Anniversaries

Twenty-one years ago today, Martyn and I met for the first time.  It was three years and two days since my mother had died, and twenty-eight days since I’d retired from salaried work.  Earlier this month my old friend Claire would have hit 100: as well she didn’t, since her last years of reduced mobility and COVID-dictated isolation were a torment for her: she died a few days short of her 99th.  Today’s email brought a reminder that the Swiss communications regulator celebrated its 30th anniversary on 1 April.  That day they had a drinks reception in the evening, and they started work next day.  At 07:00 on 2 April I took a party of senior BT people in to meet them, and went on to enjoy a robust relationship over the following seven years until I reluctantly severed my professional links with a country for which I have such respect.

Claire and I first met in Switzerland back in 1974.  Martyn already knew the country well, and we have since been back a few times to play, as we put it, with the Federal train set.  My mother, alas, was not well enough to visit me when I was living in Switzerland, and it’s a sadness that she didn’t live to see Martyn and me get together.  

The light on the garden a couple of mornings ago was perfect - so perfect, I suppose, that it was pointless to try to capture it on camera - so I didn’t!  Spring bulbs and geraniums in the pots on the steps, the sun on the garnet acer, the young greens on the trees.  My time of year.  Less welcome in the garden is a fresh infestation of box tree moth caterpillars.  I sprayed on a supposed 25 million microscopic nematodes yesterday, and shall repeat the process next week: I couldn’t see any caterpillars today, but time will tell.  And of course we’ll need rain before we can hope the box hedge will recover.  The viburnum is just about at its best, though.

Today we have moved a stage further towards the end of the water leak episode.  Plasterers Paul and son Paul have done what looks like a good piece of work, and have kindly left us a roll of plastic to protect the long-suffering carpet when we paint the ceiling.  They left the place very clean and tidy, even washing the plastery footprints off the path from the chantier to the outside tap.  Highly recommended: details on application.  

So, we have a few weeks’ respite, give or take ceiling painting, before the next upheaval: the bathroom refit.  We think that’s on schedule: watch this space.

Garden developments, SW1 and TN3

The Rt Hon and criminal First Lord of the Treasury continues to cling shamelessly to power, having presumably persuaded his similarly fined real Treasury man to stay put for fear that the latter’s resignation would accelerate his own departure.  Meanwhile, he is trying to distract the public by gestures towards Ukraine and the utterly batshit crazy idea of flying asylum seekers to some sort of oubliette in Rwanda for ‘processing’.  We are becoming little better than an international laughing stock.  I’ll be interested to see how the electorate treats the party of ‘government’ in the forthcoming locals.

We now have a watertight hot water system (and a much depleted housekeeping account), but still await plastering and decorating of the hall ceiling.  The next upheaval approaches: the bathroom refit.  We just hope the first job is finished before the next one begins.

The weather is good enough once again for the occasional lunch out on the terrace, and the garden is both rewarding and demanding.  We’re making some inroads into the seriously weedy bits, but it’s slow going: the arthritic joints put a limit on operations.  The magnolia Susan is flowering well, but approaching the end of its season: the stellata out the front has also just about finished, and the flowers on the white camellia are looking sad and brown.  The ornamental cherry up at the top is in good blossom, but of course that’s ephemeral.  (I may have mentioned before that we didn’t realise what it was for years: its  blossom must have come and gone during our Easter holiday trips to Lagrasse.)  The long drive was made more pleasant by the masses of cowslips on the motorway verges.  We have precisely one stalwart plant: it’s always a pleasure to see its return each year.

It’s also the time of year when, with the sitooterie windows open, we’re never done rescuing bumble bees and putting them out.  Sometimes they fly straight back in again.  But out in the garden they are having a fine time in the daffodils, pulmonarias and the rest.  I saw one the other day with its furry abdomen completely coated in brilliant yellow pollen.  Hope they’re as keen when the apple blossom begins.

The British environment

One week we’re having most meals outside on the terrace, the next we have sharp frosts and heavy showers of hail, and today winds strong enough to blow over the mini-greenhouse.  Much unscheduled re-potting and some weighing down with bricks later, we’ll hope for the best.  The leeks and most of the onions are in the ground, and the Charlotte potatoes in their bags on the terrace (although by the time I look next, they may have been blown into the next county).  Our four tomato seedlings appear to be growing OK, and we’ll be starting the beans ere long.

As I write, the plumber is clattering away in the kitchen, having replaced a three-way valve in the central heating system.  Fortunately, the sun is shining, so the doors to the sitooterie are open, and the rooms adjacent are benefiting from the solar gain.  Not often you get owt for nowt these days.  

Unless you happen to be the billionaire tax-dodging non-domiciled wife of a finance minister whose idea of charity is to give a generous sub to his old school (doubtless declared as gift aid, with consequent benefit to his tax bill).  Like most of the front bench, his head is either in the clouds or up his own arse.  Those of low income have already to choose daily between heating and eating, even before this month’s 54% increase in energy bills.  Government is intent on impoverishing them still further with tax increases: the national insurance increase is one thing, but more serious is the freezing of personal allowances at a time of record inflation.  Our comms bill has just gone up by 10%.  Fortunately we can absorb much of the increase this time by eating into savings, and with interest rates standing at best at one tenth the rate of inflation.  It’s just as well we don’t drive much, give the rocketing price of fuel, which of course will contribute to retail price inflation: the token reduction in fuel duty would be laughable if it didn’t make me so bloody angry.  But Winchester School will just about manage.

As I find myself saying more and more often, I’m almost grateful to be old and childless.  It’s some comfort to have the spring garden to look out on.