More Pickled Onions.

In that little brown bowl were the last 4 pickled onions from my pre-Christmas batch. There was nothing to do about it, but make some more.

Twenty minutes of teary eyed peeling, twenty four hours of salty soaking (above), and two weeks of mellowing in vinegar sugar salt-n-pepper, and voila; I'll have another lot.

We eat very simply at lunch; usually thin gruel, simple veggie salads, and cheese. Pickles are essential at lunchtime; onions, gherkins, or walnuts, but I'm now going to suffer a 2 week gap without any pickled onions. My own fault, I should have seen the disaster looming.  

Anyway, here they are, done; now all I have to do is wait. Torture.

I've decided to abandon most of my other pickle making. These onions are essential, walnuts are almost essential, and my lightly pickled curry flavoured cauliflower florets are certainly worthy of another batch. Otherwise I intend giving up making all those other 'also-rans'.

Unsung heroines.

                             
                                              

Oh how I loved my life models. Big bouncy blondes, who took their clothes off for peanuts-per-hour. The nicest thing about them was that they were proud of who they were and what they did, and were prepared to demonstrate as much.

And there was I, 2B pencil in hand, scratching away, trying to learn my trade. I hardly noticed them; they were simply objects to be drawn, not living breathing humans with complex lives.

They were 'things' that one studied in minute detail before even placing a dot on that virgin white paper. It was all fraught with danger, and we were reminded as much by so-called bloody experts who couldn't draw a bloody fly; our tutors.

                                  

The poor creatures were mostly penniless 'resting' actresses.Young women who, like Micawber, were permanently waiting for something to turn up. They appeared like a latter-day Rita Tushingham in A Taste of Honey.

Most of them would have pleased Rubens more than Mary Quant. They were buxom, stretch-marked, sagging lovelies, who were far more interesting to draw than Twigs or Shrimpton.

I imagine they are all now retired to dreary bed-sits in Eastbourne or Pevensey, and I salute them. I send them kisses and my thanks. They formed me, they made me what I am today, they gave their time so that I could forever-after scribble.

Thank you, thank you, thank you!

                             

Thank you all so much for your very kind thoughts yesterday. Monty is now resting amid a triangle of 3 Peach trees at the South end of Haddock's (my veg garden). He was buried along with his favourite ball, several other dog-toys, a few flowers, and some biscuits for the journey. He looked so beautiful; as if curled-up asleep.

I couldn't bring myself to reply to all your comments yesterday; but I can assure you that they were very much appreciated.

Thank you all again. Cro and Lady Magnon x

RIP Monty (Montague Macbeth 'Magnon').

This is the most difficult page I have ever had to write; as you might imagine, we are in total shock. 

It was just 4 years ago that we collected our Labrador puppy Monty from Miss Tadpole's nearby rescue centre when he was just a beautiful ankle chewing toddler with a ravenous appetite (above).

Life wasn't always easy for the poor boy. Regular readers might remember his horrible encounter with a Processionary Caterpillar that caused him to lose about 2 cms of his tongue, he seemed to lurch from one disaster to another. 

Recently he started to vomit regularly, he totally lost his appetite, and he also began to have hourly seizures. His kidneys were malfunctioning to such an extent that there was no further hope, and the Vet' advised that the kindest thing to do was to let him go.

He was a lovely dog; children adored him, as did his friend Bok. Throughout his entire life he never uttered an angry growl. 

Bok and Monty became 'best friends' when they were both still pups, and it was their reluctance to be apart that led to us adopting Bok full time. They remained inseparable till the end; I don't know what long term effect his absence will have on Bok, but I imagine that, like us, he will miss him terribly.

So, goodbye my darling boy. We loved you more than you could ever know; our hearts now have a gaping hole, and our daily walks will never be the same again.

Thank you to everyone who sent such kind and caring good wishes; they were very much appreciated.

RIP Monty. 28. 12. 2010 - 09. 02. 2015

Ruins.

When I first came to live in this village, 43 years ago, spectacular ruins were everywhere. As I came with self-sufficiency ambitions, a wife, and 2 small children, I needed to buy myself a substantial, ready to live-in, farmhouse with plenty of land; not something that required a total lengthy restoration job.

In some ways this was a pity, as there were magnificent bargains to be had all around us. Very few now remain, and those that do are often in a pretty poor state. 

The general exodus towards town-life happened in the 1950's/60's, so many of those ruins had been occupied within the previous 10 or 20 years. My own first home had been lived in just 5 years before I bought it, and was in good general condition.

I remember the extensive house in these photos being almost savable. The barn still had it's roof, most of the house walls were still there, and the ivy had yet to envelop the whole caboodle. But these houses don't take kindly to lack of attention. The roof tiles slip, water enters, and things quickly rot and crumble. The stone walls are constructed with plain earth, which washes away all to easily when the roof no longer protects them.

The owner of this ruin (which is about 500 metres from our house), has just recently cut down all the trees that previously hid it from view. What he now intends to do with it, I have no idea.

I fear it may be beyond restoration, but it would be fun to see someone take it on.

Policing Assange.

                                            

Julian Assange has now been holed-up in London's Ecuadorian Embassy for almost 1000 days, and the cost of policing its front door has risen to 10 Million quid.

Apparently it takes 3 coppers to watch the door (in case he tries to run away), and a rough estimate of the DAILY cost of these super-sleuths works out at £10,000.

I really had no idea that 'plod' earned so much. If there are 3 men on duty, doesn't that mean that they're each earning £3,300 per day? That gives each copper a monthly salary of about £66,000.

If my basic maths is right, it's very nice work if you can get it.

p.s. Aren't all embassies granted round-the-clock police security anyway? Yes, I thought they were!

Thieving Bar Stewards.

                                                  

In about 1970-ish I bought 3 very beautiful round antique gilded frames at a jumble sale. They had an interior diameter of about 40 cms, and cost me very little.

Over the following few weeks I amused myself by painting 3 round, dark, brooding, self-portraits in the style of Rembrandt. I later aged the pictures by applying various old fashioned varnishes etc. When framed and hung they looked extremely old and convincing.

But Art Colleges in the UK are renowned for being the hunting grounds of pilferers, and my three paintings soon disappeared.

I've always wondered who it was who half-inched them (I suspected one of my tutors), but more so; what happened to them?

I quite imagine that they are now hanging in some smart sitting or dining room, being shown-off as early portraits of ancestors by an unknown Dutch master; unless someone tried to 'clean' them.

Such is life in the Art world.