USEFUL or BEAUTIFUL

Prepare to repel boarders

2012-02-17T13:43:00.000Z

I'm growing weary of the default setting:

think the worst, it will probably happen,

defend yourself against it at all times.

The burglar permanently stationed near my door,

waiting for the day when I do not

set the alarm and double lock the door.

(Your insurance will be invalidated.)

The identity thief, keen to sift through my recycling bin

for the one document that may have included

a vital piece of personal data,

not shredded.

(Your bank account will be emptied.)

The parking attendant gleefully pouncing on my car

with a ticket for a one minute overstay in a free parking slot.

(Rush back or that will be £60 please.)

Yesterday my mind went blank

when asked to present my pin number at the checkout.

(Three wrong attempts and your card will be cancelled.)

And now, the hideous hoops that bloggers must jump through

in order to leave a benign comment.

I didn't switch to the new Blogger interface,

so perhaps you are not faced with an illegible string

of skew whiff reversed out letters.

Word verification used to be quite fun,

but not anymore.

Apparently the robots have learnt to read,

and so humans must play catch up.

Well I am throwing caution to the winds.

I'm taking word verification off,

and I'll moderate the little monsters myself.

Matt Daily Telegraph 27/7/2011

Short shelf life

2012-02-14T20:37:00.000Z

I hope I sold a few of these today.

I've just had to buy a new washing machine.

Running

2012-02-14T12:35:00.000Z

Went to the park for a run
for the first time after a long break,

channelling my inner Ueli Steck.

Gleanings

2012-02-13T14:48:00.001Z

I was so pleased to see a pair of these

busy in our garden.

Too busy for me to catch on camera,

so this image is from the RSPB website.

A first sighting for me, they look like a patchwork bird.

As I tried to identify them, flitting at some distance,

in and out of view,

I thought Thrush?

Huge sparrow? Redwing? Cuckoo?

But they are Fieldfares and apparently they visit town gardens

during a severe winter when the countryside is under snow.

They were feeding on our pyracantha berries.

JofIndia posted this picture

taken in the Wayanad hills, Kerala.

I used to make, and sometimes sell,

pictures using layers of tissue paper,

a technique called marouflage,

although I think that originally referred to canvas stuck to walls.

This picture made me want to pick it up again.

And finally this:

'The grand essentials of happiness are

something to do

something to love

and something to hope for.'

Left by Belinda here, and a reminder of this song,

which my boys learnt at school.

Bringing the spring indoors

2012-02-11T15:31:00.000Z

In war-time more than any other time we need

the brightness of flowers around us,

especially spring flowers with their promise of

new hope and new life.

No doubt you are not content to buy an odd bunch of flowers

and stick them haphazardly around the room.

(Perish the thought!)

What an opportunity spring flowers give us

of finding new arrangements that enchant the eye

and cheer the spirit.

Get four or five common brown oven-ware dishes,

(Bother - I only have the superior sort)

fill them with stones and completely

cover them with freshly picked moss.

These make the foundations which you can use

time after time.

(This is fortunate as our lawn is entirely moss now.)

Each is like a round green cushion which

you can embroider with different colour flowers

like some beautiful piece of stitchery.

one can be patterned with purple and yellow crocus,

another with scillas or chionodoxa,

another with primroses and violets.

Over the top of some of your cushions

gently arch a spray of catkins.

A narrow drift of spring flowers

along the top of a sideboard or bookcase

is another novelty.

Begin with a fairly large open vase

holding branches of blackthorn, catkins

and sturdy outdoor daffodils.

Graduate this to four of five shallow dishes

containing shorter stemmed flowers like

hyacinths, or pheasant eye narcissus;

thence to polyanthus and other small blooms.

( I would like to use the word thence more often.)

A basket of flowers for the dinner or

luncheon table is a refreshing idea.

Stack a plain wicker basket with mimosa, anemones,

a bit of early lilac and a few short headed tulips.

Never be afraid to try out different flowers and shrubs together.
It's fashionable to mix them.

Tulips and flowering-currant are lovely together

in a plain pottery jar;

pink prunus with palm in a ginger-jar.

A round bowl is lovely massed with lilies of the valley

or white violets with a posy of purple violets in the centre.

Grape hyacinths are beautifully set off by a surround

of cabbage leaves. Yes - cabbage leaves!

Their blue green is perfect with the flowers.

Daffodils and their foliage look superb

in a copper urn with the spout facing the wall.

Pewter and zinc are just right for the dancing daffodils too.

That Victorian silver cake basket your mother gave you -

(an oversight on my mother's part I'm sure)

it makes a lovely centre-piece for the dining room table

crammed with tiny spring flowers, edged,

if you wish, with a prim lace d'oyley!

There is more, but I think this is plenty to be going on with.

The full article may be found in the April 1940 issue of

Available at all good stationers.
Get thee thence.

The Dig

2012-02-10T19:03:00.000Z

The site.

The (very hardy) archaeologists.

The plans.

The hole.

The medieval town wall?

Let's hope not,

because if it is,

we won't be getting our extension.

On the other hand,

we might get to be on this programme.

Snow country

2012-02-05T21:40:00.001Z

Curlews.

Buried wall.

Such stark beautiful scenery.
Like a Breugel painting.

We had to dig our car out this morning

but by the time we got back to the city

the snow was just dirty kerbside smudges.

The rainbows are back

2012-02-03T16:21:00.000Z

Listening to this in the early early morning.

The past is a foreign country

2012-02-01T18:14:00.000Z

I have started going through some of my papers.

Today, I burnt all my senior school reports.

I kept the junior school reports,

because things had been going swimmingly

up until the transfer from a tiny Preparatory school with 60 pupils

to a grammar school with 600.

I sank without trace.

Being stared at by sheep

2012-01-31T18:09:00.000Z

I am reminded of a childish diversion,

(from the days when there were only two television channels)

called 'Staring Out'.

It was quite simple.

You would simply assert,

whenever there was a slack moment,

'I bet I can stare you out.'

It worked best if you happened to be sitting opposite each other,

perhaps at the dinner table,

or on a train journey.

You then widened your eyes,

lowered your head

and stared.

If they blinked,

you shouted,'You blinked, you blinked.'

They would then hotly deny that they had

and the game would end with mutterings.

Holding your eyelids open was cheating.

In the above impromptu contest,

both sheep won.

Clippetty clop

2012-01-30T16:03:00.000Z

The percussion of distant hooves on firm sand -

exactly like clapped coconut shells.

There's a young woman who knows a thing or two about horses
here.
You might want to go and wish her a happy birthday.

On the sands today

2012-01-27T21:16:00.000Z

The lug worm collector,

bringing in his catch for the

World Dab Fishing Championships 2012.

Here's how he does it.

Living up to my remit.

Useful. Beautiful.

What do you mean you didn't have time to watch it all?

The rest room

2012-01-25T22:55:00.001Z

Re. Alice's comment,

I do like the idea of people benignly lounging

in my comments box.

So much more companionable than having lurkers.

How pleasant to picture people

lazing on the chaise longues,

putting their feet up on the battered recliner,

rocking in the swing seat,

dozing in the hammock.

While you're here, why not

leaf through the diary on the hall table,

browse through the albums in the sitting room

take a sideways look at the books,

(they're alphabetically ordered for your convenience).

Indulge in some nostalgia.

Listen to some music.

Brew some coffee.

Have a slice of cake.

Talk amongst yourselves,

or find a quiet corner

in the garden.

Take one of our favourite walks,

look at the shadows,

the sunrises and the sunsets.

Or perhaps you just popped your head round the door

and thought you'd come back later.

That's fine.

Leave a card if you have one.

I'm out visiting too.

Play on

2012-01-25T11:53:00.000Z

Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.
These arrived in my inbox to lighten my day from
son two and JofIndia.

Repeats

2012-01-21T21:30:00.001Z

I have been finding very few opportunities for taking photos.
The light, or lack of it,
the humdrum nature of recent days' activities,
a certain loss of va va voom
(it's in the Concise Oxford Dictionary),
have all contributed to this sad state of affairs.
Time to visit the archives.
As I scrolled back
I saw that I was feeling much the same as this last year
and the year before that and the year before that.
I derived some comfort from that.
January 21st last year,
yielded this:

a defiantly shrivelled berry
and an incipient bud.
Quite apposite I thought.

This is what I tuned into on Radio 3

at 5.50 a.m today

when I got too bored with being awake.

What I would give for a full uninterrupted night's sleep

and a spring in my step in the morning.

Etta James

2012-01-20T18:21:00.001Z

First heard here.

Fair weather or foul

2012-01-19T09:58:00.000Z

Even though we are officially suffering from a winter drought,

and I should be glad of the rain,

I'd like this weather back please.

I'd also like to have this back:

insured for £500,000, melted down for scrap worth £750,

I rather took it for granted as I ran past it most mornings,

but now that it is gone, it does indeed feel as though,

'a finger has been chopped off'.

Barbara Hepworth said that she related her large works

to her diagnosis of cancer in 1966.

'It was the same in 1938. If war is imminent, or you're very ill

or something's threatening, you want to put something down

for big work while you can.

I was an absolute fever of ideas, without much hope of fulfillment.'

Some more big work is urgently needed.

We are scattered

2012-01-18T20:15:00.001Z

but the same sun rises over us all,

(even in Moscow).

доброе утро.

Solo

2012-01-15T16:13:00.004Z

Orange reverie

2012-01-12T19:59:00.000Z

The house smells the colour of the kitchen tiles.

I'm making marmalade -

a little later than last year,

but much earlier than the year before that.

Here's some Marmalade
I heard earlier.
Compare and contrast.

Little irises

2012-01-11T11:06:00.000Z

The sun is out.

So are my dwarf irises.

We all have walls*

2012-01-09T17:32:00.003Z

I pass on some rather queenly advice

in an article by this name*,

from Vita Sackville-West to the readers

of the Observer newspaper in the 1940s and 50s.

Often I hear people say,

'How lucky you are to have these old walls;

(at Sissinghurst)

you can grow anything against them',

and then when I point out that every house

means at least four walls -north, south, east, and west -

they say, 'I never thought of that.'

Against the north and west sides you can grow

magnolias or camellias;

on the east side, which catches the morning sun,

you can grow practically any of the

hardy shrubs or climbers, from the beautiful

ornamental quinces, commonly, though incorrectly called

japonicas (the right name is chaenomeles),

to the more robust varieties of ceanothus,

powdery blue, or a blue fringing on purple;

on the south side the choice is even larger -

a vine, for instance, will soon cover a wide high space,

and in a reasonable summer will ripen its bunches

of small sweet grapes (I recommend Royal Muscadine,

if you can get it), or, if you want a purely decorative effect,

the fast growing Solanum crispum will reach to the

eaves of the house and will flower in deep mauve

for at least two months in early summer.

*It is the 'at least four walls' that amuses me.
She seems not to be able to conceive of anyone
living in a house that it not detached.

Even today you can hear certain of our TV gardeners earnestly

consoling the viewers that even if they don't have a garden,

they can always grow some herbs on a windowsill.

This, as they stagger up the garden path

with a wheelbarrow load of basil

ready to make a year's supply of pesto.

Some people's walls are higher than others'.

Expectations fulfilled

2012-01-08T17:09:00.007Z

FAIRFIELD. St Thomas of Canterbury.

By itself on the Marsh, and mellowed with yellow lichen.

The illustration in Oyler's Churches of the Diocese of Canterbury

(1912) shows a tottering ruin by the dyke, mostly of timber.

W.D.Caröe rebuilt it from the ground in 1913,

with great care and sensibility.

Some of the old materials were re-used.

The box pews, pulpit and reading desk are painted white

picked out in black.

The oval text boards add character.

So wrote John Piper when he was sent by King Penguin books

to stay for a time in Romney Marsh, Kent.

Long before I knew of the BBC 's intention to film

Great Expectations, I had formulated a plan

to visit the churches of the Marsh

which he painted.

All we had to do was collect the key

hanging by the back door of a nearby farm,

and let ourselves in.

It was great.

Urban river

2012-01-06T23:03:00.000Z

This river is in a surprising oasis of rural tranquility

in a less than idyllic urban desert.

We're very glad that they cleaned up the abandoned

supermarket trolleys and burnt out cars,

but the ducks have the right idea,

you feel safer in pairs.

Wind swept

2012-01-05T21:16:00.000Z

Strong winds blew in today.

They tore my wardrobe doors open

and a whirlwind plucked at the hangers

and strew my clothes across the floor.

Holey jumpers, ill-advised buys,

shrunken and marked garments,

bad bargains,

the faded, torn and aged

the unworn and the forlorn,

all in a storm

bundled and crammed into

waiting charity bags,

and before there was any chance of

rescuing them,

swept out of the house

never to be seen again.

A few things escaped the maelstrom

and as the winds died down,

looked, even, slightly refreshed;

ready for their moment in the sun.

A gale forced decision was made,

as I once again struggled to find anything to wear

in a wardrobe full of clothes.

I am a reluctant shopper,

with a hard-to-dress lifestyle

in a hard-to-place age group.

This morning I recognised the truth

of the well meant advice:

that if you haven't worn it for a year

(or in my case more likely ten years)

you aren't going to wear it today or any other day.

It masquerades as a real outfit,

freighted with unhelpful reasons for a reprieve,

such as Wasteful, Will fit one day,

Worn once, Well loved but worn out.

My wardrobe is purged

but there is another cupboard that holds tightly

things I know full well I will never wear again:

my wedding dress, my back to work jacket size 8,

my vintage dresses, my Liberty rose shirt,

my Chinese silk jacket from Art College,

an Indian sari coat,

a velvet evening cloak,

my school Panama hat.

It would take a hurricane to empty that

and no hurricanes have been forecast.

The sartorialista and her sister

2012-01-02T23:17:00.000Z

Handsome isn't he?

My mother bought this sewing machine back in the 1960s

and started making all our clothes.
No frock was too floral, too bright,
or too short.

Pretty soon I was using it too.

I remember the thrill of leafing through the huge pattern books

produced by Simplicity and Butterick, McCalls and Vogue

and coming home with a fat envelope of

flimsy folded patterns which had to be accurately

laid out and pinned to the fabric.

But if I didn't find what I wanted, I improvised

with old sheets, tie-dyeing them with those tiny tins of Dylon,
(so impossible to open without liberally spotting everything
pink and purple, orange and green,)

and then slicing holes for my head and arms.

I also customised my jeans by ripping up the outside seams

and inserting flowery panels to make them more flared.

Paired with chokers and belts made from a huge bag of
leather and suede offcuts,

I was very well pleased with the overall effect.

Today I hauled it out to make some curtains,

but I was half tempted to make the curtains

into a tunic...

Getting dressed is just so boring these days.

LIfted directly from Wikipedia; Husqvarna was

originally a military arsenal founded in 1869 to produce

muskets for the Swedish army.

The company Husqvarna has since grown,

and its production has changed from weapons, sewing machines,

kitchen equipment, bicycles and motorcycles

to lawnmowers, chainsaws and construction products.

Driftin' on by

2011-12-31T22:09:00.000Z

Birds flying high, you know how I feel

Sun in the sky, you know how I feel

Breeze driftin' on by, you know how I feel

It's a new dawn

It's a new day

It's a new life

For me

And I'm feeling good.

It's a New Year.

Hope you're feeling good!

Leftovers

2011-12-27T23:26:00.000Z

My favourite game of the season - Bananagrams.

In Danish.

Now you must excuse me,

I have a boxed set of The Killing

to get through.

'Farvel.'

Christmas in a certain house

2011-12-24T00:01:00.001Z

I will set down here exactly what Christmas still is

in a certain house in England, how it is observed,

and all the domestic rites accompanying it

in their detail and warmth.

Of the long oaken table from out of one of the Oxford colleges

when the Puritans looted them three hundred years ago...

This table, roughly carved at the side,

has been polished with wax since it first began to bear food for men,

and now the surface shines like a slightly,

very slightly, undulating sea in calm.

At night the brass candlesticks (for this house is lit with candles,

as the proper light for men's eyes) are reflected in it

as in still brown water;

so are the vessels of glass and of silver and pewter,

and the flagons of wine.

No cloth is ever spread to hide this venerable splendour,

nor, let us hope, ever will be.

Now the way Christmas is kept in this house is this:

On Christmas Eve a great quantity of holly and laurel

is brought in from the garden...

This greenery is put up all over the house in every room

just before it becomes dark on that day.

Then there is brought into the hall a young pine tree,

about twice the height of a man, to serve for a Christmas tree,

and on this innumerable little candles are fixed,

and presents for all the household and the guests

and the children of the village.

It is at about five o'clock that these last come into the house

and at that hour in England, at that date,

it has long been quite dark; so they come into a house

all illuminated with the Christmas tree shining like a cluster

of many stars seen through a glass.

They are each given a silver piece and after that

they dance and sing songs then visit the crib,

And here, again, tradition is so strong in this house

that these figures are never new-bought,

but are as old as the oldest of the children of the family,

now with children of their own.

On this account, the donkey has lost one of his ears,

and the old ox which used to be all brown

is now piebald, and of the shepherds,

one actually has no head.

Then the people of the house,

when they have dined, and their guests, with the priest

who is to say Mass for them, sit up till near midnight.

Then the great oak Yule log is brought in.

and the rule is that it must be too heavy

for one man to lift;

so two men bring it in from outside,

the master of the house and his servant.

They cast it down upon the fire in the great hearth

of the dining room, and the superstition is that,

if it burns all night and is found still smouldering in the morning,

the home will be prosperous for the coming year.

Next morning they sleep late,

and the great Christmas dinner is at midday.

It is a turkey; and a plum pudding,

with holly in it and everything conventional,

and therefore satisfactory, is done.

Crackers are pulled,

the brandy is lit and poured over the pudding

till the holly crackles in the flame

and the curtains are drawn a moment

that the flames may be seen.

This Christmas feast, so great that it may be said

to almost fill the day, they may reprove who will;

but for my part I applaud.

Extracts from

A Remaining Christmas

Stories, Essays and Poems

by Hilaire Belloc,

given to my mother by my father for Christmas 1965.

This plaque is thought to have been commissioned

by Hilaire Belloc's daughter-in-law

when she had the house built for herself.

Digging in drawers

2011-12-22T22:19:00.000Z

I ran out of wrapping paper.

This is lining paper

and some old Christmas ink stamps

which I found in the art drawer

in a huge oak plan chest which now serves as

a base for a spare mattress.

It's full of reminders of past projects -

lino cutting, collage, scrapbooks,

watercolours, charcoal drawing,

stencils, reams of coloured tissue paper,

hand made papers, acrylic paints,

calligraphy equipment, badge making,

wallets of glossy photographs, origami papers,

picture frames, sugar paper, mounting boards.

Like my kitchen drawer,

it is as revealing as an archaeological dig.

Speaking of which.

We received planning permission for a small extension,

but it must be carried out under a watching brief

from archaeologists while the ground work takes place

in order to record any items of historical interest.

This is simultaneously rather exciting,

(visions of Time Team digging

exploratory trenches, bring in geo phys equipment

and whisking me into a helicopter to survey the emerging

Iron Age settlement)

and bloody annoying because this spells extra expense

and further delay.

I once worked on a rescue dig in what is now Milton Keynes.

We scraped very, very slowly with our tiny trowels,

and washed and bagged up countless shards of pottery

before the diggers were allowed to tear the ground up.

Winter solstice visitor

2011-12-21T15:28:00.000Z

Not one glimmer of sunlight

on this the shortest, darkest day of the year.

Here's some sun I saw earlier.

I think I may have made my last trip to Sainsbury's,

the one where I use up all my Nectar points.

I baked a ham.

O. made up a jar of Jamie Oliver's hot chocolate mix,

I will make waffles - a first,

and we will welcome a university friend from Chicago.

I can get her verdict on my peppermint bark.

Advent window trip

2011-12-19T18:10:00.001Z

This year the theme for the advent windows

was Christmas songs and carols.

I didn't get round all of nineteen windows

so far opened, because I took an unscheduled

tumble over a step in the dark.

The main thing that you feel as you crash slowly

towards the ground is

disbelieving,

then

stupid,

then

cross.

And when you find yourself there

you take an inventory of working and not working parts

and decide that sitting on a cold grass verge

in the dark

is preferable to trying to stand up.

Then you realise that you have absolutely no choice

and must stand up and make everything

momentarily,

a good deal worse.

The bruises from the keys in my pocket

were the most surprising.

The rip in my glove saved me from a worse rip in my hand,

and the other hand is now encased in tubigrip

which is a good deal better than having it encased

in a plaster cast.

The first landing knee is protesting.

Squeezing a flannel is hard.

Tearing loo paper

(sorry but it has to be said)

needs an inventive solution involving your elbow.

I am the world's worst whingiest patient

so thank you family and friends

for bearing with me.

And JofIndia

before you ask -

no, I was not all lit up!

A little Christmas cheer

2011-12-17T22:25:00.000Z

Glogg Glogg.

All lit up.

Sugar high 2

2011-12-16T17:40:00.001Z

It is at this time of year that I begin to read about

peppermint bark on American blogs.

It is spoken of with real affection and slight nostalgia.

Layers of dark and light chocolate are

sprinkled with crushed red and white candy canes

and flavoured with peppermint.

I determined to make my own,

but nothing is quite the same here.

I had to use mint humbugs,

(rather more brown and white than red).
I wasn't sure if my cream was heavy enough.

There wasn't enough white chocolate in the cupboard

so I added a milk chocolate layer.

But I put it in a nice jar and saved the trimmings as cook's perk.

Then I made my grandmother's May Toffee

because that's traditional too,

and saved the trimmings as cook's perk.

The cook is feeling quite perked up now

and may not sleep tonight.

The Candle Factory

2011-12-12T23:19:00.000Z

Demi-tasse cups, a Denby Greenwheat mustard pot

and some posh yogurt jars,

wick cotton, sustainers, glue dots to anchor

the sustainer to the bottom of the pot,

pliers to squeeze the sustainer closed over the wick,

something to centre the wick in the pot,

eco soya wax flakes, a bain marie,

essential oils, (sweet orange and clove mostly),

two pourings of the melted wax to eliminate a dip by the wick -

it's a fiddly business,

but completely addictive.

I can't pass a charity shop now

without eyeing up the china shelf for likely containers

and kind friends bring me things they find on their travels.

Some of the pretty vintage ones

have even gone into a local shop for Christmas

but they won't make my fortune

as I barely cover my costs.

It's just a bit of fun.

Fire works

2011-12-11T14:28:00.000Z

Sun set.

Moon rise.

Ceremonial first lighting of wood stove.

I don't think these will last very long.

Mimosa

2011-12-07T21:17:00.001Z

I was lucky enough to go to a kindergarten

that fostered an appreciation of each season.

Nature tables were preceded by nature walks

through open fields now overbuilt.

We germinated runner beans in snug

cocoons of pink blotting paper

coiled into jam jars.

About now we would sit a fat hyacinth bulb

in its jar and hide it in the cupboard.

The school garden provided chinese lanterns, honesty,

conkers, sycamore seeds, and sticky buds to unfold

in the warm classroom.

Most of the classrooms were just the

large reception rooms of an old house

and on each landing there was a grandmother clock,

which, should we need to go to the indoor loos,

we had to run past.

They had faces and anything might be hiding in the long case.
The bookshelves smelt peppery and I quickly exhausted them.
Only Greyfriars Bobby was left to read
and I knew better than to open that.

In the basement kitchen, Minnie the cook

laboured over the boiling cabbage,

and set out the milk crates with 1/3 pint bottles for break time.

I went home for lunch and was spared the cabbage

and the after lunch sleep, but there was no escaping

the slightly curdled milk on a warm day.

The bread man called at the back door

with his basket of loaves

and called me Lucinda.

Fire drill meant climbing out of the huge sash windows

into the front garden.

One of the classrooms was outside in a pre-fab

and the walls were soft gloss painted asbestos boards.

The main block of miniature toilets

was no more than a glorified shed

smelling wonderfully of creosote.

The Health and Safety brigade would have had conniptions.

There was a rose garden with a stone bench

(on which we sanded and smoothed our hands)

and an arbour of New Dawn.

A slope in the lawn was there for rolling down

in our brown gym slips.

The formal playground had three graduated metal climbing bars

on which we dangled and perched,

two legs over and swinging forward terrifyingly

towards the unforgiving tarmac,

or for the more circumspect, one leg hooked over

and swinging backwards which for some reason

was called a strawberry basket.

There was a sand pit and a wildly dangerous rotating see-saw.

One new girl was a fast runner and we would call her:

'Dido!' 'Dido!'

'Come and push us.'

And she did. With her skinny legs and her skinny plaits.

But one day she tripped and fell and was badly hurt.
We spun giddily over her prostrate body.

Miss Gwendolyn Harris played the piano and taught us our tables

which we chanted.

Six sixes are thirty six.

Miss Macpherson was stern and told me to sit still

when a wasp came into the room.

I did and it stung me on the knee under the desk.
When I screamed she made me stand in the corner of the room.

We had 'News' once a week.
You could bring 'Showing News' or 'Telling News'.
One girl brought a different foreign doll
from her vast collection each week.
You waved your hand urgently to be chosen to go up.
I waved my hand stretched as high as it would go
and never expected to be chosen.
Fatally one day, I was called to front.
I had nothing to say and nothing to show,
but I fished desperately in my blazer pocket
and found an elastic band.
I produced it with a flourish.
'It's magic,' I said.
'It will fly to the back of the room and return to me.'
The class looked impressed.
Miss Macpherson looked dubious.
I pinged it and it landed at my feet.

Miss Marjorie Butler was tall and gentle.

She gave me mental arithmetic sums to do

because I begged her to on walks.

She read to us and let us draw.

I remember loving Carbonel by Barbara Sleigh.
I never wanted it to end.

And what has opened these flood gates?

The cool, fresh air smell,

of mimosa.

Green flames

2011-12-05T16:50:00.000Z

My first bowl of Paperwhites

were up and over in a blink of the eye.

I started again and am willing them to last

until Christmas, but I swear I can hear them

growing.

The heating is restored,and the mild weather

helped to minimise the inconvenience,

but it was a good excuse

to warm up some apple juice with

cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, allspice and brown sugar.

It's nice on muesli too.

Chilly perch

2011-12-03T22:42:00.000Z

The central heating has broken down.

Fab gear

2011-12-02T17:47:00.003Z

I don't think I was quite old enough

to be a smart young chick in 1964

and I certainly couldn't afford a Tuffin and Foale dress,

but the article was right,

Habitat did reach out into suburbia

and I was able to get my fix of

stripped golden pine and chicken bricks eventually.

I still have the butcher's block

and the soup tureen,

although lately I have been planting hyacinths in it

as transferring the French Onion Soup into it from

the Le Creuset is just too much trouble.

In the rather sparsely labelled exhibition,

The Way We Live Now at the Design Museum,

they were marking Sir Terence Conran's 80th birthday.

What a busy man he has been.

See here for his own not quite comprehensive list -

he omits to mention writing his many books.

His cookery book is well thumbed on my shelf.

Elizabeth David was his guiding light.

He opened a restaurant in Neal Street,
Covent Garden in the early 70s
and we went there for our lunch on our wedding day.

The new Habitat catalogue was eagerly awaited

and pored over.

Cork mats, bean bags, duvets

and cheery enamel coffee pots

were all so wantable.

There was, as the article said,

'a feeling, particularly among young shoppers,

that they want to make shopping for the home

an impulsive, gay affair.'

If only I had been consulted,

I could have helped them with the curating of this exhibition,

and not only with my pertinent reminiscences.

They displayed one of his original fabric designs for

David Whitehead,

and I just happen to have a copy of

House and Garden from April 1953

in which it is advertised.

Shadow picture

2011-11-29T19:34:00.000Z

There may not be much light during these short days,

but what there is,

paints such momentary masterpieces.

The Advent carol service

2011-11-28T10:15:00.001Z

In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.

And the earth was without form and void;

and darkness was upon the face of the deep.

And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.

And God said, let there be light:

and there was light.

And God saw the light, that it was good:

and God divided the light from the darkness.

And God called the light Day,

and the darkness he called Night.

And the evening and the morning were the first day.

A candle is lit and the light is passed from person to person

A Chaplain says

God said, Let there be lights in the firmament

of the heaven to divide the day from the night;

and let them be for signs,

and for seasons,

and for days, and years.

The Sewing Case

2011-11-27T10:46:00.001Z

Of the household objects that have always been there,

unremarkable, unsung,

this,

a little sewing case belonging to my mother,

is perhaps the most modest.

I don't know who made it.

It might even have been a child's handwork.

I had an older sister who died before I was born,

when she was ten, in November 1951.

Perhaps she made it at school. I was never told.

I have never even wondered until now.

Inside there were neatly sewn compartments.

One for scissors. One for thimbles.

One for a needle case.

That was not homemade.

It has a tiny label saying,

Romney series,

Newton Mill, England.

I still use it,

but it is very fragile.

I decided to make a new one

using a scrap of fabric from my mother's ottoman

and some marbled paper from my first trip to Florence.

And then I made another,
from old curtain material,

and another from perishing fabric

wrapped round a coat hanger

and another,

and just one more.

Which is why I haven't been

here very much.

Roberts revived

2011-11-24T10:51:00.001Z

Yes, I bought a new radio.

Yes, the old one has regained consciousness

and is broadcasting again!

If only the hedgehog could have been
brought back to life with a hairdryer.
It still haunts me.
How did it get in there?
How wasn't it spotted?
But then again,

(those of a sensitive disposition
look away now)

how did our missing hamster get into a Thermos flask,
in a cupboard,
put the two tops back on and die there?

Dry clean only

2011-11-21T14:02:00.003Z

I heard a worrying thump

as the drum revolved

and couldn't understand why

there was a long black wire

lashing the window.

I drained the machine

and hauled out the sodden material.

The moment of recognition was horrible.

I had subjected my beloved Roberts radio

to a hot wash,

when I tossed it into the washing machine

with the duvet cover.

That radio has been my small hours companion

for so long.

I have always had a radio to tuck under the pillow.

Radio Luxembourg, Radio Caroline, Radios 4, 3, 2 and 1,

always there to lull me back to sleep

or at least to preserve me from

the boredom of yet another too early waking.

I even took one on a school cruise to the West Indies.

One night the white noise permeated my dreams

and I tried desperately to turn off taps

while clutching at the metal bars of my berth.

I have tried to coax it back to life -

dried its exposed innards with a hairdryer,

but all it can manage is a faint

hiss.

Have you ever washed the unwashable?

The Children's Hour

2011-11-18T17:31:00.002Z

I found this today.
It took me on quite a journey.

The picture is called The Magic Hour

and it immediately reminded me of a chapter in

The Family Week-end Book by Beryl Irving.

There it is called The Children's Hour

'that loved, dreaded, longed-for hour'

when Mummy in her tea gown is given sole charge of the children

for just one hour after tea.

Such is the enormity of this responsibility that eight pages

are devoted to advising her on how to cope with

their different ages and needs.

When the Door Opens...

it is no longer the ordinary drawing room door,

a little battered and chipped;

it is for one moment the gateway to magic.

As the knob of the door slowly turns,

Glamour is there. The children are coming...

For one perfect moment their dream-personalities flow out to you

the big boy, his eyes bright with what he is going to say;

perhaps a little girl too, priggishly demure in her pink frock;

the babies, fat and solemn.

The moment fades -pandemonium is let loose.

They bicker and shriek and rage. The babies fall over and wail.

Number One thinks Two's games are soppy and pushes her over.

Number Two then attacks the babies in like manner.

'Mother probably feels that she has been washed up

on a desert beach after a shipwreck in the Pacific'

and wonders why she ever saw charm in the children.

But with careful planning you can play all manner of games

while remaining seated or even knitting,
and before you know it,

Nanny will carry them away to bed.

Magic fades. The room is just a room again,

appallingly untidy,and must be straightened at once

before poor Daddy comes home.

Unless of course it is Nanny's Day out

which might cause one to swear

then they must have Garden Time.

All of this is delivered with a curious mixture of

saccharine and sour - a slightly brutal detachedness

(children are Little Liars and deceptive little wretches)

coupled with oozing sentimentality.

Although the book was printed in 1941

it is almost certainly the product of an earlier era,

one much closer to the 1920s depicted in the calendar.

When Number One is older

new perplexities beset the luckless parent.

Where does he go on that after-tea walk?

Must you really have those awful friends of his to the house,

to preserve him from the florist flapper?

But the concept of The Children's Hour

began much earlier with a verse from Longfellow's poem:

Between the dark and the daylight,

When the night is beginning to lower,

Comes a pause in the day's occupations,

That is known as the Children's Hour.

and was adopted as the name of a BBC radio series for children

broadcast from 5pm to 6pm every day of the week

from 1922 until 1964.

When it was announced that the show was ending
this is how the reaction was summed up by Whirligig radio:

Undoubtedly the Director General and the then head of Radio
expected some outburst from the listening public...
However they could hardly have expected the barrage of letters,
the campaign in the press and elsewhere,
the questions in the House of Commons
and the feeling of general wrath
which greeted the announcement.
The programme's untimely demise meant that
an important magic casement into Wonderland
had been rudely slammed shut.

Shop later

2011-11-17T21:47:00.000Z

Every year the same thing happened.

At the beginning of November she made up her mind that this time,

for once, she would get her Christmas shopping done early.

She went as far as writing a list - and there,

for several weeks, the matter rested.

At intervals she tried to pretend that

Christmas Day fell on the 5th of December,

or, alternatively, that all her friends lived in South Africa

and that she had to catch an early mail;

but it was no use.

The feeling of temporal urgency cannot be artificially produced,

any more than the feeling of financial distress.

And Mrs Miniver might well have added,

that while the sun shone warmly and chrysanthemums

and geraniums still bloomed,

it was impossible to feel in the least bit Christmassy.

Conditioned as we are to expect sparkly chilled air

and a real possibility of snow,

feelings of meteorological appropriateness to the season

are vital for the accomplishment of early Christmas shopping.

Dreads and panics

2011-11-16T16:26:00.001Z

Gulls and terns are closely related.

They seem to fly like embodied spirits clad in grey and white,

though some have black hoods,

and some have black on their wings.

The long-winged, long-tailed terns

are altogether more volatile and dainty

and less aggressive than the larger and heavier-built gull tribe.

Terns, even when undisturbed by man,

will rise up suddenly from their breeding ground

and leave it deserted for a while as they float together in the sky,

moving silently and in a compact cloud over the sea.

These movements have been called 'dreads' and 'panics',
but it is obvious that fear is not always the impelling motive.

Whatever the cause, the result is inimical to the survival

of the species, as the nesting ground is left exposed

to the attentions of predatory neighbours.

Collective flight in birds often appears to be so instantaneous

that some writers have suggested it is governed by a form of

thought-transference taking place over the air-waves

or vibrations of which we know little or nothing.

Taken from

King Penguins Birds of the Sea by R.M.Lockley.

Duck therapy 3

2011-11-15T20:59:00.001Z

I used to run with a friend in the park

five early mornings out of seven.

We ran in all weathers, for years.

We never got any faster

and we never ran any further than one circuit.

Actually we didn't even run all the way,

the track was handily marked in 100 metre sections

which we ran and walked alternately.

It's called fartlekking apparently.

The object was not physical fitness,

or weight loss,

(the cappuccinos in the cafe afterwards took care of that)

but it certainly helped with mental wellbeing.

We took it in turns to offload whatever was on our minds

from the preceding day's events.

Big or small, they got a thorough airing.

And on the way we noted the changes

that the seasons brought.

The change that the last season brought,

was the end of our running.

I walked the circuit in the late afternoon sun.

It seemed very long and the light was all wrong.

So I was the mad woman talking to the ducks

and being cold shouldered by the pigeons.

A lovely Monday interlude

2011-11-14T16:15:00.001Z

Every dull November 14th morning,

should start with a live performance

of Rachmaninoff's Cello Sonata in G minor
in the comfort of your own home.

Today would have been my dad's birthday.

He had a good ear but no formal tuition

and played the old Broadwood upright from memory

with big crashing octave chords in the bass for added oomph.

Here his youngest grandson entertained us in similar fashion

about eighteen years ago.

Ni jyu*

2011-11-13T21:55:00.001Z

This time last year he was small and

far away,

this year he was big and near.

Happy Birthday O.

* 20

The dying breath of a churlish salmon

2011-11-10T18:56:00.002Z

I am once again consulting

the Farrow & Ball paint chart.

At the moment it is a toss up between

Elephant's Breath and Churlish Green

for most off-putting name,

although Dead Salmon, Savage Ground

and Arsenic are close contenders.

'Paint it the colour of elephant's breath' was the instruction

Nancy Lancaster gave to a decorator.

She had previously specified such colours as

caca du dauphin and vomitesse de la reine.

Charmant.

But I won't be put off.

I'm sure I remember seeing it put to good effect

in Rachel's last house.

Curtain call

2011-11-09T16:57:00.000Z

The sun made a fleeting guest appearance here

and then promptly bowed out behind the houses,

but not before I had chased it with my camera

shouting, Wait! Wait!

Then the phone went,

and by the time I had dealt with the problem that brought,

the curtain had fallen.

Let's hope for an encore tomorrow.

Wood roses 2

2011-11-08T21:20:00.000Z

The wood roses have been gathering dust

in a basket.

Like the shells from summer which lost their lustre

and the conkers that dulled and cracked,

these once vital seasonal gleanings needed

a stern reappraisal.

Luckily there are people out there who know how to repurpose,

and so these have been given a new lease of life

thanks to Pebbledash and Silverpebble.

Now they are scented wax pine cone firelighters.

I admit they don't look very different

but that is because I had not a glimmer of daylight

all day.

They will have their moment of glory when the woodstove

is commissioned.

Chim chiminee

2011-11-07T21:04:00.000Z

The last fire in the old grate,

during which we were well and truly kippered.

First thing this morning the work began

to enlarge and prepare the opening

for the new woodstove.

The noise and the mess were indescribable,

but I know it will be worth it in the end.

Quiet fireworks

2011-11-05T16:09:00.001Z

The official display was cancelled,

but the one in the back garden went ahead.

And the winner is

2011-11-04T10:38:00.000Z

I would have liked to send you all clocks

so rather than be forced to choose,

I used this:

and was delighted to find that the seventh comment was from

Rebecca of Letters to the World, a long time visitor to this blog.

This bunch of nasturtiums as a consolation prize

for anyone disappointed.

Not sending the clocks back

2011-11-02T15:20:00.001Z

This is a George Nelson ball clock.

I am the proud owner of three of them.

I didn't actually buy three,

(even though they were a bargain price,

not now available quite so cheaply at Milan Direct),

but they sent me the wrong one and when I pointed this out

they said, with an airy wave of their hands

that I could keep it and they would send the right colourway.

So they sent the wrong one again,

and when I pointed that out, they very kindly said,

please donate it to charity if you don't want to keep it,

and they would definitely send the right colourway next time.

Which they did.

I toyed with the idea of lining them up office style

so that I could be synchronised with readers around the world,

but then I had a better idea

and wondered if readers around the world

would like one on their own wall instead.

Now the last time I attempted a giveaway,

I only had one taker,

so you are in with a very good chance.

All I'd like to know is

which is your favourite time of day?

Lark or owl?

Sitting (mostly) on the fence

2011-10-29T14:10:00.001+01:00

I was never able, if asked, to choose a favourite colour

or a favourite meal

or a favourite artist,

book,

film,

piece of music.

The Best of anything is a moveable feast thank goodness

and that's why I really can't choose

my most beautiful post.

(As for helpful - have I ever been helpful?

Given the title of the blog I'm abashed to say that usefulness

has been a bit thin on the ground, although
I'm sure I remember a tutorial on pomanders in the distant past.)

So I'm dodging out of those answers

with this selection of recently beautiful scenes from the garden.

I might try to find a post that I'd like to air again

in case it was feeling neglected*,

but really, even a plethora of comments

can't be the defining factor that helps me to decide

on a post that surprised me with its success.

I'm surprised that anyone reads this at all,

and I'm quite proud that I have stuck to this blog

for three years now.

As for controversial, well

I didn't think I was courting controversy but this one

lost me a regular American commenter

so I blame Eddie Izzard and would urge you not to look again

if you know that you don't approve of him.

*Cathy has kindly reminded me of this one,
so I'll shake it out for fresh attention, deserved or not.

Playing tag

2011-10-28T11:16:00.001+01:00

I was trying to comply with a request from Rebecca to join

in a blog project that is doing the rounds;

namely to disinter seven posts which answer the following questions:

What is your most beautiful post?

What is your most popular post?

What is your most controversial post?

What is your most helpful post?

Which post's success surprised you most?

Which of your post do you feel didn't get the attention it deserved?

Which post are you proudest of?

But it's not easy.
There are 835 posts to read and as is so often the case
with a questionnaire, I am struggling with the parameters
(and definitely taking it far too seriously).
I thought popular might be the easiest one to start with.
The stats show one that has had far and away the most page views
and it is this one:
English Music in an English landscape
but does that make it popular or should I be looking for
the one with the most comments?
That would be this one:
Silver and coral
because people are kind.

But then again early posts were whistling into the wind
and if I recycled them they might get whoops of acclaim
from du monde.
As so often with a game of tag
I find myself slightly out of breath and lurking on the sidelines.
Go and see what Mary found
and maybe I'll have got a second wind
if you come back.