Turner winner.

This is the winner of this year's Turner Prize; Nnena Kalu, a neurodiverse artist from Glasgow. 

In case you didn't know, The Turner Prize is an annual award given to a British Visual Artist.

Her work not only includes scrubbing-brush swirls, but also suspended bundles of old coloured rags.

Was she a worthy winner? I'm not sure; I wouldn't like to judge. What I do know, is that sometimes I feel that my nearly five years spent at Art College, plus my 1st Class Hons degree, were all a bit of a waste of time.

I've had my moments, of course, but a little more recognition would always have been nice.

I don't wish to denigrate Ms Kalu's work, but it all seems a bit 'old hat' to me. A bit like a 1st year Art Student from the 1970's, who was looking to do something 'different'.

The 'runners-up' included Rene Matic, Mohammed Sami, and Zadie Xa.

'Boudang' (Boudin)

 

The accent in my area of France is quite pronounced. Take the word for Black Pudding for example; in French it is Boudin but where I live it is pronounced Boudang. It takes some getting used-to.

I have a love/hate relationship with Black Pudding. Most of that sold in the main stores here in the UK is tasteless, with the texture of cardboard.

Considering that Lancashire is renowned for it's Black Pudding, one would have thought that it would be easy to find a good quality product. But no!

The one above, that I buy in France, is called Boudin Landais (Black Pudding from the Landes area), and comes from my Leclerc supermarket. It is delicious, and I can't understand why I can't buy something as tasty here.

Kimbo knows all about my love of the product, and on a recent trip to a nearby Farm Shop (in Firle nr Lewes), he bought me the home made BP below. I think he was fed-up with all the nasty stuff I keep offering him on Friday mornings.

Well, yesterday I tried it (below), and it was probably the best I've had in Blighty. The egg was a Duck Egg.

I am perfectly aware that Black Pudding is not to everyone's taste, but it is one the oldest forms of charcuteie, and is actually very good for you.

Kitchens

As you might imagine, our bijou Brighton home has a bijou kitchen. But it contains everything that one needs.

Oven, hob, big fridge, washing-up machine, washing machine, microwave, sink, and a reasonable amount of cupboard space. We also have a separate outdoor larder. I'm not complaining.

Some of the nicest kitchens I've known have been small and primitive. A very good friend of ours, who lived in a huge chateau, had a two ring, bottled gas, camping stove, and an old wood-fired oven. She was a superb cook, but her kitchen was from the dark ages. It never held her back!

On a TV country home search programme that I occasionally watch, I am stunned by people who, having been shown a very large and over-equipped modern kitchen, declare it to be too small, not light enough, or doesn't have the right type of island. 

WHO ARE these people? One has to presume they are women who don't cook, but just want a kitchen to flaunt in front of their friends or family. A good cook can always work, and produce gourmet food, in even the tiniest of spaces. Some of the most memorable meals I've ever had have been from outdoor kitchens. Rusty BBQ, old table for preparation, bottle opener, and good company.

Intermittent rain.

One of the most annoying things about wet weather is not being able to dry one's washing outdoors.

We don't have a Tumble Dryer, but we do have a heated indoor rack-dryer, which takes up a lot of space. We also have several radiators that are constantly draped with damp unmentionables.

We have a neighbour in France who hangs out her washing, then simply waits as long as it takes to dry; this can be a week, two weeks, or even more, depending on the weather. I think she has the right idea. No panic!

I miss having our washing line full of flapping sun-dried and warmed clothes. To me it's as much a part of life as eating and sleeping.

I don't like rain. I have plenty of waterproof clothing, and Billy has a towel waiting for him after a wet walk, so we cope with the inconvenience.

It's having that smell of damp washing around the house which is not very nice. Can't Unilever make a washing powder that smells of Apple Pie or Roasting Turkey? It's that 'detergent' pong that I don't like.

Last year we hardly had a drop of rain; this year we're making-up for it.

 

Moving 'abroad'.

I took this photo of Lady M on the very day we left to live in France, in September 1972. Buying our house hadn't been easy; it was still pre-Common Market days, and they made things as difficult as possible. 

To buy property in France, I was forced to buy 'Investment Dollars' in order to buy French Francs; this was known as The Dollar Premium, and it didn't come cheap!

It must be remembered that in 1972 the UK was still regarded as the enemy by France. Having captured little Napoleon back in 1815; they'd never really forgiven us. 

We had stuffed a rental Transit Van full of all our goods and chattels, and filled my VW Beetle with two children and our scruffy mongrel 'Hamlet'. With not a care in the world, we set off on an adventure.

At Dieppe I was ordered to park overnight, then was literally conned out of about £50 (a lot in 1972) the following morning, in order that I could continue my journey South. Lady M, the children, and the dog, also spent the night at the port as I was 'leading the way'. It wasn't a good introduction to our life in France.

The big old Farmhouse that I'd bought hadn't been empty for too long. It had water and electricity, but no bathroom. Luckily there was a room that was perfect to create one, and that was my first task.

On the day we arrived at the house (above), the previous owner's wife was there. She fetched a bale of hay from the huge stone barn, stuck it in the 'inglenook', and lit it. I honestly though the whole house would burn down, but she just laughed and said it would warm the house quicker that way. We were being introduced to a very different way of life.

Lady M learned to bathe the children in the kitchen sink, and we quickly bought oil filled radiators, and a few 'storage heaters'. We visited a local 'white goods' shop and bought cooker, fridge, and a freezer. It didn't take long to get things in shape, and comfortable. Luckily the previous owners had left behind a huge kitchen table, and several big cupboards. Our own furniture filled the rest of the house. 

It was quite a big property, and luckily all the roofs were OK. There was just over one hectare of land and a small wood of Grafted Chestnuts. I just needed to establish my vegetable plot, build a chicken run, and plant fruit trees. By the following Spring of '73 we were in business.

Lady M mostly looked after what was indoors, and I looked after the outside. The children just played amongst the hay in the barn, with the dog. Life was quite idyllic. It was exactly what I wanted for my growing family. We had one lovely farming family as neighbours, and hundreds of acres of open countryside to play in.

Was I bonkers? No, just foolhardy and adventurous.

Eventually we joined the Common Market, and subsequently the EU, and life became easier. Then in 2020 the British people decided that the EU was becoming too bureaucratic, and we should go it alone. We, of course, voted to 'remain', but the 'leavers' won. Luckily we had still a couple of homes back in Blighty so we now spend our time between the two countries. Three months in Southern France, and nine in Southern England.

Lady M puts-up with all this madness, and Billy our current dog (who is French) takes it all in his stride. The children (now adults) all speak French, and over the past 50 years (more than half my life) we have adopted French ways. Our strange life now seems perfectly normal, and we hardly think about it. I even have another building project for France in 2026. I'm a glutton for punishment.

 

Aldi Shmaldi

A new big Aldi store has just opened in Hove. It replaces a dreadful DIY store; Homebase.

It just happens to be en route to my usual shopping destination; Sainsbury's. So yesterday I popped-in to see what it was like. It had been open for just two days.

It was all a bit confusing with row upon row of chilled cabinets, which makes it difficult to see what's what. No doubt if I became a regular customer I would soon get to know my way around, but for a new-boy it wasn't particularly 'user-friendly'.

I bought a big Cauliflower, 2 bottles of Prosecco, a bottle of Aussie red, and some Bok Choi. The very pretty slightly-Oriental-looking checkout girl was nice, and nobody stabbed me or hurled abuse. I shall return when I've got more time to have a really good look around, but I don't think it'll ever replace my usual destination.

I was pleased to get to Sainsbury's where the layout is so much friendlier. And, frankly, if things cost a tiny bit more than they do at Aldi; I really don't mind. As usual, I filled my trolly.

Maybe I'll go to Aldi again on Tuesday and do a proper assessment. I know it's good for fruit and vegs, but I'm a bit more suspect about cheese, dairy, tinned things, and meat. I prefer quality than 'cheap'.

I now have a choice of four supermarkets on the road to Sainsbury's. Lidl, Aldi, Waitrose, and Sainsbury's itself. No prizes for guessing which two I prefer.

 

Afternoon TV

 

Fans of Crossroads Motel, will love this equally intriguing programme which airs on BBC1 on Friday afternoons. Just when you thought it couldn't get worse, up pops 'Hope Street'; an Irish 'soap'.

As with all 'soaps', life circles around an empty Pub. As with the much-missed 'Heartbeat' it also involves a Police Station, with the cops solving silly weekly mysteries.  

Hope Street really should be called Hopeless Street. Not only are the story-lines absurd, but the acting is dreadful; all reminiscent of Crossroads. The only thing it lacks are the wobbly sets.

Since 'Doctors' (and its permanently empty surgery) disappeared, there has been a vacuum in the 'Cheap, badly acted, badly written, and badly produced' afternoon TV slot. Hope Street is doing its best to fill the gap, and one has to admire their determination to keep us groaning. It's a laugh a minute.

I don't want you to think that I actually watch this drivel. I always have a short nap after lunch, and the BBC News. And now on Fridays (when I wake) I'm treated to Hope Street, The empty Commodore Pub, and a few hapless 'Guards'. "Turn that bloody thing OFF". 

Verdict: 1/10. Dreadful; the end credits are the best bit! 

Doctor's appointment.

 

Firstly I must say that I hate visiting the Doctor, but not as much as the Dentist.

I reluctantly agreed to a Diabetes Review appointment for 8.15 am on Thursday the 4th of December 2025 (yesterday).

As I always do on such occasions I prepared myself well in advance. I made sure my feet were well scrubbed and my toenails cut (they always look at my feet), all my underwear was clean, my hair washed and brushed, and that I was in an overall presentable state. 

It was pouring, so I got soaked as I walked the kilometer or so to the surgery. I arrived a tiny bit early and the door was still locked.

When I was allowed inside, the receptionist couldn't find any reference to my appointment; eventually discovering that it had been cancelled. 

"Didn't they inform you?" he asked.

"No!" I replied, biting my tongue.

"I'll make another one for you" he said in his thick Indian accent, and scrolled down his computer screen for about 5 minutes. "How about 10th December at 9.10 am?"

"That'll be fine" I replied. He then gave me a piece of paper noting the date and time.

When I returned home I looked at the bit of paper and saw that he'd written 4th December 9.10 am. 

I instantly wrote an Email to them to confirm that my appointment was actually for the 10th. A reply came quite quickly, and confirmed that it definitely was for the 10th. They failed to mention that the receptionist was an illiterate plonker.

I really wish they would leave me alone, and devote their time to people who actually need to see a Doctor. As long as I have my pills, my Diabetes is fine. 

I shall go back, reluctantly, on the 10th. I'll sit in their horrible waiting room, filled with cough and sneeze, then have my feet pricked, my blood pressure taken, and (if they remember) to have my Flu Jab. 

After all that I should be good for another 12 months.

Logic!

 

I think I missed my true vocation as a 'Project Manager'.

We've had pipe-laying road works in the road behind the church since September (although it feels like much longer). I walk past here twice every day, so it's been a bit of a pain!

The men seem to work to a very bizarre pattern. They started at one end of the street, did some more at the bottom end, then fiddled about in the middle (where they are now), and they've been doing bits and pieces everywhere else in between. There has been no logic to their progression whatsoever, and no certainty about when (or if) they show-up. The photo below was taken at 9.30 am yesterday, and not a soul in sight.

Had I been in charge (and thank goodness for the men that I'm not), I would have made a logical progression from the top to bottom of the road.

Dig, lay pipe, back-fill, top with asphalt, roller. Then continue on to the end. Of course, by using my method the work would have been completed in a week, and they wouldn't have been able to claim all their 'time off' and triple-pay weekends. 

The other bizarre aspect to their work is that when they dig the metre-deep trenches, they take away all the detritus to dump somewhere, then refill with lorry loads of newly brought-in gravel. The old stuff they dug out was just as good as the new, but 'bureaucrats' don't think like that. They like to do things the 'official jobsworth way'. And 'The National Road Diggers and Fillers Union' (of which there must be a Union Steward on site) makes sure that everything is done the slowest and most expensive way possible.

I get on with the workmen quite well, and they all love Billy. I recently asked one of them if they'll be finished by the end of December, and he replied that he hoped so, as he was off to his villa in Tenerife for Christmas. It's a grand life!

Lost and Found.

 

I must be becoming absent minded. I recently lost a SECOND umbrella, in exactly the same way as with the first one.

A few years ago I lost a VERY EXPENSIVE umbrella in France. It had been on my shopping trolly, and I failed to retrieve it after putting my shopping in the back of the car. Someone had a very nice find.

Last Saturday I did exactly the same thing again, although it was in England, at Sainsbury's, and the umbrella was a cheap one! Even so, I was very annoyed with myself.

However, not everything is doom and gloom, I recently found a brand new fiver (£5), with King Charles's head on the front, and Churchill's on the back. The banknote was lying in full view on the ground outside our bijou home; I was very lucky to be the first to spot it!

In general I do seem to be more absent minded that before. I know it's a natural part of the ageing process, but it's a very annoying one.

One of my worst failings is thinking of something I need to put on my shopping list, then by the time I get to write it down, I've forgotten what it was. This happens quite often, so I now have a pen and pad by my side at all times, and write everything down in advance.

Does this mean that I no longer forget things? Does it hell!

p.s. I'm still struggling to think of what I'll spend my unexpected £5 on!

Fun in UK Politics.

 

There's a new political party in the UK, which for the moment is vying for 'The UK's silliest party' versus 'The Monster Raving Loony Party'. And I think the new one is winning!

They've just had a so-called 'conference', where they voted on the party's new name. It is to remain as 'Your Party'. A snappy name, I'm sure you agree!

The party has just two major players; it's founder Jeremy Corbyn, and his hated sidekick Zarah Sultana (both above). At the 'conference' they voted that Comrade Corbyn should not automatically become the leader of the party, but it should be run by some sort of interim Socialist worker's co-operative, until time comes to vote for a pukka figurehead.

Politically, they are Marxist-Leninist-Socialists with Communist leanings. At the 'conference', the fragrant Ms Sultana declared the new strict policies of the new party to be anti-semitism and anti-royalty. I presume they will also continue to support the politics of the IRA, Hamas, and the late great, and much-missed, Hugo Chavez.

People may consider The Monster Raving Loony Party to be eccentric and unelectable, but they ain't seen nuffin yet! Saying that Corbyn has all his marbles is like saying that Reeves is honest, and supports hard-workers.

And who said Politics wasn't FUN!

STOP PRESS: I know you've all been wondering what happened to Labour MP Tulip Siddiq (above left). 

Well, Sir Keith's ex-Anti Corruption Minister has just been found guilty of Corruption in Bangladesh, and sentenced to Two Years in Prison. 

Life isn't fair, is it. I'm sure the very appealing Ms Siddiq will appeal.

Here we go again! Man crowned 'Strongest Woman'.

The bloke holding aloft his trophy, having just won The World's Strongest Woman competition in Arlington Texas, is American Jammie Booker.

OK, Jammie might have had a few nips and tucks, taken bucket-loads of hormones, and wears women's clothes, but all that doesn't stop him being a biological MAN.

Now, I don't know about you, but to me a man competing in a woman's sport isn't really 'playing the game'.

In general, men can run faster, swim faster, jump higher, lift heavier weights, and are all-over stronger than women, so for a man to compete alongside women isn't really fair. To me there is nothing sexist in saying as much; it's simply 'nature'.

Why doesn't Jammie compete alongside fellow male 'Strongmen'? Well, it's probably because he knows he wouldn't stand a chance against men! Or it's because he knows he stands a better chance if he competes against women! It's either one or the other!

I think we all know the answer to that; as does he.

Thank goodness he's now been deprived of his win, and the real winner of this competition was the woman who came 'second'; the Brit' Andrea Thompson.

Well done Andrea.

 

Former lovers Meet for first time in over 20 years.

During my days living in London, I was a member of the Institute of Contemporary Arts (ICA) when it was still in Dover Street (where it was an artists club), and before it moved to Pall Mall (where it became simply a huge gallery).

I was a member in the days of 'Happenings'; conceptual art-works that lasted for a short while only. I attended a lot of these events, including one where I cut most of Yoko Ono's clothes off in Red Lion Square. I think it was called 'Cut Piece'.

You may well have seen this event (above) before, which is nothing to do with the ICA, but it reminds me of those eventful days, and is very emotional.

After the ICA moved to Pall Mall the monthly member's magazine (below) was discontinued, and everything changed. I still have most of my old 'The ICA Bulletin' magazines, in France.

The ICA was a wonderful club, and I regretted its evolution. There had been a bar in Dover Street where you really never knew who you might meet. It was extraordinary. There was also a 'Library' where members showed work; including me on one occasion.

Enjoy the video!

I'm Like A Bird

Little Miss Blue Hair does a great job with this Nelly Furtado song. In the original, the 'singing' of the opening few lines is very annoying; this is a vast improvement.

It's a beautiful, emotional, song; a good strong tune, but with rather sad lyrics.

The band 'IMY2' are based in Nashville USA, and the excellent blue-haired singer is Annalise Mahanes.

If this doesn't send shivers down your spine, I don't know what would!

They grow-up so quickly.

This young man is now 18 (Happy Birthday Ollie). He happens to be one of my six grandsons.

Here he is, pretending to be a gourmet, but I'm not sure if the Spaghetti is going in or coming out. Anyway; he was obviously enjoying himself.

Needless to say, he is now a strapping young man, who probably eats his Spaghetti with more alure and finesse than in the photo.

His Papa has taken him off to Rome for a birthday prezzie weekend. More Spaghetti no doubt, and hopefully a better pair of shades!

Divertiti!

 

High Speed Artist (1966)

When I lived in London back in the second half of the 60's, I met lots of very interesting people. One of the most extraordinary was this man below, Lionel Burleigh.

I was at the opening night of an uninspiring exhibition on Cork Street in about '65, when a man sidled up to me and said "Just say I'm your Uncle". We went round the show together then visited a nearby Pub' for a few pints.

Lionel hardly stopped talking, and gave me an exhausting potted history of his life. 

We stayed in touch, and he visited me at my antique shop in Chelsea on several occasions. Eventually he asked me if he could use my premises for a 'Painting Marathon'; he wanted to paint, and sell, as many pictures as possible in one day! I stupidly said 'yes'.

Lionel produced about 100 small paintings, and sold maybe two; for a few shillings. At the end of the day he gave me a handful, but they were such rubbish that I binned them.

We continued to meet for a while after that, then he disappeared and presumably found someone else to abide his eccentricities (or maybe he died).

I'm pleased that I knew him, and that we became good friends; such folk make life interesting. 

I have just looked-up Lionel online, and found this (below). I was interested to see if it mentioned his marathon at my premises; but it didn't. (I wouldn't bother looking at it, unless you have masochistic tendencies). He was a dreadful painter.

Lionel Burleigh's artwork (partially found paintings of British "high-speed artist"; 1940s-1966) - The Lost Media Wiki

Ewan McTeagle, the Scottish Poet.

After yesterday, I think we need some light relief.

I had totally forgotten about this delightful comedy sketch from the Monty Python boys.

The ghost of William McGonagall. Enjoy.

Autumn Budget Special.

Let me start with the shocking news that Labour's own Business Secretary Peter Kyle (no relation to Jeremy) has just declared that "It was our punishing tax policies that were responsible for having driven an exodus of wealth-creators from Britain";.... as if we didn't all know!

There was one huge sigh of relief around the UK when we all saw in last year's election manifesto that The Labour Party had PROMISED not to put up taxes; so before today's budget announcement we can all relax in the knowledge that we won't be fleeced by the fragrant Ms Reeves (above), and we can all enjoy their spurious assurances for a few minutes more.

But don't be fooled. What they probably meant (but got their speling rong) was that they WILL put up as many taxes as possible, just as they always do. But they didn't want to admit as much in case no-one voted for them. It's an old Labour trick, yet some people are still fooled. In the 'Tax and Spend' Socialist tradition, when you over-spend, you HAVE to raise taxes. It's simple logic. 

They may have been scared-off from raising Income Tax for the moment, but there are plenty of other taxes that they can raise. Alcohol, tobacco, personal savings, house taxes, money transfers, VAT, National Insurance, and, I'm told, even milk based drinks (yes, milkshakes), could all attract her grabbing attention. House taxes being the easiest, with comfortable hard-working middle classes, being the most vulnerable.

Having taken over with the strongest economy in the G7, it's come to this after just 12 months.

The one thing we all know about the fragrant 'Rachel from Accounts' is that she's hopeless at her 'sums', and that she is determined to create another Bankrupt Socialist Quagmire. She is happily creating a new third world country, with businesses closing by the day. The whole of the UK is becoming a giant version of Socialist Liverpool. Businesses simply can't cope with all the extra expenses, and many high streets have become no more than ghost towns. 

She still believes that if one gives 'workers', and even scroungers, more and more money, whilst increasing the taxes of the employers/wealth creators, that this will improve the economy. Would someone PLEASE explain to her that IT DOESN'T. She only has to look at the ever-rising unemployment figures; at present a further 1,000 a day are joining the nearly 2 Million others on the dole queue, and it's soon to increase. This is 282,000 more than when they took over last year.

She doesn't seem to understand that you make a vibrant economy by encouraging investment, leaving as much spending money in people's pockets as possible, and making businesses viable. NOT the opposite. 

The one thing that Rachel IS sure of (as she continuously tells us) is that the dire state of the economy is nothing to do with her, but all the fault of others; the only people who believe that are Sir Keith and Rachel herself. In a recent YouGov poll, 0% of the public thought the economy was in a good state. I expect she also thinks that she did no wrong by breaking the law with her house letting; but that's another story.

Reeves needs to raise about £20 Billion. Well, let me offer some advice. Our Overseas Aid at present costs us £25 Billion each year; money wasted on luxuries for foreign potentates, or even to fill their Swiss bank accounts. Scrap it NOW, and leave the tax payers alone. Your black hole could be cleared in just12 months without any extra taxes for anyone.

So, beware, there's a bloodbath coming. There may be one or two sweeteners, but if you are a hard-worker, have saved enough to live in a nice home, or you earn a decent salary, you WILL be clobbered later today. The 'class warriors' are out to get you. If I am wrong about their budget intentions, I will eat my beret,.... plus some humble pie!

I shall not watch the budget live (too depressing). I shall wait to see the resumé on tomorrow's TV News, and in the Independent Press. 

A staggering 275,000 UK wealthy Nationals have quit Britain in the past year; most of them embarrassed Socialists I imagine. Expect a lot more very soon.

A demain!

SERV

On Saturday morning, a man with a collection box said "Good Morning" to me as I entered Sainsbury's.

I replied to him, and went straight by. However, once inside, and I had secured my trolly, etc, I remembered that I had a load of shrapnel (coins) in my bag, so I returned to the man with the collection box.

"I hope you don't mind if I offload all my 'heavy metal' on you" I asked.

"Everything is welcome" he replied cheerily, as I emptied a load of copper and silver coins into his box. 

I have no idea how much I gave him, but it was certainly no more than a couple of quid.

"Here, have one of these" he said, sticking a red paper badge on my T shirt.

I thanked him profusely, and continued with my shopping.

It was two days later that I looked at the sticker to see what I'd given my money towards; it could have been for supplying Hamas with bullets for all I knew!

Looking at the sticker, I was a bit bemused. I had no idea what SERV was, so I looked it up. What I discovered rather surprised me.

It seems that they are a bunch of local voluntary, motorbike, deliverers of blood, for the NHS. Hells Bloody Angels.

If I'd known that before, I might have given them some paper money as well.

 

If you don't know what you're doing; take advice!

One of the most worrying aspects of our current government's disastrous economic policy is that it drives out those who create wealth (see yesterday's Sunday Times, above). They're leaving in their droves.

Of the seven wealthiest Brits illustrated (above) who have quit the UK in recent times (amongst 275,000 others), five have gone to Dubai, one to Switzerland/Dubai, and one to Jersey. Even the eight times named 'Britain's Richest Man', Lakshmi Mittal, has gone, and will now pay his taxes to Switzerland, and spend his pocket money in Dubai.

It might be an idea for the fragrant Rachel Reeves to have a look at Dubai's economy, and try to understand why our wealthiest businessmen are ending-up there, as THEIR economy thrives, and OURS fails.

Within the whole UAE, Dubai has one of the strongest economies, and they are hoping to double their foreign trade, and establish their city as a global business and tourist destination in the near future; you don't do that by frightening away your wealth-creators. Their aim can only be achieved by encouraging investment and innovation, and that is exactly what they're doing; the opposite of the UK.

Meanwhile back in dreary old Socialist London, Reeves looks for more and more ways to take money away from those who have contributed so much to the UK's past success. To frighten them away with threats of ever higher taxation.

I would like to suggest that the fragrant Ms Reeves pops over to Dubai, and asks some of their financial wizards how it's done!

Of course, whether she would listen to them or not is another question. A Socialist taking advice from a Capitalist is very unlikely. THAT is our problem.

 

Saturday.

It was a strange day yesterday.

I've never counted the amount of Traffic Lights there are between Chez Cro and my Supermarket; but I would think about 10. Yesterday EVERY SINGLE ONE was red, or became red when I was just a few yards away. I've never known a day like that before, it was almost as if someone was playing a joke on me.

Anyway, all cupboards, fridge, and freezer are now filled again, and we can happily be snowed-in for a week or more (if we ever have snow). I gave all my shrapnel to a man with a collecting box, and all my paper money to a nice lady at Waitrose in exchange for a load of 'stocking fillers'. I must remember to 're-fill' my wallet.

When I returned from my afternoon walk with Billy, I found Lady M with her hands covered in flour, and her nose inside the oven. She was making Mince Pies.

Being Swedish I think she was confusing Christmas with Easter, and we now have snow-covered Hot Cross Mince Pies. But they were very good.

It was blowing two hoolies yesterday; one from the North and the other from the South. They just managed to greet each other in Brighton, and the effect was memorable. It also rained a tiny bit, and was cold.

It was a day for hunkering-down and watching an old Norman Wisdom film in front of a roaring fire. In fact, as the skies darkened, we went to iPlayer and watched 'Ab Fab on holiday in Provence' (I'm sure you know the one). 

A nice cup of Lapsang, a Hot Cross Mince Pie, and a ten minute snooze, helped pass the afternoon. Later we watched through our Bay Window as the trees swirled about like Loie Fuller.

p.s. I must add that the morning sunrise had been just about the most spectacular I've ever seen. It was sensational. It was telling me something!!!

 

Covid-19 Enquiry

 

National 'Enquiries' can be both good and bad. It's always good to know exactly what happened in the the cases of disasters, or crises. But they can also be responsible for divisive muck-raking.

I have no idea who the people are who led the Covid-19 Enquiry in the UK. Their findings were published on Thursday 20th, and accused almost everyone of wrong-doing or incompetence. 

'Hindsight' is a wonderful thing, and one must never forget that Covid claimed the lives of over 7 Million people; 232,000 of whom were here in the UK. 

Covid was a new and dangerous illness. We all knew that it spread like wildfire, and that the effects could be fatal. Wisdom suggested that we should have as little contact with others as possible. We stayed at home, wore our masks and sterilised our hands. Most of us were also inoculated. There was PANIC everywhere. We literally thought we could die; and many did!

Our own government made drastic decisions to save us from disaster. Boris Johnson, the then Prime Minister, took advice from the country's top experts; Chris Whitty The Chief Medical Officer, and Sir Patrick Vallance The Chief Scientific Advisor (both above in photo with Boris), amongst others. Together they decided that a period of 'Lockdown' was the only way to help stop the spread of the disease, and save lives; which it did.

I was in France during the pandemic. We live way-out in the countryside so were almost immune, other than when shopping became imperative. We had our jabs, and managed to evade any illness. We did both eventually contact Covid, but that was a couple of years later back in the UK. For us the experience was no worse than a nasty cold. 

The recent Covid-19 Enquiry was chaired by Baroness Hallett; someone I haven't heard of. I believe she was a big-wig Judge. I taught Whitty (Centre in photo) at Prep' School before he went up to Malvern, and seeing his daily broadcasts during the pandemic, gave me great confidence in their collective wisdom.

Personally I found this enquiry unnecessary, and divisive. We suffered, we survived, and it's now part of our history. We've all learnt lessons, so let's not now drag-up what some ex-Judge thinks we COULD have done better. Retrospective sniping may please the anti-Boris stalwarts, but it helps no-one.

Personally I would prefer that governments of all political colours look after our welfare, rather than listen to some judge with no medical or scientific knowledge, who makes pronouncements about what they should or shouldn't have done.

Let's now put it to sleep, and get on with our lives. Although, of course, Covid is still around!

Dog appeal.

I've had just four dogs in my life. Hamlet (a scruffy terrier mut), Monty (yellow lab), Bok (black lab/border collie mix), and currently Billy (border collie). See side-bar.

When walking with Billy, I've noticed that he makes people smile! My other dogs had always been generally admired (mostly by fellow dog owners), but lots of people now stop and chat to me about Billy, and ask if they can stroke him. I'm sure most of them are not 'dog-people'. He seems to have a universal appeal.

I was talking about this to a fellow BC owner, and she said that people just love to see a black and white dog coming towards them. 

Personally I think that it makes people dream of Welsh mountains, or even of that old TV programme 'One Man and his Dog' (a sheep trial competition). 

There certainly is something about a black and white 'sheepdog' that people instantly warm-to; in the same way that people love Black Labs and Golden Retrievers. 

If you don't believe me; buy one!

 

Modern poaching.

Having heeded the advice of several recent comments, I searched out my two silicone egg poachers.

I can't remember who gave them to me, but I suspect it was Kimbo. 

As you can see, they are yellow, single egg, silicone, poachers; with ears. I gave them a good wash, put a small lump of butter in each one, and placed them in a pan of boiling water. When the butter had melted, I added the eggs.

They worked extremely well. After about five minutes, the final product was exactly as you want a poached egg to be. A firm white, with a just cooked yolk; and buttery. Freshly ground black pepper and a pinch of salt finished the job.

They are, of course, neatly shaped, and would look very nice on any dish that required an egg on top. They do also taste a little different to a fried egg, on account of the lack of oil. I'm not sure if that's better or not; more a question of taste.

From now on, I shall keep my poachers close at hand. A better answer to an under/over cooked boiled egg, and a more healthy answer to a fried one. Not much to complain about there!

I have a dedicated, stainless steel, four egg, poaching pan in France. It sits on top of a cupboard awaiting my attention, but frankly I can't remember when it was last used. I seem to remember that the individual cups have very sharp edges; which remain to be corrected. Between now and next Summer, I shall consider its future.

N.B. This morning it is COLD. I see on my forecast that it is 0 C, but feels like -13 C. For the first time this Winter I have put the central heating on, and I've given the Foxes an extra amount of Food.

Success.

Last Summer's jam making is now under serious scrutiny.

With the advance of Winter, I buy Crumpets and English Muffins, which are usually consumed in the afternoons with a cup of Lapsang.

The toppings are chosen from amongst our jams made this past August. Recently it's been Muffins that have graced our tea table, and the jam has been my 'Great Greengage'.

Not all my jams have been a success. My Blackberry Jam was just about OK, but it was a little like eating tiny black bullets in Blackberry Jelly. I shan't be making that again.

However, my Greengage Jam has proved to be delicious. I can't remember having made it before so it was a bit of an experiment. The Plums were cut in half, the pip removed, and to every kilo of fruit I used 600 gms of Jam Sugar and the juice of a Lemon. Just ordinary, standard, Jam making.

It has turned out to be really nice; quite different to the 'wild' Plum Jam that I made earlier in the season. I also made some Fabulous Fig Jam this year, but I think I must have left it in France; I can't find any here.

We have so much fruit that ripens whilst we're out in France that it would be crazy not to use it. Lady M always makes her own Apricot Jam (she won't eat her morning Croissants with anything else), and Strawberry Jam. I do all the others.

It's not a lot of work Jam making, in fact it's a real pleasure. Now, when I eat it on a cool afternoon in Sussex, I am reminded of the sunshine, the fruit picking, and our little kitchen filled with the aromas of various different Jams. What could be better!

 

Old fashioned breakfast.

How may people do you know who sit down to a couple of boiled eggs in the morning?

Probably none!

The last time I had boiled eggs was when Kimbo came for breakfast a couple of months ago, and I decided to surprise him. I'm afraid it surprised me too, as they were a bit under cooked.

It was this last Sunday morning, and the fridge contained all sorts of nice breakfasty things. I stood looking at it all with the fridge door wide open, and I simply couldn't decide. However, I did note that there were lots of eggs.

It was just after 5 am and I was busy, so I decided on something that would cook itself. After a solitary nearly five mins boiling time, they were done. Maybe this time a tad more cooked that I would have liked, but they were still very nice.

Of course the only crucial thing about boiling eggs is the TIMING. Delia Smith's aunt would sing three verses of 'Onward Christian Soldiers' to time hers, but I'm a bit more prosaic. I follow Woodrow Wyatt's method, and time them for exactly four and a quarter minutes. However, from what moment one starts the four and a quarter minutes is anyone's guess.

I like eggs in all their forms (other than scrambled). When in doubt eat a couple of eggs; BOILED.

p.s. I do remember writing about some celeb-chef's foolproof method. I must look it up. I think he brought the water to 'a rolling boil' from cold, turned it off, then left covered for a further five minutes. I seem to remember that it worked; I must check for details.

The Culprit.

I had left the sitting room to pop upstairs for something or other, and as soon as I entered the hallway, I could smell a strange, and alien, whiff.

Our hall doesn't usually smell of anything; it's just a hall with a few coats, shoes, and Billy's Tennis balls. So, what could it be?

When I came downstairs again I mentioned the 'pong' to Lady M, and she said she'd also smelt something strange.

The previous evening we'd had some friends here, and Lady M had placed the above lamp outside on the doorstep, complete with lit 'Tea light' inside (it gets dark early). The following morning she brought it inside and left it in the hall.

It was the only thing in the hall that didn't normally live there, and it immediately became the number one suspect. When I gave it a sniff, it was obvious that we had found the culprit. It STANK.

The only reason for the smell (that we could think of) was either Fox Pee, or Cat Spray. The latter probably being the stronger of the two, and the more likely (we have two Cats next door). An unpleasant smell if ever there was one.

The lamp was instantly taken out to the back patio, where I hope it will be rained on copiously.

PHWAAAH!

 

Our favourite national cuisine.

The amount of international cuisine on offer these days is quite amazing. In my regular UK supermarket I can buy foods from all around the world, including Halal and Kosher.

Having been born in 1946, I can still remember that the only Rice available in the shops was 'Pudding Rice'. Pasta was still unheard of, and China was just some far off place where people smoked Opium.

Curry was still considered exotic in the 50's and 60's, and it eventually became popular via packets made by Vesta; as did certain so-called Chinese dishes. People knew no better. It took another 60 years for Chicken Tikka Masala to become Britain's favourite dish.

Chinese and Thai foods have now become so popular that take-away restaurants are everywhere.

However, North African dishes are yet to become favourites, and I expect that will remain so. 

Most households would now eat Pasta or Pizza every week. We eat Swedish Meatballs, German Sauerkraut, Greek Salads, French Croissants, Spanish Paella, Turkish Kababs, and Danish Pastries.

French cuisine, once regarded as the epitome of fine-dining, is really very similar to English cuisine, and in fact I think we have now overtaken them in the gastronomic league table. Their decline is very noticeable in France itself.

I am personally very fond of Ground Cumin, so any excuse to use some is welcomed, and North African dishes appear often on the Magnon table.   

So what is my favourite national cuisine? I really don't know, but The Maghreb, China, and India are all jostling for first place. I really must make my mind up!

Driving shoes.

Like most old codgers (I imagine), I like to think of myself as a 'good driver'. I'm never in a hurry, I'm never impatient, and I'm always courteous. AND; I've never had an accident.

However, I do have a very slight driving problem. My most recent pair of suede 'desert boots' (bottom in photo) are very rigid, there's very little 'give' in them, and they have taken away a certain amount of sensitivity in my pedal actions (braking, accelerating, and clutch). My last pair (which died) were perfect. I'm still OK driving, but I wanted to regain that extra sensitivity in my feet that I always used to have.

So, my search was on for a pair of 'driving shoes', and I eventually decided on a pair of Dunlop, indoor/outdoor, navy corduroy, slippers. They are comfortable, they fit nicely, and they have good flexibility.

I've already given them a test run, and they are so much better than my clodhopper shoes. I really don't know why I didn't buy some before. My trip down to S France will now be so much more comfortable.

I'll be buying myself some driving gloves next. 

Just call me 'Fangio'!

Saturday mornings.

 

Without question, my favourite bit of the week is always Saturday morning.

I take Billy out at about 7.20 am. On Saturdays it's always quiet, and we usually have the park to ourselves. We are back home before 8 am.

Then I extract The Compact Royce (Debi) from her garage, I unfold her ears, kick the tyres, and head off to Hove, to Sainsbury's, for my big shopping trip of the week.

Saturdays are surprisingly quiet on the roads. No hold-ups, no school-kids all over the place, and no crazy 'late for the office' drivers. Even most cyclists wait for the red lights to turn green, which they don't usually do. 

The supermarket is BIG, but my shopping is quick and easy. I follow a very detailed, and mapped-out list, and I'm now such an expert on where everything is located, that they might even give me a job as a shelf-stacker.

My store employs people of all ages, and on Saturday mornings there are always a couple of lovely OAP ladies on the check-out. We have become almost like old friends, and we natter about any old nonsense as my purchases ring-up. Without wine on my list (we're on a wine-free diet) my bill is never much more than £50-60-ish. We live well, but not expensively. Nothing extravagant on my list this week, other than a pack of superior quality Mince Pies, and a frozen Turkey.

I thought I'd buy a nice frozen Turkey, just in case Bird Flu causes havoc. I think it's the same type as I had last year, which was delicious.

By chance, Kimbo had much the same idea and bought a frozen Goose. We are well prepared.

On the way home I popped into a big Pet food/toys/equipment/etc store to buy Billy's Christmas present. They didn't have what I wanted so I bought an annoying squeaky plastic Sheep instead. He'll love it; it's every Border Collie's dream.

It might sound strange, but I really do enjoy my shopping trips in the car, and this last Saturday was a lovely sunny day.

Debi is now back in her garage where she will wait patiently until next Saturday. Amazingly, I'm still driving on French petrol; I think she prefers it.