Mixed traffic

We've seen it all today, I reckon.  Groombridge Place has some sort of Alice in Wonderland thing going today, leading to traffic queues down the hill into the village.  Tricky, when you come round a bend to be faced with a stationary van.  Trickier still when you find yourself, emergency stop later, being borne down on by a Range Rover.  No contact, fortunately!  At least the crawl down the hill allowed us a good look at our friend Adam the zedonk in the field to the left.  A cross between a zebra and a donkey, he has a zebra's build, mostly a grey donkey's colouring, and striped legs.  He spends his days grazing the field behind Groombridge Place in the company of a donkey and a Shetland pony.

Lots of cyclists out enjoying the good weather, and not a few groups of people strolling the lanes on foot or on horseback.  Roller skaters galore, and a sighting of our local caped crusader on his electric unicycle, a local vigilante who bops around the town in tights, cape, fake six-pack, mask and hood, ticking off arrogant cyclists who jump red lights, drivers who use mobile phones, etc.  And it isn't me.  (And his unicycle isn't legal.)

Fine enough again today to barbecue the lunchtime Nürnbergers.  After lunch we sat outside for a while until the sun got too hot for us.  Back to Bank Holiday grey and damp tomorrow, we gather.

Here we go again

When I tried to fire up the mower a couple of weeks ago, it coyly resisted my loving caresses with the recoil starter.  'Blast!', thought I, and promptly filed the subject under Too Difficult.  With bad weather in prospect, and the grass just about dry enough to walk on following a lengthy dry spell, I thought today that I'd better have another go.  I advanced on the mower with a plug spanner and tommy bar, intending to take the plug out, go and get a new one, and then set about the electrics with WD40.  First I thought 'let's give it a tug and see what happens' (as the actress said to the bishop).  The requisite pushes on the primer button didn't feel as though they met any resistance.  What I'd forgotten was that the mower, like its owner, responds well to a suitable libation.  A generous measure of Sainsbury's lead-free later, the primer felt as if it was priming, and after one cough, the brute fired up on the second pull.  So, gentle reader, the grass has had its first cut, with the mower set a couple of clicks up from where I'd left it in the autumn.  Thus begin the annual seven or eight months' servitude, though succeeding cuts ought to be less muddy and slithery.  And what's better, I haven't yet had to pay the local mower fettlers this year.  FLWs.

I must admit to having felt quite shaken by yesterday's events in Brussels, given that they happened on such familiar territory, and close to a team of nice people to which I belonged for a number of years.  What I feel is of course utterly irrelevant in the light of the suffering of the victims, the bereaved, the injured and those left wondering and worrying about their friends and loved ones.  I imagine that the fellow arrested the other day in Molenbeek will be having an interesting time in the high security nick in Brugge.  It seems that press reports of his co-operating with the Belgian authorities precipitated yesterday's massacres, those responsible fearing that their cover might soon be blown.  Belgian surgeons report meanwhile that they have been picking nails out of the injured. 

Commentators remark that the situation is not helped by the fragmentation of Belgian police forces, nor by the lack of communication between the intelligence services and the police.  Let's hope that yesterday's events will be enough to get their several arses into gear.  I'm reminded of the dreadful child killings in Belgium in the late 1990s.  It turns out that I (and countless others, of course) had bought petrol from one of the murderers, a cheerful, chain-smoking, hail-fellow-well-met type who at the time had the decomposing body of little Loubna in the cellar under the forecourt.  He'd been banged up before for paedophile crimes, but released, 'cured', after a scandalously short stint in Forest nick.  So at the very best, the Belgian authorities have something of an uphill PR struggle ahead of them.

Chilling...

...to think that, on days when I wasn't using Maelbeek station morning and evening, I was probably travelling through the airport at Zaventem.  Thousands could say the same, of course.  As I've said elsewhere today, it's small comfort to the bereaved and maimed, but at least my ex-colleagues in Brussels are accounted for and safe.  It's hard to know what the perpetrators think they will achieve by massacring innocent people (other, perhaps, than repaying in kind some of the carnage visited on civilians caught up in conflicts in the Middle East).  One result will be increasing suspicion (at best) of muslim communities in the west, and, probably, an increase in redneck cretin support in forthcoming colonial elections.

It's perhaps tactless to move on from such a dark subject.  Nevertheless, we have reminded ourselves today that culture is alive and well.  We have been, with Barbara, to the Ditchling Art and Craft museum, which is housing an exhibition of calligraphy and typographic design, concentrating on the work of Eric Gill and his master Edward Johnstone, who created the typeface used to this day by Transport for London, with only a minimal facelift in 1985.  We just caught the weekly lecture, which was quite informative (if hammed up a bit), and mercifully glossed over Gill's sexual activity with his sisters, daughters and dog.

The drive from Brighton to Ditchling was beautiful.  Fine day, long views, spring colour.  Lunch in the White Horse at Ditchling was good, if a touch indigestible.  Memo to said hostelry: raw red onion has no place in a mixed leaf salad.

Optimism

First barbecue of the year this lunch time, and the gas-fired contraption (unlike the lawn mower) fired up on the first push.  Fortnums' Nürnbergs, with home made bread and garlicky haricots.  So I've invented a new dish: aggravated beans on toast.

Noises off while I was at the barbie: I might have mentioned the time-expired fence between Forges-l'Evêque and the electricity sub station next door.  A month after I reported it, a chap was there just now to shore it up pro tem, and called me over to tell me he was putting in for a new fence.  Strictly speaking, we are responsible, I think, for all our boundary fences.  I think I might resist any application for payment though, given that the power companies responsible are largely owned by the free, equal and brotherly republic across the ditch, and by the People's Republic of China.  Stand by for a diplomatic incident, and vittle up the gunboat.

Other Frühlingsrauschen much in evidence.  Chainsaws and shredders, and building noises two doors down, where a skip was delivered this morning.  Mustn't grumble, given all the work we've had done here over the past almost nine years, during much of which we buggered off to Another Place, leaving the neighbours to put up with the noise and dust.

I'm almost ashamed of the miserly satisfaction I get from drying laundry without benefit of electricity.  Secondary benefits include some fresh air and a spot of vitamin D.  But putting out the first lot clad only in my dressing gown was a somewhat breezy experience, and the elderly mitts are protesting at being called upon to manipulate wet washing and clothes pegs in single-digit temperatures.  Drying nicely now, however, in the stiff easterly wind and bright sunshine.

Rough Justice...

...being the name we chose for our quiz team  last night, seems about right.  We came fifth out of 18 teams, and a spiritual third, since the second place was tied three ways.  All good fun: six of us took part: three beaks, two partners and a friend of an absent usual suspect of the beak persuasion, whose new pooch is a bit too young to be left alone at home.  The quiz was in aid of the local Citizens' Advice service, calls on which, some might say, are bound to increase exponentially in view of current government measures, notably in relation to benefits for the disabled.  Not, of course, that I could comment on what some might say on the matter.  As for the quiz itself, it was a completely random set of general knowledge questions, plus a three-part marathon round, so our remaining little grey cells were well challenged.

I ought not to have had home-made garlicky baked beans at lunch time, given that the nibbles included sliced peppers and carrots, hummus and chouriço croissants, and that the catering for the evening was fish and chips.  Of the quality of the ensuing night's sleep, the less said, the better.

It's feeling a bit spring-like.  I wrecked my back yesterday, weeding out and recycling compost from last year's spud pots.  Still, with the addition of some good muck and topsoil, our raised bed will soon be ready for us to plant out the 'rumba' onion sets that arrived yesterday.  If there's space left, I might stick in some shallotts, but don't plan to waste time with beans this year after last year's fiasco.  Some of the herbs are coming up, notably the chives, well-isolated mint, sage and thyme.  No signs of life from the oregano yet, but I doubt if it'll let us down.

The wee burds are also showing signs of life.  I watched a beautiful wren one morning as it poked around in the gutter below the bedroom window.  The robin and blackbird were giving it big licks just before dawn this morning when I'd rather have been getting back to sleep, but there are worse reasons for insomnia.  As for domesticated livestock, we gather that Dawn's miniature Schnauzer is settling in well, and that the resident marmalade cat is coming to terms with the idea of cohabitation.  On the way back from our last Fortnum's trip, however, we came close to squashing some sort of tan retriever as it dashed out into the road in front of us.  I managed to stop in time for it to wander back, and proceeded on my way, snarling gently about the waste of adrenalin and diesel involved.  The cars that had been behind us before the incident no longer were, so I suspect there may have been a shunt.

Letter arrived this morning about my recent trip to see the learned professor of opthalmic surgery, confirming that no action is needed in the short term, if ever.  In the window of the envelope was the name and qualification of said surgeon as well as my name and address.  Good job I hadn't been keeping the consultation a secret from Martyn, eh?

Art class on Thursday was a bit mixed.  Someone in the old Broughty Ferry facebook group had posted a picture of the Northern Lights over Beach Crescent, and I tried to tackle it with acrylics and inks.  Result disappointing.  Others had turned out impressive stuff, so the experience was good, and I  spent the last little while playing with water colours.  Hell's bells: three media in two and a half hours.  No wonder I lay down for a while in the afternoon.

Plans agley as usual.

Having twice changed my routine dental appointment, I'd a call on Monday to say the dentist had phoned in sick, so it's postponed yet again, this time to 10:30 one day next week, which will at least allow me to avoid the throngs of Mummies driving their Range Rovers and Discoveries down the middle of the road.  I'll just have to queue behind them for slots in Fortnums' car park after I've been poked, prodded and scraped.  It's a nice irony that, after squeals of outrage from the good denizens of a hideously expensive private road nearby at the prospect of Lidl being given permission to build, a glance at the car park does more than hint at a change of mind.

We're getting a mix of fine and lousy days, waking some mornings to a dusting of snow.  Yesterday was not bad, so I've filled a bin with hackings back of the penstemons close to the house.  Dealing with the ones by the side path was a bit breezy, but as soon as I was in the lee of the house, working was really quite pleasant, thanks also to the electric pruner Martyn gave me at Christmas.  The weather had stayed dry for just long enough to get the muddy scum on the paving dry and flaking, so an attack with a broom has left the terrace looking a bit more presentable.  Only for last night's prolonged and heavy rain to start the whole damn' process again.

We're sharpening our wits for Friday's quiz evening in aid of the local offices of Citizens' Advice.  I've roped in some of the regulars to form a team, and we'll see if we can improve on last year's showing.  (As if it matters!)  It's a pleasant evening, tepid fish and chips notwithstanding, and all the rounds are mixed general knowledge.  The themed format of the Mayor's quiz is fun too in its way, but there are subject areas in which our elderly team is weak, eg popular music, TV and football.  We haven't won the wooden spoon yet, though.

I've ordered up a new CD of the later Scriabin piano works played by James Kreiling, a regular at the piano bash, En Blanc et Noir.  As James will no doubt be playing some of the pieces in Lagrasse, I'd better try and get a hang of the composer's idiom.  I managed it with Messiaen (albeit 40 years ago), so might be able to crack Scriabin.  (Incidentally, fellow pianist Yshani recently gave James a birthday present of a kitchen pedal bin, with the legend SCRIA emblazoned on the front...)  I grow increasingly fond of this band of sparky young musicians.

Spring?

OK, we're a couple of weeks or so off the official start of spring.  This is largely reflected in  the weather we've been seeing.  Yesterday we had a violent hail storm, closely followed by sleet, and not long afterwards by bright sunshine.  Today has been a tonic: lots of sun, and we've been out in it a little to top up the Vitamin D.  For the first time this year, the washing dried outside on the line.  Martyn weeded the raised herb bed and planted out a rosemary, and I potted on - not before time - the perennials that have been growing on from pluglets since last back end in the sitooterie.  By and large a lacklustre collection, but most are healthy, and have developed good root systems.  All back in the sitooterie, however, until the risk of frost is past.  Four to six weeks hence we shall have an orgy of planting out.  There's space at the top right of the garden for subjects like foxgloves and achillea to hid the fence a bit, and we'll plant out coreopsis nearer the house where we can admire the cheerful colours.  The charlottes are coming along nicely, so we'll get them out, hooked up to the irrigation thingy, in a month or so.

The futility of planning: I moved my regular dental appointment to coincide with a day next week when I had to be in the same town for the purposes of the hobby, hence allowing the govt to pay for my diesel on the trip to the dentist.  Email today, cancelling the hobby part.  Given what I pay in dental insurance month by month, I'm afraid I had no compunction in shifting my 08:45 pre-hobby appointment to a more Christian 3:15 pm.  So, as Management points out, I get to run the gauntlet of the Mummies in their vast vehicles on the way home rather than on the way out.  Paciência.

I shudder at events in  the Untied States of America.  In a facebook post today, a number of [synonym-for-fart] supporters were asked to comment on a series of outrageous quotations on culture, race, immigration etc.  Some agreed, some disagreed.  No surprise there.  But when told that they were quotes from Adolf Hitler, some stopped and thought, but one said 'but if [synonym-for-fart] had said it, I'd have agreed'.  I remind gentle readers of a pol-phil essay title back in my St A days: Why do we value a democracy?.  Search me, guv.