bath – Page 2 – derrickjknight

An Alfresco Bath

The red bottle brush plant, which I passed on my way to continue work on the kitchen garden, is now looking resplendent.

There are a great deal of treasures hidden in the undergrowth of today’s target area.

Peeking through nettle leaves, for example, are raspberries. A blackcurrant bush bears fruit, strawberries soon will, and St John’s wort lies at the bottom of the green cage.
A previous post, in which I described mistaking an acanthus for a thistle, demonstrates how it is sometimes difficult to distinguish between somewhat similar plants. Today, until the head gardener informed me that raspberry bushes are less thorny than brambles, I was uncertain in the application of my loppers. Neither was I sure about stinging nettles which look very similar to another plant that bears a spire of purple flowers. When I was faced with a plentiful crop of both, there was nothing for it but to remove my gloves and clutch the leaves. These particular nettles bear slow acting poison, so I rubbed them a few times before I was sure I had been stung. They were a little like a strong curry that doesn’t betray its chilli content until you’ve taken a few mouthfuls. And rather less pleasant.
I am pleased to report that the acanthus has recovered from my savage attack, and has produced new shoots, one in bloom.
By mid-afternoon it was apparent that the expected rain, which had deterred me from thinking about a bonfire today, was not going to arrive. I therefore left the kitchen garden clearance for another day, and began the fire. This was rather fortuitous, because I had reached a stumbling block near the back fence. This came in the form of a box hedge which had got beyond itself and barred access to the back section. I cleared this as best I could of weeds, convolvulus, and the ubiquitous bramble, by stretching over the obstacle. I then struck something I could not clear without circumventing the box. Jackie had transferred a number of the finds, like a pleasant saxifrage, the St John’s wort, and several kinds of mint, to other parts of the garden.
What I had found needed to be emptied before it could, no doubt, be moved and filled with colourful flowers.

It was a bath.

Towards the end of the day I was grateful for some assistance from the head gardener in cutting up combustible materials and placing them in a wheelbarrow so I didn’t have to practice touching my toes to pick them up. This helped to ensure that I didn’t topple over while doing so. In fact, even in what Sam would call my able-bodied years, I never could touch my toes without bending my knees.
Before dinner Jackie planted a clematis texensis Duchess of Albany in a cleared part of the kitchen garden, and trained it against an existing pergola. Our rose garden will also contain clematises. She added a shell to the fence, for the humorous touch.
After this we dined on chilli con carne (recipe) with wild rice and peas, followed by Post House Pud based on strawberries. The strawberries were eight days beyond their ‘best before date’, so they were a bit furry, but with a certain amount of judicious cutting, we saved a few. Jackie drank her customary Hoegaarden and I enjoyed a Longhorn Valley cabernet sauvignon 2012.

The Isle Of Man

This morning Jackie drove me to New Milton for me to catch the London train. This took her eight minutes, but added half an hour to my train journey. It is far preferable than driving to Southampton for her, and no problem for me.
In a small patch of garden alongside the station buildings lilac, bluebells, and moon daisies glistened with raindrops. As I photographed the daisies a woman on the platform pointed out the display of daisies I had already shot. She said she had not seen them there before, and wondered whether they had been planted or were self-sown.
From Waterloo I took the Jubilee and Metropolitan Lines to Preston Road and walked to Norman’s. Much tilling was being undertaken in the allotments adjacent to the John Billam Sports Ground. One holder had planted a bright array of tulips.
My friend fed us on roast lamb, paprika wedges and vegetables followed by blackberry and apple crumble and custard. We shared a bottle of excellent Crozes-Hermitage.
In narrating the condition of our new home I was prompted to mention Sheila Darzi. Sheila was a member of our Intake Team of social workers in Westminster in the early 1970s. The insanitary conditions of a house to which she made an assessment visit were such that she had to go home to change into a pair of Wellington boots. The Old Post House is not quite that unsavoury, but it comes a close second.
Before I left home this morning I had examined the legs of the reproduction Victorian free-standing bath in our master suite. As far as we can tell, it is quite new, and we would seem to be the only people to have used it. Once each. It is so small that we can only sit cross-legged in it. Not even each at the same time. Yesterday Jackie felt it move. She discovered that none of the legs is fixed to the floor and one of them came off the bath in her hands. My inspection revealed that the other three limbs are at least bolted to the bath.
Perhaps there is some significance in the fact that the lock on the family bathroom door photographed a couple of days ago bears the three-legged symbol of the Isle of Man.
From Preston Road after lunch I took the Metropolitan and Jubilee Underground lines to Westminster, and walked from there to Carol’s. After spending some time with her I returned, via the 507 bus and the train from Waterloo to New Milton where Jackie was waiting to drive me home.
On the train today I began reading Desmond Seward’s history of ‘The Wars of the Roses’. It promises to be very good.
At home, Jackie produced a tangy broccoli and stilton soup with which I drank water and she Hoegaarden. I will attempt to prise a recipe out of her for publication tomorrow.

Beyond Rancid

The blackbird was bashing at the office window again this morning. Jackie has a theory that it is the mating season and our friend sees his own reflection and attacks it.

It will be some time before we can tackle the joys of the garden. At the moment we satisfy ourselves with watching what is emerging, such as cowslips and honesty.
Today I took my share of deep cleaning. We don’t use the family bathroom, but the smell as we pass it has been getting to us. I believe the heyday of wooden seats was in the 1980s. The one in this room has probably been receiving its incrustation since that time. Plasticine, whatever its original colours, always ends up brown. I like to think that the various materials adhering to the wood and the fixtures did once have a range of hues. Otherwise it is best not to contemplate what I spent the morning chipping away at. I eventually applied a hacksaw to the fixture. Kneeling with your head closer than you would like to the source of the aromas, and sliding the blade under the plates around the bolts in order to perform this task is probably best avoided. I didn’t really have that option. I then gave the porcelain a thorough scraping and polishing.
Flushed with success as I added the toilet seat to the skip pile, I decided to clean the bath.

This was a more straightforward task, although the sleepy spider I aroused, unused to being disturbed, found the unaccustomed smooth surface of the side of its home rather slippery.
Finally, we could not leave the washbasin unattended. Water left in there refused to budge at all. Jackie eventually baled it out and tackled it, to no avail, with a flexible plastic coated net-curtain rail. We then shifted the cupboard from around it and prised the pedestal from under the basin, whereupon I unscrewed the U-bend. This was blocked solid. And I do mean solid. It was as if someone had poured gravel mixed with liquid glue into it and allowed it to coagulate. I chipped and scraped away first with a straightened wire coat hanger, and finally with a steak knife. By the time I had finished, the gleaming U-bend put its surroundings to shame. So I had to give them a thorough going-over too. The cold tap produces no water, but that is a minor detail.
In the cupboard I found the missing plug from the bath, and gleefully slipped it into place. I then turned the circular plug adjuster. It was ineffective. I knew from The Gite From Hell experience that without the adjuster the bath could not be emptied, so I helped it out with the steak knife.
Then we had lunch. Jackie was impressed with the health and efficiency of the Neff hob as she used it for the first time to heat up an excellent mulligatawny soup from Tesco.

The kitchen is beginning to look quite homely now, especially with the addition of Luci and Wolf’s flower card and Shelly’s daffodils.
It has to be said that the bathroom featured above was beyond rancid, although that word word probably be adequate for the cobbled cupboard in the hall that Jackie cleaned this afternoon, whilst I weeded out papers that should have been scrapped years ago. This was all with the aim of getting some order into the office.
We had intended to dine this evening at Zaika in Milford on Sea, and drove there to do so. This was not possible because we had hit the town’s food week, for which each restaurant was required to do something different. Zaika was fully booked for their serve-yourself at the trough banquet. We therefore went on to New Milton to try Bombay Night which proved to be an excellent choice. The food was superb and the service friendly and efficient. We drank Kingfisher, and went home satisfied.

AAARGH!

Last night I finished ‘Best Views from the Boundary’, a light hearted collection of Test Match Special lunchtime interviews by commentators featuring people from other walks of life who share a passion for cricket. Lily Allen was a surprise, and Daniel Radcliffe, on his eighteenth birthday, took refuge from the film world. Surprisingly, I thought Henry Blofeld, who is rather the butt of his colleagues, the best interviewer. Brian Johnston, cleverly, had the tables turned on him.

This morning I began ‘Death in Holy Orders’ by P.D. James. Having forgotten to make the revisions to my next Independent crossword puzzle, I then spent a couple of hours on them and attempted to e-mail my editor. My laptop was continually timed out. I had to tap it all out again on my Blackberry. No signal. I went up to the market square where there usually is one. No ……. signal. AAARGH! Anyone who has read the posts from 25th. July will understand. But I am a persistent fellow and eventually I managed to send it and visit Carrefour for some handwashing powder. Running out of time to prepare for Don, including doing something about the kitchen, I took a brief stroll around the village. After this I vetted Mike’s amended clues for his potential Listener crossword.

My frustrations this week pale into insignificance when compared to my move from Newark to Hyde Park Square. Using Chestertons, a national estate agent of renown, I had rented a one-bedroomed flat in this salubrious area of Central London. It was being refurbished. Despite my misgivings, during the six weeks prior to my occupation I was constantly assured that the work would be finished. It wasn’t. I arrived in the evening to be told I couldn’t take up residence because there was no gas certificate. Remaining firm I advised the agent to get one immediately because I wasn’t leaving. This meant a fitter making a hectic trip across London. One was eventually produced. My furniture was to arrive in the middle of the night. I stayed put. There were no curtains or blinds. The shower and bedroom were full of builder’s rubble. A cupboard still contained a defunct boiler which I had been assured would be removed. Only half the new power points worked. A live wire was hanging loosely from a wall. I sat on one of the loos and was horrified to find a pool of water surrounding it when I got off. Neither of the WCs had been fixed to the floor. I decided to have a bath, turned on the hot tap and walked away. On my return the bath was full of cold water. The taps had been put on the wrong way round. To drain the bath took an age. The gas cooker was subsequently declared unsafe. I could have blown myself up. There was no splashback to the kitchen sink, and the kickboard fell off when I was nowhere near it. I could go on. However, you’ve got the picture.

Most of these problems emerged during the three weeks I was there. I would visit the agent with a supplementary list almost daily. On one occasion, when I said I’d had enough, the agent said she’d see if the landlord would release me from my contract. ‘Landlord release me!’, I screamed. I went into a high-pitched rant. When I’d finally finished there wasn’t another client in this vast open plan office just off Marble Arch. I’d cleared it.

There just has to be a washing machine in this story. Except there wasn’t. There should have been. But it never arrived. When I’d accumulated several bags of washing I gave the agent a choice. She could either pay for a visit to the laundrette or I would bring her my laundry and drop it in the middle of her office. She took the payment option.

I eventually received a total refund and a very nice three-bedroomed mews house off Bayswater Road for the same price.

Don was delivered on time by Lydie. After giving him the guided tour we repaired to Le Code Bar where we both ate delicious duck pizzas and creme brulees. I drank rosee wine and Don Leffe. We had a lovely reminiscent conversation of which, as I am too far gone tonight, I will speak tomorrow.