A particularly unpleasant meeting at Hobby Club HQ last week has left me somewhat lethargic and disinclined to scribble. Suffice it to say that I have left said club, membership of which is not necessary for one to participate in the hobby. The saving in subscriptions will buy ten bottles of Fortnums' excellent Navarra rosé per annum, which seems to me to be somewhat better value for money.
I've spent half an hour in the garden today cutting back roses, fuchsias, escallonias and the cherry tree, and hauling out a few miles of brambles and couch grass. Nice to get out in the fresh air and sunshine, though the forecast is not encouraging. Snowdrops are starting to show a bit of white, and quite a few polyanthus are in flower, together with some primroses, though not yet those that I promoted to the front row for spring colour visible from behind the protection of double glazing. Oh and on that subject, Jokers 'Я' Us Home Improvements did at least call early on Monday (by which time, of course, we'd cleared the diary for the day) to say that the replacement units had failed inspection, and to enquire whether we could be in on Friday. Watch this space.
Before that, our next visitor is the plumber. His eye-watering estimate to replace the dining room radiator was as good as it gets, so if we've to have the system drained down, it occurred to us yesterday, we should have something similar done in the kitchen, to gain a bit of wall space. Meanwhile, we wonder where things stand with tradesmen's work in Another Place: might it be a builder-free zone by the time we get there in the spring?
One wonders what 7 May will bring. The concept of a Lab-Green-SNP coalition is not without its attractions, though the white-socked Essex barrow boys, aka the City of London Institutions, may perhaps not agree. I'm glad I'm old.
But I don't plan to peg out before I get my pension this summer, and for a few more summers to come. Funded by Vic's, of course. His coffin, when he left us at 63, carried a poster saying 'Some other bugger's got my pension!'.
Oh, and the vaults of the sitooterie resounded to the voices bzw. trumpet of Ella and Louis again on Monday: our local fettler has returned the hi-fi to working order for £60. Not bad, eh, considering we were on the point of sending the whole bloody issue over the wall. And à propos music, it occurred to me in the insomniac small hours, to download that superb organ piece, Max Reger's Variations and Fugue on an original theme, Op 73, from iTunes. Strange, how the wakeful hours move one. Anyway, I did so, and - damn me! - only got the fugue. Referee! But it only cost £0.79, so I may refrain from rattling cages, for once. And I wonder how many iTune downloaders have selected that piece for their first essay in the medium?
Thursday, 29 January 2015
Sunday, 18 January 2015
Modern times
Having seen the quality and prices of new dining room furniture, we've almost arrived at the conclusion that there's nothing much the matter with second-hand shabby chic, though it could do with a bit of elbow grease. The table, which cost me £45 second-hand in 1980, could do with a polish, and the upholstery could benefit from a visit from my whizzo new steam thingy. Part of the motivation is to get rid of a couple of very tired corner cupboards that the parents got from 'Auntie' Phyllis back in the early 1960s. We have a few bits and pieces that it would be nice to keep on display, but the last few years in the conservatory have taken their toll on the already rather sad cupboards. We'd toyed with replacing the glazed bit with a dresser in the dining room, but since the room is around 3m x 4m, we're starting to conclude that it would be a bit overpowering. Martyn for his part has a murderous eye on an old hi-fi housing, the contents of which are no longer working, probably also because of the extreme temperature range in the sitooterie. The speakers will shortly migrate to Lagrasse once again, the cabinet and electronics to le dump.
Nice evening yesterday at the Assembly Hall for the Mayor's annual quiz. A few of us beaks and other halves for the time being go along for a rather boozy evening of quizzing each year. We finished last night slightly higher up the league table than in the past, though a long way behind our target, which is to beat our MP and his team of Commons researchers. Their advantage is age, I think: we've improved our performance by drafting in the parents of a few recent graduates, but are still nowhere near. Interesting that the quizmaster now announces at the beginning that any team seen using a mobile phone will have its score for the round in question disallowed: o tempora, o mores. We had an inkling a few years ago that this was the secret of the win by a certain team whose leader I congratulated on our next meeting through gritted teeth. But WTF, as one seems to be allowed to write in public these days [v. supra]: it's only a game!
Nice evening yesterday at the Assembly Hall for the Mayor's annual quiz. A few of us beaks and other halves for the time being go along for a rather boozy evening of quizzing each year. We finished last night slightly higher up the league table than in the past, though a long way behind our target, which is to beat our MP and his team of Commons researchers. Their advantage is age, I think: we've improved our performance by drafting in the parents of a few recent graduates, but are still nowhere near. Interesting that the quizmaster now announces at the beginning that any team seen using a mobile phone will have its score for the round in question disallowed: o tempora, o mores. We had an inkling a few years ago that this was the secret of the win by a certain team whose leader I congratulated on our next meeting through gritted teeth. But WTF, as one seems to be allowed to write in public these days [v. supra]: it's only a game!
Tuesday, 13 January 2015
Another wasted morning
While I'm grizzling, I should perhaps admit that I have finally given up the struggle with my Samsung smart [sic] phone, which seems to have been silently guzzling my credit, despite being practically unuseable. I have moved the SIM into my old faithful Nokia, which does date from the 21st century, but only just. It does what I need, and holds a charge for weeks, unlike the later model.
Fine sunshine today, and there are lots of signs of life from the garden - and I don't just mean the greenfly! Lots of bulbs are shooting up through the soggy soil, and a few primroses are in flower. Thr ground is very wet, though the flood water down in the river valley has receded a bit. Last week the fields at Penshurst were under water, and some of the puddles on my usual route to the hobby were the width of the roadway and axle-deep. The car hasn't been washed for months, and there's little point doing it at the moment. I think I'll specify road-dirt grey next time I change cars.
Friday, 2 January 2015
Here comes another one
Festivities over, Twelfth Night almost upon us and we're starting to loook at the projects list again. I think the kitchen may be next. Wooden work surfaces are a terrible idea, particularly if, like us, you lack the will power to give them the maintenance they demand. The cupboards have already had one refreshment, and the carcases are plainly getting tired. Much space is wasted, and the cupboard doors seem to have been purpose-built to trap dirt. I don't look forward to getting the work done. Nothing is quite so disruptive as a kitchen refit as I remember from the last experience, so we'll probably decamp for the duration.
The festive hostilities went much as usual: enjoyable moments with family and friends, including the annual skirmish with the M25. I think we'll officially postpone Boxing Day next year and arrange a family gathering some time in January. It was lovely to see the Smith great nephews again: Tom is now a lively, articulate two-year-old, while Toby, at seven months, is placid, smiling and rotund. Both boys are blond, with startling blue eyes, so will break a few hearts when they're older. Martyn's great niece and nephew are smart kids, beautifully behaved and self-sufficient. The pleasure of getting together is slightly dented by the fact that so much of the conversation at the table seems to be about disease, surgery and death. An age thing, I suppose.
The garden is largely dormant save for the weeds, but we still have colour on a few roses and penstemons, the primroses and polyanthus are starting to flower and a lot of bulbs are sending shoots through the surface. It's difficult to get out and enjoy them, though: the grass is the normal winter quagmire, and we have to wait for hard frosts before we can take the compost up to the bin. That will be plentiful in the next couple of months, I've no doubt.
The festive hostilities went much as usual: enjoyable moments with family and friends, including the annual skirmish with the M25. I think we'll officially postpone Boxing Day next year and arrange a family gathering some time in January. It was lovely to see the Smith great nephews again: Tom is now a lively, articulate two-year-old, while Toby, at seven months, is placid, smiling and rotund. Both boys are blond, with startling blue eyes, so will break a few hearts when they're older. Martyn's great niece and nephew are smart kids, beautifully behaved and self-sufficient. The pleasure of getting together is slightly dented by the fact that so much of the conversation at the table seems to be about disease, surgery and death. An age thing, I suppose.
The garden is largely dormant save for the weeds, but we still have colour on a few roses and penstemons, the primroses and polyanthus are starting to flower and a lot of bulbs are sending shoots through the surface. It's difficult to get out and enjoy them, though: the grass is the normal winter quagmire, and we have to wait for hard frosts before we can take the compost up to the bin. That will be plentiful in the next couple of months, I've no doubt.
Monday, 22 December 2014
The shortest day...
...dawns reluctantly, grey and damp. Although the dawn slips forward for a few days, it's a comfort to know that the we'll gradually get a bit more daylight. But I can't forget my grandmother's dictum: 'the day lengthens, the cold strengthens'. It was already bitterly cold in the county town on Friday when I was there for the hobby. We had an hour's gap in proceedings while professionals scrabbled about for evidence they in due course found they didn't need anyway. During the gap I went in search of some motor maintenance bits, and almost froze in the process.
Cars are so clever these days: at intervals a warning light would come one to let me know a light bulb was literally on the blink, and the system even told me which one it was - one of the number plate lights, which I could easily change myself. Not so a few years ago, when a headlamp bulb failed on another VW product I owned at the time. The approach to said bulb was so tortuous that I couldn't get near it before my rheumaticky hand cramped up. It really offended me that I'd to get the garage to replace a bulb! But there's so little maintenance an owner can do on a car these days. Just as well: I'm not to be trusted. When I replaced the brake linings on a certain Renault 16 some years ago, I made an utter pig's tit of it, and had the wheel and hub cap back on before realising that I hadn't replaced the split pin when I reassembled the hub.
A trip along the beautiful lanes of the county next door yesterday. Our farmer friends had just got some beef back from the butchers, having recently slaughtered the first of their small Dexter herd, so I'd to go and collect our Christmas joint and some other cuts, plus a couple of bags of bangers. The house was quieter than usual: mother was at hospital with a very poorly daughter who was to go later in the day to a specialist hospital in London for further tests.
Our house, on the other hand, was substantially less quiet than usual yesterday evening. Each year around this time one or other of the neighbours throws a drinks bash, and we decided that, seven years on, it was our turn. We had quite a good crowd: twenty including ourselves, and the 6:30-8:30 pm forecast ran over to closer to 9:30. Martyn's Mary Berry mince pies, topped with crumbled marzipan, were the star turn.
We catered it ourselves: a couple of big pizzas, sausage rolls, hummus and crudités, blinis with crème fraîche and caviar, shrimps or gravadlax, some spicy koftas made with a nod to Madhur Jaffrey, some little onion bhajis (the only shop-bought ready-made component) and the mince pies. The left over crudités will shortly find their way into a casserole of Dexter braising steak!
Practically all the ingredients and drinks came from one or other of the discounters, Lidl (known as Fortnum's in this house) and Aldi. True, the makings of the sausage rolls were from Sainsbury's, but these days we darken their door rarely. What we save, of course, we partly spend in diesel getting to our nearest Fortnum's, but the experience is so much more pleasant. Of the other lot, founded by Albrecht and Dietrich, I've less experience, and the one I used the other day was a bit like a North African soukh. Their wines are on the whole more recherchés than Fortnum's, though.
So, with the festive hostilities officially started, the next job is to gear up for Christmas Day. The bread is proving as I write, the Dexter topside is in the fridge and we're turning our minds to the cheese board.
For the annual blethers, click here.
Cars are so clever these days: at intervals a warning light would come one to let me know a light bulb was literally on the blink, and the system even told me which one it was - one of the number plate lights, which I could easily change myself. Not so a few years ago, when a headlamp bulb failed on another VW product I owned at the time. The approach to said bulb was so tortuous that I couldn't get near it before my rheumaticky hand cramped up. It really offended me that I'd to get the garage to replace a bulb! But there's so little maintenance an owner can do on a car these days. Just as well: I'm not to be trusted. When I replaced the brake linings on a certain Renault 16 some years ago, I made an utter pig's tit of it, and had the wheel and hub cap back on before realising that I hadn't replaced the split pin when I reassembled the hub.
A trip along the beautiful lanes of the county next door yesterday. Our farmer friends had just got some beef back from the butchers, having recently slaughtered the first of their small Dexter herd, so I'd to go and collect our Christmas joint and some other cuts, plus a couple of bags of bangers. The house was quieter than usual: mother was at hospital with a very poorly daughter who was to go later in the day to a specialist hospital in London for further tests.
Our house, on the other hand, was substantially less quiet than usual yesterday evening. Each year around this time one or other of the neighbours throws a drinks bash, and we decided that, seven years on, it was our turn. We had quite a good crowd: twenty including ourselves, and the 6:30-8:30 pm forecast ran over to closer to 9:30. Martyn's Mary Berry mince pies, topped with crumbled marzipan, were the star turn.
We catered it ourselves: a couple of big pizzas, sausage rolls, hummus and crudités, blinis with crème fraîche and caviar, shrimps or gravadlax, some spicy koftas made with a nod to Madhur Jaffrey, some little onion bhajis (the only shop-bought ready-made component) and the mince pies. The left over crudités will shortly find their way into a casserole of Dexter braising steak!
Practically all the ingredients and drinks came from one or other of the discounters, Lidl (known as Fortnum's in this house) and Aldi. True, the makings of the sausage rolls were from Sainsbury's, but these days we darken their door rarely. What we save, of course, we partly spend in diesel getting to our nearest Fortnum's, but the experience is so much more pleasant. Of the other lot, founded by Albrecht and Dietrich, I've less experience, and the one I used the other day was a bit like a North African soukh. Their wines are on the whole more recherchés than Fortnum's, though.
So, with the festive hostilities officially started, the next job is to gear up for Christmas Day. The bread is proving as I write, the Dexter topside is in the fridge and we're turning our minds to the cheese board.
For the annual blethers, click here.
Tuesday, 16 December 2014
Two steps forward, one step back
The news from Another Place is encouraging: Pierre tells me that he and Pierre #2 have applied two layers of lime render to the base of the side wall, and will be doing the third during the current week, though we've heard that before. He has done some more leak chasing around the new bathroom window and assures me it's watertight. That's good news, given the torrential rain of recent weeks: at one point the river rose by over 4 metres, which is over half way to panic stations.
Back here at Forges-l'Evêque the sitting room is festooned with cards sending greetings and good wishes from friends round the world. The parcels are stacking up by the Christmas tree, following lots of on-line ordering. We did shop briefly yesterday, but browsing for inspiration soon got me tired and grizzly, so I've suggested a pause for thought and probably more on-line ordering.
Two of the dining room windows are still decorated with condensation between the panes. I had a call last week from JokersЯUs Home Improvements, asking whether they could come and measure for the replacements - a third time. Evidently visitor #2, who arrived with replacement units of quite the wrong size and shape, has gone sick, taking his notebook with him. Deep sigh.
The social season trickles on: we were at the annual Punch and Carols party at Ginny and Richard's on Sunday, and sang ourselves hoarse as usual. We left at half-time to catch our bus and train home - it's a shame that, for less than two hours' worth of party, we have over four hours of travelling by car, train, bus and Shanks's pony.
The new London buses are pretty impressive, as they'd want to be at a million a pop. The best thing about them is that I don't have to pay, but I get a sense that that little privilege of decrepitude is unlikely to persist. Still, by the time it's abolished, my state pension will take the strain instead. I wonder if we're the only indigenous Brits to use the buses. The languages being spoken round about us were, I think, Russian, Japanese, Arabic and Italian. Last time I was in London, two fellow bus passengers were arguing over the phone in voluble Portuguese, my grasp of which couldn't tell me whether with each other or third parties. The trains are less congenial late in the evening: on Sunday we had a bunch of guffawing young people with us all the way, and our neighbour across the way had certainly been at the ale. So I felt less bad about breathing mulled wine and egg sandwich fumes at him.
We're pretty much geared up for entertaining this coming weekend: we're doing wine and nibbles for the neighbours on Sunday evening. There's still the booze to buy, but I shall be near an appropriate outlet later today. The freezers are groaning under the weight of blinis, pizza and sausage rolls, we hope in sufficient quantities.
Cinema yesterday: Paddington. Anthropomorphic, camp, sentimental rubbish. We loved it!
Back here at Forges-l'Evêque the sitting room is festooned with cards sending greetings and good wishes from friends round the world. The parcels are stacking up by the Christmas tree, following lots of on-line ordering. We did shop briefly yesterday, but browsing for inspiration soon got me tired and grizzly, so I've suggested a pause for thought and probably more on-line ordering.
Two of the dining room windows are still decorated with condensation between the panes. I had a call last week from JokersЯUs Home Improvements, asking whether they could come and measure for the replacements - a third time. Evidently visitor #2, who arrived with replacement units of quite the wrong size and shape, has gone sick, taking his notebook with him. Deep sigh.
The social season trickles on: we were at the annual Punch and Carols party at Ginny and Richard's on Sunday, and sang ourselves hoarse as usual. We left at half-time to catch our bus and train home - it's a shame that, for less than two hours' worth of party, we have over four hours of travelling by car, train, bus and Shanks's pony.
The new London buses are pretty impressive, as they'd want to be at a million a pop. The best thing about them is that I don't have to pay, but I get a sense that that little privilege of decrepitude is unlikely to persist. Still, by the time it's abolished, my state pension will take the strain instead. I wonder if we're the only indigenous Brits to use the buses. The languages being spoken round about us were, I think, Russian, Japanese, Arabic and Italian. Last time I was in London, two fellow bus passengers were arguing over the phone in voluble Portuguese, my grasp of which couldn't tell me whether with each other or third parties. The trains are less congenial late in the evening: on Sunday we had a bunch of guffawing young people with us all the way, and our neighbour across the way had certainly been at the ale. So I felt less bad about breathing mulled wine and egg sandwich fumes at him.
We're pretty much geared up for entertaining this coming weekend: we're doing wine and nibbles for the neighbours on Sunday evening. There's still the booze to buy, but I shall be near an appropriate outlet later today. The freezers are groaning under the weight of blinis, pizza and sausage rolls, we hope in sufficient quantities.
Cinema yesterday: Paddington. Anthropomorphic, camp, sentimental rubbish. We loved it!
Friday, 12 December 2014
Festive hostilities intensifying...
I like this time of year in some ways (though not for the barometer-like tendencies of the joints). The greetings from friends are coming in thick and fast, and it's comforting to be remembered by so many friends old and new. An extra entertainment is the form of address on the envelopes: Debretts plainly don't offer a succinct formula for civil partnerships! Many give both our names, others one or the other. A lot come addressed to Martyn & David. Some come to D & M Smith, one to M & D Bishsmith, and one, perplexingly, to Mr & Mrs M Bishop. Well if he can handle being Mr Smith, I guess I can't grumble about Mrs Bishop. And any form of address is preferable to none. (But if you call me that to my face, you may expect a response rich in 'f''s, possibly preceded by the estimable Isla's 'Are you familiar with the expression:....')
We had the art group bash yesterday, and Miss did a couple of demonstration paintings, both on salvaged canvases that she had overpainted in magenta. I love her easy broad-brush style, and think I may go to class next year armed only with two broad brushes, one big round one and a rigger.
We adjourned for wine and nibbles at 11:00: I declined the former since I'd to drive, but hit the nibbles with gusto, hence needed no lunch on my return home. Having made some mini blinis for a wine & nibbles event at Forges-l'Evêque next weekend for the neighbours, I froze some separately for the art class. Dollop of crème fraîche on each, slap on a king prawn and a pinch of paprika (all from Fortnum's, need I add?): Bob = uncle; Fanny = aunt. Caviar or smoked salmon woud do, and for a vegetarian crowd, try halved olives, capers or bits of jalapeño, or combinations thereof. The last time I did blinis for neighbours was in Lagrasse, for Sheila and Henry, using bought blinis. Never again: they were horrible, and it's so easy to make decent ones if you follow this Guardian recipe. Hot, heavy pan, very little oil, and a scant soup spoonful of batter per blini.
My weight seems to be creeping up again. Funny, that.
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