On one of my earlier posts, I mentioned picking the pumpkins we'd grown for Halloween. It was a bit early to harvest them, but they were huge and hard to miss, so there was a good chance they would get pinched or vandalised once we got into October.
Yesterday we went to our allotment to pick the last of the sweetcorn, and every remaining cob had been knicked.
It leaves me short of things to say, because most of what we thought and wished on the thief is unrepeatable.
Thankfully the pumpkins have survived being stored in the garage. The largest is going to our two youngest granddaughter's school for Harvest Festival, and will then be used for Halloween.
Grown with love, given with love, and enjoyed.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Saturday, October 06, 2007
OPINION: Time to put my money where my mouth is.
My bedside cabinet has enough pills and medicines on it to stock a chemist. My head is aching, my chest is sore, and I have blocked, aching ears. My patience, which isn't great at the best of times is non-existent. Not perhaps the best time to write a letter of complaint [not the first] to our local paper about the closure of a neighbourhood store. But I did and it was published this weekend.
There was a protest meeting this morning which I didn't attend because I couldn't stop coughing, but I have been given the opportunity to join NAG which is a neighbourhood action group.
So my friends it's time to put my money where my mouth is.
The local councillors hate me. The landscaping department heads hate me. And our doctor who owns the piece of derelict land would probably hate me if he knew who I was! It's going to be a rocky ride.
Here is the letter I wrote:
Although shocked at the news Waitrose in Birch Hill is closing down in November because it doesn't offer the kind of shopping environment [sic corporate image]that customers expect from Waitrose, I have to say I'm not surprised. And I don't blame them.
There would be no need for councillors to have their photographs taken while supporting the petition, if they'd been doing the job they are paid and elected to do.
A few months ago I wrote to our three local councillors to complain about the appalling standard of landscaping we have to put up with compared to other areas in the borough, and also the disgusting bus shelter nearest to Waitrose.
Not one of them bothered to acknowledge my complaint, but then I wasn't surprised, it's what I've come to expect.
A few weeks later, a few pathetic posters were stuck in the glass and a quick sweep of the shelter took place, but it's still a disgrace.
The grass received one decent cut and from then on we were back to our normal, substandard mow.
There is a plot of derelict land right by the bus shelter on the main road which is a blot on the landscape as you approach the store, and on top of that Waitrose has had to deal with the nuisance of gangs of kids.
I'm surprised they haven't gone sooner.
There was a protest meeting this morning which I didn't attend because I couldn't stop coughing, but I have been given the opportunity to join NAG which is a neighbourhood action group.
So my friends it's time to put my money where my mouth is.
The local councillors hate me. The landscaping department heads hate me. And our doctor who owns the piece of derelict land would probably hate me if he knew who I was! It's going to be a rocky ride.
Here is the letter I wrote:
Although shocked at the news Waitrose in Birch Hill is closing down in November because it doesn't offer the kind of shopping environment [sic corporate image]that customers expect from Waitrose, I have to say I'm not surprised. And I don't blame them.
There would be no need for councillors to have their photographs taken while supporting the petition, if they'd been doing the job they are paid and elected to do.
A few months ago I wrote to our three local councillors to complain about the appalling standard of landscaping we have to put up with compared to other areas in the borough, and also the disgusting bus shelter nearest to Waitrose.
Not one of them bothered to acknowledge my complaint, but then I wasn't surprised, it's what I've come to expect.
A few weeks later, a few pathetic posters were stuck in the glass and a quick sweep of the shelter took place, but it's still a disgrace.
The grass received one decent cut and from then on we were back to our normal, substandard mow.
There is a plot of derelict land right by the bus shelter on the main road which is a blot on the landscape as you approach the store, and on top of that Waitrose has had to deal with the nuisance of gangs of kids.
I'm surprised they haven't gone sooner.
Friday, October 05, 2007
Short Story. Wendy Didn't Like.
Under the harsh light of his desk lamp, he could almost feel waves of heat rising from the glossy, double page spread. The contrast of white sand against a turquoise sea hurt his eyes and a hammock slung between two palm trees on the edge of the picture, beckoned. Breathing heavily William turned to the next page, where two long haired females with flimsy thongs hiding in the cracks of deliciously rounded behinds, cavorted in the surf. Try as he might he couldn’t see any bikini top straps or sun tan lines on their gently curving backs and thought once again that a man could really relax on a holiday like that,
He sighed and slapped the well thumbed pages of the travel magazine shut. It was pointless beating himself over the head. Wendy didn't like the heat, Wendy didn't like flying. Wendy didn't like foreign food, Wendy didn't like … there was a lot his wife didn't like.
What she did like year after year was taking their old Volkswagen Caravenette, plus a small tent for housing the chemical toilet on the ferry to Harwich, and travelling around Europe wherever the fancy took her
During the day she enthused over old churches and ruined castles and in the evenings, parked in a lay-by or a convenient thicket, served up instant mash and tinned stewing steak, or corned beef. Bought in bulk from their local Tesco before setting out, she even packed a dozen loaves of sliced bread, although it meant towards the end of their holiday, William was picking clumps of interesting blue mould off the crusts, before dribbling rancid butter onto his breakfast toast.
For two miserable weeks there was a complete absence of fruit and fresh vegetables in their diet, because Wendy said you never knew where it had been, you couldn’t trust foreigners to be as clean as Tesco.
It was odd how she thrived, whereas William inevitably arrived home with such severe heartburn and constipation it took several days of eating nothing but prunes and Rennies, before he began to feel more like himself.
Churches and tinned food would be more bearable if they stayed overnight at interesting little French pensions or cuckoo clock style lodges, but if he slowed down as they neared a particularly appealing bed and breakfast, she'd tap him sharply on the back of the head and direct him to the nearest clump of trees.
And that was why, a few days later, his mouth dropped to his chin when Wendy said,
‘I’ve booked us on an eight day coach tour of Europe. Mrs Sampson from the WI went last year and thoroughly recommends it. She said you get ever such nice people on the coach and everything’s taken care of for you. Of course we’re old hands at France and Germany and Holland’s pretty boring, but Italy and Switzerland will be an adventure and I can’t wait to see Austria…’
William counted off countries on the fingers of one hand and the days of the tour on the other as she prattled on.
‘That’ll be rather a lot of travelling won’t it?’ he appealed. ‘Not much time for sightseeing.’
‘We’ll see far more this way. Don’t be difficult William. It’s settled.’
William shut up although Wendy had forgotten about food. They’d never pack enough tins to last the two of them seven days, let alone a primus stove.
Then he cheered up. There was nothing to stop him eating the hotel’s food and it was only for eight days; he could get away with one change of clothes. That way they could easily pack enough food like ham and cheese that didn’t need hotting up for Wendy. It wouldn’t be blue skies and white sand, but as far as his digestion was concerned it was infinitely better than two weeks eating out of tins.
William groaned and clutched his stomach as Wendy licked melting chocolate from a Jaffa cake.
‘Are you sure you don’t want one? Oh lovely! Here’s the Swiss border.’
But she was talking to thin air as, for the fourth time that morning William lurched desperately towards the toilet at the back of the coach.
‘I bet it was the sauerkraut you ate in Germany,’ Wendy said. ‘I didn’t like the look of it, but you wouldn’t be told. Goodness William, you do smell; people are beginning to notice. You’ll have to wash your things out again at the hotel tonight. They’ll throw you off the bus if you’re not careful, but I warn you now, if they do I shan’t be coming with you. I refuse to let you spoil my holiday.’
‘But they don’t dry out in time and sitting in this coach for fifteen hours a day in damp clothes is giving me a dreadful rash.’
‘Don’t whine. You should have thought of that before you packed. That ham was nice. I’ll have some cheddar now. Oh look! We’re in Italy: isn’t this fun!’
William’s mouth briefly watered at the thought of Jaffa cakes. It didn’t last long though, because after he’d had a nice bath and smothered his itchy bits in talcum powder, he planned to stroll down to the harbour and sitting by the water, sample genuine Italian cooking washed down perhaps with a bottle of Sicilian red
Standing sideways he studied himself in the hotel room’s full length mirror. It was a good job that, when he went to buy some clothes, once he’d waved his credit card in the assistant’s shocked face they’d measured him. Not being able to eat for four days had certainly made a difference to his waistline.
William chuckled as a sharp twinge cut across his stomach, a reminder of last nights hotel where, as a concession to English tourists they offered baked beans on toast on the menu.
Of course three large helpings were a bit much on a totally empty stomach, but he’d been so hungry he hadn’t thought about the consequences --- honestly!
He sighed and slapped the well thumbed pages of the travel magazine shut. It was pointless beating himself over the head. Wendy didn't like the heat, Wendy didn't like flying. Wendy didn't like foreign food, Wendy didn't like … there was a lot his wife didn't like.
What she did like year after year was taking their old Volkswagen Caravenette, plus a small tent for housing the chemical toilet on the ferry to Harwich, and travelling around Europe wherever the fancy took her
During the day she enthused over old churches and ruined castles and in the evenings, parked in a lay-by or a convenient thicket, served up instant mash and tinned stewing steak, or corned beef. Bought in bulk from their local Tesco before setting out, she even packed a dozen loaves of sliced bread, although it meant towards the end of their holiday, William was picking clumps of interesting blue mould off the crusts, before dribbling rancid butter onto his breakfast toast.
For two miserable weeks there was a complete absence of fruit and fresh vegetables in their diet, because Wendy said you never knew where it had been, you couldn’t trust foreigners to be as clean as Tesco.
It was odd how she thrived, whereas William inevitably arrived home with such severe heartburn and constipation it took several days of eating nothing but prunes and Rennies, before he began to feel more like himself.
Churches and tinned food would be more bearable if they stayed overnight at interesting little French pensions or cuckoo clock style lodges, but if he slowed down as they neared a particularly appealing bed and breakfast, she'd tap him sharply on the back of the head and direct him to the nearest clump of trees.
And that was why, a few days later, his mouth dropped to his chin when Wendy said,
‘I’ve booked us on an eight day coach tour of Europe. Mrs Sampson from the WI went last year and thoroughly recommends it. She said you get ever such nice people on the coach and everything’s taken care of for you. Of course we’re old hands at France and Germany and Holland’s pretty boring, but Italy and Switzerland will be an adventure and I can’t wait to see Austria…’
William counted off countries on the fingers of one hand and the days of the tour on the other as she prattled on.
‘That’ll be rather a lot of travelling won’t it?’ he appealed. ‘Not much time for sightseeing.’
‘We’ll see far more this way. Don’t be difficult William. It’s settled.’
William shut up although Wendy had forgotten about food. They’d never pack enough tins to last the two of them seven days, let alone a primus stove.
Then he cheered up. There was nothing to stop him eating the hotel’s food and it was only for eight days; he could get away with one change of clothes. That way they could easily pack enough food like ham and cheese that didn’t need hotting up for Wendy. It wouldn’t be blue skies and white sand, but as far as his digestion was concerned it was infinitely better than two weeks eating out of tins.
William groaned and clutched his stomach as Wendy licked melting chocolate from a Jaffa cake.
‘Are you sure you don’t want one? Oh lovely! Here’s the Swiss border.’
But she was talking to thin air as, for the fourth time that morning William lurched desperately towards the toilet at the back of the coach.
‘I bet it was the sauerkraut you ate in Germany,’ Wendy said. ‘I didn’t like the look of it, but you wouldn’t be told. Goodness William, you do smell; people are beginning to notice. You’ll have to wash your things out again at the hotel tonight. They’ll throw you off the bus if you’re not careful, but I warn you now, if they do I shan’t be coming with you. I refuse to let you spoil my holiday.’
‘But they don’t dry out in time and sitting in this coach for fifteen hours a day in damp clothes is giving me a dreadful rash.’
‘Don’t whine. You should have thought of that before you packed. That ham was nice. I’ll have some cheddar now. Oh look! We’re in Italy: isn’t this fun!’
William’s mouth briefly watered at the thought of Jaffa cakes. It didn’t last long though, because after he’d had a nice bath and smothered his itchy bits in talcum powder, he planned to stroll down to the harbour and sitting by the water, sample genuine Italian cooking washed down perhaps with a bottle of Sicilian red
Standing sideways he studied himself in the hotel room’s full length mirror. It was a good job that, when he went to buy some clothes, once he’d waved his credit card in the assistant’s shocked face they’d measured him. Not being able to eat for four days had certainly made a difference to his waistline.
William chuckled as a sharp twinge cut across his stomach, a reminder of last nights hotel where, as a concession to English tourists they offered baked beans on toast on the menu.
Of course three large helpings were a bit much on a totally empty stomach, but he’d been so hungry he hadn’t thought about the consequences --- honestly!
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Thoughts on a Warm Summer Morning.
Lovely waking up to sunshine.
Good. The first line of a poem is buzzing around in my head.
Mustn’t waste such a beautiful day.
Take mug of tea, paper, and pen into garden, sit on bench and write poem.
Vague outline of second poem in head as well!
This sun is lovely.
On a day like this Jilly Cooper’s female writers sit outside, bare breasted, with a jug of Pimms and a handsome youth to hand as it were.
Don’t think about it. Act your age.
Better go indoors and put the poem on the computer for easier editing.
Shame to go indoors.
The grass needs cutting.
Do it later.
It needs cutting badly.
Go - indoors - and - write - the - poem.
Chilly inside. Could have stayed out a little longer.
Look at that dirty skirting board.
Push the side table in front of it.
Must bring bookcase in from garage.
Wish I was Jilly Cooper.
Hang on. Jilly Cooper thought will make good intro for article.
Mustn’t forget the poem.
That wall needs painting.
Why did I think I could write an article?
Why do I think I can write at all?
Better check the washing.
Come on, come on. Spit it out.
Have a cigarette.
Ok: forget the article, stick to the poem.
What poem?
Good. The first line of a poem is buzzing around in my head.
Mustn’t waste such a beautiful day.
Take mug of tea, paper, and pen into garden, sit on bench and write poem.
Vague outline of second poem in head as well!
This sun is lovely.
On a day like this Jilly Cooper’s female writers sit outside, bare breasted, with a jug of Pimms and a handsome youth to hand as it were.
Don’t think about it. Act your age.
Better go indoors and put the poem on the computer for easier editing.
Shame to go indoors.
The grass needs cutting.
Do it later.
It needs cutting badly.
Go - indoors - and - write - the - poem.
Chilly inside. Could have stayed out a little longer.
Look at that dirty skirting board.
Push the side table in front of it.
Must bring bookcase in from garage.
Wish I was Jilly Cooper.
Hang on. Jilly Cooper thought will make good intro for article.
Mustn’t forget the poem.
That wall needs painting.
Why did I think I could write an article?
Why do I think I can write at all?
Better check the washing.
Come on, come on. Spit it out.
Have a cigarette.
Ok: forget the article, stick to the poem.
What poem?
OPINION: I Want to go Green.
I’d quite like a wind turbine in the garden, although it would have to be the shape of the one we pass when we’re driving down the M4 towards Reading. I love it. It’s one of the most elegant designs I’ve ever seen for something that is so useful.
They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but many people don’t like them, or say they’re fine as long as they don’t have to actually look at them. I wonder how quickly they’d change their minds if they were reduced to using oil lamps or candles and cooking on an open fire.
With a home turbine, windy winter days would suddenly become acceptable: welcome even. Instead of worrying about how you’re going to afford the rising cost of keeping warm and donning another layer of woollies rather than turning the thermostat up a notch, you’d cheer when the weather man predicted blizzards.
If it blew hard enough for long enough, there might even be enough electricity left over to contribute to the national grid; in which case the electricity company would be paying you. Fancy that!
Even watching the leaves from a neighbour’s tree billowing en masse over the fence and settling in your garden wouldn’t be half so irritating. You could think, sucks to the electricity company and look forward to a nice fat cheque, as you pulled the curtains, switched on another bar of the electric fire and settled down to toast your toes in front of its artificial flames.
The biggest problem encountered so far with home turbines, is when they are fixed to the roof, chimney stack, or walls of a house. The vibrations caused by cross winds which is common in built up areas, can cause structural damage. Experts are quick to reassure us new designs are overcoming that particular problem and the height of a regular house isn’t optimum for catching every little gust anyway.
High, stand alone turbines are the best option, especially in a chimney free town like Bracknell, with many of its houses half clad in wood.
Fast moving technology will quickly weed out minor problems as they crop up and as more of us rebel against paying through the nose for utilities that are set to become increasingly erratic.
If the energy crisis continues and our utility companies carry on sticking their heads in the sand to the extent they are at present, a bizarre vision of suburban front gardens looking more like bijou prairie homesteads with dust devils and sage brush blowing aimlessly along blistered tarmac roads and up our front paths, will become all too real.
Imagine if you can a blazing hot Sunday afternoon with just a soupcon of breeze. When the only sound to be heard, apart from the irritating buzz of helmet -less youngsters dune surfing on mini bikes, is the monotonous creak of countless wind turbines producing electricity to cook the Sunday lunch, and pumping water from personal wells hundreds of feet below the parched earth so that we can do the washing up afterwards.
I quite fancy my own eggs as well…Does anyone know if you need planning permission for a chicken coop?
They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but many people don’t like them, or say they’re fine as long as they don’t have to actually look at them. I wonder how quickly they’d change their minds if they were reduced to using oil lamps or candles and cooking on an open fire.
With a home turbine, windy winter days would suddenly become acceptable: welcome even. Instead of worrying about how you’re going to afford the rising cost of keeping warm and donning another layer of woollies rather than turning the thermostat up a notch, you’d cheer when the weather man predicted blizzards.
If it blew hard enough for long enough, there might even be enough electricity left over to contribute to the national grid; in which case the electricity company would be paying you. Fancy that!
Even watching the leaves from a neighbour’s tree billowing en masse over the fence and settling in your garden wouldn’t be half so irritating. You could think, sucks to the electricity company and look forward to a nice fat cheque, as you pulled the curtains, switched on another bar of the electric fire and settled down to toast your toes in front of its artificial flames.
The biggest problem encountered so far with home turbines, is when they are fixed to the roof, chimney stack, or walls of a house. The vibrations caused by cross winds which is common in built up areas, can cause structural damage. Experts are quick to reassure us new designs are overcoming that particular problem and the height of a regular house isn’t optimum for catching every little gust anyway.
High, stand alone turbines are the best option, especially in a chimney free town like Bracknell, with many of its houses half clad in wood.
Fast moving technology will quickly weed out minor problems as they crop up and as more of us rebel against paying through the nose for utilities that are set to become increasingly erratic.
If the energy crisis continues and our utility companies carry on sticking their heads in the sand to the extent they are at present, a bizarre vision of suburban front gardens looking more like bijou prairie homesteads with dust devils and sage brush blowing aimlessly along blistered tarmac roads and up our front paths, will become all too real.
Imagine if you can a blazing hot Sunday afternoon with just a soupcon of breeze. When the only sound to be heard, apart from the irritating buzz of helmet -less youngsters dune surfing on mini bikes, is the monotonous creak of countless wind turbines producing electricity to cook the Sunday lunch, and pumping water from personal wells hundreds of feet below the parched earth so that we can do the washing up afterwards.
I quite fancy my own eggs as well…Does anyone know if you need planning permission for a chicken coop?
Sunday, September 23, 2007
OPINION: Don't you just love them.
I’m convinced Councillors and the people that work for local government are a special breed. Born that way, their particular brand of stupidity and thick skinned arrogance is inherited, and traits like common sense and finer feelings disappeared from their genetic make up way back in the mists of time.
I’m on record for objecting about being ignored even at election time by the Councillors in our neck of the woods, and was unhappy about tax payers money being used to give them unlimited, fast speed internet access in their homes to ‘keep them in the loop’. It makes me grind my teeth that they won’t even acknowledge receiving the email when you contact them via their individual mail slot on the council’s award winning web site.
I’ve also made my voice heard when wondering which numpty decides on the location of litter bins, and am hated by a couple of Council departments for my outspoken views on bad working practices for their blue collar workers. And haven't we all all gritted our teeth when they've increased their own allowances while essential services are cut to the bone.
There are days I wonder why I bother, but then every month I see a large chunk of my money disappearing from my bank account and going into the Council’s coffers.
To be fair, local services aren’t totally bad given the pace of life today. I’m sensible enough to realise that to have my bins emptied, schools, police and fire brigade kept up, parks tidy and a myriad of other local services on tap, costs money.
No, it’s the faceless twits who come up with brainless, money wasting ideas and, in the case of my Council, keep the fat cat ‘I’m all right Jack’ mentality alive and kicking, that I object to.
You will imagine my delight then, when on Friday I bought the local paper for a nearby town and found the front page gleefully catching its local council with their pants well and truly lowered.
It was about a Leave Your Car at Home Day organised by the Council. The town has a good local transport system via trains and buses along with park and ride facilities. It was to be a day where – hopefully - if locals used buses and trains they might like it enough to ease some of the congestion on the towns badly clogged roads for the other 364 days of the year. Not forgetting how it would help the environment at the same time of course.
Naturally the local paper had enthusiastically taken up the banner with editorial staff relating their adventures on the way to work by unfamiliar routes.
It was all good clean fun, but unknown to the council the paper took a photo of one of their car parks a day or so before the special day, and then sneaked back and took a comparison photo of the same car park on the Leave Your Car at Home Day.
You don’t need to read any further to know what happened, but for those who are suckers for a punch line, the council’s car park was just as full.
Of course there were hurried denials that, that particular parking area was used by members of social services and the like and they needed to be mobile at a moments notice etc., etc. Oh my!
Bowled for a duck I’d say.
I’m on record for objecting about being ignored even at election time by the Councillors in our neck of the woods, and was unhappy about tax payers money being used to give them unlimited, fast speed internet access in their homes to ‘keep them in the loop’. It makes me grind my teeth that they won’t even acknowledge receiving the email when you contact them via their individual mail slot on the council’s award winning web site.
I’ve also made my voice heard when wondering which numpty decides on the location of litter bins, and am hated by a couple of Council departments for my outspoken views on bad working practices for their blue collar workers. And haven't we all all gritted our teeth when they've increased their own allowances while essential services are cut to the bone.
There are days I wonder why I bother, but then every month I see a large chunk of my money disappearing from my bank account and going into the Council’s coffers.
To be fair, local services aren’t totally bad given the pace of life today. I’m sensible enough to realise that to have my bins emptied, schools, police and fire brigade kept up, parks tidy and a myriad of other local services on tap, costs money.
No, it’s the faceless twits who come up with brainless, money wasting ideas and, in the case of my Council, keep the fat cat ‘I’m all right Jack’ mentality alive and kicking, that I object to.
You will imagine my delight then, when on Friday I bought the local paper for a nearby town and found the front page gleefully catching its local council with their pants well and truly lowered.
It was about a Leave Your Car at Home Day organised by the Council. The town has a good local transport system via trains and buses along with park and ride facilities. It was to be a day where – hopefully - if locals used buses and trains they might like it enough to ease some of the congestion on the towns badly clogged roads for the other 364 days of the year. Not forgetting how it would help the environment at the same time of course.
Naturally the local paper had enthusiastically taken up the banner with editorial staff relating their adventures on the way to work by unfamiliar routes.
It was all good clean fun, but unknown to the council the paper took a photo of one of their car parks a day or so before the special day, and then sneaked back and took a comparison photo of the same car park on the Leave Your Car at Home Day.
You don’t need to read any further to know what happened, but for those who are suckers for a punch line, the council’s car park was just as full.
Of course there were hurried denials that, that particular parking area was used by members of social services and the like and they needed to be mobile at a moments notice etc., etc. Oh my!
Bowled for a duck I’d say.
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