Another October nearly over

We’d a splendid day yesterday with old friends Claire and Richard and their daughter Steph (whom we first knew as their elder son Stephen).  Steph had to get back to her computer by 2:00 pm, so had a somewhat rushed lunch, but we enjoyed her company very much.  Martyn had made a broccoli and cauliflower soup, and I’d knocked up some baguettes to have with cheese and charcuterie.  I made the mistake of cooling them across the wire rack, rather than lengthwise, so have invented a new concept: the boomerang baguette.  

The choice of cheeses was not helped by Sainsburys’ substitution policy.  My order of cheddar with truffles was replaced by Wensleydale with apricots and amaretto.  Fine, I guess, if you like a cheese that tastes like Christmas cake, but 90% of it is now in the pig bin.  (Friends report Sainsburys sending doggy chews and treats when they had ordered cat food.)

Fortunately, the Ossau-Iraty, old Gouda and Brie de Meaux passed muster.  The assiette de charcuterie comprised salami, prosciutto crudo, mortadella and baked ham (bought the old-fashioned way from Fortnums) so we’d enough variety.  And there were leftovers for today’s sandwiches.)

It’s sad to see the sun so low in the sky, though it still has enough power to warm the sitooterie on good days, sometimes with a touch of help from the heaters.  We’ve resolved, despite rocketing energy charges, to heat the conservatory on fine winter days: after all, we’re going to be dead a long time.  

On which subject, we got Claire and Richard to witness our signatures on updated wills: making them sing for their supper, as it were.  Having had estimates of upwards of £360 from sundry will writers, we’ve just used the old drafting and updated the details.  Bit of a racket, this, eh?

even worse than Frogtel

Having decided to donate a modest amount to a local charity, I tried to do so by bank transfer, and succeeded in blocking our on-line banking accounts. Fifty minutes later, after forty minutes waiting on line, followed by interrogation as to full name, address, Martyn's date of birth, inside leg measurement etc, the charity ought finally to have the cash.  I'm sure TSB is doing its best to protect its customers, but sometimes it forgets the basics of customer service. I'd love to see evidence why they list the Charities Aid Foundation Bank as 'high risk'  Enfin merde: one tries to do one's best 

Fifteen happy years

We had lunch on Friday with Sandra and Michael, two of our four guests when we dun the legal stuff fifteen years ago, and at the same pub.  The current owners were very welcoming and friendly (if a bit loud), and the menu was wholesome enough, but not special.  The chairs were gravely uncomfortable, hence perhaps the backache.  Times change.

Today, the anniversary, we’ve had a quiet day at home.  With the surge in infections hereabouts, we are not too keen on rubbing shoulders with the locals, few of whom are wearing masks or otherwise behaving responsibly.  Good job we enjoy each other’s company.  And that we have a house and garden that we like.  

The grass is cut, though I doubt if it’s the last time this year.  We chatted on the phone with Annie at lunchtime, and she accepted an offer to send rudbeckia seed.  I went out and did some dead-heading, and have packed roughly enough seed to populate the East Riding - where we were so happy to see plants from last year’s seeds in the Hull University botanic gardens when we were up there last month.

The lasting reminder of our visit to said East Riding is of course the injured thumb.  Five weeks on, it still aches a bit, but appears to be healing well.  We are just so blessed that we have a National Health Service, though it’s alarming to see how many GP practices have been bought by American ‘health providers’.  HMG’s insulting suggestion that GPs should be putting in more hours just shows how little these privileged, public school twats know about or value the service.  True: my forthcoming hospital appointment is about six months overdue, but this is directly traceable back to HMG’s under-funding of a wonderful service, and to the ejection of so many EU-citizen clinical and care staff.  OK: dunrantin.  But as I find myself saying more and more often, I’m glad I’m old and childless.

Sad occasion

Today we went to the memorial service for our next-door neighbour, Julian.  He died just over two weeks after his and Annie’s golden wedding anniversary.  They had a fine day for it, and daughter Rowena asked me to take a photograph, qv juxt.  

The service was pretty well attended, including the local MP (as well he should, given that Julian was the leader of the Tories on the local council and a former mayor).  We couldn’t have been much further apart politically, as he knew when I told him that the Labour Party, of which I was then a member, was scraping the bottom of the barrel to find someone to stand - hopelessly - against him in the local elections: I declined the invitation, despite the attraction of megaphone battles across the fence.  He was unfailingly friendly and polite, and the best of neighbours.  The only hymn I knew at the service was Great is Thy Faithfulness: the only other time I’d heard it, oddly enough, was at the funeral of another next-door neighbour, Vi Newton.

The service was followed by a reception at the Town Hall.  Given (a) the surge in infections hereabouts and (b) the very few mask wearers in the church, we opted out, and came home for sandwiches for lunch.  We’ve promised Annie and Rowena lunch here when their building work begins early next month, so can socialise properly then.

Approaching normal - except for the wallet

The thumb is now open to the elements, thank goodness, though there’s still a way to go before it is painless and fit to be seen in polite society.  I thus no longer have an excuse for the profusion of weeds in the garden.  With the recent clear, dewy nights, the grass was pretty wet when I cut it yesterday.  Still, the new machine copes very well, and with less effort and noise than the old combustion motor job.  The rudbeckias are going over now: the over-wintered ones have died back quite quickly, so perhaps we need some new subjects in the bed by the sitooterie.  This year’s seedlings continue to flower exuberantly in the new bed at the top of the garden.  Jane’s cyclamens are doing well, and I must remember to look out for autumn crocuses.

Ben and Duncan were here yesterday morning to shore up a somewhat fatigued fence post (with the aid of some strong wire and a neighbouring leylandii, now trimmed as well), so we’re no longer afraid of it keeling over and squashing a neighbour and/or his/her sprog/pooch.  So that’s another bill in the offing.  Oh well: it’s only money….  

This is an expensive time of year.  The car, rising five years old, sailed through its health check and MoT yesterday, and drives better and more quietly, I think, with a fresh pan of oil and a new cam belt.  But car ownership is not cheap, is it?  This little episode cost just into four figures.   Since I disposed of the old VW some weeks before taking delivery of the current car, service, insurance, tax and MoT all fall around the same time.  So does house insurance.  So if you’re in need of a sub, better look elsewhere!

On the mend, maybe

The dressings on my thumb are gradually reducing in bulk, and the nurse I saw on Friday thinks this may be the last one I need.  I’ll see her colleague in a few days’ time.  I can now get a gardening glove on, so have been enjoying occasional sunny spells in the garden.  The last of the tomatoes are harvested, and the stems bagged up ready to take to the tip.  The rather exuberant rudbeckias are staked and tied back, so we can use the path up the garden again.  In the mini greenhouse the penstemon cuttings are looking good, and the cuttings from Tony’s fuchsia magellanica alba are putting up some new leaves.  Must take better care of them this time.

After one wasted journey, I finally have my replacement iPad, which the chap in the shop helpfully set up for me.  Hope it lasts longer than its predecessor.  It has needed three trips to town (one of them a waste of time, fuel, money and effort) and three parking fees.  There is no fuel to be had, so with fewer than a hundred miles left in the tank, we’ve put my car away for the moment: Martyn still has a good half tank in his.  We just hope Sainsbury’s have access to supplies for their delivery vans!  There is no fuel shortage, but the combination of panic buying and the driver shortage is really messing things up.  Sure, the pandemic has stopped the flow of new drivers through training and testing, but much of the blame lies with Brexit, the lunacy of which shows in more and more ways.  It’ll be interesting to see how many EU national HGV drivers want to come back for three months.  The Dutch driver interviewed by the BBC seems likely to be representative: ‘if they think I’m going back to dig them out of the shit they made for themselves, they can forget it’.  I’m glad I’m old.