A quick survey of the most recent journals (lasting several minutes) has revealed a new malady rapidly infecting those writing about food in the United Kingdom. Restaurants and Gastropubs (the latter designed to hit you in the stomach) are becoming increasingly adjectivised.

Furthermore, the adjective industry is being given a new boost. Semi-literate food reviewers are assembling new words at a rate which bodes evil for their quality. In Wiltshire there is, according to Jasper Gerrard (could this be a real name or is it a gastro tag?) writing in the Daily Telegraph (where else), a restaurant (it calls itself a manor) which serves “hand-dived” scallops. This term could be loosely related to diving or the verb “to divvy”. Assuming we are correct in guessing that one cannot be reasonably expected to dive for scallops in Wiltshire, even by hand, then “to divvy” must be at the root of this. These scallops then are divvied up by hand. Not divvied, that is, by Thomas Parkinson’s patent scallop divvying machine. Since when, nevertheless, is the past tense of “divvy” dived?

When ordering one is presumably informed that a delay of half an hour is to be expected while the chef divvies the scallops by hand because they cannot be fully appreciated un-divvied. And then, having consumed the exquisitely hand divvied or dived scallops we pass on to the “feather soft” red mullet.

Here “feather soft” is probably employed as a euphemism for “past its best” or “gone off”. We are, after all, in Wiltshire. “Red mullet” is of course a euphemism for goat fish. Finally this establishment offers “passion fruit ravioli” to prepare you for a bill for two amounting to £188.

This is about the same price as my three star restaurant on the beach nearby where the mullet is not goatfish and has certainly not “gone off”. On the other hand I cannot vouch for the scallops being “hand-dived’. We also lack the amenity of being in the wilds of Wiltshire, the “passion fruit ravioli”, and we are not a manor. But still!

Now we go all Moorish, not the Rabat sort but the Dartmoor sort. The Dartmoor Inn is “set” in Moorside which, we are informed, is despite its name “within easy reach of the moors”. Andy Barker reports in the Evening Standard (what do you expect with a name like that?) that it “features ageing parquet” presumably laid last week and ageing fast.

The “pub classic”, fish and chips, is dished up with a “herby green mayonnaise” he reports. This must be what makes it a “pub classic”. The only “herby green” item served in my brother’s local chippy (set on Dartmoor along side the hand crafted prison set in granite) is fried mushy peas.

To cap it all, in Moorside they have “home made corned beef” for breakfast. Customers, probably also “herby green” by this time, may then crawl off home. But hist! There is also a vegetarian meal details of which Andy, with commendable restraint, withholds.

Meanwhile, Zoe in the Sunday Times, enthuses over the "tangy" chocolate mousse she discovered. Alas dear Zoe, do not venture across the Channel. My friend Jeanette, who ladles out her mousse in Honfleur would tip the whole terra cotta pot full over your head if you referred to her chocolate mousse as "tangy".

But we dally. Let’s get on to the Recipe of the Week, “Roasted scallops with wild flowers”. Here we are not informed as to how the scallops are “dived” or “divvied”. Tristan, who does the cooking at the Launceston palace in Kensington, advises us to get the fishmonger to remove what he calls the “roe” from the scallops. Well, first find a fishmonger and then persuade him to remove the best bit!

But Tristan’s best bit is the botany. He advises to use fresh “pea flowers, rocket flowers, chive and leak flowers”. Now pea flowers, no not sweet pea flowers, are the flowers of the marrowfat pea available briefly when the marrowfats are blooming in their splendour around the frozen pea factories in Norfolk. Imported pea flowers will lack taste of course.

The rocket plant, beloved by British cooks writing in newspapers, but unknown elsewhere in Britain, closely resembles the Italian Rucola , the German Rauke , the French Roquette , the Portuguese Rucula and the Spanish Arugula. God only knows when it flowers. No gardener worth his rocket would let it bolt. The same holds true for chives. Pluck out all buds before they open, if not your whole bunch of chives will be inedible. (Don’t forget to save some for this recipe if the rocket, the marrofats and the leeks are, perchance, all in flower). Leeks, do leeks have flowers? Possibly but one has to be patient. They appear, if at all, at the end of the second year after planting.

So, having magicked all this together, Tristan in Kensington dresses his flowers in olive oil (what else?) and spreads them on top of his, presumably machine dived, scallops to be dined upon. Incidentally, scallops have a very short season here on the Biscay coast. Each boat is limited to a few kilos. At the price they are nobody would dream of throwing away the coral.

Diving for scallops is forbidden, it’s poaching. One is liable to be sent down for a goodish stretch if caught by the police. If caught by the scallop fishers you are likely to lose your “corail”, or roe, as Jasper puts it.

But apart from his gastro-botany excursion, old Tristan is a bit of a let down. He only uses two adjectives in his piece and both are hackneyed. Have to look smart Tristan, old son, if you want to continue oiling wild flowers at the Launceston.

last updated 6 days ago #

And with the balmy weather the President of Sudan has at last been indited and Sarkosy brings France back to the NATO command structure.

The former, although the right thing to do and greatly overdue, causes more pain for the people of Darfur. By expelling the NGO's, Omar al-Beshir is simply adding to his charge sheet. It has also caused a great deal of hypocritical bleating by Africa's other "leaders". Most of it, I suspect, is to avoid the "must have" discussion about who's to be indited next.

France's move back into NATO, so many years after De Gaulle pulled out in a huff, has had some curious repercussions among those who aspire to govern. Socialists, bitterly opposed to De Gaulle's action at the time , are now bitterly opposed to the re-integration. They have found a neo-Gaullist vocabulary to express themselves and new allies among those fading right wing luminaries that showed France's gift for international solidarity by keeping out of the war in Iraq (thus providing an excuse for the Germans to avoid a nasty decision and trying to isolate Britain in Europe).

Sarkosy has re-learnt the old lesson. When the cross channel ferries stop running, it is France that is cut-off, not Britain. Now, desperate for a show of influence, having been upstaged by Brown on the financial crisis, he is thrashing around for 'issues' on which he can put up a show of leadership.

One wonders what next. He has done the Mediterranean thing, an initiative which has disappeared without trace after being fielded by the Commission. Fishing people out of the Columbian jungle has turned out less overwhelming than billed since the lady in question is now accused of being not quite frank about the circumstances of her captivity. Moving a handful of German soldiers across the river into France failed to ignite popular enthusiasm but attracted unwelcome attention to the fact that a significant proportion of France's armed forces and its nuclear capability is to be found along the frontier with Germany. Let's not go on about the treaty of Lisbon.

An new situation underlies Sarkosy's grab for influence and negates many of the old nationalist positions favoured by French politicians. Today, and for many years now, French men and women participate in international organisations, join international businesses and increasingly, live and work abroad. They are, by and large, doing a good job. More important for France's internal politics, this "international" population escapes the old system of patronage and manipulation without which one cannot succeed at home.

As this group grows, and increase it surely will, the ramblings of French politicians on their domestic stage will lose their relevance to the future the country and it's citizens. It can be argued that this is already the case.

last updated 6 months ago #

And it certainly did last night. We were kept awake by the old house creaking as the gale blew in from the Basque Roads. It was worst about 2 am with gusts around 140 km per hour. Around three one of our metal window shutters blew adrift and I had to batten it back. The wind was quite warm.

This morning no damage, everything swept clean, bright sunshine and gentle breezes. A few homes lost power, but not in the town where the lines are attached to the house fronts and not strung accross the streets.

Charante and Charante Maritime are on flood alert. The flood tide peaked at around 4 am with violent on shore winds. I suppose the Charante, Seudre, Sevre etc. are bank full, backed up by the tide and filled by the heavy rain that fell inland overnight. No problems for us, being far from a river and perched on a little hill, (or what passes for a hill in this dead-flat, tidal marsh landscape).

The storm has marched away to the north-east. It's beating on the Champaigne district now and moving on into Lorraine.

last updated 7 months ago #

A big envelope turned up on Saturday! What a treasure trove! I've read the navvey book in one sitting, full of good stuff. As for the one about England, I read it twice on two consecutive evenings. And I'm poring through the rest.

Great idea to send big envelopes.

Well, we had an extended New Year thrash. They all left around three-thirty. Goose was the watchword and very good too. We couldn't get one in the shops (people here eat seafood and fois gras or a capon at New Year). Ana went to the market and our chap there scrounged around the farms. At pick up on the thirty first he was apologetic. He couldn't get a "normal" goose. The one he found was 7 kilos. Just right for us! He was a bit surprised we were willing to pay 100 EUROS for a bird, but we were five at dinner and there wasn't a great deal left over.

It got cold on the first and it continues to do so. Today is the coldest day they say. We had -7 this morning. Now the sun is out and it's hotted up to -3. The neighbours have the water frozen up at the meter. Much waving of hair dryers and cursing, but it came unstuck about lunch-time.

The children are back at school but it's pretty messy. The school busses are suspended because the country roads are frozen over and about half the teachers couldn't make it in today. Still, it makes a change from striking.

We have been rummaging in the storage for winter woolies and skiing anoraks. We haven't worn them for a couple of years.

Sales start today, Ana's off to town.

last updated 8 months ago #

Why is every one on TV these days taking about the "train station" and not the railway station, or just the station, as it ought to be? Is it American?

I have been watching the UK chaos on Sky News, (the specialists on chaos wherever it happens except when they are reporting "Man runs amok and shoots ex lover dead" in Jonesville, North Dakota.) Gets the whole world scrabbling for an atlas.

France has been hit where it hurts as well. Snow in St Tropez, icy winds in Nice, blizzards in Paris etc. We were smiling smugly. All we got was dry sub zero for a few days.

A. won't buy anything frozen but even so there weren't any geese, even like that. It’s surprising really because Poland and Rumania have more geese than educated citizens. They export trainloads to Germany - geese that is.

We're all confused about and names. My English class found the perils of calling a baby Eve very amusing. They'd have been rolling on the floor laughing, after I had explained what a Spare Rib was, except for the inconvenience that most of them would have been unable to get up again without assistance.

A's got a job, or rather the job got A. She's teaching English professionally about six hours a week (for money that is!).

It's a private School for Cosmetics which went belly up when the owner and head decamped with the till. The teachers rallied round and formed an Association to keep their jobs and let the girls finish their diplomas. Curiously, there aren't any chaps.

Well, one of the students and she put in a word for A when they began to trawl for English teachers. Upshot, the manager of the Association rang and she was on the muster roll in five minutes.

She's really chuffed. Not that the students are much cop, the usual “I couldn't care less about learning anything", but it all counts towards a pension.

It sounds like winter driving in England is joining the lost arts. It never was too hot here on this bank. Except of course in the north where they have real weather. Most Rochellaise would be in the ditch, or rather the marsh, at the drop of a snowflake.

I'd forgotten you have ponies and other beasties wandering about Dartmoor. The thought of two wan policemen, in a car with a flashing light, detailed to warn passers by of a wounded animal on the road! Could have been a cat of course, but one presumes for the reputation of the police, it was something more fearsome. Declining to get out and finish the monster off, to boot. Where, O where, are the stout hearts and sturdy limbs that once made Britain’s Bobbies the envy of mankind? Where indeed? Here, anything even vaguely edible lying on the road would have be potted by the Gendarmerie and, if not, scavenged by the illegal immigrants tout de suite.

This issue of the Week advertised a nice little place on the edge of Dartmoor National Park, called Spinnybrook, Hittisleigh Mill, Exeter. Thatched, 3 beds, 2 baths, 2 recepts, 2 kitchens, guest suite. All on 11 acres. At £685K "slightly over budget" as they say on the telly, not to mention on other planets.

The economy here is staggering towards its final crash or its sudden take off. No big chains have folded yet but I won't be surprised when they start. Their shares have gone through the floor and abstinence and economy are our watchwords. In fact the French are being very un-French right now. But one mustn't forget that many of the would-be big spenders are simply out of cash and out of credit.

Sky News doesn’t seem to notice, it’s still running its obscene ads for Qatar airways and Rolex minutes.

last updated 8 months ago #

Him - Read me a story, my dear.

What at your age? Read your own stories.

Him - Come on be a sport. I’ll curl up on the rug in front of the fire and you can sit in the big armchair and read something nice out loud.

And what exactly is “something nice”?

Him - Oh, you know, not too complicated, maybe something funny or whimsical.

You are whimsical enough already. What do you have in mind as “funny”?

Him - How about something from Wodehouse?

No. I really can’t do all those upper class accents.

Him - Well, you choose.

Here we go again. Not only do I have to sit on the armchair and read something funny or whimsical out loud while you lounge in front of the fire, I have to choose as well. In that case I shall read a cookery book and you can nod off to the sound of a recipe for Borscht.

Him - Now you’re being sadistic! Ok, if you prefer it, I will sit on the chair and you can curl up on the rug while I read something nice to you.

Aha, rôle reversal! I could see that coming. What are you proposing to read that I will find “nice”, a bit of floppy Flaubert, some vitriolic Voltaire, some soppy Swinburne or some dreary Dickens? You know you are such a snob when it comes to authors.

Him - All right, all right, let’s both sit on the rug and listen to some music. What would you like to hear?

The Rolling Stones.

Him - The Rolling Stones! You’ve got to be in a hall with a few hundred morons tearing their hair out and screaming to appreciate them!

Well, I’m pretty moronic, you always say. I can ruffle my hair and scream a bit. Your vivid imagination can supply the rest.

Him - Let’s play that new bit of Bach we bought the other day.

I thought we bought that to play at the funeral of whichever one of us runs out of steam first. We don’t want to spoil the surprise do we? I’ve got a much better idea. You run along and open a nice red. I’ll cut a bit of cheddar and we’ll have it here on the rug with some pistachios.

Him - And some crisps?

And some crisps. And what’s more, we will share a glass like we always did in the Hotel Luxembourg when we only had one tooth glass in the room.

Him - And later on we can go out for a curry.

No, not a curry, it was always a Vietnamese in the Rue Monsieur Le Prince wasn’t it?

Him - You’re right, I haven’t forgotten but we’re a long way from the Rue Monsieur Le Prince and the little Vietnamese.

Don’t worry, my dear, we can always start a new tradition, can’t we?

Him - Of course, and I’ll start it by replacing the cheap Beaujolais of yore with a nice civilized Pomerol!

And I’ll top it off by phoning for a Pizza or two!

Him - Pizza, are we doomed to eat Pizza?

You’ll be all right. We shall pretend we’re in Napoli.

Him - Then perhaps I should open a Chianti?

Don’t be silly dear. Only tourists drink Chianti in Napoli. The Pomerol will do splendidly. How about toppings? You’ll have your usual Arrabiatica I suppose and I’ll have a Bianca so I can try that super expensive olive oil we bought.

Him - That will be fine. I’ll put the oven on. They’re always a bit soggy when they arrive.

Quick, come and look out of the window! You see that cloud over there behind the trees, it looks a bit like Vesuvius.

Him - It certainly does, you see it’s working. We won’t have to pretend much harder to be in Napoli.

You’re right, go and dig out Torna a Surriento, that should help. I’ll slip into my Gina Lollobrigida nightie.

Him - I didn’t know you had one. But if you’re going overboard I’ll wear my black shirt and white tie.

That’ll be perfect, just what we need, a touch of the Camorra.

Him - That’s the door. I’ll go.

Was it the pizza man? Are they hot?

Him - Yes and yes, but he went a bit pale when he got me at the door in my capo della Camorra kit, Surriento going full blast and you floating on the canapé in your negligee.

Get cutting please, I’m starving. All this artistic stuff gives me an appetite. And poke the fire up a bit, I’m going blue under this flimsy.

Him - Nice and comfortable now?

Yes, it’s wonderful here in Napoli

Him – And when we get home you can read me a story.

last updated 11 months ago #

They say he’s ill, Kim Jong-il,
Does he need a pill, ill Kim Jong-il?
No he’s had his fill, Kim Jong-il.

He’s ruling still, ill Kim Jong-il,
He has an iron will, Kim Jong-il,
Even when he’s ill, Kim Jong-il.

last updated 1 year ago #

“We’ll go up to Oxford Street and have a quick look round Selfridges’s.”

A quick look round?

The gravity of the counters grips her, a landing every time. Money is exchanged for fancy packaging. It takes tremendous energy to get her back into orbit.

We escape the pull of the perfumes only to be dragged down by the jewellery. The smiling sales-lady brings her head close over the trays and they conspire to pauperize me.

She’s already carrying five or six bags. Soon we will steer for the men’s department. She will insist I buy something for myself - a sort of consolation prize.

And then it will be afternoon tea. Darjeeling, scones, clotted cream and strawberry jam. I always try to order crumpets but she protests at this vulgarity. “How can you let me eat a cream tea alone? People will think we’re estranged.”

So I stuff the clotted cream into the split scone and dab a bit of jam on. Not too much jam. She likes a lot and will give me her reproachful look when it’s all gone.

Pour her some tea. Try not to drip on the table cloth. She gives me her regal smile. In the garden she mucks in with me, hacking at the ivy, turning the compost and raking up the leaves. But here she becomes a junior member of the Royal Family and I become her equerry.

It’s worse in Harrods. That’s why I never take her there.
“Why not?” she pouts?
“I don’t want to give my custom to the Arabs.”
“Racist!”
“Not at all, I’m just discriminating, the citizen’s freedom to choose.”

Of course it’s not that, it’s the delivery service. One of Harrods’s little antique looking vans stopping at the door with the liveried delivery man is just what she needs to get one up on the neighbours, for a week. But how one has to order to get a delivery!

I, or rather she, did it once. It was like Scott equipping himself for Antarctica. I think she was trying to get two vans but they squeezed it all into one. It took a long time for the Harrods man to drag everything up to the front door and pile it in the hall. Several neighbours needed physiotherapy after hours squinting from behind the curtains.

So nowadays it’s Selfridges. A bit down market but she can get more bags for my money. She can lord it over the tea room where the clientele are a shade down market too. Once she ordered a glass of Madeira to just turn heads. She can’t stand the stuff but she’s willing to suffer for Society.

But when all is said and done, she’s fun to be with. When I look around me at what other, quite reasonable chaps, have to live with, I thank my Guardian Angel.

last updated 1 year ago #

The bad weather rolled in from the sea, summer was at end. One sat on the cold wet rocks and sang thus:

“Grim Gothic Winter strides apace,
Cutting down sweet summer’s Grace.
Scythes with ice-bound Blade away,
The Blooms that sprang so fair in May.

Cold northern Blasts our Voices still,
Echoing from the summer Hill.
Frozen Fingers touch me now,
And chill my hot and fevered Brow.

Hard hearted Season end your reign,
Ceding me my Realm again.
Calling back the Time that’s gone,
The Time when she and I were One.”

We have had considerable difficulty with the above ever since it was found inscribed on the fly leaf of Adamson’s Guide to Artificial Insemination. When solicited recently for and opinion, one of the Spice Girls volunteered,

“Welwe, somebody just made it up then. Din they?”
“In all probability you are right my fairest”, the interviewer neglected to say, hitting back with,
“Ah but who? That’s what the viewers would like to know.”
“Welwe, I dunno, do I?”

This effectively closed the conversation, leaving the matter where it rests today.

Not that it could be said to be resting. Academic eyries are being shaken and literary eagles risk falling out. After a dormant decade, a Finsbury Park Imam has splashed into print denouncing the use of sex in medicine as a vehicle for poetic expression. His Hampstead colleagues were at a loss to know where he was coming from until the Danish Cartoonist revealed, in the columns of the Sun newspaper, that he had forwarded a copy of the text in question with notes on its provenance to the Imam as a peace offering. It seems to have been a singularly ineffective gesture.

Unwilling to be outdone, occidental scholarship in the shape of Jacko Smyrnovich in the American Journal of Insemination, offered this, the first critical textual appraisal:

“It goes without saying that the first two lines are not poetry (which is more than can be said for the rest). Adhering to my grandmother’s advice not to jump into bed without first looking what’s under the bedclothes, it behoves us to examine content before tackling the knotty subject of form. Fortunately the content is not extensive, in other words there’s not a lot of it. The whole work can be paraphrased thus:

Flowers being cut
Chill out!
Where’s my girl?

From this we can be confident that this is not a narrative poem, this story line is going nowhere. Tentatively, and subject to further analysis, I would put it into the category of Reflections, of the sort usually seen in a schooner of Bud, States-side that is.

Form gives us more to chew on, posing the existential question, “Are we being taken for a ride?” The capitalization could lead us in that direction. Ostensibly, this is an 18th century composition, probably by a Limey because most American poets were colonials until late in the century and there are no particularly colonial traits on show. We are in all probability in the hands of an impostor. Choosing Adamson’s work as the vehicle for transmission is a dead giveaway seeing that it was first published in London in 1922. Anyone wishing to write something inspiring on the fly of this otherwise deadly work had, post 1922, the whole gamut of world poetry (Longfellow, Whittier, Nash, Dickinson etc. to mention but a few,) to choose from.

In summary, we are dealing with a scribbler, who chose this unorthodox method of bringing his work to public notice to avoid publication costs and peer review.”

Despite this there are still those, academic and lay, who see or would wish to see in this more than meets the eye. Doubtless in the coming years, decades, nay, even centuries the question of the “AI text” will be raised. We may expect all barricades to be both manned and stormed.

last updated 1 year ago #

He brings his kit once a week. I try to have the list of things for him to do ready. Some weeks I have to break something just to make sure he stays. For an hour or so he potters around the house putting things to rights. He doesn't say much, which suits me. Having to say something might be dangerous, giving the game away. Sometime I hear him tut-tutting over something broken that he thinks shouldn't be. It sounds like he's reproaching it for making my life difficult. I can even stretch his tutting to be a small sign of affection.

While he works I make tea. He always gets the blue mug. When I bring it he smiles and nods for me to put it somewhere handy so he can drink without stopping work. Once, aeons ago, I remember asking him if he wanted a mug or a cup, and how many lumps. It was a mug and two lumps. So it has remained and will remain until the end of time. I never try to offer food because his hands are always oily or greasy but often I picture him sitting on the floor, with his hands greasy and his eyes closed, while I kneel beside him feeding him biscuits.

He always comes in the kitchen door and goes out through the garden gate. He has a lady customer down the back lane he told me, to explain his choice of route. Whenever he touches the gate pangs of jealousy hit me. Who is she, this lady down the lane? What's she like? Is she younger than me? Does she have more interesting things for him to do? Does he stay longer with her. Does he chat and smile with her and make jokes? Does he tell her about me? One day I'll follow him. I'll find out which house he goes to. There are only four houses down the lane at the end, set back with long front gardens. The sort of houses you could live in for years without anybody knowing you were there. The sort of places where an odd job man could linger for hours without it being noticed. No I won't, I don't want to know.

Before he leaves we have our little ritual conversation. “Not a lot today, Missus, just the bathroom tap again and I changed the bulb in the outside light. I'll bring my meter next time and check the circuit if that's all right with you. It shouldn't be burning bulbs at that rate.” If that's all right with me? Of course it's all right with me. He can bring his meter and check all my circuits everyday if he wants to. There's nothing wrong with the outside light though. Just before he comes I shake the bulb until it breaks. I hope his meter doesn't detect that.

I hand him his fee. He turns to leave with “Same time next week, be all right, Missus?” Of course same time next week will be suitable, same time everyday would be even more suitable. One day I hope he finds out what's really broken and I shall pay him as much as he asks to repair it.

last updated 1 year ago #

I suppose, years ago, there was a Bedford market without old Ben. Cant have been much of a market though. Anyway, as long as I, or everybody else I've asked can remember, old Ben has been down the market on Saturdays. Maybe he worked on the stalls as a young chap, but for the last twenty or thirty years he's been down the market just being old Ben. His favourite stalls are the fruit and veg. You might catch him trimming a cauli on John Hardy's “Selected Early Season Fruits and Vegetables” stall. When not, he'll sit up front advising the customers.
“How are Edwards Ben?”
“Not up to much, Whites are best today.”
“I was looking for some Spring Greens Ben.”
“Doubt you'll find any, they've bolted, they're not worth the picking.”
Some days there's a touch of sun down the river end and he'll move his pitch to get a bit of it.
“Getting a tan, Ben?”
“ You don't see much sun these days, may as well make the most of it while it lasts.”
On rainy days he'll move over to Pratt's garden tools, with a bigger tarp. There he sits among the spades and forks looking out of place with all the foreign makes. Time was they were all made by Bedford Plough, but that's long gone.
“Grab a spade, Ben, got ten poles want turning over, but I ain't got all week.”
“I've turned ten poles before breakfast in my time mate, and got the spuds in before dinner.”
“You and your cultivator I bet.”
“Bloody cultivators weren't heard of them days, it was my old Bedford spade and a my Dad's dibber for the spuds. Clay soil too.”
The market closed down, he will trudge off, up Commercial Road past the Harpur Central, across the cattle market and over the Prebend Street bridge. I never knew where he lives but it must be somewhere near the Black Diamond.
Ah, you say, the Commercial Road's not what it was, the Harpur Central is long gone and there are no more cattle on the cattle market.
True, but maybe they kept corner for old Ben. Next time you're on the market of a Saturday watch out for him. You won't find him among the aubergines, the Argentine onions, the Dutch tomatoes or the Kenyan beans, but maybe, on a corner stall with a few bedraggled Biggelswade runners or Potton sprouts, you'll spot him trimming a cauli.

last updated 1 year ago #

Mahatma Gandhi
Was rather bandy,
He owed his condition
To malnutrition.

"A winning hand"
Cried Tallyrand.
"Only a fluke"
Said the Iron Duke.

last updated 1 year ago #

The ubiquitus traveller Carstairs, created by J B Morton travells no more. Here are some additional notes on Carstairs' more recent exploits.

Chronicles of Carstairs
From the Anachronic Chronicles

B M Walker
La Rochelle
April 2008

1. N'Joola

Whenever accused of procrastinating in Africa, Carstairs was wont to remark, "N'Joola was not built in a day!"

Editor's note
In fact it has been established by an expedition financed by the National Geographic magazine that N'Joola, which consists of seven mud huts and a corrugated-iron out-door lavatory, was built in six and a half hours. Was this essential information withheld from Carstairs?

2. In Filthistan

The landscape of Filthistan, consisting as it does of arid desert intermixed with almost arid desert, is still criss-crossed by primeval paths sometimes frequented by equally primeval tribesmen. Carstairs, within spitting distance of the capital Stin-key, encountered his old tennis partner Ibn-Ben Smythe (Josh to his friends) possibly the last of the primeval tribesmen to be educated at Eton and Cambridge. A happy hour was spent in the shade of the Pi-pi tree recalling those days in far-off N'Joola and the girls at Ginginiluvu.

3. In the Outback

Carstairs crossed the Great Australian Outback many years ago with his faithful companion Gibbereegee an authentic representative of the exploited native Australians, known to his intimates as “My mate the Abo”. Incidentally acquiring a taste for Swan’s, and having led a hectic life as the Bandmaster to Ayers Rock, Gibbereegee was content to settle for carrying the six packs in his tucker bag. Disdaining to use a compass, the pair invariably arrived late calling for ice to the accompaniment of derisive cheers.

4. The Great South Sea

Disembarking at Rongorongo for lunch Carstairs was met on the beach by Tutiti in her grass ethnic skirt. Struck by the overwhelming romance of it all he decided to beach his pirogue for ever, hoist the flag, and live on her sweet potatoes. Many were the nights when Carstairs and Tutiti would watch a moon rising or setting chatting quietly about where to build the pier if the need arose. Manoman, Tutiti’s ancient father, would sometimes join them, blowing mournful notes on his conch. Wontiti, Tutiti’s stepmother, usually didn’t.

5. The Land of the Rising Sun

Sensing a need to impress the sons of Nippon with British Hardihood, Carstairs ascended a highish building in Haigotcha and announced to the assembled crowd “To Fujiyama in a pyjama” waiving the striped article for all to see. Donning the chosen apparel he then proceeded, accompanied only by Almond Blossom his gymnastic Geisha, to assault the placid peak. Recalling, when halfway up, that they had left without lunch, the gallant pair descended and consumed a bowl of soup with a chrysanthemum in it. Onlookers were astounded when Carstairs ate his soup with his personal chop sticks. (The left one having been pierced from end to end allowed him to use it discretely as a straw). This was, of course, before the days of television. Almond Blossom is reported to have remained inscrutable throughout the proceedings.

6. Dhown the Nile

Carstairs much preferred to sail dhown the Nile in his dhow to keep the sun out of his eyes.

7. Back to base

Carstairs occasionally felt the need to swing by London “For a change of lion cloth and a jig with the ladies” as he put it. Arriving at Southampton he invariably disembarked into the arms of Lady Fey of Fotherbottom who never failed to twitter “Oh Carsty, you do smell of elephant, how lovely. Let's go somewhere quiet where I can brush the dust of Empire off you” Formalities thus dispensed with, the couple were wont to retire to the Sea View Hotel near Fotherbottom for the customary cocktails and high jinks. The whereabouts of Lord Fotherbottom, although a mystery, seemed to interest no one.

8. The field of flowers

Carstairs’ frequent trips to Xochimilco have recently become the subject of much speculation in the gutter press. The apparent lack of love interest has fuelled speculation that the renowned traveller was about to cross “zum anderen Ufer” as Goethe would have put it. Fortunately, several otherwise demure descendants of the Aztecs have come forward to give the lie to such scurrilities.
Modestina from Oaxaca, a particularly robust representative of the ancient race with chins like a step pyramid, confessed on television to lying panting on the patio after a rendezvous with our subject of interest while he drifted away in pursuit of a pink gin.

last updated 1 year ago #

Not many Chaps Are Lapps, But there are zillions Of Brazilians.

last updated 1 year ago #

It always starts at the car park when she says,

“Wait here, they’re leaving”.

Those words turn me off. I’m a patient parker, willing to drive round and round until a nice empty slot presents itself.

Not so Jenny. She spots somebody with a full shopping cart. I have to drive behind them at walking pace.

They keep looking back apprehensively, perhaps expecting to be kidnapped.

They reach their car. They aren’t going at all, just packing the car prior to going back for cup of tea.

They wave us on, smiling smugly, infuriatingly.

If they are leaving they take half an hour about it.

There are some people behind us, honking their horn.

“You should pull to one side to let them pass.”

“If I do that I won’t be able to get into the slot.”

They leave; I make my elaborate, six point, manoeuvre and finally get in.

“You’re much too close my side.”

I reverse out.

Some idiot thinks we’re leaving.

Jenny jumps out waving and scowling at them. They drive off, probably going home feeling sick.

“Have you got change for the ticket?”

Always say “Sorry, I haven’t.”

Now she has to go and get the ticket. I lean on the car roof with the door open watching her march up to the machine.

It sees her coming and tries to morph into a fire hydrant.

Too late, she jams in the coins, stabs the button, rips the ticket out and gives the machine a whack round the head to see if our coins will fall out.

They sometimes do. If so, the poor machine gets a second, even mightier, whack to see if the previous user’s coins fall out.

Parking ticket dispensers don’t live long near Jenny.

“Put it where the man can see it otherwise they’ll clamp us again.”

We have never been clamped. She has been clamped several times because, as she explains,

“I just went off for five minutes, and it wasn’t worth buying a ticket.”

Jenny has the same problem with time as Einstein had. She’s convinced that if she accelerates around the shops like a Springbok the clock ticks slower.

I see she’s only paid for an hour. Good, no new dresses or new shoes today.

What’s it to be then, a bit of Jamon Iberico, some lomo, a slice of manchego, some olives, and a bottle of Rioja?

Alas, only if she’s in a good mood.

If not, it’ll be spuds, lamb chops and frozen broccoli.

We’re off, we turn into the Casa España street. Don’t say a word, trail along with the shopping bag, play the coolie, try to be invisible.

She’s gone in, smiling horribly at Teresa who smiles back unflinchingly; she’s used to English “ladies”.

Jenny orders Teresa around, assembling the basics, while I wander about picking up a bottle of Mojo Rojo, some anchovies and some dried cêpes.

Jenny doesn’t approve but won’t say anything in front of Teresa for fear of “Giving the wrong impression.”

What now, back to the car or does she have other thoughts?

Other thoughts it is, we’re moving in the general direction of the market. Yes it’s the market’s turn to be hit.

She’s gone all mellow at the fishmongers, defrosting the Dublin Bay prawns with her smile.

We’re going to have some. She will split them, de-vein them and grill them with a touch of garlic and butter.

The fish monger is flustered. He’s not used to Jenny in her nice mood. She usually behaves like a sanitary inspector.

He throws in an extra prawn to encourage her to keep it up next time.

Now it’s quick march to the delicatessen, what’s this, a slice of pâté?

We are going to have an aperitif. I can get out the tapas glasses and we’ll get started on the Rioja.

On the long haul back to the car park she slows down and slips her arm in mine.

When she’s like this I begin to remember vaguely why I married her.

last updated 1 year ago #

Keep a handyman handy

There is an alarming thing about Handymen. When one finally turns up on the doorstep with his bag of kit, you stand first on one foot and then the other trying desperately to think of something for him to do which will take more than two minutes.

All those must-be-done jobs which led to him being called in have vanished from your consciousness leaving you vacuous and not a little embarrassed.

That’s why I keep my Handyman handy so to speak. Jim (most Handymen give themselves out as Jims, it must be a professional requirement) knows me of old. He knows that if he had to rely on my memory for jobs to be done he wouldn’t earn a crust.

In order to keep the wolf from the door, he has set up a fool proof communication system enabling him to keep a firm hand on developments.

Nowadays, whenever I come across something to repair, renovate or replace, I get him on his mobile. He listens patiently, sometimes asking a pertinent question - like the day I rang him to tell him the radiator was making funny noises.

“Excuse me for asking Ma’am, but you have eleven radiators in your house and one in the garage, which one did you have in mind?”

(Amazing, I never thought to count them!)

“Oh, yes, the little one in the hall.”

At which point he invariably says, “Ah”

That a magic word! Excelling all the poetry ever written, Jim’s “Ah”, meaning “Got it, relax, everything's under control, I’m on my way.”

Of course he’s not really on his way; he’s chary with his movements, usually waiting until we’ve got together a fair selection of jobs before he attacks them.

When he has a good days work lined up he descends on the house, letting himself in, (having a key was part of our deal). He whirls into, smooth, efficient, cheerful, competent and painstaking action; the very model of the old time English workman.

All done and cleaned up, he composes his little note for me in the kitchen, beginning:

“Dear Mrs,
Sundries
2 off silicone tap washers 55p ea. £1.10p
6 #8 self tap stainless 13p ea. 78p
etc. etc. (usually about half a page)
Total sundries £8 48p

Attendance and fitting, say £35

Amount to be settled £43 48p

Signed,
Jim
6 may 2005”

“Attendance and fitting” is always “say £35”, it was also part of our deal.

I never try to understand the “Sundries” bit but I read the list carefully for the vicarious pleasure this insight to an unknown world gives me.

Jim’s missives are carefully scanned and archived. My archive is somewhere in California where the operators undertake to keep its contents safe for 200 years.

I fondly hope the some future researcher into 21st century life in White Oaks Close will find Jim’s works and interpret them for the benefit of posterity.

I often think I should have married someone like Jim instead of Charles, my useless lawyer, ex husband whose only contribution to the welfare of humanity or the greening of the planet was to drop dead from a heart attack aged 43. (“And not a moment too soon!” I remember musing to myself at the cremation).

That day I began to realise I was free to live my life and furthermore I was woefully ill equipped to do so.

Just because Charles had spent his time doing nothing useful, I had assumed that that’s how most people lived the good life.

Shock number one was administered, unwittingly, by Mrs Oldfield next door.

I was invited to tea for the first time the day after Charles went up in smoke.

We gathered in the Oldfield kitchen where I found her slicing bread! I’d never seen anyone slicing bread. Our bread came ready sliced in a plastic wrapper. Hers was a golden brown loaf, crusty on the outside and snow white inside.

Her teenage daughter stood by to slap on butter, lettuce, tomato slices and a bit of hard boiled egg to produce a two inch thick sandwich fit for the Queen.

The table was covered with lettuce, piles of tomatoes with their stalks on and a bowl of hard boiled eggs. We seemed to be in the business of feeding the five thousand, but this time without divine assistance.

I fingered the tomatoes, not a polystyrene tray in sight, no cling film, and with stalks on.

“Do you like tomatoes, my dear?”

“Yes, of course, but where do you buy them with stalks on?”

“They’re out the garden, come and look.”

And we looked. What a garden! On the right a clipped lawn with big flowering shrubs nestling up against the sunny wall, on the left rows and rows of edible plants most of which I had never seen in the wild, as it were. The centre space was occupied by a rose walk stretching the whole length of the garden.

I glanced guiltily over the wall at my section of Argentine Pampas blowing in the wind and undoubtedly scattering numberless nasty seeds and spores over Mrs Odlfield’s paradise.

It’s wonderful, Mrs Oldfield, who made it for you?” (Charles always had things made for him and I was still infected.)

“Why, nobody, Fred and I worked it up ourselves to be just the way we wanted it.”

I decided then and there that Fred, and possibly Mrs Oldfield must belong to the same blessed race as Jim and I wanted to be adopted.

First thing was the pampas.

Charles had bought the most expensive machine to cut the grass that capitalism ever got away with.

He was always buying labour saving devices. It never seemed to occur to him that since he was innocent of all labour, there was nothing to save.

The Rolls-Royce mower idled in the garage never used, not even properly unpacked. I dragged it out into the daylight determined to get the better of it.

There was a booklet with pictures.
Section one was “Before you start for the first time”.
A Caucasian male with an effeminate air was pictured switching things, adjusting, and pulling smartly. This I did in the right sequence to no avail. The wrong sequence didn’t help either.

Section two, “Achieving a smooth cut” seemed irrelevant at this stage as did Section three “Cleaning and storing the mower”.

Section four “Trouble shooting” was a gold mine.
The white Caucasian had been replaced by turbaned Oriental, a Sikh from the cut of the turban, who was illustrated interfering with the innards of the machine.

The first eventuality covered was, quite rightly “What to do if the mower doesn’t start”.

Mr Singh was shown dipping a pencil in the fuel tank, (mine was too short and fell in), jiggling the nipple on the carburettor with a screwdriver or other similar object (I knew all about nipples, one of Charles fixations, but I had no idea what a carburettor was).

No point therefore in trying to locate a screwdriver or “other similar object” although I was certain that Charles had laid down several boxed sets for just such an eventuality.

Moving on, I came to Section 4 “Need further assistance?”
You bet I do!
A kindly lady of Caribbean, or just possibly Ghanaian, provenance, pictured wearing the bedroom curtains, advised me to “contact my Supplier or my conveniently located Technical Support Centre”.

Having driven round the block several times without finding my “conveniently located Technical Support Centre”, I called in on the Supplier.

The day Charles bought the machine they were lined up on the forecourt like Montgomery’s tanks at El Alamein.

Obsequious chaps of varied ethnic origins bustled about accosting potential buyers, small labels bearing very big prices written in very small letters fluttered in the breeze.

What desolation now awaited me? The windswept forecourt bore no trace of mowing machinery. The freckle faced young lady at the desk labelled “Service” looked at me long and hard and, having established to her satisfaction that I was real, informed me in faultless “saf Lunnon” the “We don’t do them machines ‘ere anymore there weren’t no call for them locally”.

Sitting disconsolately at the kitchen table my thoughts turned to Jim. He would never have bought such a heap of useless mechanical engineering and if he had he would have known how to repair it……

Of course, what was I thinking of? Call Jim!

He came that Sunday afternoon so I could witness the miraculous events. Having consigned the, politically correct but otherwise useless, instruction book to the dustbin he opened by remarking, half to himself, “I don’t see how this thing could ever have worked.”

Determined to find out, he took it apart bit by bit until it was laid out like a giant jigsaw on the sheet I had supplied. Putting it back together, he came across four pieces with no discernible function and three screws and one bracket which should have been present but which were not.

About four o’clock we were under Starter’s Orders. Jim gave the “sharp tug on the cable” which the white Caucasian had advised so long ago.

We were off! She purred like a Bentley. Jim twisted a handle and she leaped forward mowing down the Pampas like the Combined Harvesters on the prairies.

Reaching the bottom of the garden, Jim did a smart left and began to spiral in. In no time at all, all that remained was a stubborn square like the Old Guard at Waterloo. Succumbing to Jim’s onslaught, they quit the field leaving it looking like Lord’s on a dry day.

My paragon, my latter-day Daedalus, left me with a small handwritten note,

To start, turn the key, pull the cable sharply.
To mow, release the brake, twist the right handlebar grip to advance.
To stop, turn the key off, engage the brake.
Please keep the machine in the shed.
I will keep her topped up with petrol, I’ve put a Jerry can in the shed.

Life is good, I can mow the lawn. Mrs Oldfield looks over the wall admiringly; she says she will send Fred over to show me how to plant tomatoes when it’s time.

We made a bonfire together of all the food like substances I had in the house and replaced them with things one can eat.

I was afraid the satellite people would detect me and run me in for releasing toxic fumes into the atmosphere, but they must have had a day off because nobody called knocking at the door.

Best of all Jim’s on the mobile. He wafts in and out of the house while I’m away, fixing things and leaving me little precious notes for my archive.

last updated 1 year ago #

Take the road to Brugge. Victoria station, join a coach to Dover. Down from Doncaster with two school classes on their Easter outing. Us two boys. Fill up passengers, among all the girls, shy and straightforward, northern lassies, but smart, with plenty of elbow. Crowding round, to hear our funny English, like on the radio in Doncaster.

Dover road, see the sea from the South Downs. Tell the girls about the castle, England’s key, they listen to our accents, not caring what we say.

Belgian boat today, foot passengers boarding, wondering at the Brandkraan, the Toegang Verboten and Aleene Maatschappij. White cliffs behind us, standing in the funnel smoke, trying to look unconcerned, with England fading. Lump in the throat.

Calais coast, tell the girls that England ruled it, turn north to Gravelines roads where the Armada anchored. Dunkirk’s sand bars, Jean Bart’s roadstead, our embarkation beaches, Malo and Leffrinckouke. Bray Dunes and De Panne where the French held the ring.

Nieuwport, and at last, Oostende. Turn into the Havengeul where Vindictive sank to block the U Boots. On the quayside, goodbye girls forever, you’re going on to Blankenberge and Zeebrugge, stand on the mole and remember the Dover Patrol and St Georges day for us.

Walk on the Visserkaai eating frites with mayonnaise, time for the train, local line to Brugge, not Bruges here, where French is frowned upon.

See the Belfry from far, built tall to overlook the plain. Hump our cases through the park. Into the Zilverstraat, carillon playing Bach. Old hotel, we know you well. They’re waiting for us, the women and girls. Motherly and clean, eyes painted by Vermeer. “Hertelijk Willkommen jongens”.

Eating with the family, “Eet smaakelijk”. Empty dining room, we are between school classes. Chicken dinner especially for us. First, thin green “grass soup”, it goes down well with pepper. Small new potatoes boiled and sautéed brown in a pan with chicken fat, not soapy white, English style. Don’t know how to clean our plates, no bread on the table at home. They show us with rye bread, we soon learn.

They’re talking and smiling together, we can see they are pleased. Soft Vlaams in the firelight, the language of Flanders, that keeps our soldiers.
We feel at home.

Breakfast early, always the same, round bread rolls hot from over the road. Anneke brings them in a big white cloth carried over her shoulder. Good salted butter, curled and floating in water. Quince jelly and apple cheese, home made. A big tin coffee pot. No tea. No milk, only cream. They urge us to eat more, finding us underfed.

Out in the streets, wet from the night rain. Sun coming through, going to be a hot one. Big American cars, bakers everywhere beautifully decorated. Eleven different breads to buy in one. More cakes than we can count. Gingerbread for Easter, sepia postcards. Cafés already open, locals taking breakfast. No shortages here.

Belfry’s watching everything, always has done. Use our French at the Tourist Office, learned at school. Laughing, they answer in English. Museum Card with sixteen different visits, a special stamp for each. Bring it back full, there’s an extra stamp for you. Rewarding the faithful? Keep it forever, still have mine somewhere. Don’t lose it now.

Visit the quiet Memling, the Holy Blood, Love’s lake the Minnewater, the Onze-Lieve-Vrouwekerk (the Church of our dear Lady) to see Charles the Bold. See the crossbows, borne to Bouillon to join Godefroy, then the long land way to capture Jerusalem, where Godefroy refused to wear a crown of gold where Christ had worn thorns.

Walk with the Beguines, in their old private garden. Sit on the hot stone bridge in the garden of Bonifacius, our countryman, come here before us. Winfreth (Fairface), friend to Pepin father of the Great Charles, Karl de Groote, Charlemagne. England’s scholar, slain bearing the Bible by the heathen Friesians.

Bells ringing in the tower. Ringing all together, no English changes and bobs, pushing and jumbling, falling, shouting. Fighting like cats in a sack. Shaking the stonework, telling us to go, we desecrate their garden. Tingling hands on the stone when the great bell tolls.

Slowly back through the hot streets, over bridges and bridges. Following the carillon, calling us home.

Calling us today, everyday. Still waiting our coming. Fifty years now, faithful and true.

last updated 2 years ago #