January almost over

I suppose it's a combination of post-flu lethargy and dreary days that has led to my achieving precious little lately.  But on reflection it isn't as little as that.  We have been to our first U3A session on iPads and iPhones, since neither of us feels like we're making as much use thereof as we could.  Very welcoming group, with a likeable and obviously capable leader.  We'll need to assert our preferred learning style, however.  This week I went to a German conversation group, which was just as welcoming.  I think it's about right for my level, though I need to blow away the cobwebs if I'm to participate properly.  Art class on Thursday was cold.  For some reason the space heating was u/s, and we were relying on two domestic fan heaters to heat a space the size of a bus garage (mild hyperbole...).

Matters were scarcely better yesterday at the hobby.  The work room was hot and stuffy, with heating pipes grilling our shins under the desk.  The tea room was cold, and heated after a fashion by a 1950s vintage Ekco convector heater, except when the fire alarm (test) came on, whereupon the ceiling vents started pumping out warm air.  When the alarm stopped, so did the warm air supply.  Both issues raised months ago.  Obvious signs of action?  Square root of bugger-all, though I'd be happy to give modest credit should efforts to date have exceeded obvious results...

My Weltanschauung has not been helped today by the fact that my laptop refuses to speak to the printer.  I don't do a lot of paper apart from the Christmas cards, but have to apply on paper for my sandwich money and mileage (or choose to, since the on-line process is inadequate, and the automated version has failed to materialise).  I achieved the modest task of printing my claim only after installing the printer drivers on my new-to-me desk computer.  It took well over half an hour.  But then, what else would I have done with the time?  Maybe de-cluttered and dusted my study, which stands in muckle want of both, and of decisions on reconfiguration.

My gardening efforts have been pretty pathetic (see opening sentence above).  But I have at least planted out the hyacinths we were given a while back by John and Marion.  Crocuses are coming into flower (though only the boring yellow ones so far), and the snowdrops won't be far behind.  Daffodils are up and budding, so I look forward to moaning about the mess left by their foliage!

Knives, cuts and the like

Aeons ago, mother gave me a couple of good steel knives.  One, stainless, did not stand the test of time.  The other, though it is a mere shadow of its former self, still takes a good edge, and will see me out.  I'm reminded of an episode of Doctor Finlay's Bookcase when Janet, having given a guest a dose of salmonella after failing to wash the knife after gutting the salmon, remarked: 'It's a good steel knife, Doctor Cameron!  It gets a wipe...'  On an impulse, I bought a knife from Fortnums a year or so ago, guessing it to be one of the fashionable ceramic jobs.  Well, it turned out not only to be made of stainless steel, but also unsuitable for the dishwasher.  Damn good knife all the same: it took a good edge when required, and had just the right length and shape of blade to make the preparation of a pot of broth a real pleasure.  Bloody thing snapped the other day when I was drying it - gently, or so I thought: fortunately, no blood resulted.  So, is built-in obsolescence finding its way into the kitchen?

Blood pressure went up for a while today when I was trying trying to make sense of various banks' online services.  I finished up having to go into Disgustedville to expose my cyberinadequacy to the children at the bank.  Mind you, they made a pig's tit of paying in a modest cheque, so later  generations may perhaps lack earliers' skills.

I've been up to the compost bin with sundry peelings this afternoon, and en route see lots of stuff coming into life, notably bulbs in pots.  A few stalwart primulas are shoving out flowers.  Snowdrops, crocuses and daffodils are sticking their shoots up through the dead leaves, so we're on the way again.

Productivity

A rare thing in these parts, particularly in winter when there are no spuds to crop.  Martyn spent a day in London yesterday helping Kate to populate the Historia Theatre Company Facebook page, which now looks rather good.  After I'd dropped him at the station I got a dollop of brisket going in the slow cooker with a heap of veggies and Sainsbury's worst Shiraz ready for supper.

Once that was chuntering away, I got cracking on the marmalade.  Recipe follows.

1.5 kg Seville oranges
2 lemons
4 litres water
2.5 kg granulated sugar

1.  Get the preserving (jelly) pan down from the attic, and scrub it.
2.  Juice the oranges and lemons, reserving the pips in a large saucepan, and putting the juice in the jelly pan.
3.  With a dessert spoon, dig out most of the orange and lemon pith from the halved fruit, and add it to the reserved pips.  Add only as much water to the pips and pith as will allow it to simmer for an hour or so on a low flame.  Stir regularly. 
4.  Fit a fine slicing disc to the food processor, and add the funnel to the feed tube.  Cut the citrus peel (including the lemon) into quarters, and run it through the disc, reserving each lot in a big bowl.
5.  Fit a coarse disc to the food processor, and run the shredded peel from the big bowl through again.  Add the shredded peel to the juice in the jelly pan, add the water and bring to a simmer, stirring from time to time..
6.  Pour yourself a large gin, administer same.
7.  Once the peel has softened (breaking easily when you apply a wooden spoon to it), strain the contents of the pips and pith pan into the jelly pan.
8.  Put two saucers in the freezer, and your clean jam jars in the oven at 100°C.
9.  Add the sugar, and bring to a rolling boil for about 20 minutes, stirring frequently.
10.  Test for setting point at 5-minute intervals: take a small amount of marmalade in your wooden spoon and put it on one of the very cold plates, and let it cool.  Push with a finger: when it wrinkles, you have reached setting point.
11.  Turn off the gas, and leave the pan to stand for 15 minutes, then remove and discard the scum.
12.  Get your jars from the oven on an easily washable tray, and plonk them down next to the jelly pan.  Transfer the marmalade to the jars with a small jug, catching the drips on a plate.  Screw down the lids and leave to cool.

Myths and legends: Some discard the lemon peel.  Why?  Some, including my sainted English mother, added citric acid.  Why?  Some friends of the Nordic persuasion add whisky to their marmalade: they should live and be well.  Forget the stuff about wax discs.  If you have tightly sealing lids, there's no need.  If any of the lids don't pop down when they cool, just use those jars first.  Variation on step 3 above: put all the pips and pith in a muslin bag, boil it up with the fruit and squeeze it into the jelly pan when the fruit has softened (adds time to an already long job: I prefer Aunt's method above).  And finally, you don't need twice as much sugar as fruit, as most recipes specify.  I may reduce it still further next year.

This is about as much as you'll want to make on one day: it's best to do any further batches separately.  I made the mistake yesterday of preparing a second batch of fruit while the first was cooking.  This is not a good idea for those of us with arthritic cramp-prone hands.  Well, today I dealt with the second batch of fruit, and it is all now in jars, and set - hurrah!  It's all a bit of a performance, but the results are worth it, according to independent witnesses.

Meanwhile, Martyn was beavering away upstairs, fitting a new switch to the shower room cabinet.  I wasn't much use except as a labourer, but it is now working again.  His next target is the lamp over the bathroom basin, the shaver socket on which has not worked during our administration at Forges-l'Evêque.  Tomorrow, as they say, is another day.

We underwent ordeal by Fortnums at lunch time, and it wasn't too bad.  I mention it only because our route takes us past some fields in the charmingly named Plumyfeather Lane where a herd of deer was grazing.  A good hundred of them.  Next google search: East Sussex venison.

Happy New Year

For the Annual Ramblings, please click here.

Well, here comes another one.  I'd love to enter each new year full of optimism, but the political climate does not help.  At least I no longer have the expense and worry of a second home, and am glad to report that the new owner, a thoroughly likeable Belgian doctor, tells me that he is feeling at home there.

Sorry to have been silent for so long: we seem to have caught the lurgy on our complicated journeys to and from London in mid-December, and are only now starting to see light at the end of the tunnel.  Martyn took to bed for a couple of days, and I had a few extended afternoon naps under the quilt as well.  I abandoned a day at the hobby at half-time one day between Christmas and new year, handing over to a colleague who could take the middle chair, and scuttling off home.  Yesterday's hobby session was better, but I was hoarse and coughing throughout, and the hour's tedious drive at either end of the day was Not Welcome.

We were Darby and Darby at home on Christmas Day, abandoning plans for a slow-cooked joint of beef in favour of a simpler roast-in-the-bag chicken from Fortnums.  At New Year we spent a pleasant evening in Gillingham with Marion, John, Dorothy and Derry.  Marion had prepared a delicious supper of Châteaubriand with a perfect potato gratin, thus setting a high standard for our catering in 2018!

So, as we embark on the interminable January, we are plotting adventures for later in the year, flying to Switzerland in June to explore the Graubünden by train, to the Baltic in July on our familiar big boat and then a long weekend in October at the flat we enjoyed so much in Porto, only taking Annie with us this time.  We might try to fit in some relief from the winter gloom, but have no firm plans in that direction.  Memo to nieces, nephews and charities: forget the inheritance!

We found Seville oranges today at Sainsbury's, so I shall get cracking on the marmalade tomorrow while Martyn is in London helping Kate with the Historia Facebook page.  So supper will be something that can chunter away gently while I do the marmalade.  Brisket joint thawing...

Oh, not another...

Barbara and Isla, at former's birthday bash

Not that long since we were lamenting the loss of Barbara.  A couple of weeks ago we had an email from Isla reporting, in characteristically robust terms, a terminal prognosis.  Today we have an email from Isla's daughter Nancy, announcing that she died peacefully on Wednesday.

Isla came from Blairgowrie, not far from my native heath.  She was something of a political firebrand, and an implacable opponent of the egregious Shirley Porter Cohen when they both served on the Westminster Council.

She was also memorably outspoken.  Although she had given up smoking in recent times, she used to enjoy reporting a bus-stop conversation.  She had lit up while waiting for the bus, and some joker nearby commented 'if you gave them up, you could buy yourself a toy boy!'.  Isla's response was: 'Are you familiar with the expression: "Fuck off"?'  We'll no see her like again.

A plague on public transport

We are actually big fans of public transport, but it unfortunately means contact with the public.  To cap our bloody awful experiences last week, we have both come down with nasty colds, and have had to cancel social engagements and a day at the hobby.  To take five buses and four trains in the space of two days at this time of year is risky, I guess.  Just as well we have no plans to entertain at Christmas - we shall have a few quiet Darby & Darby days at home.

Southern: avoid

For the annual ramblings, please click here.

Over the last few days our limited patience with the Southern service on the little country line has been severely tested.  The line from our rural station has so much going for it, notably low prices and free parking, but we start to suspect that Southern's deplorable labour relations (and, sure, it takes two to tango) are wrecking it.  I was due to be in London on Monday, but cancelled because of the forecast heavy snow (which did not materialise - Michael Fish over-compensation, I suppose).  Re-arranging for Wednesday, the train I wanted was cancelled at the last minute, so Martyn had to schlepp me along to Disgustedville Central, whence it costs more, and later back.

Today we had another London date for a Historia trustees' meeting, so checked at regular intervals before we left for updates on the service.  The train up arrived smack on time, but the ticket machine at the station was u/s, and the guard did not come round.  Adding to a late arrival, we wasted still more time in the queue at the excess fares window at London Bridge.  (This gives me pause to reflect on days at the hobby devoted to fare dodging cases.)  We were thus a quarter of an hour late for our meeting.

The journey home was immeasurably worse.  Our last direct train to said rural station until after the rush hour was, in the space of three minutes, shown as 'on time', 'delayed' and 'cancelled', with conflicting announcements as to reasons.  So we'd instead to travel to Disgustedville (though the sympathetic ticket clerk, bless his wee heart, discounted our tickets by the price of those for the cancelled train).  On our arrival (whither we'd to stand all the way) there were no taxis, so we'd to take a bus to the nearest bus stop, only then realising that the path through the woods has no lighting.  We groped through by the light of my dying telephone.  Next we'd to fire up car 2 and drive to said little rural station to retrieve car 1.  As my Portuguese friends would say with a resigned shrug, paciência.

But it was useful and delightful as ever to spend some time with Kate, John and soon-to-be-ex-fellow-trustee Lindsay.  I have decided to step down as a trustee of the Historia Theatre company after about 15 years: I'll go once  the next annual update goes to the Charity Commission, probably in February.  Although I set up and maintained a rather basic web site, it is now hopelessly old-fashioned and cumbersome, and solutions are available that are far easier to use.  I was never much good at IT, and the passing of the years has left me behind.  Since that was my only significant input to the charity, it's time to hand over to someone with more up-to-date skills.