Tag: Daniel Hechter

The Raincoat

Tree fungusThis morning was so cold when we went for a shopping trip to Ringwood that the wind pierced four layers of clothing.  It was a relief to enter the shops.  I waited for a possible meteorological improvement until late in the afternoon, before walking the London Minstead/Bull Lane loop.

There was no such luck.  If anything, the weather was worse.  I have never seen tree fungus such a nascent glowing gold as that on an ornamental cherry tree in the Lodge garden.  Like the snails in Sigoules, it must like it wet.

The leaden sky seemed to have expelled the cold wind that dashed frantically all over the place as if ricocheting off the walls of a confined space from which it was trying to escape.  Venting its spleen on any tree that stood in its path, it scattered the roads with tiny lichen-covered twigs and this year’s leaf, ‘ripped untimely’ from its moorings.  A stable door banged impatiently, its residents, still in the field, once again wrapped up in their winter jackets.  Intermittent needle sharp rain spiced up the proceedings.

The fourth layer mentioned earlier is a raincoat.  As I have only brought it back from Sigoules this year, it helps me locate picture number 18 from the ‘through the ages’ series.  This light Daniel Hechter garment was totally inadequate to keep out today’s blast.

DerrickA very different precipitation brought about its purchase.  Sigoules is subject at times to spectacular thunderstorms.  Visiting Bergerac with Chris, Frances, and Elizabeth on such a glorious day as to be wearing shorts and a T-shirt, we were beset by one such.  This means that unless I did something about it, I was going to receive a sheet of water descending vertically onto my head.  My companions, of course, were better equipped.  Fortunately we happened to be outside a men’s outfitters.  I dived inside.  Well, even if they hadn’t got a raincoat, I could at least get some shelter with a credible excuse.

Now, clothes are expensive in France.  And if you are shopping for them, you may not wish to visit the priciest outlet in Bergerac.  What the hell.  They had just one raincoat.  It fitted me.  If I went back outside without it I was going to get wet.  I bought it.  Like most unpleasant things in life, I can’t remember how much it cost.  The proprietors were probably in cahoots with the weatherpersons.

O.k., we know that picture was taken in France.  We know it was a day that warranted a raincoat.  With the benefit of digital technology we also know it was taken on 16th April 2009.  That narrows it down somewhat.  Erroneously, I had thought the photographer has to have been Chris or Frances.  In fact it turned out to have been Elizabeth, who I thought had not taken her camera on that trip.  I should have known better.

Now where?  The particular brickwork in the background is not found in Sigoules.  So we have Eymet or Bergerac.  Either of these towns has a multitude of twelfth and thirteenth century buildings.  I plumped for Bergerac, which my sister confirmed.

Jackie produced a wonderful sausage and bacon casserole for our evening meal.  I supplemented my share with  Montpierre reserve Languedoc 2011.

Raincoat Or Umbrella?

It seems we had our one summer day yesterday.  Today’s forecast was for widespread rain over the next few days, becoming colder each day.  Consequently I set off in warm and humid weather for lunch with Norman.  This involved the usual walk to Colliers Wood to board the tube for Neasden from where it is ten minutes on foot.

On such a day with such a forecast I always have two dilemmas.  The first is do I pay attention to the weatherpeople?  Mostly I don’t, but this time I decided to do so.  In fact, although there were signs of rain wherever I went, I only experienced one flurry of light rain.  The skies were, however, so threatening that it made sense to go prepared.

My second decision is whether to take an umbrella or wear a raincoat.

A light salad was followed by a drive home.

I settled for no jacket and my Daniel Hechter raincoat purchased in Bergerac a couple of years ago.  This had been a gorgeous sunny day in August until, as is not unusual, we were hit by a spectacular thunderstorm whilst I was showing Chris and Frances the sights of Bergerac Old Town and I was totally unprepared.  We happened to be standing outside a men’s outfitters.  I dived inside.  They only had one on the racks.  Miraculously it fitted me.  Sorted.

Once I had a Burberry but I left it on a train.  This is one of the reasons I have trouble with umbrellas.  I generally keep an umbrella for two trips and two years.  The first trip is when I’ve just bought it in similar circumstances to the Bergerac raincoat.  The second is usually about two years later when the brolly gets left on a train or at a bus stop; in a cafe or restaurant;  in fact anywhere it’s not raining.  I can live with losing one through such carelessness, but the one I lost in Soho seemed a bit out of order.  I had left the soaking wet umbrella at the foot of the stairs to our flat in Horse and Dolphin Yard, a mews between Shaftsbury Avenue and Gerard Street.  Another family member had left the door open.  My weather protection vanished.

The thief ventured no further into the flat.  An intruder on another occasion did come up the stairs and I found him rooting around the bedroom.  Someone was a bit careless about that door.  This young man claimed to be looking for a woman.  As I didn’t think he was likely to find one in the drawers he was ferreting amongst, I politely indicated that I didn’t believe him and it would be in his best interests to depart.  He did so rather rapidly.  Not so another unwelcome visitor.  This time a couple of soldiers on leave actually rang the bell, again looking for a woman.  This was late at night and one of them was rather threatening, so my response wasn’t very friendly.  His mate looked somewhat uncomfortable and warned me that the other man was likely to kill me.  Sizing him up and considering my chances, I decided upon discretion and quickly closed the door.

After lunch which consisted of stuffed pork steaks rolled in bacon, roast potatoes, and veg., all courtesy of Mrs. Waitrose; accompanied by an excellent Turkish red wine (Trio on the label), I travelled by tube to Victoria where I caught a train to Mitcham Eastfields from where I walked to Becky’s.  Our daughter had taken herself off in her car to visit her friends at her workplace – just six days after her operation.  You can tell she’s my daughter. Thirty eight years ago I discharged myself from Westminster Hospital 5 days after an appendicectomy and drove myself home.  It seems inconceivable that in those days I could have parked my car outside a Central London hospital, left it for that period, and found it awaiting my collection.

At Victoria a pair of policemen bearing what to my uneducated eye looked like automatic rifles were strolling among the crowds on the main concourse.  Although not by any means a daily occurrence it is common enough for no-one to be taking any notice.