What is Poetry?

Ideas about 'what is poetry?' vary enormously.

One definition says that it clearly has nothing to do with metre, rhyme, image, mood, or meaning, but rather like your Vicar's Sunday Sermon, it is 'Things said in a peculiar voice'.

American poet Robert Frost claimed that poetry is 'what is lost in translation'.

Another more concrete definition says....

'In literature

prose written

with line breaks

inserted at random

intervals'.

A character in one of Trollope's novels claims that poetry is 'stuff that doesn't go right across the page'. I rather like this definition.

I am known occasionally to write poetry myself, a few examples of which I have published on this page, and as they never go 'right across the page'; I 'know' they are pukka poetry. 

However, I would never recite any of my poems in that silly voice that so many 'poets' use; nor would I adopt the pompous pose!

Back in the 60's, I got to know a few students from the Theological College that was physically connected to my school. These young men were taught how to deliver their sermons (using that silly voice), and were actively encouraged to practice in front of a mirror. I often wonder if young poets do the same? 

Going out.

 

I do my shopping on Tuesdays.

I leave the house at exactly 8.05am, and arrive at my supermarket at 8.30am; just as the doors open.

My list is written almost like a travel map; I know the layout of the store so well that I can write down everything in the order that I pass around the aisles. Dog food first, fresh fruit and veg last.

From entering to leaving usually takes me about 30 mins, and by the time I leave the building I'm hot and breathless, and my spex are steamed-up; that bloody face mask takes its toll.... I feel very sorry for the check-out girls who wear them all day long.

I've noticed recently that I become a little nervous about my weekly trip. Not because of any fear of catching the virus, but because my sorties are so infrequent. I'm perfectly aware that my feelings are illogical; but they remain.

No doubt this is all due to a year's lockdown. I feel wary of going out, but even so, delighted to do so at least once a week. 

This kid's got a bloody cheek.

Thank goodness I never had to wear a faux-moustache, or lie about my age.

You've gotta love 'im; cheeky bogga!

Globe trotting. Town trotting. Small village trotting.

After my people sold their beautiful thatched house in West Chiltington  Sussex, they moved to this house in a small Shropshire village (above), to which they retired.

My father had left Sussex where he had spent his entire life, whilst my mother returned to her native Shropshire.

How many of us remain living where we were born? I recently saw a house-hunting programme where the husband had lived all his life in the same house; some 61 years. The programme presenter amusingly remarked "So, you're a first time buyer".

My sister moved to New Zealand in about 1964/5, my cousin moved to Canada, and I moved to France, both in 1972. My daughter lives in Oz, and at present my youngest son is living in Mexico; but we're not sure for how long; he also has homes in France, Oz, and Thailand.

The idea of staying in the same place all one's life, is now almost unheard of. We see our country, or the world, as our Oyster, and wish to explore. It's not that we are dissatisfied with life where we were born, we simply refuse to be nailed to one particular spot.

My village is very small, with just 240 well-spaced inhabitants. Old time peasant-farming has been ruined by the EU and most youngsters now quit the village to work in towns, so in future there will be very little family continuity. I wonder when the next 'return to the country' trend will arrive?

Maybe if France was to leave the EU, farming could make a come-back. Until then land remains unused, the owners receive payments from Brussels for doing nothing, and their sons and daughters head for the crowded cities.

 

A change in the air.

With blossom on the Plum trees, and a full week of warm sunshine ahead, things are looking up!

Boris has laid-out his 'roadmap' to lockdown-freedom, and there is an air of optimism afoot. There certainly seems to be some light at the end of, what's been, an extremely long tunnel.

Of course, one mustn't think that some miracle will make Covid-19 disappear on June 21st; it won't. If the figures of incidents and deaths reduce, the government hopes that increased mingling will make boosting the economy worthwhile. Hopefully those future lost-lives will be kept to an absolute minimum, but that all depends on how WE behave.

With plenty of sunshine and warmth around, we can now begin to enjoy ourselves again; but we need to remain extremely cautious.

 

The Future of the High Street.

I hear that the UK town of Stockton on Tees is to demolish many of it's empty High Street shops, and create a park instead. Main shopping streets, and their shops, have been under attack for some while, and the current pandemic has only helped their decline.

I've not visited Stockton, but having looked at photos on Google Images, it looks to be quite an attractive town, on the banks of a wide river.

With the huge rise in online shopping, there is little doubt that more business premises will remain empty; so what to do?

Here's an idea. There is a lot to be said for replacing town-centre unwanted shops, with large grassy areas, with open-air covered market places; these can have so many uses, and they would be an asset to any community. The one above is in my closest small town; imagine a modern equivalent positioned in a large park in any UK town. 

In future people will always use out-of-town mega-stores for their general shopping, but they would undoubtedly head back into a town centre for special events based under such a building.

They could house weekly Farmers' markets, concerts, summer fairs, weddings, dances, or even weekly boot sales; nothing can be ruled-out from their usage. Acting as a huge umbrella in case of rain, they are also perfect in areas of unpredictable weather.

Personally I would like to see communal BBQ facilities and even a community Bread Oven built into them.

The area where I live is awash with such buildings (the one above is at Monpazier), and several have been built in recent times, including this one (below) in my own tiny village which is very well used; as you can see.

This may not be the perfect solution to empty-shop-syndrome, but as a community facility they could only bring people back into the town centre; and that is what all failing town-centres need.

Any remaining empty shops should be refurbished as dwellings. Change those shop fronts into really desirable looking house facades, and simply rearrange the interiors. QED.

 

Getting ready.

Right, let's try something about gardening. Maybe it will prove less controversial.

Preparing for the new year's growing season is always a pleasure. So far I've dug over just two of the four beds in readiness for some early planting/sowing. Just being out there in the sunshine, digging away, is a real pleasure.

I've decided to totally ignore the fact that we'll probably be kicked out of France before October. We'll enjoy what crops are edible prior to leaving, then allow certain neighbours to enjoy the Autumn/Winter crops that we leave behind.

As you can probably see, we still have plenty of Cavolo Nero plants, which are now sending out beautifully tender shoots, plus some Perpetual Spinach and Swiss Chard. In the background our Globe Artichokes are looking very healthy this year.

All the usual crops will go in. Potatoes, Courgettes, Beans, Peppers, Butternuts, Aubergines, Cavolo nero, Chard, Spinach, Onions, and of course Tomatoes (which will be in pots, positioned elsewhere!).

It'll be a strange year, knowing that I'll have to leave crops unharvested. But that's how things are with post-Brexit UK/France relations.

On Being Alone.

I was once advised that if I found myself lost and alone in the jungle, and provided that I had the correct ingredients, I should mix myself a dry Martini made of one part Gin to one part Vermouth. Even before I'd finished the shaking (not stirring), someone would suddenly arrive telling me that I'd done it all wrong. Voila!

Another version of this advice comes from Australia. If one should find oneself lost and alone in the outback, one should start playing 'Patience', and, again, within seconds someone will appear over your shoulder advising that 'the red six goes on the black seven'.

Personally I found the very best 'ice-breaker' was having a puppy. It was amazing how many people would stop to stroke a small cute scruffy mutt, and have a chat (I'm known to do this myself). Pleasant in its way, but getting from A to B was a bloody nightmare. I should add that this was based on experiences in England/Wales; not in France.

Samuel Johnson showed wisdom on almost every subject, including that of being alone; he advised "If idle be not solitary, if solitary be not idle". Wise words indeed.

Wooden Spoons!

I wonder if your home is anything like ours? This is just a small selection of our wooden spoons, there are others in drawers and pots all over the place!

Guess which is the only one I ever use. Yes, you're right; that grotty little well-worn job on the lower right. It is perfect for everything I do, and I'd hate to loose it. I never use any other. Just look how worn-away it is from all that stirring!

I also have my mother's 'Scotch hands', several sets of salad servers, an olive scoop, and an assortment of unknown wooden objects. As with all such things; you never know when they might be needed!!

How many do you have lurking at the bottom of your kitchen drawers?

 

Celebrity Bomb Disposal.

The proliferation of Reality TV shows seems to know no bounds.

Such shows reached new depths for me recently when I saw a trailer for a show called 'Celebs go Farming' (or something equally stupid). I could name others but what's the point!

So, I think the time is right to re-float my idea of  'Celebrity Bomb Disposal', which I first proposed back in October 2015.

The idea was this. Minor Celebs would compete against each other to defuse a small bomb, with one Celeb being eliminated (possibly through injury) each week. Week by week the bombs would become bigger, and the defusing more complicated. Audience members would be encouraged to shout "CUT THE RED WIRE", etc, as well as other helpful suggestions.

When down to the final two Celebs, they would then compete against each other for a prize of £100,000 (to be donated to a charity of his/her choice). To win, one of the two would need to successfully defuse the most complicated and most dangerous bomb. As you can imagine, the tension would be nail-biting, and failure to defuse correctly (see above photo) would be met with much hilarity.

I predict HUGE audience figures, and if any TV channel is interested I can nominate several annoying Celebs who I'm sure would love to take part. 

© Celebrity Bomb Disposal 2015

That looks better!

It may not yet be Croquet standard, but it looks much better than before. Well done Rory; he started first go. I also managed to mow Haddock's, but with the ordinary mower.

Daffs.

AT LAST!

Temperatures are rising, and the seemingly never-ending rain has temporarily halted. 

I am seriously thinking of seeing if Rory (my ride-on mower) will start, then maybe give everywhere its first trim of the year. The grass isn't really long enough to warrant it, but it would make everywhere looked well-loved!

Amazing how the first signs of Spring makes us feel alive again.

More about 'Best Before'.

 

Why is it that instructions often say 'Best before end June', rather than 'Best before July'?

A more precise instruction might say 'Best before July, very good before August, still OK before September, but may have gone off by October'.

When going through those cupboards, or fridge, searching for 'out of date' foods, it might simply be wise to look for packaging offering a 'Chance to win a Sinclair C5, or Tickets to the World Cup Final in Mexico'. These are a good hint.

Other serious signs include seeing the price marked in pounds, shillings, and pence; or even a nasty pong!

I hope this has been of help.

First flat; first job.

I was recently reminded of my first flat (bed-sit) in London's Inverness Terrace, Bayswater, and my working life that surrounded it. My flat was dingy, basic, and soul-less; and it cost 4 guineas a week.

After school I really didn't know what to do. I'd turned down an offer to study architecture, so plumped for The Stock Exchange instead. It seemed like a respectable alternative.

The main requirements for a young prospective broker (in those days) was dress and maths. Dress code was very important; pinstriped suit, striped shirt with white loose collar, navy tie with white spots, bowler, brolly, and pink newspaper under one arm. In the maths dep't, one had to be able to add and subtract.

I began my City work by commuting daily from the South Coast, but that soon became a nightmare, so I took the flat in Bayswater to cut about 3 hours from my daily travel.

I hated almost every minute of my time in The City, even though I did my job pretty well. The only bits I really enjoyed were when out of the office, strutting down to either Throgmorton or Threadneedle Streets, wearing a freshly brushed silk topper. It was a pleasant part of my City life, not being behind some horrible desk, or running around between brokers and jobbers. I always took my time.

After a very healthy, and totally unexpected, bonus, I happily quit my job, spent a couple of very pleasant lazy weeks in Paris, then was offered a job managing a small West End Gallery in Devonshire St W1. 

My life changed completely, and every day became a pleasure rather than a chore. I became instantly relaxed, and stress-free. Work-wise, I started to make my own decisions, and not live by those of others.

Since those days I have never taken any job that I didn't enjoy; other than a Summer student job doing house removals; but as a student, you do anything.

Feb' 14th.

If it's St Valentine's Day; it must be my old friend Jock's birthday.....Happy birthday Jock. 

Jock (Veitch) knew EVERYONE. You could mention almost any well known actor, actress, singer, politician, king, queen, etc; and Jock would have had a story. As a journalist in Sydney and New York, he put himself around a bit. If you're interested, his Sydney Herald obit' is on Google. 

Of course it's also St Valentine's Day, the day when we buy boxes of chocs, bunches of flars, or reserve seats at expensive restaurants (in better times).

In these days of lockdown, however, chocs will probably be this year's most popular  gift (I hope so anyway, ahem!). May I wish all our lovely wives, girlfriends, and ladies everywhere, a very happy day. I hope you are all being spoilt rotten!

Markle v The Mail on Sunday

It seems as if Ms Markle has won the first round of her case against 'The Mail on Sunday' newspaper (Associated Newspapers Limited), for having published that private letter to her father.

In my personal opinion, the Judge (Mr Justice Warby) was absolutely right. There is no question that there was misuse of private information, and an infringement of copyright; copyright always belongs to the writer of a letter (and/or other personal work). Appropriation of such copyright is a serious offence.

I am no fan of Ms Markle, but the law is rightly on her side. Her frustration must have been 'off the scale'.

Readers may remember that I, myself, have been the victim of blatant theft of copyright.  I was advised at the time that there wasn't a court in the world that wouldn't find in my favour as far as damages were concerned. I was also wisely advised that it was probably 'more gentlemanly' not to damage the offender financially, or upset neighbourly relationships, so I reluctantly allowed him to stay away from court. 

As with The Mail on Sunday, lessons must be learned; although I expect that any damages Ms Markle can expect, will be far in excess of what mine might have been. 

It's all so tiresome.

 

I really am beginning to get fed-up with this bloody Covid-19 business. I'm not a particularly gregarious person, but even so the limits put on our movements and associations are becoming extremely tedious.

There is much talk at the moment of the nation's 'mental health', 'eating disorders', etc. This isn't an issue for me personally as I'm fortunate in being a very well-balanced person, but I can well imagine more vulnerable people becoming affected; especially the young. It's simply knowing that one CAN'T do certain things which is so frustrating; even if we wish to do them or not, and the young find that far more frustrating than we older folk.

On the good side, my savings have increased considerably, my gut says 'thank you' as we are eating wholemeal bread almost exclusively (it seems to freeze better than sourdough), and Haddock's has already been dug-over twice in preparation for Spring sowing/planting.

Luckily we have plenty of very good friends and family with whom we converse daily, so we are not totally isolated, but I would like to visit some other town occasionally; just for the hell of it.

Our appalling recent weather doesn't help. We have been through a long period of rain, light rain, and drizzle, and the ground is sodden. My daily early morning walks are accompanied by the sound of squelching and splashing. It really is unpleasant; although, of course, that can't be blamed on Covid.

My fear is that I may become lazy, which for me is a nightmare. I'm someone who loves to be busy. A few days of sunshine would soon change that. As such sunshine is in short supply, when it does appear I'm out there gardening, sawing, and chopping.

People are eager for an end to Lockdown, but I know that this will only help create a further spread of the virus. Folk will spread their wings in carefree abandon, and a further spike will be almost inevitable.

At present I venture out just once a week (Tuesdays) to go shopping. My normally extensive store cupboard has recently been showing signs of tiredness. To replenish stocks, last Tuesday, it cost me a staggering €150; I don't think I've ever spent so much on a week's shopping in my life. Still, the cupboard is now groaning again.

My mother's birthday

Today, Feb' 11th, was my dear mother's birthday. Were she still alive she would be 104 years old today (actually she would have been 107).

                                                  

There was nothing particularly special about her; she was simply my mother.

Her favourite saying was "Be easy, but if you can't be easy, be as easy as you can". I've always tried to live by that maxim; and I think quite successfully.

She was part Welsh, but, frankly, was far more English than Welsh. She had no hint of a Welsh accent. However, she was very proud of being a distant cousin of Wales's most famous writer (in Welsh) Islwyn Ffowc-Elis. Her Welshness was limited to always calling me a Mochyn budr (Dirty Pig); which I was! Plus all the usual greetings and farewells.

She had been something of a free spirit in her youth. With her friend Pud Cumpsty she bought an old Gypsy caravan, for weekends, which they parked on top of a hill overlooking the rolling Welsh hills, the caravan was reached by means of a Velocette motorbike, which I believe they also bought together. Many years later she bought a cottage on almost the same spot, no doubt to rekindle old memories.

I suppose my mother's most interesting achievement in life was knowing the Latin names, common names, and regional names, for most garden plants. Her knowledge of unusual regional names was quite extraordinary, and it's a shame that she never wrote it all down.

However, her two 'great claims to fame' were, firstly, as a wartime Red Cross Nurse she was the only one to deliver a baby on the pavement. She was working in Dormansland, a Surrey village where many of London's pregnant women were sent to be away from bombs, and give birth. Secondly she discovered a plot by German Prisoners of War to escape their camp at Lingfield Racecourse. Whilst walking her dog, she'd noticed a build-up of earth in a small stream, and tipped off the guards. They found a tunnel, and all was well. She received several letters from The Queen for her nursing work, but just a vague thank you for foiling the escape plot.

I wish her a very Happy birthday, which sadly will go unheard. 

The EU's Dreadful Duo.

It's the subject on everyone's lips; I must say, that like most people, I've been extremely disappointed by the recent behaviour of two of the EU's grandees; Von der Leyen and Macron. Don't be fooled by their 'sweetness and light' looks, they would stab you in the back in an instant. Not nice people.

After years of negotiations between the UK and the EU, a Brexit deal was agreed and signed. What one thinks either of the deal itself, or even of Brexit in general, is of no unimportance here; it is the fact that an agreement had been made, then almost instantly rejected by Brussels.

But this has always been the case with the EU, they pass laws which the UK always abided-by, and mainland Europe ignored.

People don't forget two-faced hypocrites, and I doubt very much whether either German Von der Leyen or Frenchman Macron will be re-elected when they next go to the polls.

They must be careful. Boris is not a vindictive person, but if he decided to reciprocate it could hit both Germany and France's economies extremely hard. Wines, Cheeses, Cars, etc from France, and mostly Cars and White Goods from Germany could very soon be met with crippling border restrictions. 

Wee Ms Von der Leyen might soon discover that the country she describes as 'An insignificant little island' has more effing clout than either she or a certain ex-Chancellor (who's name I won't mention) could ever have imagined! 

George Eustace MP has already warned Brussels that they'll soon be 'boarding boats' if they continue to renege on certain export deals.

Don't mess with Britain!

Identity Parade?

Am I alone in wondering why on earth so many criminals make themselves look like criminals, by covering themselves in instantly recognisable tattoos?

In an occupation where invisibility and discretion are paramount, making oneself instantly recognisable seems a tad unintelligent.

A thief wearing a plain grey suit, shirt and tie, with a sensible haircut, and no facial tattoos, is far less likely to be suspected (of any crime) than your average 'look at me I'm a hoodie wearing idiot covered in Tats'.

One only has to look at groups of prisoners to see what the fashion of the day is, and one only has to look at the teachers in these 'Universities of crime', to understand why these little darlings are permanently locked away.

Take my advice, if you wish to learn about crime, and how not to be caught, learn from a criminal who's never been caught, and make sure he/she isn't inked from head to foot. But how you find such people, I really don't know.

 

Bons Vivants in Corsica

Vincent and Arthur visit L'isle de Beauté; Corsica.

I've not been to Corsica, but I've always heard it's the most beautiful island; as its name suggests. The boys certainly seem to be enjoying themselves; but they always do.

I must add that I don't approve of the way they handle their guns, nor how they shoot horizontally towards woodland, but that's normal over here. If you behaved like that on a UK shoot; you'd never be invited again.

Mrs Cropley's Creative Cooking

I suspect we've all known a Mrs Cropley. 

My father's cousin in London once presented us with a 'roasted' Chicken that had seen limited warmth for about 10 minutes and still had a bag of giblets inside, my own Swedish Mother-in-Law was renowned for her Spaghetti with Hazel Nuts, and I have been seriously poisoned by 'chefs' on several occasions; most notably by a Pea, Ham, and Salmonella soup.

Luckily I have never been sick from eating dodgy shellfish, as I know that it can severely restrict one's love of such delights for ever after; and that would have been a disaster. However, I was once quite ill after a very expensive meal at a multi-starred restaurant. The meal itself was wonderful, but I think it had all been far too rich for my obviously 'selective' stomach.

I can't think of any really bizarre recipes of my own invention, other than an inspired Asparagus Omelette. I put a few spears of cooked Asparagus into the whizzing machine with two eggs. whizzed them, and fried the resulting green mush in butter. What I had imagined would be a delicious Asparagus  Omelette was totally disgusting.

I would be very interested to hear of any equally nasty disasters; we could even assemble a book. The world is ready for your confessions!

Did you know?

Did you know that there was a secretive Swedish Art Collective, 'AnonyMouse', who install miniature Mouse homes, shops, cafés, etc, at Mouse level on our streets? You might find them almost anywhere, at the very bottom of any building; at pavement level.

These perfectly formed miniaturised establishments have appeared in Sweden, France, and the Isle of Man; and might soon turn-up in a town near you!

Inspired by such as Beatrix Potter and Astrid Lindgren, this miniature world is there to inspire both children and adults. They are beautifully fashioned, and anyone coming across one of their creations could not fail to be enthralled.

Well done AnonyMouse.

Jab Scammers.

BEWARE: I received a similar scam amongst my Emails yesterday. 

DO NOT click on either accept or decline. DELETE at once. 

 

No Brit' Mussels for Brussels.

 

Time was when French gourmet-diners loved nothing more than a large 'plateau de fruits de mer'. Now their pleasure may be curtailed.

What last week was a regular gastronomic experience has become toxic this week, as the export of UK shellfish to the EU has been indefinitely halted.

UK shellfish such as Oysters, Mussels, Clams, and Scallops, were previously processed in the EU. Now the 'depuration' process must take place prior to entry into the EU; but the import ban remains in place regardless.

The punishment of the UK for Bexit continues. Last week Macron did his best to denounce the effectiveness of a British Covid-19 vaccine; only to make himself look a complete fool in the process. Now UK bivalves (some of the best in the world) are denounced as 'unsafe', and may no longer be consumed in EU countries.

One can but wonder what will be next on their list? Marmite? Worcestershire Sauce? Maynard's Wine Gums?

So, rise up Britannia. Eat more shellfish. Gorge yourselves on the sea's most delicious fruits. It's good for you, it tastes wonderful, and you'll be helping your fishermen. Perhaps the UK's fishmongers could also help the cause by lowering their prices.

The main difficulty will be getting Brits to consume all those weird looking things that previously only foreigners ate (probably with garlic!).

The more Brussels dreams-up their puerile bully-boy tactics, the more other member states see how badly they can behave. My prediction that by 2030 the EU will look very different, is beginning to seem even more certain!

The morning walk.

Billy and I set off as soon as it's light; these days at about 8.30 am.

The first thing I do is to give the horses a few Cabbage leaves (Cavolo nero); they've almost come to expect it and they now wait for me at the top of their field.

Then up past a small Chestnut wood, and up further into a big Chestnut wood. It's here where Billy usually spots some Deer, or a Hare, and tears off chasing them into the woods. 

It's a beautifully peaceful spot with row upon row of mature grafted Chestnut trees. We see where the Wild Boar have been digging overnight, as well as the flattened Badger tracks where they've been out foraging.

I look at fresh Molehills and Boar diggings to see if any treasures have been excavated. 

From the plantations, we go up onto a track that runs through the woods. Here we might see Pine Martens, birds of all sorts, red Squirrels, and hunters in their Day-Glo attire; they are always friendly.

Soon we're back on the road by the water tower, and we descend towards our tiny hamlet with Billy back on his lead. If anyone is around I stop to chat, then home for my second coffee of the day.

It's about a 25-30 min walk, and although we do much the same every day, I never tire of it. There's always something new to see, or do.

Those horrible Triffids.

My schoolboy copy of John Wyndham's 'The Day of the Triffids' is dated 1958; I must have bought it second-hand; not for the 3/6d as written on the top.

The book was serialised recently on Radio 4 extra, and I was quite surprised to hear that much of the latter part took place in my old stomping-ground in West Sussex.

I'd read the book several years before my people moved to West Chiltington, so the names of nearby villages were unknown to me at the time. Now hearing the names Pulborough and Storrington made me want to read it again. 

The Triffids can almost be seen as an early comparative version of Covid-19. The devastating results of their liberation not that much different to today's pandemic; there are so  many comparisons.

I've bypassed two other books that I'd intended to read, and will probably finish 'Triffids' before this evening. It's a foul day, perfect for reading a cheery 1950's novel.

Soap.

I suppose 'soap' is a good subject for these days of hand-washing obsession.

I've never really had particularly favourite soaps; they have either easily foamed or not foamed, and I preferred the former, regardless of its name, price, shape, scent, or consistency. 

These days I only use Le Petit Marseillais liquid soaps, as they are the soapiest soap of all known soaps that the world has ever encountered. One has the feeling that they do the cleansing job exceptionally well. Hand washing becomes a pleasure.

The lemon scented bar of Le Petit Olivier soap was a recent purchase (Lady M's), and seems to be cashing-in on the popularity of the Petit Marseillais, but it's nowhere near as good. I'm not so keen on solid 'bars' of soap anyway.

I have no idea if these liquid soaps are available everywhere, but they are so very good. 

I only have one anecdote relating to soap; I have a friend who lives nearby, who used to buy industrial multi-packs of Pears coal tar soap from the UK. She said they reminded her of freshly-scrubbed small boys, and she would use no other. She didn't elucidate about the small boys; which is probably a good thing.

I'll stick with the above.

'Best-Before' Dates.

I am very pleased to see that there is a new trend afoot over in the UK. Large warehouse-style stores are opening up across England selling 'past their best-before date' foods.

I believe the company involved is called 'Rogers', and I can see them expanding at a huge rate. The one below is their latest store which is based at Stockport (south of Manchester). It looks HUGE.

If they should go public in the near future, I suggest you throw some cash their way; you could do very well (probably short term).

I think we all know that best-before dates are mostly nonsense; especially when it comes to canned foods, so selling things at about half price is going to attract hoards of clients. I wish 'Rogers' very good luck.