Back to front

I've been working in the front garden for the last couple of days,

trying to inject a little life into the parched, shaded,

needled, rooty terrain beneath the cedar.

This is a space that I pass through, 

en route to the car,
my second home,
ignition key at the ready,
to become one with the anonymous traffic.

It hardly merits a second glance.
The contrast to our back garden is stark.

Our back garden is peaceful and quiet,

full of trees, flowers and birds,

shielded by the brick bulk of this Edwardian house

from the sirens, and hissing, rushing tyres,

the reverberating bass from a passing car,

the buses braking, bursts of music,

the gesticulating walkers,

the mobile talkers, the crying child,

more sirens, the pneumatic drill,

the delivery vans idling,

the junk mail deliverers,

the three o'clock gaggle of released schoolboys,

bottle kicking, shrieking.

It's not a place I choose to linger.

But because I had to stay out there,
digging and scraping,
bagging up blown rubbish,

I began to acclimatise and people saw me

and found an excuse to talk, over the fence,

(I jumped the first time as I straightened

to find a face, to face with mine).

They asked directions, praised the house,

asked how long we'd been here,

checked out the door colour,

Farrow and Ball?

Smiled and waved,

reported on an elderly neighbour,

invited me round for tea.

I thought. I've got this back to front.

I close that door as a bulwark against other people

and cast them all as strangers.

So strangers they become.

We'll never have a street party here,

it's not that kind of street,

but maybe after seventeen years it's about time I knew the names 

of more than seven of my neighbours.

Brought to Life

Leafing through my albums I found this old magazine cover

featuring the Queen's visit to Ireland in July 1953.

By the miracle that is the www

I was able to watch 'shy little Catherine Irwin' presenting her bouquet

here at 01.27.41.


If you happen to be more curious about Philip Harben's
summer menus, you can find him here and here.

The Queen visits the Republic of Ireland

I hope someone offers her a glass of draught Guinness

and a verse or two of Danny Boy.

The lyrics (not immediately discernible in this rendition)

were written by Englishman Frederic Weatherly,

and it was sung he said, 

'all over the world by Sinn Feiners and Ulsterman alike'

and had 'nothing of the rebel song about it, 
and no note of bloodshed.'

Bring out the bunting

A sociable weekend with a festive air started with

a trip to a favourite place on Friday.

Eldest son and girlfriend stayed for the whole weekend.

 Younger son made raspberry macaroons.

Artists Opened their Houses for us to visit,

bringing together lots of old familiar faces.

There was an impromptu meal out with friends yesterday evening

and an invitation to a lovely big birthday lunch for M. 

to round it all off today.

It doesn't get much better than that.

The Angel

If you have to attend a judicial hearing to

appeal against an unfair parking fine,

resulting from a malfunctioning ticket machine

then this is an auspiciously named venue.

After eight months, the generation of reams of paper

and numerous frustrating phone calls,

I arrived to plead my case.

I was informed that I was to address the lawyer as Sir or Madam,

(but did not hear whether the same courtesy would extend to me).

I was further instructed that shaking hands would not be appropriate.

(This was unavoidable as due to pent up nerves,

most of me was shaking.)

In the event, my appeal was accepted without much ado.

He believed me, but explained wearily that

if everyone thought that putting a note in their windscreen 

saying that the machine was out of order,

would spare them a ticket,

then nobody would pay.

I see, so it was 

pour discourager les autres.

And of course, it's a nice little earner for them

because most people never take it this far.

P.S This morning I received two identical two page letters,

(because really, enough trees have not already been 

sacrificed for this).

Off Duty?

I'm sure there was a post here on Wednesday about our fox.

I was wondering aloud to anyone who cared to listen,

whether she had had a litter and was trying to wean them,

or whether she had eschewed parenthood altogether

and opted for a life of snoozing and sunbathing.

Since then, Blogger has been off duty

and when it came back from its little break

it had lost the plot.

It has rather put me off my stride.

Losing weight

The house. Not me.

I reckon it needs to lose about 2 lbs per week

for about five years

or it's never going to be slim enough

to downsize.

Slow but sure is the way.

A bag here and a bag there,

that old mirror, that jug, that bowl,

down to the charity shop,

little and often,

that's the modest goal.

But there will be sticking points,

plateaux reached,

avoirdupois impossible to lose,

infant works of art, boxes of letters,

the rocking horse - dear Banner -

the grand piano. 

Our house wears the equivalent of magic knickers,

everything is very compactly,

stashed away.

But once released from tight cupboards and tiny drawers,

(no pun intended),

the overspill will be an ugly 

and depressing sight.

And I have to confess to a slight 

loosening of the stays

at the weekend, a small weight gain.

But I'll make up for it,

I'm back in control.

A sacrifice is called for,

I've my eye on the ball.

It's time to blow the whistle

on the beautiful game.

The diet can take the blame.

The naming of things

 Whilst fretting about his inability to recall certain plant names

Richard Mabey in Nature Cure examines his need to know.

It seems to be a basic human reaction,

the first steps in beginning a relationship:

'What's your name?' 

So why bother, an unfamiliar, relaxed voice inside me says.

Why not simply relish the spring's new life

(and your new life, for goodness' sake) -

its exquisite variation, the interplay of the yellow moss ground,

the filigree sedges, the solid mass of tussocks,

the growingness of it all? 

Well I can, I think, but don't find it easy to stop there.

Some inner tic - not just an intellectual reflex -

makes me want to know who they all are.

Some years ago, when he was toying with Zen Buddhism, 

John Fowles suggested that,

'the name of the plant is a pane of dirty glass

between you and it.'

I've never been able to share this feeling,

even though I understand what he was getting at.

It seems to me that naming a plant,

and for that matter any living thing,

is a gesture of respect towards its individuality,

its distinction from the generalised green blur.

It is, in a way, exactly a gesture:

as natural and clarifying as pointing.

The kind of name - scientific, popular,

fantastical, pet - scarcely matters,

provided someone can communicate it.

Runaway colour

Unstoppable, riotous colour

all weekend.

Being Miss Marple

Midsummer by Albert Moore.

Warm isn't it? More like July than May.

I could have done with someone fanning me in the train today.

I went to see The Cult of Beauty at the V&A last week.

I can't remember much about it because I seethed my way round.

The following exchange at the ticket desk is to blame

for my ugly mood.

Me to man at desk.

'Please could I have a £12 ticket?'

(Full price.)

Man looks up.

'Twelve tickets?' he says incredulously.

'Are you mad?' he didn't say, but his face did.

Me.

'No, I just need one £12 ticket please.'

Man looks back at screen.

'Actually - £9,' he says firmly.

(Concessionary price.)

'Oh. OK. Thank you,' I say through a rictus grin.

Because what was I supposed to do?

He clearly knew better than I do, how old I am.

A queue was forming and an argument about my real age

would have been unseemly and ridiculous.

So - I gather that granny chic is all the thing

and I am going to embrace it.

Go with the flow.

Give up the battle.

Roll on 60.

Being Miss Marple is the way forward.

I went shopping and bought this

and this.

 I was going to model it but then I decided

I didn't want you all lining up to agree with the man on the desk.

Clearly the cream isn't working.

So now it's June

Keep up!


It'll be Mrs Miniver and her bunch of chrysanthemums
before we know it.

The secret on page 28

It was this letter, so flatly pressed that it adhered to the page.

For nearly sixty four years the pale blue watermarked Basildon Bond, 

marked Sybil's place in Mrs Dalloway.

4th August '47

My dearest Sybil,

                    This is to wish 

you many happy returns of to . day.

I hope you're not tired of having 

Mrs Woolf for a birthday present.

At any rate, you've nearly got the 

lot now, so I shall have to find 

someone else to collect.

                         I send you all my 

love and a tremendous number 

of kisses.

                         Mackenzie.

I wonder which ones were missing from her collection.

If he was giving her the novels she should have had

The Voyage Out, Night and Day, Jacob's Room, To the Lighthouse,

Orlando, The Waves, The Years and Between the Acts, 

but I hope he thought to give her A Room of One's Own one year.

In any case, she might well have been hoping for a change.

Did she open Mackenzie's parcel with a heavy heart?

Even he suspects his go-to gift might be getting a little monotonous. 

By page 28, where she abandoned the book forever,

 Septimus is sitting with Rezia in Regent's Park

listening to a message in Greek words from sparrows

perched on the railing.

Poor Sybil. What's he going to start her on next?

I'd like to give her

Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day by Winfred Watson,

just as a little light relief.

There's a very nice First ed. on Abebooks.

Worth every penny at £209.

Co-ordinates

Inadvertent colour co-ordination between 

my clothing,

the table

and our supper.

(The book concealed a secret on page 28.)

A breezy day

Another brilliant blue day

but with a sharp easterly breeze

making the leaves shimmer,

ruffling the surface of the lake in Richmond Park

and agitating the deer.

It blew over our swing seat

when its canopy filled like a sail

and next door's gate will bang all night.

One thing about me

I love a fire.

In this I take after my dad

who was never happier than when poking a bonfire.

He had a fiery furnace of an incinerator

made from galvanised metal with holes in the side

and a conical lid with chimney.

My new fire bowl is

a pretty basic affair -

 a bowl, a tripod and a circular grid

for cooking on.

Apparently it works best when you've built up

 a bed of ash in the bottom,

so this evening I made a start.

Quick march

If you'd like a cup of tea

at a National Trust property after an afternoon walk,

you'd better look sharpish 

because they stop serving on the dot of 4.30.

Thus it was, as an antidote to too much sitting around 
watching television yesterday,

we set off after a very early luncheon for 

the start (and finish) of our walk at Ightham Mote,

'one of the oldest and loveliest of 

medieval manor houses to survive in England.'

It's all a bit of a blur.

Are those hares? 

They look too big to be rabbits.

Fast fading bluebells, but English not Spanish,

you can tell because the bells all hang from the 

drooping underside of the stem

rather than rotating round the thicker upright stem.

I had never realised that the white horse-chestnut 

flower is flecked with yellow, pink and even orange.

The scrutiny of a sheep at some point on a walk is

inevitable but unnerving. 

By the time we reached the house our time was nearly up 

and we were gently shepherded from room to room by

accumulating volunteer guides, 

so that the house could be closed up behind us.  

This 16th century stained glass was brought to the chapel from 

Germany and installed in the early 19th century.

Furniture and fittings dating from the Middle Ages 
and the 18th century were probably brought 
gradually and haphazardly to create an antiquarian look.

The gardens were open for a little longer,

but the house deserves a more leisurely visit.

You can't rush through 670 years of history.