Tag: Eastern Nights

A Conundrum

Today was warmer and drier, but very cloudy as we set off in the car to The Firs.  So prolific were the daisies on the verges of the A31 that I mistook swathes of them on the embankments bordering the Bentley by-pass for chalk outcrops. On one stretch of narrower country roads there was a cycle race taking place in the opposite direction to ours.  The periodic clusters of cyclists combined with the frustration of drivers forced to follow them in slow convoys caused some of the cars to cross the double white lines in order to overtake the aspirants of  the yellow jersey; in turn requiring Jackie to hit the brakes.  This was on and near the road between West Meon and its crossroads near the bikers’ cafe.  All along this stretch are permanent signs saying THINK BIKE.  These were not the bikes we were meant to think about, but, serendipity or not, the route taken for the tour we were witnessing was appropriately labelled.  Later on, for the last mile or two of our journey we experienced a similar need to approach our goal at a considerably reduced pace as we were stuck behind a horse drawn carriage, the second we had seen.  As there was a fete in West End village we assumed this smartly decorated transport of a bygone age was destined for Elizabeth’s village centre.  Other vehicles of a not quite so early age were two seater open topped sports cars bearing very old number plates.  They always come out when the sun is shining, and at least it was making an effort today.

Now I have a conundrum.  The narrower country roads sometimes present the appearance of straight-sided tunnels.  Trees and shrubs at the roadsides seem to be vertical examples of the topiarist’s art, until at a certain height branches are free to stretch across the road, often interlacing in the middle.  My question is, what brings about the straight edges?  I have seen only two possible explanations at quite different places and times.  The first was a hedge-cutting vehicle in operation with a very high set of blades; the second a high-sided van possibly obliviously knocking off lower branches in its path.  Is it either of these; a combination of the two; or something entirely different?  Presumably it cannot be hot ashes from steam engines.

Having more or less arrived at our destination we visited Haskins Garden centre for a plentiful and varied salad in their excellent restaurant.  This of course is fatal.  Jackie has about as much chance of leaving a garden centre empty-handed as I have a bookshop.  Although the car was already full of plants that she had gathered over the last fortnight, we just had to buy what she euphemistically called ‘a few’ more.

When we arrived at Elizabeth’s we were delighted to see the rose we had rescued and trained up an arch in the middle of the concrete ring that is all that remains of Mrs. Barbe-Baker’s summerhouse (post of 26th. May) was in full bloom.  It had been blown down a second time two weeks ago when I was in France, and Jackie and Elizabeth had staked it up even more firmly.

Whilst digging in a new bed I was being stalked by a robin.  They are of course territorial creatures who will fight fiercely for their plot.  This one wouldn’t even wait for me to finish before staking its claim.

Our evening meal was taken at Eastern Nights in Thornhill.  This, we have decided, is the best of the many curry houses in the area.  Tonight there was the bonus of a very entertaining conversation taking place in the next cubicle.  The comment which both had us in stitches and was printable was: ‘I’ve been coming her thirty years and it hasn’t improved.’  Jackie opined that it might therefore be time for the speaker to give the place a miss.

Bookmarks

This morning I finished reading ‘The Remorseful Day’ by Colin Dexter.  This is the final novel in his series about the cerebral Chief Inspector Morse.  A pleasant and intelligent detective story which ends appropriately, if far less dramatically than the acclaimed television series.  I found it impossible to read without visualising, and indeed, hearing, John Thaw in the eponymous role; Kevin Whately as Sergeant Lewis; and James Grout as Chief Superintendent Strange.  A superb piece of casting if ever there was one.  Indeed, I am told that the author himself began to write with John Thaw in mind.

For a number of years now I have been playing a little game with future readers of my collection of books.  I leave a bookmark inside.  This can be a train ticket; a boarding pass; the visiting cards of restaurants, hairdressers, or any other profession; even a shopping list.  That will give them something to think about, I imagine.  A couple of times I have been hoisted by my own petard.  This is only one of the beauties of second-hand books.  One paperback I had had for some thirty years before actually reading it contained not one, but two bus tickets.  One was the old stiff card type of ticket issued on country buses, from a route in Surrey;  the other the kind which came off a roll dispensed by the conductor on London transport.  He (always a he in those days) would wind a handle to produce the printed ticket.  The blanks were like minature toilet rolls.  These were given out on the trolleybuses mentioned in my post of 17th. May.  If you were lucky a generous conductor might give you a whole roll to take home to play with.  The ticket in my book was for the 52 bus which ran very close to Sutherland Place in W2 where I was living at the time and finally reading the book.  Frances once knew a librarian who found the weirdest objects in returned books, perhaps none so mind-boggling as the rasher of bacon.

My copy of E. Annie Proux’s ‘The Shipping News’ contains a postcard written in German sent to a woman in London soon after the novel was published.  As I know no German any confidentially is preserved until the book is picked up by a German reader.  ‘The Remorseful Day’, however, contains something potentially more intriguing.  This second-hand hardback purchased in the charity bookshop in the grounds of Morden Hall Park (all hardbacks £1, paperbacks 50p)  has no need of a bookmark because it has a ribbon attached to the binding.  What it does have, however, inscribed in ballpoint pen, is an outer London telephone number on the penultimate page.  So far, I have resisted calling the number.  Will the next reader be able to refrain?

Soon after mid-day rain set in for keeps and I gave up composting the final prepared beds.  We all decided to troop off to the antiques centre at Wickham, only to find it closed.  Every visitor to the village had had the same idea, namely to take shelter in one of the two tea rooms which were open.  We were unable to get into Lilly’s but managed to squeeze into The Bay Tree Walk tea rooms where various beverages were enjoyed until we returned to The Firs and Jackie and I continued planting in the rain.  Trooping around Wickham I had used a folding umbrella.  It takes me so long to work out how to open and close these things that there is hardly any point.  I did of course leave it in the tea rooms and then again in Chris’s car.  By this method I never normally manage to keep an umbrella for more than one trip, unless, of course, I am as well chaperoned as I was today.

In the evening, when everyone else had departed, Elizabeth, Jackie, and I ate out at Eastern Nights in Thornhill.  Just up the road, this Bangladeshi restaurant was very good.  We have tried many in the area and this was one of the best.