Two rousing cheers

Looks like we may be coming to the end of one period of mendacity, corruption and moral bankruptcy.  Though I won’t be sorry to see the back of the outgoing PM, a part of me wishes he’d stayed until the next election, thus wrecking the tories’ chances of re-election.  Just wondering whether he plans to pull a Trumpian rabbit out of the hat.  He seems to want to hang on until a new leader is elected, and that could take months.  Interestingly, our local man has been appointed Sec of State for the nebulous concept of ‘levelling up’.  He has been in the wilderness for a while having voted against Johnson’s cockamamie  Brexit plans.  Can’t help feeling it’s a mistake to appoint an MP for one of the most prosperous parts of the country to the rôle, but then there’s not much point expecting sound judgement from the outgoing PM.  

So as ever, we take modest satisfaction from the garden.  The second generation of tomatoes is yielding ripe fruit, and the first lot look like taking over the conservatory.  There are twenty or so more plants outside on the terrace, and they are starting to set fruit.  We may be sick and tired of tomatoes ere long, but meanwhile are enjoying caprese salads and bruschette, and I shall add a few tomatoes to tonight’s pizza.

I need hardly add that the weeds are enjoying the warmth, and I have a horrible feeling that blackfly are ruining the runner beans.  We’ll see.  I  cropped another bag of Charlotte potatoes yesterday: my word, they’re delicious!  There are plenty more to come.

Martyn is still struggling with pain from shingles, which has forced us to dip out of our dear friend John’s 85th birthday party tomorrow night.  He’s planning a mop-up event in September for those who couldn’t make it in July, so we’ve that to look forward to, so long as it doesn’t conflict with our plans for a little holiday.

Week 7 of the bathroom project drags on.  We at last have functioning taps on the basin and bidet, and are expecting the chippy here tomorrow to fit a new threshold to the doorway.  The new tiles are pretty thick, so there’s a toe-stubbing step into the room.  After that, all that remains is to get the grout residue off the floor tiles: my efforts so far have achieved little, and I’ve asked the prime contractor to find a solution.  As with all major household projects, there has had to be a lot of re-work, which offends what remains of my long-dormant quality manager instinct.  But most of the tiling is good, the shower is very good, the lighting is rather smart and the new wall cabinet with its LED lighting is rather snazzy.  So we’re almost there.

More stamping of feet

I have bored you already about the state of my rotten knees, and shall do so again in future, no doubt.  Physiotherapy did not help, and indeed made matters rather worse.  At the end of the session, I was advised to take advice on pain relief, and Benenden offered me a consultation with a surgeon.  I decided to wait and give ibuprofen a chance.  A couple of months later I went back and said I’d like to take them up on the offer of a consultation, and was refused.  As a neighbour in France used to say, j’ai sorti ma plus belle plume and fired off a letter asking for reconsideration, pointing out that I have been paying my subs for over 50 years, and asking why the change of mind.  Silence.  A month later I wrote to the CEO.  Apologetic phone call yesterday from their complaints lady, saying that I would indeed be offered a consultation.  Three further phone calls later, I have an appointment in just over two weeks’ time.  It’s a pity things don’t happen these days until you make a fuss.  I’m getting better at it.  Next target: British Gas.

Martyn is still not out of the woods.  Though the rash is starting to fade, he still feels as though someone is sticking pins in a voodoo effigy of him.  He still can’t bear a shirt against his skin - which makes for an easier washing day at least.  I think he’s on the mend: he’s focusing on planning a little holiday in September.

The bathroom project drags on.  Week 6 is coming to an end, and the tiler has been here to finish tidying up behind the wc.  The bidet and basin taps have yet to be changed, but the door was painted yesterday, so I can at last get on and give the place a good cleaning.

I unbagged the first of our charlottes a few days ago: a slightly better yield than last year, and they are as delicious as ever.  The tomatoes have been cropping well, so we’ve had a couple of caprese salads and bruschette for lunch.  Also delicious.  The original four tomato plants are between crops at the moment, with only a few ripe fruits on the vines, but with plenty to come.  We have three of the next generation growing in the conservatory, and rather a lot more out on the terrace.  The gardeners were here during the week, and have done the much overdue weeding of the front garden, which was starting to look pretty dreadful: I can’t spend too long kneeling without putting myself out of action for days.  So with a bit of help from Ben and Duncan, the garden is looking good.  I’m quite pleased with the dwarf nicotiana I grew from seed: Martyn planted them out along the side of the pond.  I quite like the subtle colours, but one man’s subtle is another’s insipid, and there’s a school of thought here that might prefer a better range of brighter colours…

Still here

Martyn’s far from out of the woods with shingles, but with new medication started yesterday, he seems a bit brighter, and in marginally less pain.  Just to complicate things, my joints are being more than usually bolshy.  But we’re both still the right side of the grass, eh?

The bathroom refit is about to move into week six.  The basin and bidet taps supplied are bloody useless, delivering at best an enuretic dribble: they will be replaced, but goodness knows when.  There is still remedial work to be done on the tiling, and the threshold, due for fitting this week, is still missing.  I would normally be willing to make stage payments, but since the twins aren’t asking for any, we ain’t volunteering any.  All that said, we’re content with the sparky’s work (though less so with his loud voice and tedious stories) and the painter seems to know what he’s doing.  He’s due to come and paint the bathroom door next week, and we’ve told him the can of purple is ready and waiting.

As for le monde politique, we were not unhappy to see the tories pulverised in yesterday’s by-elections.  The Rt Hon The First Lord of the Treasury seems determined to cling to power, and we’re ambivalent about that.  The longer he hangs on, the more likely it is that his party will be annihilated in 2024.  And that would at least give Labour time to get its slack arse into gear.  But what damage can these fools do in the meantime?  A parliamentary vote of no confidence in HMG is unthinkable given the current majority, so any early change must be in the hands of the men in the grey suits.  Are there any left?

Pour passer aux choses sérieuses, the tomatoes are cropping like mad, so we’ve had some on a pizza, more on bruschette (for which I’ve baked a handful of bâtards - half-baguettes) and more went into a bolognese this week for cannelloni and a cottage pie.  I passed on a bag of fruit to neighbours the other day.  The garden is looking good, but is quite demanding: the roses need daily dead-heading, and I’m tackling the iris sibirica a little at a time.  The box is growing back from the stumps, but since I’ve been seeing the moths in the garden, we’re determined to get the plants grubbed out.  I took seed from the chives a couple of days ago, so shall get some new plants started.  We’ll probably turn out a first bag of spuds in a day or two: the foliage is stifling the onions in the raised bed.  And there are bits of the garden that are gagging for the spent compost, to which I’ll add a good dollop of blood, fish and bone.

I watched a YouTube video yesterday of a plainly dreadful bus journey from Victoria coach station to Glasgow.  Awful though much of it was, what really caught my eye was the translation of ‘Departures’ into German: Abflüge.  This can only mean flight departures, so unless they’ve re-invented the Fairey Rotodyne, their signage looks ignorant and silly.  Suitable comment left on the TfL web site.  Watch this space.

Post hoc ergo propter hoc?

 A few days after our trip to London, Martyn developed pain and a rash.  By Bank Holiday Thursday it was really starting to trouble him, and attempts to contact NHS 111 were getting nowhere.  Rather than face our local A&E, I marched him down to a nearby minor injuries clinic in the next county.  OK, it wasn’t an injury, but my thinking was that a medic presented with the symptoms could hardly refuse to diagnose.  He was in and out again in 25 minutes.  Shingles confirmed, we spent another hour waiting for 111 to answer, and longer waiting for a call from a 111 GP to prescribe.  On Friday I collected a course of antivirals which, six days later, have done nothing to help.  After a chat with the pharmacist, who said ‘speak to the doctor’, I went and planted myself at the reception desk of our local practice until the receptionist agreed, without too much aggro, to speak to the GP.  The latter, bless her cotton socks, called in the early afternoon, and asked for photographs.  On receipt of same, she called again, saying ‘oh, you poor thing!’ and prescribed something to ease the pain and help him sleep.  

I don’t think we can blame the shingles on exposure to the Great Unwashed last Saturday, since it’s a virus that lies dormant, I think, following chickenpox - but something must have jolted it into action.  Martyn isn’t old enough yet to qualify for a shingles jab, but once he’s recovered, I think we’ll be agitating for one, since a couple of people we know who have had shingles have had it multiple times.  I had my jab last year, and hope it’s more effective than the anti-virals.

Meanwhile, the bathroom refit continues apace.  The tiler did a mediocre job, and had to be brought back to put some plastic beading over the jagged edge he had left by the door.  It looks better, but amateurish.  The prime contractor is not happy, and neither are we.  The new wash basin was delivered with a socking great chip out of one corner, and will be replaced in due course.  The taps have not been delivered, so the temporarily fitted basin has a temporary tap.  The bidet continues to ornament the garage until a suitable tap arrives.  But we have a functioning WC and shower.  It’s the turn of the sparky tomorrow, and, we think, the painter and maybe the chippy on Saturday.  So by some time in week 4, we may see an end to the fun and games.

The garden remains a comfort.  Though the irises are coming to the end of their all too short flowering season, the roses and penstemons are coming into flower.  The indoor tomatoes are starting to deliver ripe fruit, and the numerous cuttings are potted up and coming along nicely out on the terrace.  I’ve done some weeding in the front garden (which probably accounts for the protest from the knees).  Out at the bird feeders it seems to be the turn of the corvids.  We have magpie chicks in the trees in next door’s garden, and jays and jackdaws are demolishing the seed and fat balls in the feeders.  We’re seeing less of the blue tits, so guess their chicks must have fledged.  We’re hearing a chiffchaff somewhere nearby, and our local blackbird is in fine voice too.  From an indecent hour.

Out again at last [updated]

Yesterday we had our first ‘proper’ outing since the first lockdown.  We made a trip to London to see  Historia Theatre Company’s current production, Kate Glover’s Mayflower: They Knew They Were Pilgrims.  It is being performed until 11 June at the Hen and Chickens at Highbury Corner.  A well-constructed and moving piece, acted with the usual spark and eloquence of a Historia cast made up of some familiar and some impressive new members.  It traces the progress of the Leiden non-conformist congregation from their decision to set up in Virginia to their unplanned arrival in Massachusetts.  As well as the underlying theme of religious persecution, the plot addresses the exploitation of refugees from persecution by ruthless venture capitalists who fund the journey in exchange for years of slave labour from the pilgrims, and send them to sea in overcrowded, barely seaworthy vessels.  The play was written to mark the 400th anniversary of the 1620 voyage, but of course could not be performed live in the anniversary year.  Four hundred years on, the parallels with the present day could scarcely be more chilling.  As pub theatres go, the H&C is pretty good, if bum-numbing.  The traffic noise can be a distraction - but it can’t outdo Michael Murray’s exuberant sound effects.  

It was a matinee performance, so we took the chance to have lunch nearby beforehand, at the Trevi restaurant at the foot of Holloway Road.  Friendly place with decent food and pretty reasonable prices: two courses and two glasses of wine each: £60 including tip - cash only.  We took a crowded train up from our nearby country station (where parking is now charged, but only on weekdays in the daytime) and used the 43 bus between London Bridge and Highbury Corner.  What one notices on a first trip to the Smoke after a longish interval is the crowding and the noise.  London was thronging on the fine Saturday afternoon, so the people-watching was good sport.  We missed our train home by a few minutes, so sat on the concourse for best part of an hour with tea and a sandwich.  It was a relief to get away from the noise to the relative peace of our train when it pulled in.  Unfortunately, we shared a carriage with a young couple who felt able to spend the journey winding up their screeching sprogs.  We like public transport, but….  

Oh, and why, according to announcements, do trains arrive ‘into’ particular stations rather than ‘at’?  And why are we enjoined to ‘ensure and make sure’ that we haven’t forgotten to pick up our belongings?  It’s a bit like the ‘last and final’ calls made at airports (when they are seldom either).  

A hive of industry

We’re on Day 5 of the bathroom refit, and are starting to get a little weary of the crashing and banging overhead.  We’re using a small local firm, and on the first day the two twin brother directors were both here.  Yesterday the ceiling was plastered by the chap who did the hall ceiling for us: a father and son business with identical names.  Today’s work seems to be the installation of the new equipment: the new shower tray went in first thing this morning.

We went and collected the tiles during the week: since we’re having tiles from floor to ceiling, we needed both cars!  Fortunately, the chap at the shop did most of the loading, since the boxes are bloody heavy.  The tiler is starting on Monday, and the tiles will just stay in the cars until then.  We are neither of us keen on wrecking our backs.  Had we had the tiles delivered, we’d still have had to schlepp them from the kerbside to the garage, so storing them in the cars is probably the best solution.  

We’ve had some heavy rain in recent days, and the garden has profited.  The potatoes have grown about a foot, the sage is flowering beautifully and the roses are starting to flower. We’re rather over-endowed with woodland geranium and iris sibirica, but they provide some colour and ground cover while we slowly populate the new flower bed.  Of the tagetes seedlings I planted out a few weeks ago there is no trace.  I guess the drought or snails will have done for them.  Last year’s rudbeckias, on the other hand, are starting into strong growth, so we may not bother to plant this year’s seedlings.  We have decided to bite the bullet and get gardeners Ben and Duncan in for a couple of hours once a fortnight.  The place already shows the benefit of their first visit.  In addition, we’ve briefed them to come and dig out the box stumps in the front garden and replant with something less vulnerable in the autumn.

The four viable tomato seeds out of the six in the packet have yielded good strong plants that are now fruiting heavily.  In addition we have rooted a couple of dozen plants from side shoots, so ought to have a succession of fruiting - at least if, unlike last year, they don’t succumb to the blight.  The four originals and the first three cuttings are growing in the conservatory alongside a tray of small plants of the next generation.  Another nine from the mini-greenhouse are potted up outdoors.  Our success with growbags last year was limited, so I’m trying chrysanthemum pots this year instead.  And I’ll try to remember to feed and water them this time.

Slash & burn

Since I last posted, the box tree moth caterpillars have devastated the hedge and bushes, so we’ve cut the lot down and burned it in an incinerator (known hereabouts as the insinuator, in homage to my first boss, who was given to such malapropisms).  Along the top path there’s still a row of box that seems unaffected, but we have few illusions, given the dozens of caterpillars we find every time we step outside - a few even get inside the house.  Martyn has chopped down a lot of the herbage at the foot of the fence on the street side.  Meanwhile, I was sawing down the trunks of what used to be the box ball at the foot of the drive, and was taking the strimmer to the weeds that had grown at the foot of the box hedge.  Oh well: it’s a chance to try something new, and I've opened the dialogue with our garden guru Ben: we could just manage the slash and burn, but the grubbing up and preparation for replanting is beyond us these days.  Always looking on the bright side of life, the absence of hedge shows off the viburnum, which is currently at its best.

We have a first rose in bloom at the side of the house, a first flower on the cistus purpureus and a lot of new flowers on the rockery, notably a Wisley Pink helianthemum.  In the veggie department, the spuds are growing vigorously, and we’ve planted a few beans out and sown some more.  A few leeks seem to have succumbed to the drought, but the onions look happy enough.  The tomatoes in the sitooterie are fruiting, and we’ve rooted a lot of side shoots - probably more than we can grow.  

Can you imagine a place like Disgustedville with a Council under other than true-blue Tory control?   This has been the case, if marginally, for a year now, and last week's elections administered a further kick in the teeth.  This time there wasn't a major local issue like the extravagant and quite properly dismissed plan to build a new theatre, so it looks as if the vote turned on national rather than local issues.  The gutter press, meanwhile, has turned on the Rt Hon and Learned Leader of HM Opposition for ordering a takeaway meal in the middle of a work session, and he has undertaken to resign if the local Busies find that he broke lockdown rules.  This is pretty clearly rhetorical, and aimed at accelerating the long-overdue departure of the current Rt Hon First Lord of the Treasury.  The latter's main talent of winning, however dishonestly, the popular vote has utterly disappeared, and the Brexit chickens are coming home to roost.  The damage this joker has done defies belief: not only to the country's economy but also to its political processes.