How I love banks

For annual ramblings, please scroll down to the 2 December entry 

I really am not good at choosing banks.  I took fright at reports that the bank where I kept some holiday euros was in trouble, and at the beginning of last month went to the branch (remember those?) to close the accounts.  Imagine my joy today when, while queuing to pay at Fortnums, the phone pinged with a message announcing that I was overdrawn at said bank.  Quite a lot of Vivaldi-on-hold later, I’m assured that the accounts are now closed, and that the charge that led to the purported overdraft has been waived.  Goodness knows what this does for my credit rating, but since I don’t do credit, I shan’t be losing sleep on that account.  [Later: the following day brought two more peremptory text messages…]

The Christmas cards are starting to trickle in.  I love hearing from family and friends at any time of year, but the many greetings at this season make me feel surrounded by good will.  We brought down the Christmas tree from the attic yesterday, together with the electric candle arches.  I encountered the latter for the first time in 1989 in Sweden, thinking them rather charming and understated, and so went into NK near the main station in Stockholm and treated myself to one.  I got another in IKEA some years later, so our front windows are suitably adorned.

We hesitated about decorating the house so soon after Tim’s funeral, but on balance felt both that we needed cheering up, and also that Tim, that kindest of souls, would not wish us to brood.  His funeral last week was a very emotional affair.  Some find this helpful.  Not I: I’ve pretty much decided that I don’t want a funeral. 

The Egg is due for its MoT (annual inspection) so Martyn booked it in for yesterday.  Last year the morning traffic was so bad that we missed the appointment.  This year we set out early, got there in next to no time, and had to repair to a nearby coffee shop till the garage opened.  On arriving, we found that the MoT man had thrown a sickie, so it’s back again next week.  Paciência.

Second childhood

For annual ramblings, please scroll down to the 2 December entry

As happens more and more often of late, my mind wandered back the other day to my childhood.  My mother used to make jam and marmalade at home and taught me the skills.  Indeed, I still use her preserving pan.  Having recently run out of my 2022 batch of marmalade, I thought I was reduced to the shop-bought variety, which to me always seems rather bland and artificially set.  But then I remembered (and this is starting to read like an advertisement!) that Ma bought prepared Seville oranges in a can when the genuine home made stuff ran out.  

Lo and behold: Sainsbury’s still stock the brand that I remember from the 1950s, and preserving sugar, so we now have an emergency stock of sort-of-home-made marmalade to tide us over until the Seville oranges come in next month.  A brief scientific sampling exercise determines that it’s a good enough half-way house, though the fruit is rather more finely cut than is my wont.  Which brings back a more recent memory: trees in Malaga last December weighed down with bitter oranges.  I think Cunard and the customs might have cribbed at my schlepping home a suitcase full thereof.

I had other things on my mind this January, so couldn’t motivate myself to make marmalade.  Now that those preoccupations are dealt with, things will be different this coming January.  Gods willing, weather permitting and if the creek don’t rise, the production line will roll again.

Annual ramblings 2023

Not the greatest of years.  Martyn and I each lost friends of many decades’ standing: John Cruse, Freeman of the City of London, talented artist, goldsmith and teacher, and so much else.  Geoff Issott, a formidable linguist, proud Yorkshireman, keen cricketer and uncompromising lefty.  Jackie Guild, whom I'd known since she and I were both 5, and whom we'd enjoyed meeting on our trips back to the Ferry, died suddenly at home.  Our brother-in-law Michael Bailey, husband of Martyn’s elder sister, died in July.  A keen hiker and indefatigable volunteer for more charities and institutions than you can shake a stick at, his funeral at Rochester cathedral was so lavish and well attended that I caught myself thinking ‘state funeral’ once or twice.  Shortly after the bastard cancer got Michael, our young neighbour Rowena, of whom we were both very fond, finally succumbed to breast cancer aged only just 39, some ten years from diagnosis, and mere hours after admission to the local hospice.  On All Saints’ Day we learned that Martyn’s nephew Tim had been found dead, aged just 51.

As if Martyn’s year hasn’t been bad enough, he has still not fully shaken off the after effects of shingles.  If you haven’t been vaccinated against it, kindly do so!  Adding to Martyn’s worries, I was diagnosed with cancer at the beginning of the year.  I had two stays in hospital, and found our local pesthouse pretty decent for in-patients, thanks to the private en-suite rooms that everyone gets.  Following lengthy radio- and chemotherapy in the spring, I had pretty radical surgery in September, and learned a month or so later that it had been successful, requiring no mop-up chemo.

My health issues have rather dominated the year, and kept us close to base.  My daily drives to Maidstone for treatment were at the prettiest time of year, so at least I had the pleasure of seeing Kent come back to life after the winter. 

Garden

We have obviously not been able to travel this year, so the garden has had attention almost comparable to that of the lockdown years.  We grew tomatoes as before: the Sweet Olive variety was as good as ever, but the San Marzanos were a disaster.  The former are very tolerant of pot culture, the latter absolutely not.  And when we eventually got fruit to ripen on some San Marzano cuttings in the raised bed, the local beasties got to them first.  We decided against growing spuds this year, since I wasn’t sure how my treatment would affect my ability to manage them (I needn’t have worried).  For similar reasons we bought plug plants this year and grew relatively little from seed.  Parker’s supplied nicotianas and rudbeckias, and they have both done very well.  We used the dwarf Toto rudbeckia variety this time.  Although they have a shorter flowering season than the Rustics we’ve used in the past, they are usefully compact, and don’t need staking.  We used Parker’s again for polyanthus and pansies, and most are planted out in pots on the terrace.  Out in the conservatory, we have geranium cuttings, taken at the end of October, and plants dug up from where they had been sulking in the garden and in containers.

Arrivals

Our hospitality has been pretty sparse this year, and mostly limited to lunches at home: I was a bit circumspect about eating out while my immune system was getting hammered.  

Before that, Annie visited for a few days at New Year after staying with her brother Terry and family over the holidays.  Since our railway service is totally unreliable these days, Terry drove her here and we had an enjoyable lunch together.  They were back again for lunch in July, together with local friends Celia and Andy.  We subjected the Currahs and Rayners to pizzas and stuff, so we’re keeping our hands in!  Neighbours Annie and Rowena came in bearing cakes the weekend after coronation day, and Rowena kindly took our portrait in silly 'ats.

Departures 

Since I reported last year, we have made only one significant trip: a cruise last December to Spain and Portugal on the Queen Victoria.  We had a pretty hellish drive to Southampton in freezing fog: when the cloud lifted for the last bit, we were driving into very low sun on wet roads: a nightmare: the glare was so strong that I couldn't read the instruments.  It was a comfort, then, to arrive in A Corunha in mild weather: I stood on the balcony in my dressing gown before dawn to watch the ship mooring.  Pleasant city, dripping with history and some quirky architecture and art work, which we had time to explore this time.  Thence to Cádiz, where some intrepid Belgian divers tried (and failed) to replace a propeller blade on one of the azipods.  That cost us an extra night in Cádiz, and deprived us of a visit to Cartagena, to which we’d been looking forward.  Substituting Gibraltar on the way home did not compensate - been there, done that, didn’t like it.  We stayed on board, sitting in the bar above the bridge, watching the flights in and out of the airport - and the pedestrians, bikes and cars on the road across the runway between flights.  We did get to see and enjoy Malaga for the first time, and our last port of call, Lisbon, was as good as ever (if wet…).   

There were lots of little signs of cost-cutting on the QV this time, which I suppose is not surprising given the hit they must have taken during the pandemic.  The piano in the Queen’s Room was badly out of tune, which was a shame, given that Matthew McCombie was aboard again.  We greatly enjoyed his playing as before, though, and once again had a chance to have a chat.  Such a nice fellow.  We had planned to be on the QV again in July for a cruise to the fjords, but had to cancel for obvious reasons.  We’ve moved the deposit to a similar itinerary next June on the new Queen Anne: perhaps we'll get to enjoy the fjords at the third attempt.

Wheels

Our fleet has not changed, and does few miles.  Having recently had the annual bills for insurance, tax, service and MoT, I’m pretty sure it would pay us to use taxis and rent a car when we really need one.  But the convenience of being able to get up and go at the drop of a hat is a luxury we can afford.  The Egg has taken to refusing to spin its starter on occasions, so that will need investigation at some point.  But when it goes it goes like a new car even though it’s in its sixteenth year.  The Ateca is frugal, comfortable and plenty fast enough for an old geezer like me: it didn’t miss a beat during my six weeks of daily treatment in Maidstone.

Food and drink

We’re awfully unambitious, and are happy with home cooking.  Just as well, given the lengthy lockdown followed by self-imposed purdah this past year.  We do occasionally take a trip out for lunch, and wish it to be known that the fish and chips at the Crown, Groombridge are superior to those at the Bill the Conk at Rye Harbour.  At home we are making a lot of use of a two-drawer air fryer, even roasting the occasional chicken or half leg of lamb in it.  And eggs cooked whole at 130° for 15 minutes save the bother of boiling a pan of water.  It works faster than the big oven, and uses less juice.  We still bake bread in the oven, preferring loaves baked in a proper tin to the awkwardly shaped one with a hole in the bottom that you get if you bake it in the bread machine.  We do use the latter, but only for preparing the dough.  Though the San Marzano tomatoes were a failure, the Sweet Olives were their usual exuberant success, so provided numerous lunches, halved, anointed with olive oil, garlic and basil and done in the oven on slices of home-baked baguette.  Or done up in a caprese with salad, mozzarella and jamón de serrano.

 Arts

Bit of a desert this year, though the need to knock something out for the Christmas card has concentrated our minds!  I have reacquainted myself with the acrylics after a long gap: We'd tended only to paint at our Thursday morning art group, which we suspended in the early days of the pandemic, but I've knocked out a pot-boiler for this year's card, and it prints reasonably well.  Martyn has found a suitable watercolour in the archives, so we've got the cards printed and ready once I've arranged the mortgage to buy the stamps.  Our one trip to the theatre this year was to a local recording of the BBC Kitchen Cabinet radio show.  Great fun.  And free!  But the host makes no effort to dress up for his audience at recording sessions: where I come from, we'd have called him a proper ticket!

2024

The New Year ought to bring some order back into British politics, though at the moment it looks as if things'll get substantially worse before they get better.  It’s too much to hope that 2024 will right the wrongs of the past thirteen years of scandal and incompetence, nor the worrying rightward slide into dog-whistle populism.  As for the many wars round the world, it’s going to be a nail-biting year at best.  A visitor from another planet would boggle at the fact that our species systematically abuses the privilege of living on a fertile and habitable one.  Closer to home, we’re hoping that the year will be less packed with sickness and bereavement than 2023.  At our age, it’s best to focus on modest comforts, achievements and ambitions in the time we have left.  We hope that 2024 will be kind to you and your loved ones - and a bit kinder to us.

Martyn & David

Autumn colours

The cornus at the front are in their winter colours now: the strong winds of recent weeks have stripped off all the leaves.  We (and passers by) enjoy the contrasting red of the original plant, a layering from a Tonbridge plant, the mahogany stems of the variegated ones and the lime green of one we planted more recently.  All seem to tolerate the dreadful clay.  The landscapers planted some skimmias alongside the cornus, and they are contributing a bit of colour in their insipid way - not our favourite subject.  There are lots of forget-me-not seedlings around a surviving box bush, so we should have a splash of blue in the spring.  The frost will finish off the bedding dahlias in the tubs unless I pot them up and get them under cover soon.  We have plenty of bulbs and polyanthus to plant in their place when I summon up the energy.

Round the back, the beech has developed its glorious autumn colours, and as it fades to brown, it’ll keep its leaves until the new season’s foliage begins.  It won’t be long before the fuchsias are finished, but in the meantime, Tony's magellanica alba is looking good.  I nicked the cuttings from his garden a good decade ago when the art crowd met to do some sketching in his garden, and our two surviving plants have gone on to provide cuttings to populate other friends’ gardens.  It responds well to hard pruning, but we can enjoy the flowers for a bit longer.  The variegated one at the front is threatening to take over the driveway, so it too will get its usual severe chop back when the leaves die down.

Tim Williams 1972-2023

As if 2023 hasn’t bowled us enough googlies, today brought the dreadful news that Tim, Martyn’s nephew, was found dead this morning.  Fate had dealt Tim a bloody awful hand.  As a child he suffered bad head injuries when the brakes failed on a bike he’d borrowed, and he was hit by a car.  He recovered to a degree from that, but it left him rather vulnerable.  He was twice married, each rather ill-advised marriage ending in divorce.  He had significant health problems: in particular he required corneal transplants to give him some degree of useful eyesight.  And despite all this, he was a delightful bloke: sweet-natured, kind and generous, thanks in no small measure to his mother Gillian’s unstinting care over the decades. The signs are that he died suddenly, which is perhaps a whisker of comfort to his mother, his siblings and the rest of us.

Seventeen happy years

Today is the anniversary of our civil partnership ceremony, though it’s well over twenty years since we knew we were partners for life.  We had already exchanged rings - in Martyn’s old red Peugeot in the station car park at Brighton - and our partnership ceremony was also a quiet and intimate event.

Over the years we have travelled, socialised, gardened, studied, painted and enjoyed making our home together.  We have also been there for each other in times of bereavement and illness, so our love for each other is strengthened by the odd bit of scar tissue.  Martyn still has post-shingles pain well over a year since onset, but is coping very well.  He is also having to cope with my gradual recovery from recent surgery, but we’re both encouraged by the advice that I need no further treatment.  We were already very lucky to have each other - even more so now.

Autumn is certainly here.  We haven’t yet had frost, but I’d better not delay the geranium cuttings much longer.  We have started clearing and re-planting containers for winter colour, and mentally listing all the other jobs needed before winter.  Some will get done…

Awful neologism: ‘repurposing’

 

I finally gave up on the San Marzano tomatoes.  Our total useable crop amounted to one tomato.  The main benefit of growing the twenty-ish plants was the exercise in watering them and digging them up.  Martyn has hauled out the remains of the runner beans, and the bean poles are out and stored.  The raised beds are now host to some rooted cuttings, so their role is now as nursery beds. 

We’ve kept the best of the sage plants, surrounding it with potentilla, cistus, aquilegia and a solitary lavender.  The other raised bed is gradually filling up with little rosemary plants.  I’ve no doubt we’ll spend the next few months hoeing out seedlings of spinach, rocket, etc, as well as the ever-present oxalis and oak seedlings. The little greenhouse is pretty full again: the space gained by planting out cuttings and seedlings has been taken up with polyanthus and winter pansies, a few of which are already flowering.  We’ll shortly have vacancies in the hanging baskets and tubs, and the space in the greenhouse will be ready for geranium cuttings next spring after the frosts: we’ll start them in the conservatory.

Well, them’s the plans at least…