Charlie Chaplin – derrickjknight

Early this morning I walked down to the Spar shop to buy milk, collect Sheila’s Guardian newspaper, and post her cards. Along the front wall of Cherry Tree Cottage in Shorefield Road stand three trees identical to one in our garden. On previous occasions I have knocked at the door of the house to ask for their identification. No-one has been at home. This morning, I stopped a man who was driving out from there and asked him. ‘I’m no gardener,’ he said. ‘Just golden conifers. We bought them because they are a different colour.’ At least that gave us something to go on. Our research threw up Leylandii false cypresses. Although we are not quite convinced, it is possible that we have one of those.

This morning Jackie drove Sheila and me around: We had toured Bisterne’s similar display last year, so were pleased to find one on our doorstep. In fact, Jackie had investigated the possibility of our entering the competition. Unfortunately, we live on the wrong side of Christchurch Road to be considered Hordle residents. Never mind, that means we count as Milford on Sea and entitles us to the monthly Village Voice magazine, which is quite interesting and contains details of all activities in that area. After admiring today’s hairstyle of Lady Gaga, we bought a map of the trail in Classic Cuts hairdressers at 40 Stopples Lane. At No. 32, Everything Pets featured Barbara Woodhouse with dogs. Charlie Chaplin, we thought one of the best, gave Jack and Dave plugs at the entrance to number 111A. Agatha Christie was backed by two of her creations, Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple, outside 4 Heath Road. Next door, at number 6, Florence Nightingale was being crucified, thus, as Jackie pointed out, making her the only true scarecrow. At No 10 Dick Turpin brandished his pistol in front of a carriage that was invented long after his time. The competition has three categories: Business, Individual, and Junior. There is a certain amount of duplication in the subject matter. The first we came across was of The Queen. One entry, at 33 Lavender Road was Junior. I particularly like the twist in the body of this one: The other, at 25 Pinewood Road, in which a teddy bear had been conscripted to represent a corgi, was an Individual. I thought it fairly unlikely that Her Majesty would read The Sun. We may easily have missed a second Bear (Grylls), had Sheila not spotted him up a tree at 22 Stopples Lane, and I almost did overlook the brilliant touch of the cricket ball in the Junior entry at 41 Lavender Road, where Moeen Ali stood padded up. At 49 Ashley Lane, Simon Cowell presents his recently acquired offspring to his fans and enemies alike. Hordle Pharmacy also featured this gentleman who they kept inside out of the rain. Possibly the censor had exercised some influence over these two exhibits that revealed rather less hairy chest than Mr Cowell would sometimes prefer. Usain Bolt takes a rest outside No 102. William Shakespeare took a little searching out along a footpath to 20 Larch Close. Someone had had the good sense to provide him with an umbrella, which Moeen could certainly have done with.

A smiling Superman soars over a fence at 62 Everton Road. Further along, at number 14, the forecourt of Hordle Post Office has been converted to Knotty Ash in order to accommodate Ken Dodd and The Diddy Men.
Next door to the Pharmacy lies the W.I. Hall outside which Emmeline Pankhurst has chained herself to the railings.
Anyone wishing to know more about the subjects of these scarecrows is invited to consult a suitable search engine, since they are all Famous People, which was the theme of the competition.
This evening Jackie, Flo, and I dined at The Jarna, where we enjoyed the usual excellent fare.

A comment from Becky on yesterday’s post prompted me to delve back into my photographic archives, and scan three more ancient colour slides.
In June 1971, we went on a family holiday with Ellie and Roger Glencross to their cottage, The Haven, in Iwade in Kent. Here they are, on the beach, with Matthew in the foreground:
The following August, Jackie, Michael, Matthew and Becky – seen posing outside The Haven – and I, spent a week there on our own. Michael displays his ever-paternal response to his brother and sister. The children had yet to learn that it is infra dig to wear socks with sandals, and this was the era of hot pants. It was in this low-ceilinged cottage that I learned to tape newspapers to the beams so that I would see them and bend my head to avoid bashing it. This ploy didn’t always work.
Jackie, who crocheted the hat that Becky is wearing in this picture on the beach, tells me it is not a mob cap, such as the one appearing on yesterday’s market stall, but a successor. In any case, almost everything in that display was sold. Becky did, however, wear the prototype mob cap. After she had been pushed around Raynes Park sporting it in her pram for several months, a maternity shop, called One and a Half, in Wimbledon Village began selling mob caps. Jackie is convinced they followed her lead.
So excited was I by the above exercise, that I stayed in my dressing gown until I’d completed it. Well, that’s my excuse, anyway. I wasn’t looking forward to tackling the concrete slabs I had abandoned two days ago. I did, however, take up the task again this morning. This involved wielding the grubber axe in order to penetrate the iron-hard soil on one side of each buried block, and gravel and hard-core on the other. The next step was, when the obstruction looked possibly loose enough, to give it a good kick; to discover that it still wouldn’t budge; and to repeat the process until it did. Prising it up was done with whatever garden tool was nearest to hand, until there was enough space to get my fingers underneath it and heave it up.
I had thought there were just three slabs in the row, until I came to the corner and found there were more, extending along the long side of the bed. Anyone wondering why I didn’t know these were there, should understand that they are mostly covered by two or three inches of weed-infested earth. After four of the extra ones, I stopped for the day. After all, it was still hot enough to keep the bees buzzing.
This afternoon I walked down to the Spar shop to replenish our stock of sparkling water. This gardening lark is thirsty work. The rooks, chasing each other across the skies, are back in residence.
Roger Cobb was ploughing his maize field.
Bev and John are our only neighbours likely to be affected by a bonfire. I always ring them before lighting one. This was the call I had tried to make two days ago that had alerted me to the problem with my mobile phone. I attempted to telephone them again this evening before burning more branches. I had the same problem. And I couldn’t find the reset button. So I rang O2 at Christchurch. The man who answered the phone knew only of one reset which would wipe all my information. He suggested I took the battery out and put it in again. I did that and it worked. Except that I got a voice telling me my stored numbers were not recognised. I waited a bit and tried again, successfully getting through to Bev. This time Jackie helped with the combustion and we made quite good progress before dinner which consisted of her delicious chicken curry and savoury rice. We finished the Cuvee St Jaine.

Tag: Charlie Chaplin

Famous People

The Hat