Today
My nephew's Facebook status today was a short rant about a close encounter between his bicycle and a woman driving a Corsa. He fumed that his bike lights were "BRIGHT AS THE CORE OF THE BLOODY SUN!" Which is the point, really.
In My Day
I assume the role of a ranting old woman when I see people riding bikes at night without lights. This varies from a passing shout, stopping lads in the village with a reasonable suggestion, to full-blown ravings.
I think it was back in 1997 while we were having the house redecorated. I'd had a long day at work and was driving back in the early dusk. As I started up the straight approach to Stratton-on-the-Fosse, I had to take swerving avoiding action around a semi-visible cyclist. I was tired and stressed, so, instead of just cursing and driving on, I pulled over and waited for the bike to come alongside.
I wound down the window. "Oi, you!" I yelled politely "Yes, you!" A meek-looking young Vietnamese man stopped his bike beside me. "You haven't any lights on your bike," I told him. "It's not my bike." was the apologetic, but idiotic reply. This didn't help my frame of mind. "What's that got to do with it? I nearly ran you over!" "I'm sorry." "Not half as sorry as you'd be if you were bleeding in a ditch right now!" I warmed to my theme. "Look at you! you're wearing grey clothes as well - you're completely invisible."
I've no idea what the poor chap thought about this crazed middle-aged woman screaming at him in the middle of the road; he was probably terrified. I calmed down a little. "Look," I said "where are you going?" thinking that I could put his bike in my boot and drive him to his destination. "Downside Abbey", he replied. Downside was about 200 yards further up the road.
"Well", I said "I suggest you cross the road to where there's a footpath and walk the rest of the way!" With that I drove home to a darkened and untidy house where I ranted some more, leaving Mr Vietnam to make what he could of his encounter.
And then there was the time when I nearly caught an unlit bike on a country lane one night. I hope that it was my uninhibited complaints that led me to see the bike every night after that lit up like the proverbial!
The point is, not only was Jacob's bike lit up but the woman in the Corsa was smoking a fag (and was probably on her mobile as well). So, rant on, Jacob, you have my full support!
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Best Place in the World
Today
After breakfast this morning, Paul & I sat watching the birds fly around busily in the frosty morning sunshine. Three wood-pigeons sat at the top of their favourite Lombardy poplar at the back of the field, looking so enormous we wondered how the branches could bear their weight. Tits and finches darted about and a fat, fluffed-up robin perched on the alder just beyond our fence.
"Do you remember what we used to say when we first came to the village?" asked Paul. I certainly do.
In My Day
We first saw Stoke St Michael on a damp and dreary day in November 1986. We weren't familiar with the "Mendip Murk" at that time and just felt anxious and apprehensive about the future. We'd abandoned jobs and home to come here and had no idea whether the decision was the right one. Eventually we bought no 7 and moved in just before Christmas Eve.
A local paper described Stoke as a "Grim little settlement" and that just about summed up our feelings. "Where are the trees?" we asked. "Why are there no birds?" The gardens seemed bare and the fields solidly utilitarian, grassy with hedgerows. No trees seemed to border them and the nearest woodland was half-an-hour's walk away. I planted trees in my garden that promptly withered away with the first frost. In 1989 many of the trees that existed blew down in the great gales, leaving the place more bare than ever.
The spring and summer dawn chorus was a paltry affair and we began to wonder whether we could ever be happy here. The second winter Paul gazed at the rain pouring down day after day. "Is it ever going to stop?" he asked. Even the dog hated the dull, wet, shelterless days and would walk glumly with me up the lane, ears down.
Slowly as the years passed, we began to see that people were taking care of their village. The Lombardy poplars were planted at the back of the field, where they make a rustling like the distant sea all summer and whose branches gleam pale gold in the winter sun. I discovered that, by erecting a decent fence around the garden, I could protect my trees until they were established. So I now have a beautiful elaeagnus with year-round gold & green foliage and a viburnum fragrans whose leaves protect many a small bird and whose January blossoms perfume the garden.
The village's Millennium Wood is now ten years old and doing very well indeed. A line of trees marks the skyline to the west of the house, enhancing the sunsets. Neighbours' gardens brim with trees and shrubs, and alder and hawthorn border the stream at the end of the Close. We take the "Mendip Murk" in our stride now and can't imagine why we'd want to live anywhere else.
And the birds? Well, the dawn chorus now drives me mad every spring and summer from about four in the morning!
After breakfast this morning, Paul & I sat watching the birds fly around busily in the frosty morning sunshine. Three wood-pigeons sat at the top of their favourite Lombardy poplar at the back of the field, looking so enormous we wondered how the branches could bear their weight. Tits and finches darted about and a fat, fluffed-up robin perched on the alder just beyond our fence.
"Do you remember what we used to say when we first came to the village?" asked Paul. I certainly do.
In My Day
We first saw Stoke St Michael on a damp and dreary day in November 1986. We weren't familiar with the "Mendip Murk" at that time and just felt anxious and apprehensive about the future. We'd abandoned jobs and home to come here and had no idea whether the decision was the right one. Eventually we bought no 7 and moved in just before Christmas Eve.
A local paper described Stoke as a "Grim little settlement" and that just about summed up our feelings. "Where are the trees?" we asked. "Why are there no birds?" The gardens seemed bare and the fields solidly utilitarian, grassy with hedgerows. No trees seemed to border them and the nearest woodland was half-an-hour's walk away. I planted trees in my garden that promptly withered away with the first frost. In 1989 many of the trees that existed blew down in the great gales, leaving the place more bare than ever.
The spring and summer dawn chorus was a paltry affair and we began to wonder whether we could ever be happy here. The second winter Paul gazed at the rain pouring down day after day. "Is it ever going to stop?" he asked. Even the dog hated the dull, wet, shelterless days and would walk glumly with me up the lane, ears down.
Slowly as the years passed, we began to see that people were taking care of their village. The Lombardy poplars were planted at the back of the field, where they make a rustling like the distant sea all summer and whose branches gleam pale gold in the winter sun. I discovered that, by erecting a decent fence around the garden, I could protect my trees until they were established. So I now have a beautiful elaeagnus with year-round gold & green foliage and a viburnum fragrans whose leaves protect many a small bird and whose January blossoms perfume the garden.
The village's Millennium Wood is now ten years old and doing very well indeed. A line of trees marks the skyline to the west of the house, enhancing the sunsets. Neighbours' gardens brim with trees and shrubs, and alder and hawthorn border the stream at the end of the Close. We take the "Mendip Murk" in our stride now and can't imagine why we'd want to live anywhere else.
And the birds? Well, the dawn chorus now drives me mad every spring and summer from about four in the morning!
Friday, January 14, 2011
Penny Pinching
Today
I was chatting to my sister today when we got onto the subject of shopping. "You know when money's tight", she joked "it's when you have to buy own brand Marmite."
Apart from the routine taking advantage of "bogofs" and keeping a sensible eye on the best bargains, I long ago stopped thinking about what my weekly shop costs. When did that happen?
In My Day
In our early days, paying attention to what each item cost was vital to getting through the month. We had a constant balancing act going on between variety, enjoyment, nutrition and cost. If there was a way do things cheaper we did it.
As previously blogged, Paul and I used to buy weekly a huge boxful of fruit and veg for about £3.00 as part of the Infinity Food co-operative in Brighton. This was good and fresh and certainly ticked the nutrition and cost boxes.
In Eastbourne, back in the '70s, there was a retail "cash and carry" outlet called Consuma. This was a vast warehouse where the ordinary shopper could buy food in bulk, thus keeping costs down. Shopping there could involve the purchase of 24 catering tins of baked beans, 5kg slabs of cheddar and industrial quantities of instant coffee. To be able to take advantage of this bulk buying opportunity, you had to be able to shell out a fair bit of cash in one go, be able to transport the stuff home and have at least reasonable storage space. We shopped there about once every six weeks. Once home, the items had to be divvied up; sometimes we shared our purchases with friends and neighbours and stuff like meat and cheese had to be cut, wrapped and frozen. I remember carelessly leaving the shopping boxes on the floor one day to discover that Caspian the dog had affectionately taken the entire slab of cheese into his bed where he was gnawing it contentedly; another time he made himself very ill gorging on a 5lb bag of mixed dried fruit. So this system of shopping did have its pitfalls.
We became freezer addicts. Beatrice at one time worked in a vegetable warehouse in Wisbech. We combined a visit with buying nets of onions, cabbages, carrots etc. These we lugged home and had to blanch, bag, label and freeze. This was a grim job, took hours, the stuff never tasted as good as fresh and there's a limit to how much frozen turnip you can get through.
There is no doubt that we made compromises; we bought huge tubs of cheap margarine and ice-cream, both of which didn't stand up to nutritional scrutiny. (Becky rather liked the marge and often tried to take scoops straight from the tub; later she would secretly cream this with sugar and (sometimes chocolate) and stuff it after school. It was only when I mysteriously ran out of bowls and spoons and discovered a stash of unwashed crockery and cutlery in her room that this little habit was ended.) We consumed a fair amount of tinned spaghetti, fish fingers and drank the cheapest instant coffee. We even sometimes bought own brand Marmite.
On many occasions, trundling around the supermarket, I would be anxiously adding up every penny as we went, knowing that any error would lead to embarrassment at the checkout. Often I had to make the decision to remove some items at the checkout (to the annoyance of the queue behind me) to bring the total down.
These days, I guess, Lidl and Aldi are the equivalent of Consuma and many friends and family extol their virtues. But I have no idea how long it might take me to get through 5kg packs of rice, a lot of food items are unrecognisably German and I am now sufficiently well-off to be able to choose not to go there because I just don't like it!
Of course, having only two people to feed does make a difference.
I was chatting to my sister today when we got onto the subject of shopping. "You know when money's tight", she joked "it's when you have to buy own brand Marmite."
Apart from the routine taking advantage of "bogofs" and keeping a sensible eye on the best bargains, I long ago stopped thinking about what my weekly shop costs. When did that happen?
In My Day
In our early days, paying attention to what each item cost was vital to getting through the month. We had a constant balancing act going on between variety, enjoyment, nutrition and cost. If there was a way do things cheaper we did it.
As previously blogged, Paul and I used to buy weekly a huge boxful of fruit and veg for about £3.00 as part of the Infinity Food co-operative in Brighton. This was good and fresh and certainly ticked the nutrition and cost boxes.
In Eastbourne, back in the '70s, there was a retail "cash and carry" outlet called Consuma. This was a vast warehouse where the ordinary shopper could buy food in bulk, thus keeping costs down. Shopping there could involve the purchase of 24 catering tins of baked beans, 5kg slabs of cheddar and industrial quantities of instant coffee. To be able to take advantage of this bulk buying opportunity, you had to be able to shell out a fair bit of cash in one go, be able to transport the stuff home and have at least reasonable storage space. We shopped there about once every six weeks. Once home, the items had to be divvied up; sometimes we shared our purchases with friends and neighbours and stuff like meat and cheese had to be cut, wrapped and frozen. I remember carelessly leaving the shopping boxes on the floor one day to discover that Caspian the dog had affectionately taken the entire slab of cheese into his bed where he was gnawing it contentedly; another time he made himself very ill gorging on a 5lb bag of mixed dried fruit. So this system of shopping did have its pitfalls.
We became freezer addicts. Beatrice at one time worked in a vegetable warehouse in Wisbech. We combined a visit with buying nets of onions, cabbages, carrots etc. These we lugged home and had to blanch, bag, label and freeze. This was a grim job, took hours, the stuff never tasted as good as fresh and there's a limit to how much frozen turnip you can get through.
There is no doubt that we made compromises; we bought huge tubs of cheap margarine and ice-cream, both of which didn't stand up to nutritional scrutiny. (Becky rather liked the marge and often tried to take scoops straight from the tub; later she would secretly cream this with sugar and (sometimes chocolate) and stuff it after school. It was only when I mysteriously ran out of bowls and spoons and discovered a stash of unwashed crockery and cutlery in her room that this little habit was ended.) We consumed a fair amount of tinned spaghetti, fish fingers and drank the cheapest instant coffee. We even sometimes bought own brand Marmite.
On many occasions, trundling around the supermarket, I would be anxiously adding up every penny as we went, knowing that any error would lead to embarrassment at the checkout. Often I had to make the decision to remove some items at the checkout (to the annoyance of the queue behind me) to bring the total down.
These days, I guess, Lidl and Aldi are the equivalent of Consuma and many friends and family extol their virtues. But I have no idea how long it might take me to get through 5kg packs of rice, a lot of food items are unrecognisably German and I am now sufficiently well-off to be able to choose not to go there because I just don't like it!
Of course, having only two people to feed does make a difference.
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