response to a question I had put to a small boy on 17th. August. In fact the street sign ‘Haig Place’ was right outside his house. There was a terra cotta plaque on the wall between two semi-detatched houses, one presumably his own. Not even sure myself, I asked him if he knew who the man depicted was. He shrugged and silently indicated that he didn’t know. I’ve since used Google to confirm my supposition. There are Douglas Haig Memorial Homes throughout the UK.

Watch Me curries and Kingfisher completed the day. As usual, this excellent restaurant on Morden Road was also catering for several happy, celebrating, Sri Lankan families, the women in colourful clothing, and the children running about gleefully.

Park Culture

Today we continued with yesterday’s gardening projects. Jackie did a great deal more edging and weeding of beds, planting some flowers we had brought with us, and others from last week. I managed to get somewhere near halfway with the new bed project. So much for completing it this weekend.

Elizabeth has been suffering for two and a half weeks with sinusitis. For anyone who has not experienced it, this is an extremely painful inflammation of the sinuses, or cavities, in the face. Although I had a nasty bout of it during my first visit to Sigoules this year, keeping me in bed for the whole ten days I was there, it is otherwise something which I have not suffered for many years. It was, however, a frequent visitor to me during my teens and twenties. I was therefore pleased to see that my sister was clearly on the mend this evening. She even went out and weeded the ‘hot bed’. Since this was a very hot and humid day she had otherwise been on catering duties, especially the provision of drinks.

Each time we were given a drink, and, of course, at lunchtime, I took the opportunity to have a break. I encountered yet more small trees, almost all suckers from next door’s damson tree. My method of extracting them was described yesterday. There was also quite a bit of well-established ivy, with thick tendrils and roots, which had to be removed. Our friendly robin left his muddy footprints all over one of Elizabeth’s freshly painted tables. When I tired from pulling up small trees and self-rooted strands of honeysuckle, I wandered over to look at the ‘hot bed’ and remind myself that twelve months ago that had been a huge clump of bamboo which had taken three months of weekends to remove. I would not have been able to achieve that clearance with the tools I am using on what is to be the ‘scented bed’. I had borrowed a grubber axe from Geoff. Striking the root clusters with garden forks or spades was about as effective as digging into concrete. This particular implement made the task possible, although Elizabeth and I dug it over several times, always coming up with roots we had missed last time, before we deemed it ready for composting.

This afternoon Danni joined us. She spent most of the time in a recliner sunbathing and reading ‘Park Culture’, when she wasn’t being frustrated by being unable to access You tunes. But she had volunteered to cook for us this evening, and she works very hard at her sports massage practice so is certainly entitled to spend Sunday afternoon relaxing. ‘Park Culture’ is a most impressive new magazine produced by a couple of friends of Andy’s. His band, ‘Circle of Reason’ is, incidentally featured. Until now, there has, apparently been no magazine focussing on artistic events in the New Forest Area. The September issue of the journal was issued today. It is the first. There is coverage of literature, art, music, drama and other forms of artistic expression. This free publication has the quality of production one would normally be expected to pay for. There are interviews with artists and performers, illustrated in colour on good quality paper, with useful event information. The name comes from the fact that the New Forest is a National Park. Perhaps this is why it has such a rich artistic life. The website of this enterprise is www.culturapress.co.uk

Danni produced a very tasty beef stir-fry meal. We finished yesterday’s bottle of Roc Des Chevaliers, Bordeaux 2010. Jackie had a small French beer then drove me home after one last tour of the garden.

Bed-making

Jackie and I were up and out in the garden at The Firs before seven this morning. It was a beautiful day, and we were determined to enjoy the fruits of our work over the last year and a quarter. We shared the garden with early morning bees. Whilst I have been in France Elizabeth and Jackie have continued to plant, weed, prune, and generally maintain what has been done. Some of the wilder parts have been opened up a bit. Unfortunately, Elizabeth has decided she would like a scented bed. Nothing wrong with that in principle. In fact it is a very good idea. She and Jackie have decided where it should go, and have assembled a mail-order bench and chair which has been sited so that there is a wonderful view through the pergola. Elizabeth spent some time today painting a couple of occasional tables to complete the viewing area. So what is unfortunate about the idea? Well, whose task is it to dig new beds and compost them in preparation for planting? Exactly.

Surveying the bedroom area I could see that I would need to mark out the undulating line which we prefer; dig up some grass; take out a number of weeds; prune some shrubs; remove most of an overgrown honeysuckle from next door; dig it all over again; compost it all; dig that in; then put the tools away. ‘That’ll be my weekend’s task’, I said. Ah, well. Nice idea. But if I finish it tomorrow, I’ll eat the horse manure.

Marking out the line was comparatively straightforward. I actually have a good eye for a curvy shape. This garden has parts which are very stony. In fact we have made a virtue of this by planting Erigeron where there is not much else but stone. Jackie and I had seen it placed to grow through brick paths and steps at Hinton Ampner, a country house at West Meon. We thought it just the job for The Firs. It has thrived. The stones, however, made it a little difficult to cut a clean edge.

Naturally, the first part of the new bed, this morning consisting of mown couch grass millions of years old, lay on stones. Persuading the tufts of grass to leave their fakir-style resting place, was difficult enough. As much earth, a very rare commodity, as possible had to be shaken off. The turves were than transported by wheelbarrow to the compost heap. The fledgling robin that had sat on Jackie’s lap in June was quite interested. It was extremely humid, and the dry earth on my arms soon had the consistency of mud. A salad lunch was a welcome respite.

Raring to go, after a meal and a rest, I hit the first obstacle. There seemed to be a solid, immovable, square of concrete. ‘Ah’, said Elizabeth, ‘that will be the base for the brick pillar which was a continuation of the arbour’. ‘There’s another on the other side.’ Well, that can stay there. Most of the area I was then working was covered in rampant honeysuckle. As I cleared this, all sorts of other goodies emerged. Such as small trees which at some time had been cut down. Their roots had been left, and they were sprouting. There were suckers from the damson tree in the garden at the back. Some of the trees bore thorns. Some pricked me.

I had brought out quite a number of tools when I began, I hadn’t thought I might need an axe. I did. So I went and got one. For those who’ve never tried it, there follows an instruction in digging out small trees. First you must clear the area of brambles, couch grass, dog roses, and geraniums. The geraniums, of course, you must preserve most carefully. Wiping your brow occasionally, being careful not to get soil in your eye, you must apply a garden fork to loosen the earth. You then dig out as much as you can, stick it somewhere else on the bed, and have a go at moving the stump. Naturally it won’t move, so you have to dig a bit more. By this time you will have struck thick roots stretching across areas you haven’t dug and didn’t want to. Then you have the pleasure of wielding the axe. By this time, any thoughts of gentle care will have evaporated. Cut through the stubborn roots; pull up the tree; and try not to fall backwards into a pergola post as it suddenly becomes free.

After that, if you are lucky, someone brings you a beer and you have an excuse to sit down. Even though your back is aching you may claim that this is the only reason you have stopped. And if they weren’t having one too you would not have sat down whilst drinking it. Actually, Elizabeth did provide me with one respite during the above process. She asked me to sand one of the tables she was painting. I was only too ready. In fact the previously described mud on my arms, mixed with blood from the scratches, took on an even more interesting consistency when mixed with sawdust.

Jackie’s paprika pork went down well and Elizabeth produced a merangue mess which was eaten. I’ve had too much of the rather nice French red wine to remember what it was.

Council Housing

Along the footpath to the mosque this morning a heap of building waste demonstrated that the flytipping (2nd. July) warnings have been ignored. When I returned from my walk, it was still there, and a man was standing at the entrance holding up a board which announced that the Eid (15th. August) carpark was full. There was a queue of hopeful drivers in their cars stretching out into Hillcross Avenue. At the head was a vehicle full of Muslim women. I moved some of the rubble, hoping it wasn’t asbestos, so the driver could park there. A young Muslim man who had just parked alongside it declined to help. After that the other, male, drivers were on their own. Chivalry extends only so far.

Blackberries were ripening, to the delight of foragers. Bindweed was rampant. This menace was the curse of our tiny garden in Stanton Road. I spent many hours as a child chipping away at the sun-hardened soil with a small garden fork, endeavouring to remove the last vestiges of trailing white roots. The Forth bridge wasn’t in it.

Turning right onto London Road, I passed an old milestone. This is a relic of the days of horse-drawn coaches. I walked up to the crossroads and turned left, rounding into Green Lane which runs parallel to it. This wide thoroughfare, with a tree-lined path running down the centre of it, begins in the Upper Morden Conservation Area. It is part of the 1950s St. Helier Estate. This vast post-war housing project contains beautifully built and spaciously laid out properties. I think this was the last period of well-made council housing. Like many other local authority homes, some are now privately owned. It was Margaret Thatcher’s ‘Right to Buy’ policies that made this possible. Undoubtedly this did enable a great number of people who would be unable to do so to become owner-occupiers. It also reduced the amount of housing stock to accommodate those who could not afford to buy. I have mentioned before (28th. June) that I worked in Westminster during the Shirley Porter era. Looking out of my office window, or those of Beauchamp Lodge Settlement, I wondered at the fact that Council owned residential flats were being tarted up and otherwise embellished, for example, with sloping roofs. Some of these, no more than ugly boxes built in the ’60s, could certainly have done with it. Other Council Housing Department properties were being boarded up. Since there were numerous homeless families in the City of Westminster, this was another mystery. What I had not been aware of was the scandalous gerrymandering that was going on. My naive nature had imagined that money was being spent on improving the environment of Council tenants. It was nothing of the kind. Their homes were being prepared for sale to potential Tory voters. Fortunately the worst of this abuse was not implemented until after I had, in 1986, left the Authority’s employment. I would not have been able to stomach the enforced transportation of Westminster’s homeless families to hotel accommodation in other parts of London, to which the borough’s hapless people were being decanted.

Coming to the end of Green Lane, at the Rose Hill roundabout I turned right, eventually reaching Sutton Common Road, where I took another right turn which brought me to Epsom Road. Right again and I was soon able to enter Morden Park and make for home. Along the road from Rose Hill I came across another roadside memorial (see 12th. August) fixed to the common railings.

In Morden Park I discovered a fully equipped Cricket ground in a bucolic setting which I had not noticed before. There is more to this open space than I had imagined; and much to be discovered on one’s own doorstep.

Later, Jackie and I drove to The Firs. We had curries and beer at Eastern Nights.

Coping With Violence

Today was Mordred (see 12th. July) day No. 50, so I bought an Independent in Londis, on my way to my normal Colliers Wood route. I was having coffee with Carol in SW1 and lunch with Norman in Harlesden. Alongside the Wandle, brambles, nettles, bindweed, willowherb, and other foliage were ‘as high as an elephant’s eye’, to quote a wonderful Rodgers and Hammerstein song from Oklahoma! (1955), but the footpaths were clear. A blackbird with a damaged wing skipped awkwardly across one. Families were flocking to Deen City Farm (see 16th. May). Someone had wheeled a giant shuttlecock into the river. In fact it was ‘a beautiful morning’ when I set out.

After coffee I returned to Victoria to take the tube to Neasden, changing at Green Park. I had forgotten how jam-packed these stations can be during the tourist season.

On the Jubilee Line from Green Park I sat opposite two silent, expressionless, young men wearing dark glasses. This took me back 25 years. By the 1980s, violence on public servants was becoming quite a problem. I had myself been attacked by a disgruntled client wielding a coffee table. I was prevailed upon to re-enact the scene in an ITV programme on such violence. Deciding my staff needed training in the management of these situations, I approached the police for help. They were unable to provide any. There was nothing for it but to create my own course. With the help of my friend Brian Littlechild, one of the Social Workers at the time, a suitable event was planned and carried out. This was just for the Area team. My enduring memory of that day is the glee and accuracy with which the secretarial staff role-played their Social Work colleagues. It was hilarious, somewhat chastening, and informative. In the early years of my freelance consultancy practice, this course was very much in demand. Initially Brian continued to partner me, using days of his annual leave. Eventually we separated and went our individual ways, still remaining very good friends. Years later, when I sought a similar course for the staff of Stepping Stone Community (posted 10th. August), Brian recommended a trainer. The staff found the course stimulating and useful. They were particularly pleased with the handouts, which they showed me. Most of the material was what Brian and I had produced.

What we focussed on was scene setting, defusing of situations, and knowing when to get away, rather than self-defence. It was our belief that most Social Workers were not belligerant enough to carry through specialist holds or other fighting techniques, and therefore more likely to get into trouble attempting to apply them. There was, however, so much pressure for this element to be included that I approached Eden Braithwaite, a martial arts expert who I knew, to offer a sequence on the subject. He wouldn’t do it, for exactly the same reasons that I had refused to countenance it. ‘Then you are precisely the person that I need’, I replied. ‘You will have the authority to make them hear what they will not from me’. He agreed. The participants did accept what he said, some, I am sure, with a certain amount of relief.

During the morning of the day on which Eden was to present his piece, Brian and I, as usual, during our session on potentially threatening behaviour, had spoken about dark glasses. If you cannot see someone’s eyes, you cannot determine their mood. If you need to conceal your eyes, you are preventing the other person from knowing what to expect from you. The unknown is frightening and will elicit a fight or flight response. Strangely enough, we had some difficulty getting this concept across. This was quite a large group containing both men and women, perhaps twenty in all. When Brian and I returned after lunch, all the men were lined up together. They were all silent, with arms folded. All presented fixed features. We had no idea what they were thinking. One of them had been shopping and provided them all with dark glasses. Far from being threatening we found this, as we were meant to, laughter-provoking. This post-lunch session was much less somnolent than usual, and the group were nicely warmed up for Eden.

On leaving Carol’s flat just before mid-day, the pavements showed me I had escaped a shower. Emerging from Neasden station, I was not so fortunate. I walked straight into one. Seated on a wall around a ’70s Council block of flats whilst sheltering under some trees, I reflected on the difference between suburban Neasden and the opulence of Victoria Street which I had recently left to board the tube.

Norman fed me on melt-in-the-mouth lamb shank; cherry pie and custard; and a superb 2001 Gran Reserva Navarra.

On the way back I finished reading ‘The Land God Gave to Cain’ by Hammond Innes. This was a gripping mystery adventure which reminded me why Innes had been a favourite of mine in my teens.

Eid

On this dull and humid morning I had intended to follow Jackie’s suggestion that I take a bus somewhere and walk around there. As I reached Morden bus station, a few drops of rain suggested I should pay attention to the weather forecast, and stay closer to home. I therefore backtracked and made a tour of the derelict school sportsground and Morden Park. I had received an e-mail from Mike Kindred telling me it was even hotter in the village I had just left.

As often, before 10 a.m. when they open, there was a queue outside Merton Citizen’s Advice Bureau. These offices, now found all over London, are charities where people in need may obtain information, and at certain dedicated times, free legal advice. Relying on various sources of funding, their opening hours are restricted. This put me in mind of Charles and Betty Wegg-Prosser. By the time I joined the Beauchamp Lodge Settlement Committee in 1974, Charles was no longer actively involved, although Betty was in the chair, where she remained for some years until I took over the position. She was still a lively and influential member. Settlements are charitable community organisations which either run or house activities, such as Adult Literacy schemes and various projects for young, disabled, or elderly people. There are also facilities for minority groups, often accommodating them until they are established enough to obtain their own premises. As a leading Labour Lawyer, Charles had founded the Paddington Citizen’s Advice Bureau. This was a couple who gave a great deal to the poor and underpriveleged of Paddington.

Passing the concrete slabs, on which I sometimes sit and read in the sunshine, at the opening to the former ILEA sportsground, I noticed three vans parked on the grass. A gang of men were laying something out beside them. Naturally I wandered over to investigate. They were in the process of erecting a marquee which was to house the expected overflow from the mosque which would be celebrating Eid at the weekend. Eid celebrates the end of Ramadin. It is an end to fasting. Although the mosque itself, a tour of which I described on 18th. May, has a great deal of accommodation, it was not expected to cope with the many thousands of people who would be converging on this small suburb at the weekend. Perhaps in preparation for this, the meadows were being mown by two enormous vehicles. This was much more sophisticated machinery than the scythe with which I had romantically cut down our orchard meadow in Lindum House every autumn, taking care not to slaughter that year’s young frogs which frantically leapt out of my way. For a different reason, I also carefully avoided disturbing bees’ nests when I applied the mower to it.

The windows and doors to the derelict building, posted on 29th. June, have now been cemented over, but someone has determinedly broken into two of them and placed an access board against one. The inside is still a complete shambles. The unofficial car parking area has had Flytipping (see 2nd. July) notices attached.

Graffiti artists had remembered the Queen’s Jubilee earlier in the year. The Olympic torch also puts in an appearance.

On a wooded footpath I came across a squirrel burying his nuts. When he had no trouble scampering away, I was reminded of the hoary old jocular definition of a macho man, being one who runs home from his vasectomy. The owner of an interested Alsatian made his dog sit down and watch me walk by. I thanked him. When I arrived back at Links Avenue, the rain was falling in earnest. Probably on Ernest as well, since he was going shopping.

Our repast this evening was a varied salad accompaned by Wickham Celebration rose, 2010

Back to Normality

After three weeks in the idyllic village atmosphere of Sigoules I returned to Morden today. Having spent the morning continuing ‘the big tidy up’, the rest of the day was spent travelling. By Lydie’s taxi to Bergerac airport; by plane to Southampton; train to Waterloo; and finally tube to Morden.

Having started it last night, my reading on the journey was almost the rest of Hammond Innes’ ‘The Land God Gave to Cain’. Whilst standing in the queue at the departure gate at Bergerac, I noticed a wallet underneath a still occupied seat in the lounge. Leaving my bag to mark my place, I walked over, picked up the wallet and asked the man sitting above it if it was his. It was. He was most grateful. He turned out to be seated across the aisle from me in the plane, and continued his thanks there. Whilst waiting for the call to board I got in conversation with a family of four. The youngest little boy had a toy rabbit called ‘ra-ra’ which was clearly his transitional object. It was dropped under the seat so often that his mother decided to put it in her bag for safe keeping. As we were queueing to present our passports at Southampton I jokingly asked if she’d got the rabbit. Unfortunately, she wasn’t sure and had to rifle through her bag to satisfy herself it was still there. Oh dear. Perhaps that was an unnecessary anxiety.

By the time I arrived at Waterloo I was pretty drowsy. There’s nothing like trying to cross that Underground station to wake you up. Everyone is rushing. Most people keep their eyes fixed on the direction in which they are going, often dragging their wheelie-bags behind them. Here was a reminder of what life is like for those still in work and an abrupt reintroduction to the big city after the more relaxed atmosphere of the countryside. This is not just a question of different countries. It is the contrast between less populated rural and congested city lives. It was something that struck me when we moved to Newark from Streatham in 1987. Suddenly people spoke to you in the street. They were prepared to give way when driving. They didn’t push past you in a crowd. Somehow they all had more time.

Today at Waterloo I had just come from an environment where people all said good morning to you whether they knew you or not, and had plenty of time for each other. Being fortunate enough to find a seat on the tube, I joined the rest of commuting London. Each individual was isolated behind their newspaper, book, or thoughts. Hammond Innes made sure I was just the same as everyone else. Anonymity is possible in a crowded environment, impossible in a sparsely populated area. In a day or two, no doubt, I will be a Londoner again. Just now I’m a country boy. At least I know which country.

After a while spent catching up with each other, Jackie and I had a meal at ‘Watch Me’, our favourite Morden restaurant. Our absence whilst I have been in France was noted, but it didn’t stop the waiter, knowing what we like, to suggest what we would wish to eat. We followed his accurate choices and drank Kingfisher.

A Rant

Today was what David calls ‘the big tidy up day’, so there was no walkabout.

This morning I finished Dennis Wheatley’s ‘Vendetta in Spain’. With a good grasp of history and a fine attention to detail, Wheatley tells a rollicking good story. Set in the first decade of the twentieth century, this novel was, even when published in 1961, described as historical. This got me reflecting on what is history? For a child of the last century, born in 1942, it was initially strange to think of this book as such. When Louisa, born in 1982, once asked me who Winston Churchill was, I was quite surprised. Then I considered my own ignorance about the First World War; my lack of knowledge of the ministers and personalities involved. I was even vague about Douglas Haig. and I had been born far closer to that event than she had to the second conflagration. Then, I remember Churchill’s funeral. How we experience time changes as we age. When I write of the ’70s, ’80s, and ’90s, it seems like yesterday, yet must be remote history to my grandchildren. As the days go by, I feel I have all the time in the world, yet the reality is that mine are numbered. Six months in a child’s life seems an age. To a septuagenarian it is nothing.

My house in Sigoules was built in the eighteenth century, from solid stone. Exposed beams are from barges which struggled down the Dordogne loaded with produce. Since they could not be taken back up the raging torrents, the vessels were broken up and used for building. I understand the crews then walked back to their starting points and began again with newly built craft. Now enormous refrigerated vehicles bring regular fresh produce to Carrefour and Le Code Bar. I can fly to Bergerac from Southampton in the same length of time as it took me to commute from Newark to Kings Cross.

I received a call later from James Bennet of Azzurri. Azzurri is a company to which O2 allocated my mobile phone management about three years ago now. They apparently ‘manage’ mobile phone accounts. The first I heard of this was a letter from Azzurri, sporting the O2 logo, telling me I would be hearing from one of their representatives. As long as I have been a mobile phone user I have had an O2 business account. I only ever had one previous problem. Oh, yes, the Azzurri intervention was a problem. The earlier one was my discovery from my bank statements that the cost of my mobile phone had rocketed during the last two months. On closer inspection, and after telephoning O2, it transpired that for nine months I had been paying for two mobile phones. One wasn’t mine. Because the first seven amounts had been virtually identical to mine, I had not noticed that there were two entries each month. Obviously the lucky person who hadn’t been being billed got greedy. In fairness, O2 immediately put that right and gave me a refund.

Back to James Bennet and Azzurri. As I needed to be able to send e-mails from France I actually welcomed the initial approach. I was informed that I needed a Blackberry with which I would be able to do this. I have no problem with that. I can. Now. The phone was quickly supplied and the contract signed. Mr. Bennet then seemed to be less communicative. Which was a pity, since I could not access my e-mail account. Neither could I get anything from Azzurri but voicemail messages. I inundated my personal account ‘manager’ with texts, voice- and e-mails. He almost never responded. I made several visits to O2 outlets in London, each taking upwards of an hour of time. Every single, initially confident, O2 consultant failed either to contact Azzurri or to access the account. Not one of them had heard of Azzurri. I always had to provide the contact number. Eventually we were told that Mr. Bennet had not passed the relevant information to the necessary department. At last I gained a promise from him that it would be done within two days. It wasn’t. And his voicemail message had changed. He had gone on holiday and would not be back until I was in France. I managed to reach someone else. He made, and failed to keep, the same promise. Finally, I spoke myself with technicians who were able to solve the problem over the telephone. I can’t remember whether they were in O2 or Azzurri departments. But does it matter? All the information is at home in England.

There followed extensive letters, mostly unanswered, and phone calls to O2 Customer Relations department. When I finally spoke to the manager she informed me that I was bound to Azzurri for two years. You can imagine my response to that. Eventually she agreed to release me from Azzurri. Coincidentally, I received a box of chocolates from O2. One had been sent to each ‘valued customer’ of ten years or more. When I politely suggested that didn’t really fit the bill, she proudly told me it had been her idea. I think she realised I wasn’t impressed. Furthermore, to compensate me for my trouble, I would receive a list of events at the O2 Arena. I could choose any performance for which I would be given two tickets. The list never arrived.

Maybe I had been freed from Azzurri. But if anyone told them, they ignored it. A year ago I received a phone call from a poor chap who had been given the task by Azzurri of contacting all customers to see how satisfied they were with the service. I told him. I finished by saying it wasn’t his fault. Just his bad luck. Now James Bennet calls me. As I can only get a signal on the loo seat upstairs, I did not reach the phone in time and had to listen to a voicemail message from him. ‘It is a little while since we spoke’ and there are possibitilities of a new tariff and a new handset. I calmly walked up to the village square where I can be reasonably sure of an uninterrupted signal. Of course I got his answerphone. I left a fairly firm message. Well, it was firm, and fair. He responded with an e-mail to which, as I had said, I will not reply. I had asked him not to contact me again.

The Code Bar pizza, a quarter carafe of red wine, and chocolate surprise pudding finished the day nicely.

An Unknown Masterpiece

This morning it was to Flaugeac and back that my feet took me. Once you have walked past the shops in rue de la Fon Close and up the hill past Les Caves there is not much of interest on the road to the D933, which, taking your life in your hands, you have to cross. This looks like a comparatively recent thoroughfare. Flora in the verges are not yet firmly established. I did go past the municipal dump, where, when I can obtain some wheels, I must take my defunct washing machine for its last rites. To the left, vines stretch down the slopes to sheep grazing in the valley below. To the right, their lines travel upwards until they meet the horizon.

Crossing the major road and approaching Flaugeac there are more signs of life. And one of death. By a bend in the roadside, on the edge of a field, stands a small wooden cross decorated with plastic flowers and bulbs which presumably light up at night. I imagine this is similar to memorials at the sites of fatal accidents we see in England. I think of two such in Surrey. One was a lamppost which a bereaved grandmother kept adorned with fresh bouquets. Another is a spot where schoolgirls for some years held candlelit vigils in memory of one of their classmates. On a sharp bend in the road between Newark and Southwell in Nottinghamshire, a tree in a field close to the roadside bears a notice in memoriam to two teenagers who died there when their car crashed into it. Returning past the cemetery in Sigoules, I observed an elderly woman with a walking stick and a small plastic watering can, hobbling down the steep steps from the graveyard. I did not ask her her story, but speculated that she had been tending the resting place of a loved one. I thought again of those plastic flowers.

Before reaching the outskirts of my village, I noticed a man with a metal detector in a fallow field between two vineyards. Striding across to where he was prospecting, I heard regular alarms emanating from his machine. I asked him if he’d found anything. He said not. He followed this up with something I could not understand. Bending down, he picked up what I took to be a chip of stone bearing particles of metal. He said that was not the case, and showed me it was a metallic shard covered in chalky deposits. This had come from the vines. The rest was ‘lost in translation’. As I left, he thanked me. I’m not sure why. Perhaps just someone else who was grateful for interest. Yesterday’s vintage car enthusiast was shopping in Carrefour. Unfortunately he hadn’t driven down in his Austin.

The reflection of one of the new shutters alerted me to the fact that I have a framed Mondrian painting on my sitting room wall. Geoff Wilson was a most energetic Social Worker in my Area team in Westminster. Since he would always volunteer for night duty and work a full day afterwards, I swear he never slept. One day in the 1970s he did not turn up. A few days later he died of cancer. A complete surprise to everyone, probably including himself. We had a collection. His widow said she would like a painting to remember him by. Never having met her, with great trepidation, I took on the task of choosing one. I selected a landscape I liked myself, which I thought bland enough to be inoffensive. As soon as I entered the Wilson home I knew I could not have been more wrong. The house was full of much more striking pictures, none of which were to my taste. Bland would definitely not do. As she opened my parcelled offering, Mrs. Wilson said: ‘Oh no! That’s a nothing picture’. ‘I can see that.’ I replied, ‘Don’t worry, I was prepared for this. Now I know what you like, I will buy you another and keep this for myself.’ Very soon afterwards I returned with a brightly coloured Swiss mountain scene, complete with chalet. She was absolutely delighted. Given her previous reaction I was confident her joy was unfeigned. You can imagine my relief. Piet Mondrian used my original as a basis for the work that, at the right time of day, now adorns my wall.

In fact, I do have a genuine unknown masterpiece story. Jessica’s aunt and uncle, Jattie and Ronnie, had a picture on their wall in Farnham which had an unmistakeable style I instantly recognised. For several years, each time we visited them, I was drawn to the painting. I tried to convince myself I was wrong. For one thing I had only seen the artist’s work in reproduction, and did not know the scale of his creations. This little gem was surely much too small. It has the monumental quality one sees in Blake’s tiny illustrations.Yet, the beautiful young woman reclining on a garden bench was surely one of his models. And surely her long, striped dress was of the period. And surely it was his trademark to pay great attention to the detail of clothing. Not wishing to appear stupid, I never said anything. It niggled away at me, and I was not surprised when eventually someone else told them what they had. Unfortunately this frightened them and they sold it. I never feasted my eyes on it again. The painting was by Tissot. And just think of the Brownie points I could have won.

This afternoon, I continued reading Dennis Wheatley’s ‘Vendetta in Spain’. This evening I finished off the pork and sausage casserole I had shared with Don, and followed it with lemon sorbet ‘with bits in’.

A Welsh Interlude

Fearing the heat, I set off even earlier than yesterday for a walk to Pomport and back. As I began my return journey I could see rainclouds over Sigoules, and very soon the lapis lazuli canopy under which I’d begun my outing had turned into a slate roof. The sweat I’d engendered on the way up had become decidedly cool. Now I feared for the washing I’d left out in the garden. No rain came, and the sun soon re-emerged.

I met the donkey with its goat family mentioned on 8th. June. In order to be more precise in the preceeding sentence, on my return I attempted to ascertain the sex of this creature. Although I swear all I’d done was stand and stare s/he seemed to take exception and started up an horrendous honking until I moved on. Quite fearsome really.

Further up the hill, still lies the memorial described on that same day, although the floral tribute is missing.

As Charles bears witness, vines are strung out all around Pomport, which is a most attractive village. Walking through it, I was surprised to see an antique Austin car standing in a covered alley beside a house. Wandering inside, I encountered a group of four having their breakfast. They were English. Unfazed by my intrusion, one of the men proudly informed me that he had renovated the vehicle, ‘every nut and bolt’, himself. I should have asked him what model it was, but I expect some of my readers will know. He then opened a garage door and proudly displayed a vintage Vauxhall that he planned to drive back to England next week. I think he was rather pleased someone had taken an interest.

People were playing tennis in the now half-completed Leisure Centre in the valley between Sigoules and Pomport.

Last night and this afternoon I was deeply engrossed in ‘A Welsh Childhood’ by Alice Thomas Ellis. This is a very well produced Mermaid publication enhanced by Patrick Sutherland’s evocative black and white photographs. I imagine my friend Alex Schneideman, himself a first-rate professional, would find these illustrations inspiring. The writer’s descriptions of her childhood, and diversions into Welsh myth and legend, are enthralling.

Given Ann and Don’s nineteen years in N. Wales; the family in whose company I spent last evening; and the many holidays I have enjoyed, and occasionally endured, there, the book, donated by Don, is rather pertinent. It will stay on the coffee table in the sitting room of No. 6.

What I was quite unprepared for was the similarity in style of a well-known writer to that I have been cultivating in my blog. Many of her memories sparked more of mine, for which I may find future space. Today I choose to recount some with which I believe Ms. Ellis may be out of sympathy. Although she loved the thrill and freedom of playing in the hills, she doesn’t seem to have appreciated sport. In this she is not alone, but I make no apologies.

I enjoyed numerous training runs in the hills around Gaeddren, Ann and Don’s Welsh home. (If necessary, correct my spelling, my old friend). Perched on a hill above Cerrigidrudion, this house was an ideal point from which to engage in fell running. Since I used the roads, this wasn’t actually fell running, as I had done in the Lake District, but it felt like it. Watching the changing light as I ran up and down roads cut from this rocky terrain, passing streams and rugged trees sometimes indistinguishable from the granite they clung to, was a truly exhilarating experience. It was on one of these two hour marathons that I felt my only ‘runner’s high’. No pun intended. Please don’t think I could, even on the flat, run a marathon in two hours. Here, I use the word figuratively. A ‘runner’s high’ is a feeling of intoxicated elation, said to come at one’s peak. No further pun intended. Well, I never tried LSD. I did, however, find it useful pre-decimalisation. Pun intended.

When I did seek an even route I ran the complete circuit of Llyn Tegid, known to the English as Lake Bala. Having three times, once in 88 degrees fahrenheit, managed the Bolton marathon, which ends with a six-mile stretch up the aptly named ‘Plodder Lane’, with a vicious climb at the end, I thought I might attempt the North Wales marathon. Imagine my surprise to find it boringly, unrelentingly, flat. Here I will divert, as I once did in the Bolton race. My grandmother, then in her nineties, was seated on a folding chair in order to watch me come past. I left the field, nipped across, kissed her on the head, and quickly rejoined the throng. She seemed somewhat nonplussed, as did a number of other competitors. After all, why would anyone willingly supplement, even by a few feet, a distance of 26 miles 385 yards?

The other day, in Le Code Bar I had met an Eglishman with a Birmigham accent. He had bought a house in Fonroque because he had a French girlfriend. Feeling sure Judith would know him I mentioned him to her. She did. When he turned up for a meal this evening, I saw what had attracted him to France. As they were glancing in my direction I got up from my usual table and approached the couple. I told the gentleman I had a friend who knew him. He didn’t know what I was talking about. He was French. Whoops. Undeterred I told him he had a doppelganger. Since Flaubert’s use of the word is the same as the English one, confirmed by my dictionary, I thought I was on safe ground here. I wasn’t. Fortunately the beautiful woman he was with translated and told me it wasn’t a problem. I slunk back to my duck fillet and chips followed by creme brulee, and found the two glasses of red wine quite comforting.