Cromwell in my kitchen

Strange but true.

Mark Rylance and his wife Claire

paid us a visit to look at our windows.

He wore one of his trademark hats

but to amuse the baby - doffed it.

His wife said that was not something you'd see very often.

They were both smiley and charming and

 highly complimentary about the windows,

floor tiles, garden and baby.

Her actress mother was chuffed to meet him.

(They just happened to be here for lunch you understand.)

On this cold, wet July day,

it was just the tonic we needed.

Now I am pondering the peculiar nature of contacts 

between unknown individuals and the famous.

On the face of it, we all 'acted natural';

there was no gushing about his wonderful acting,

no autographs were sought,

no selfies were taken.

But would I be blogging about it if he'd been

just a man in the street who'd used us as referees

for a window making company?

Of course not.

You can listen to him on Desert Island Discs.

I missed this one.

The last punnet

of ripe red cherries on the stall,

and in fact, the last in their orchard.

All the rest are black cherries from now on.

Hone's Everyday Book records that cherries were brought up from Kent 

and sold by the London Barrow Woman.

This is cherry season, but it is not to me as cherry seasons were. 

I like a great deal that is, but I have an affection for what was. 

By-gone days seem to have been more fair than these; 

and I cannot help trying to

"catch the manners dying as they fall."

I have lived through the extremity of one age, 

into the beginning of another, and I believe better;

yet the former has been too much detracted; 

everything new is not, therefore, good;

nor was everything old, bad.

When I was a boy, I speak of just after the French revolution broke out, 

my admiration and taste were pure and natural, 

and one of my favourite at all times, and in cherry time especially, 

was the London Barrow Woman.

There are no barrow women now.

They have quite "gone out", or, rather,

they have been "put down",

and by many they are not even missed.

Look around; there is not one to be seen.

Round and sound.

Tuppence a pound.

Cherries rare ripe cherries!

Cherries a ha'penny a stick.

Come and pick! come and pick!

Cherries as big as plums.

Who comes, who comes.

Hats

Once in a while I get seized by an urge to find and wear

 the perfect spring or summer hat.

Not for a wedding.

Not for a garden party.

Just for everyday.

And then sometimes the urge is sufficiently strong

that I go to a shop to see what is on offer.

What is on offer is an array of

completely impossible millinery.

Stiff.

Ornate.

Heavy.

Huge.

Tiny.

Veiled.

Asymmetric.

Extravagant.

Serious.

Silly

and downright ugly

hats.

I try one or two on in an apologetic fashion

and tear them off before anyone has noticed

that they are wearing me.

I go away discouraged.

But I do believe my search has ended.

I found a charming hat on Friday.

This one.

Isn't it lovely?

I thought it would go beautifully with this.

But it seems they are not for sale.

They belong to a Mrs Emmeline Lucas.

She is unwilling to part with them.

She had them made especially for her in Paris.

Too too dweffly cross-making.

We are honoured

A summer's day

Inspired by this inviting scene at Gravetye Manor,

we decided that this was the summer we would acquire a croquet set.

It arrived today.

The mallets looked a little bit short.

The hoops no more substantial than bent wire coat hangers.

Our lawn?

Well let's just say that it presents

some interesting tactical challenges.

But the satisfactory crack of wooden mallet

on wooden ball played a perfect summer counterpoint

to the muffled shouts from Wimbledon

drifting through an open window.

We played until we couldn't see the hoops anymore.

And then we came in for tarragon chicken,

 strawberries and meringues.

Message received

My Agapanthus in its attractive blue glazed pot

heard Alice's admonishment

and thought it better buck its ideas up.

Not that it ever had anything to fear from a Hosta.

Accident prone

If the iron fell on your foot yesterday

it is not a good idea

to drop a chopping board

on your big toe

on the same foot

today.

All by ourselves

at the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition.

Jim Lambie's Zobop zippy floor on the stairs up to the exhibition.

My senses are reeling already.

A last minute staff meeting.

Have they got used to the pink walls?

I want to come back to the picture on the left later.

Someone is ahead of me.

Two Sisters - William Bowyer

and to the left of them Afternoon Skaters - Bill Jacklin RA.

The Old House Dreams it is Still There-
Peter Messer.

London - The Streets - Kim Rugg.
Of course I checked.

A Humument 1966-2015 -Tom Phillips RA.

A Humument - Bourgeois Pictures.
We have been there;  we have seen bourgeois  pictures

Section model Feed the World Skyfarm - Lord Rogers of Riverside RA

Time Without Title - Andreea Albani.

Now back to Red Studio - Rose Hilton.

Rose Hilton is the wife of the artist Roger Hilton.
she talks about his work here :



As his wife she was actively discouraged to paint, 
despite attending the Royal College of Art,
winning the Life Drawing and Painting prize and the
Abbey Minor scholarship to Rome.
She painted a little if he went out but only
 took up her brushes again in earnest after he died in 1975.
This work was submitted in her 84th year.
Do read the article if you have time, but if not
perhaps listen to this.
I found it very moving in the circumstances.

Krazy Kondo-ing

On the hottest day of the year we were committed to hosting

a three house Table Sale in the front drive from 7am to 7pm.

Marie doesn't focus on the practicalities of getting the stuff beyond your four walls

after putting it into black bin bags, but this is a good way

if you happen to live on a busy road, on commuter and school routes

with no parking restrictions.

It might have been the heat,

but such was my feverish urge to rid myself of the clutter

that I probably would have put the cat out on the table

if we'd had one.

Ice cold Peronis all round

when we were sure that the last of the weary commuters

had straggled past.

Then a swift trip to the charity shop today

with all the leftovers.

£165 and an empty garage.

We met some very interesting people too.

Our capsule, house to car, car to house life

means we hardly know any of our neighbours

which is a real loss.

We need more people

and fewer things.