Holidays - and children...

When our girls were very little, we would, like most families, try and go on holiday in the summer.

Once, we started the holiday a bit before the end of term (this is going back a bit, before education bureaucrats became the harbingers of authority, knowing what they ‘do’ – bugger me, they’re really clever these people aren’t they!), and we got away earlier with a letter to their Headmaster, saying the girls would record in a diary, all the days they had away from school, and draw pictures etc. He liked that, and so we wrote the ‘Holiday diary’, with grave importance. It was read out to the class when they got back.

We still have all these diaries; some are really battered and show stains ranging from egg and orange juice in the earlier ones, down (or up) to red wine, beer and Calvados, in the later years.

I love these precious books.

We always laughed, each year, when I bought a new notebook to write down all the things that would make me, and hopefully the others, happy, and bring something to enjoy when we were much older. I usually filled in the days, filling in the pages with gibberish and sometimes ‘pissed talk’, but there are also so many paragraphs and hand drawn pictures, written by our two girls, and Mrs S herself!

These records of all we did when we were younger, more carefree, more responsible, and easier to talk with, are still carefully stored – and often looked at when we can’t agree where we saw etc etc...

And they are treasures.

Reading gravestones.

While walking small dog around the church yard early one morning, I found myself reading a gravestone of an eminent gentleman, who is mentioned in all our local history books.

As it was early morning, the sun didn't pick out the words well, as it was shining directly on the stone. So, I'm going to have to wait until just before midday, when the carved letters are in 'relief', and, with a little shadow, I'll be able to read everything.

It's only just occurred to me that this phenomenom must apply to every gravestone in the country, as all churches are built east/west, and burials were made with the headstones facing east. The vicars were faced the other way, as if facing their flocks.

The dog didn't take much notice though, as she can't read!

In sickness and in time...

I’ve just seen an item on the BBC’s evening news, about pregnant women being advised not to drink.

So here we go with more of the usual mind-boggling and confusing ‘guidance’. I think any news about the NHS actually doing something ‘positive’, by being mentioned on the news, several times a week, doing ‘research’, or ‘learning lessons’, is a huge astroturfing exercise. The constant drip-drip of ‘news’ items deflects criticism of the current disregard for sick patients who actually hope a doctor will see them, and they can get better. We have to visit a District Nurse with Mrs S’s Mum on Bank holiday Monday, because the local surgery is closed for three days!

By the way, Mrs S. actually didn’t touch a drop when she was having our two girls, mainly because she just couldn’t stand the taste during pregnancy! This was an unusual situation for me to appreciate for some time, but I learnt eventually! I made up for the deficiency of course, and there is still a smouldering, doubtful understanding of the foibles of the rugby club while making sure I turned up at the hospital…

Talking to plants

Hatfield Girl has given me an idea, which I'm going to post right away, before I have time to forget it!

She is going to photograph her plants and vegetables and hopefully post the results.

The first joke I ever remember about getting close to nature, was a Rowan Atkinson and Pamela Stevenson sketch: -

Rowan - (leaning out of a window and bellowing) 'Why don't you just grow up, you bastards'!

Pamela - 'What's wrong dear'?

Rowan - (normal voice) 'Oh, nothing... just talking to the plants'!

Ho Ho Ho...

What on earth can you say to a tomato eh? How do you sing to a lettuce? What does a radish know about life on Mars?

Sad old git...

I really am becoming a sad old git.

No, I really mean it!

Today, I caught a train after 9.00am, as it saves my old firm money, and, by then, I’ve already done a couple of hours work at home, (which we all do in our incredibly successful enterprise - I wish...).

Now, I’m with the majority of normal people, that hates other people eating crisps with their mouths open, gabbling into mobiles incessantly (I do make the odd call, but I promise, I speak softly), shouting stupid rock-ape statements to their mates etc. We’ve all had to put up with this.

But today, I discovered a new disturbance - or even unpleasantness. For years, Southern Rail, (or whatever they call themselves now), had those awful trains, which used to leak water/draft/smell, and, at long last, they’ve replaced them with some quite nice new carriages. The usual yobs have stuck chewing gum in awkward places, and scratched names (those who can write that is), on some windows, but generally, things are nicer now, and the trip is reasonably pleasant.

But today, I became unreasonably pissed off by the most ridiculous action even I could dream up!

A lad got on the train at the station after me. I was sitting in one of the pairs of seats, which are built like those in buses; i.e. all point forward, and you don’t need to sit opposite a gorgeous blonde (help...), or a Stella drinking crisp crunching oaf.

The lad chose a seat to my left, on the other side of the central reservation.

Fine.

But he sat sideways, so he was facing me all the time!

Now, to those who know me, I only get cross when provoked beyond 32 alcoholic units, but this journey was uncomfortable, irritating, mildly paranoid, and, to be frank, I wanted to yell at him to sit straight and behave.

The lad carefully bought his ticket from the guard, he didn’t talk on his mobile phone, he sometimes even turned round in his seat the proper way! Then turned round and sat facing me…sideways again! I became incandescent and began early palpitations - well slight twinges from the gussett...

When we got off at London Bridge, the lad was also getting off there, and I began to fume again, expecting a charge in front of me. As we queued to get to the doors, he incredibly politely, smilingly indicated for me to get off before him.

Oh bugger, I am getting so old…

Sensible idea...

This must be the innovation of the century!

Where can you buy these things?

Veg Wars.

What with Mr D.C.Warmington’s discussion regarding the pain inflicted on vegetables when they are picked – one correspondent even referred to the ‘Silence of the lettuce’ - and our own situation with considering growing cucumbers and courgettes from hanging baskets, (a practice Mrs S has strongly forbidden), I have been devastated to see Mutley’s picture of his salsify from last November.

This is a superb vegetable. Mutley did splendidly, as it is very difficult to grow well. The soil has to be in perfect un-manured condition, before the little blighters care to germinate in their own time and grow in a straight line both vertically, and horizontally!

The most horrific element of eating salsify, is that however tenderly it is pulled from the soil, it ‘bleeds’, and immediately turns black! I have seen wizened gardeners weep deluges of tears as their treasured crops become readers of The Sun, and ‘phew’ everywhere!

So now we have ‘The Great Lettuce Carnage’, ‘Potato Slaughter on 10th allotment’, and now ‘Salsify Massacre – a suitable case for treatment’.