Cro A Snob? Maybe!

The conversation went a bit like this....

Friend: "Have you got any thickish wire; an old coat-hanger would do?"

Cro: "If you mean a wire coat-hanger, the answer is an unequivocal no!"

Friend: "Why's that?"

Cro: "Because there are two things in the world of coat-hangers that would never cross the Magnon threshold; those made of either wire or plastic!"

ex-Friend: "You bloody snob!"

Cro: "Idiot!"

I know people who only drink the finest wines; they're known as wine-snobs. Others who always buy expensive foreign cars; they are car-snobs. But I've never thought that because I insist on wooden coat-hangers, that I would be considered a coat-hanger-snob.

If being a 'snob' means that I think I'm superior to my fellow man; then I'm certainly not one (because I'm not). But if it means that I search out quality in certain things, then I suppose I'm guilty; and proud to be!.

Viva timbaris hangare-coatem! (dog latin for piss off ex-friend)

Pasta Not So Pronto.

OK, I'm a foodie; and about 3 years ago Lady Magnon acknowledged my love of simple Italian fare by buying me this basic pasta making machine.

I'm ashamed to say that it has yet to prepare any pasta, and I bet there are tens of thousands of other machines similarly confined to the backs of  'men's' cupboards (next to the wok, and the blood splattered mandolin).

It's not that I don't want to use it; I'd love to. But when I suddenly decide that's it's a pasta night, I go straight for that jar of 'dried'.

Other than soup pastas (vermicelli, stelline, seme di riso, etc), I only eat three varieties; spaghetti, tagliatelle, and penne rigata. Frankly, the other multitude of shapes I find 'unnecessary'.

I'm in need of encouragement. So if you use a pasta machine on a regular basis, or just know how to do so, I'd rather like some user-friendly tips; no matter how simple.... Otherwise I'm ready to go!

Red Cross Nurses.

During the last war, many expectant mothers from London were sent out to the countryside to give birth; things were considered much safer there. One such reception village was adjacent to my native Surrey village of Lingfield; it's called Dormansland. Apparently, throughout the war, the whole village was permanently awash with hundreds of heavily pregnant women.

Like so many who wished to 'do their bit', my mother enrolled with the Red Cross to become a temporary war-time nurse, and her main duty, after some initial training, was to walk the pavements of Dormansland just in case any of the expectant mums was to be 'caught short'.

I believe that my mother (not amongst those above) was the only nurse during the whole period of the war to actually assist in an outdoors delivery; 'on the pavement'.

The baby was a boy, and the young woman assured my mother that had it been a girl she would definitely have named it after her.

Well, I suppose you can't have everything. She did receive a few kind letters from The Queen, however; but then I believe everyone did in those days.

Treasure Trove?

It's not uncommon, in my area, to find stone-age implements; arrow heads, axe heads, scrapers, etc. So seeing that my neighbour, Laurence, had just been doing some serious ploughing, I did a bit of 'field-walking' to see if she'd turned-up any treasures.

What I wasn't expecting to find was the above. I imagine it's the speedometer from a Massey Ferguson tractor. The only questions are, which one, when did it fall off, and has she noticed that it's missing? It looks quite new.

I shall pop up to see her some time, and I'll let you know!

The Wood-Pile.

Now is the best time to stock up on wood for next winter. Up until a few years ago we had a huge open fire, but this posed problems so I installed this simple but very efficient Godin Stove. In the winter we can now light up in the morning, then leave the house without any worry of returning to find the place burnt down.

All our wood burning is now 'contained'; in the DeVille cooker in the kitchen, and in the Godin in the sitting room. This means that we no longer need too much of the very expensive Oak that we used to buy; prefering the much cheaper Chestnut that does almost the same job. Chestnut 'spits' so a 'contained' burner is essential.

I reckon we've got about 20 Cu Ms in stock (there's some you can't see), and I have another 4/5 Cu Ms waiting in a neat pile still in the woods.

The Chestnut, which has all been cut 'fresh', needs a minimum of 2 years to dry; I leave it open for the first year, then cover just the top from the second year onwards. 

When it's stinking hot (as it has been for the last week), it's almost unimaginable that we shall be in need of so much wood. But winter comes around again very, very, quickly!!! 

What Happened To Good Manners?

I was recently appalled by an act of gross bad manners, so I reprint this 'edited' piece from my 2009 book 'Périgord Life. Je t'adore 24, Encore'. It also contains a few other moans.


NOSTALGIA MOMENT: I am of an age where I can remember a very different, and more pleasant, Europe.

I used to have faith in the police force; now I don’t.

I used to believe that if one needed the recourse of the legal system, that ‘right’ would always conquer ‘wrong’; this is no longer the case.

I used to live in the knowledge that my National Insurance policy would look after me ‘from the cradle to the grave’ (Although I never actually received an Insurance Policy stating as much. Did anyone?); this no longer happens.

I used to think that our well-paid immigration officers would ensure that no fanatical anti-British/French terrorists would be allowed to settle here at our expense; hordes of them have been welcomed with open arms.

I used to respect politicians; now I see most of them as no more than dim-witted fat-cat fraudsters.

I used to think that to speak correctly, to write legibly, and possess good manners, were qualities to which one should aspire; nowadays they seem to be qualities to be derided.

Eating in the street was simply not done, we gave up our seats on the tube/bus for women, we opened doors for the elderly; all these have gone, and I, for one, find it all very depressing.

I’ll have my pill now please Matron.

Pear Blossom.

This Pear Tree is just a few metres from the house. It's huge, ancient, and magnificent. And always bears mountains of fruit.

However, it's also pretty useless. Just before the fruit is ripe, it's grainy and as hard as a rock. And the moment it ripens, it falls and turns to mush. I've known this tree for 40 years, and in all that time I've only managed to eat a handful of pears that were caught 'just right'.

Every year it's the same. We admire the blossom in spring, and make definite plans to do something with its certain bounteous crop. And every year we fail.

However not all Pear Trees are thus. On the day that my grandson Finn was born, I planted him a 'Doyenne du Comice'; probably the world's best pear. We've already eaten its fruit, and it's wonderful; I recommend the variety to anyone wishing to plant a Pear Tree. One picks the fruit in October, and leaves it until November before eating. Yum.