Selfie

I thought it was time I joined in this selfie lark. On the way proving that the Logitech camera perched on top of my screen still works, despite my very rarely using it and despite my nearly always ignoring their messages about important updates to the software.

User interface must be good if one can fire it up once in a blue moon and still get some action.

Dignity in Dying

A strongly worded piece in yesterday's DT about the awfulness of assisted dying (even for those that might want it). I have noticed strongly conservative pieces from Moore before, mostly including the same sort of highly coloured wording which discourages engagement, at least with me, the sort of wording which makes one doubt if one could manage any kind of dialog at all.

That aside, the logic of the argument, such as it is, seems to go as follows.

There are plenty of brave people about who put up with miserable illnesses and miserable deaths without moaning about it. And by the way, acceptance is far more conducive to health & happiness than rushing around trying to change things - with echoes here of the rather fatalistic & passive attitude to life and its torments of some Muslims (which I rather admire), although I suspect that Moore goes to one of our own churches. Perhaps he deliberately avoided the well known phrase 'Christian resignation', knowing full well that most of his readers would not be up for that one.

Far too many people have got so used to being able to micro-manage their lives that they now want to micro-manage their deaths. This being contrasted unfavourably with the aforementioned fatalistic & passive.

A pop along the way at the likes of Kurzweil for thinking that they can attain something like immortality. See reference 1.

Facilities for assisted dying might start to market themselves in a distasteful way. They might acquire expensively cultivated brand images. They might become fashion items.

Assisted dying might just become an option, an alternative to bunging a care home several hundred thousand pounds. While I see that as a life choice. If you would rather your dosh went on distressed cat care rather than distressed you care, that is a matter for you.

Assisted dying is a bit of a cop out. What about the people who have to do the assisting and the people who you leave behind?

So not complete twaddle, although I strongly disagree with his conclusions. And I still have no idea how I might engage with him in any useful way - so let's hope that the dignity in dying people can think of something. See reference 2.

PS: I associate to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. With the Bard's argument appearing mainly to be a concern that suicide might annoy the Deity, concerned that his creations should jolly run through to their appointed term, whatever the cost. I can see that as a medieval landlord - not so very much different from a nineteenth century slave owner - you might been keen to promote such a view lest your hard-pressed slaves just do themselves in. Which last was also a problem, I believe, on eighteenth and nineteenth century battle fields, places which were often more than bad enough to disturb the balance of the mind.

Reference 1: http://psmv2.blogspot.co.uk/search?q=kurzweil, discarding the present post.

Reference 2: http://www.dignityindying.org.uk/.

Hunt the ten coacher

Having reported a ten coacher at reference 1, I have sought to renew the experience, to be sure that I was not seeing things, so earlier in the week off to Earlsfield to see what I could do. Both train journeys failed to deliver, both trains being eights. But there was compensation on the second train in the form of a young mother, who had been down to London for the day with her toddler. I say down on the grounds that wherever it was in Surrey that she lived, somewhere between Epsom and Guildford, it was almost certainly above, in above sea level terms, central London, so she went down to London. She had, inter alia, been to the aquarium more or less underneath where I had taken tea the day before (search for Marriot), she knew all about the Isle of Wight and its quaint little train lines and she was born in Brazil - and on closer inspection she had the hint of red in her blonde which I associate with blondes from Latin countries, quite possibly quite wrongly. I was able to tell her all about the nudist camp at Havenstreet, which may have made her wonder about my leisure activities. See reference 2.

On the way, I found that the book shop which I had worried about on 8th April was open and could manage no less than two paperback copies of Švejk, both from Penguin, one the short version that I grew up with, in the gray livery of modern classics, and the long version which came out in 1973 and which was much more colourfully covered. Oddly, the long one which was more than twice the volume of the short one cost 50p less, perhaps reflecting the difficulty many of our young people have reading books. Although I believe the situation there might be more complicated than I would have it, with sales of books being as strong as ever, even if the young are not reading the sort of stuff considered de rigueur when I was young. Like Bertie Lawrence and Queenie Leavis, whose rather odd husband, was, as it happens, the product of the same school as the present writer.

I was then introduced to the Apple watch at Tooting. A smart looking gadget, as one would expect from Apple, clocking in at £300 or so, so rather dear for a watch and it could not even simulate the clock face of that well known clock at the top of Big Ben. But one could talk to the thing, it had many of the functions of a modern telephone and it could relate to one's actual telephone, provided, of course, that it came from Apple too. Other plus points included the fact that being strapped to your wrist you were unlikely to leave her (Siri speaks with a ladies' voice) lying around, unlike a telephone, and it having nifty holes on the underside which could both deliver a vibration to tell you something was up and count your heartbeats. I did not think to ask whether she would do a vibration if she thought you heart beat was a bit out of order. Maybe it just called for an ambulance. She did know where she was.

I was also introduced to the idea that the Ryan ambition in life was to give away aeroplane tickets for free and to make his money out of in-flight sales. On a few wines, this struck me as a very worthy target. Also that maybe the man has a sense of humour after all. But I still wonder how on earth he does it. Does he pay his staff in peanuts? Is he buying up planet unfriendly kerosene at some knock down price from some dodgy place in central Asia? And aeroplanes sold for scrap by BA during on of their periodic down turns?

Talking of which I managed several two's while waiting to go home from Earlsfield and very nearly a three. Evening sun handily hidden behind a tree, so the leaves are not all bad in this connection. I worked, on this occasion, from the northern end of the southbound platform, seeming better there on this occasion than at my usual spot.

Reference 1: http://psmv2.blogspot.co.uk/2015/05/le-penseur.html.

Reference 2: http://pumpkinstrokemarrow.blogspot.co.uk/search?q=havenstreet and http://www.valeriansunclub.com/.

News in the 'Metro'?

I am not usually very impressed with the quantity or quality of the news to be extracted from the average copy of the free 'Metro', a fact which does not reflect well on the state of our printed media - either on the supply or the demand side.

But this morning, an item from yesterday's edition did catch my eye. It seems that a parson somewhere near Manchester has declined to baptise a child on the grounds that the parents were not married. Not that they were not married in the right sort of church, just that they were not married at all. Now while I have been an atheist all my life, I do have pretensions to tolerance and generally speaking, I think it should be up to a church to decide who is eligible for which of its rites. They are not a high street shop where, it seems, that the law does insist on equal treatment for all, without regard to colour, creed or anything else - although in this last case I also think that both sides in any dispute ought to show a bit of common sense and avoid gratuitous or unecessary provocation.

However, leaving aside the religious affiliation of the parents, in the present case they seem to be saying that of the three primary schools within reasonable reach, two are faith schools requiring baptism into the Christian faith. In theory, they might just as well have required reception into the Muslim faith, or the Hindu faith, whatever reception might mean in those cases.

And this, if true, would to my mind be wrong. Provision of schools should largely be a matter for the state and schools funded by the state, should not, by and large, be faith schools. Most people are not faithful and there should not be areas in the country which are dominated by faith schools. There should be no requirement or pressure to go through the form but not the substance of a baptism, a proceeding which discredits both parties.

But whether the parental claim is true or not is unclear. Google reveals half a dozen or more primary schools in the area in question (Dukinfield, near Manchester), only two of which look to be faith schools, both Christian, one RC.

None of these issues were explored by Dominic Yeatman in the Metro. That was left as an exercise for the reader.

Hotel inspector

Off to London on Wednesday, with first and only Bullingdon of the day being a Santander from Waterloo 1 to St. Martin's Street. With all three stands at Waterloo being a bit light on this occasion; perhaps I was a little early at say 1100 and the refreshment van had not yet called.

First stop, Westminster Reference Library, which I had remembered as being a place catering primarily for the Chinese catering community, but which on this occasion looked to serve as a work space for assorted young foreigners, with one librarian speaking Mandarin as well as English and the other speaking French - this last to a tourist family which might well have been rather surprised to be so well catered for.

I took a tour around the ground floor which was decently if conventionally provided with reference books, including at least two which we own ourselves. I then ask to be allowed upstairs, a gallery around the walls of this roughly cubical space, at which point the stock takes a very interesting turn. All sorts of stuff which you would not expect to find outside of a specialist library, runs of all kinds of obscure publications, the demand for which on this day must have been modest. Statistics from the United Nations, Science from AAAS, Public Bills from (I suppose) HMSO and an astronomical calendar running to many volumes which told me where to find all the important stars. Not quite sure who this last might have been directed at; it seemed a bit bulky for sailors and explorers to carry in their haversacks for navigational purposes. Altogether, a rather pleasing anachronism. Good that we still have room for such a place.

Second stop, rendez-vous underneath the Bard in the middle of Leicester Square, another pleasing space, nicely refurbished and including an ornamental garden around the base of the Bard which itself included the fine plantain illustrated. A plant which was important part of play during summer lunchtimes at my primary school and subject to an extermination order in BH's part of the garden here at Epsom.

Third stop, Le Méridien Piccadilly for tea or a drop of chardonney according to taste. Served in a bar carved out of part of the basement by a friendly young waitress, but whose friendliness was not matched by her generosity with the biscuits, which I had to top up with some of the salty nibbles which were provided. Chardonney entirely satisfactory.

And so to St. James's to hear Marta Kowalczsk (violin) and Somi Kim (piano), recent products both of the Royal Academy of Music. Schubert's Sonatina No.1 (D.384), Prokofiev's Five Melodies (Op.35bis) (whatever bis might mean in this context) and Beethoven's Sonata No.7 (Op.30 No.2). Opened (with my mistaking the Schubert for Mozart) and closed well, not too sure about the Prokofiev in the middle. St. James's itself rather splendid, if a little faded, with not a dosser in sight on this occasion. I had forgotten about the Gibbons carvings at the east end and wondered who had brushed out the words from the panels which usually contain the commandments and other material of that sort. Closer look indicated the next time that I am there.

Kim played on a Fazioli piano, something one does not see that often - see for example reference 1. On this occasion I found it a bit harsh, a bit too brassy for what was being played. I wondered whether she had a rich father who stumped up for her piano and its removal from one place to another but the organiser told me as I was leaving that it belonged to the church, with its purchase having been the subject of a special appeal. But why would they have chosen such an instrument? I don't suppose they are much cheaper than the more usual Steinway.

I also found the piano a bit loud, certainly at the outset, with the violin not really coming through. But things got better as the concert went on and I wonder now whether it was not all in the mind. That is to say that maybe the brain can selectively turn down the volume of one of the parts, rather in the way that with a bit of effort one can shut out the background when conversing somewhere noisy.

On to the South Bank for more tea and chardonney at the Marriot there, stopping on the way to inspect the grave of Ribbentrop's dog at the top of the Duke of York steps. Being a bit uncertain about whether I approve of it being there, let alone my going to inspect it, I check this morning, to find that - according to http://darkestlondon.com/tag/nazi-dog/ anyway - that it is not Ribbentrop's dog at all, rather that of his predecessor, the old-style diplomat first sent here to represent the Weimar Republic. Probably not the site of the grave either, probably just the stone, re-erected somewhere handy to where it might have been. Had it remained Ribbentrop's dog, I think I would be in favour of getting rid of the memorial. One should not be making pilgrimages to such places, but as it is, I think I am content for it to remain as a curiosity.

South Bank busy with tourists, with the wheel doing a brisk business, so the lounge at the Marriot provided a haven, although not a quiet haven as it had a rather tiresome line in background music. Lots of servers, but service rather slow and the salt beef sandwich was not very good at all - it might as well have been a corned beef salad sandwich, a far cry from the glory days of the café in Great Windmill Street, long gone. Plus the thing came with a cornet of chips, freshly enough heated up but not fresh and well soaked in cooking oil.

The lounge itself was a handsome room with a handsome plaster ceiling, housed (I think) in the right hand end of the arcade as you face County Hall from the river side and more or less overlooking the river. But somehow the décor did not work for me. It all seemed slightly tawdry and I think I ought to write to the television people and get the hotel inspectors in to tell them how to do it properly. Nevertheless, a handy retreat from the bustle of the South Bank; you might pay a bit more than you do in the pub but it is well worth it.

Spotted an interesting load on a lorry passing over Westminster Bridge and it took some minutes to work out that the load was not crush barriers from the opening of Parliament earlier in the day, rather two or three large tubes of rebars, all ready to be dropped down foundation pile holes of some building going up nearby. Interesting how I nearly convinced myself that it was crush barriers, then suddenly flipped to the right answer.

Reference 1: http://psmv2.blogspot.co.uk/2014/11/an-italian-job.html.

Works 2

More useful is the renewal of the all weather track around the Common, somewhat worn after having last been done maybe 25 years ago. Lots of puddles and worse. The new start to the track is illustrated left.

Last time they recycled black top from road works, while this time they have used what I remember as type 2 sub-base. The stuff under the type 1 sub-base which is under the base course back top which... We will see whether it wears better.

Hopefully they have not chopped too much stuff down as part of the renewal.

Works 1

Back in November I noticed the appearance of a hut, fencing and mixed mess on the edge of the Common (see reference 1). Six months on, it is all still there, but rather than a base for chainsaw volunteers, it now appears to be a base from which contractors are carrying out various maintenance works on the paths of Epsom West.

One half of one such is illustrated left and it is not at all clear to me why in these difficult times it is appropriate to spend what must be a large sum of money to widen the footpath leading up West Hill from Stamford Green, a widening at the expense, I may say, of the grass verge. Does someone who is either important or noisy live on the Green, perhaps a someone who wants better access for an invalid buggy?

Reference 1: http://psmv2.blogspot.co.uk/2014/11/what-is-going-on.html.

True or false?

Finally getting back to Massie on Catherine the Great, and last night came across what struck me as a rather odd anecdote.

In the Autumn of 1749, Catherine and her rather unsatisfactory husband, the Grand Duke Peter, were still under the thumb of the Empress Elizabeth, but the unsatisfactory husband was allowed to indulge his passion for hunting and hunting dogs and was spending the quality time with the huntsmen which he was not spending with his young wife.

As it happened, there was a headstrong lieutenant, by name Yakov Baturin, from the Butirsky Regiment stationed nearby, inter alia an indebted gambler, although this last was common enough among officers in armies of the day. The lieutenant got in with the huntsmen and managed to secure an interview with the Grand Duke. An interview which turned out to be treasonous and the Grand Duke had the wit the back out fast.

A little while latter, Baturin was arrested and racked, during which racking he confessed his treasonous plotting. It was decided that the Grand Duke was in no way to blame for this plotting, but Baturin was sentence to life in the Schlűsselburg Fortress. The Russians, oddly, considering their brutality in other ways, were not as keen on hanging people as we were at that time.

After twenty years of this, Baturin escaped, was recaptured and sent to Kamchatka, from where he escaped again and was eventually killed in some brawl on the island of Formosa.

Which all seemed a bit improbable to me last night. And even if it were true, how could Massie or anyone else have possibly known about it? So this morning I take a quick peek at google.

Yakov and Baturin both seem to be common enough names in Russia, but the only relevant returns from google are references to this same book. No corroboration at all, although we do learn, en passant as it were, that google have it digitised. Does Massie get royalties for my click?

And while the leading returns from google are again from this very book, the Butirsky regiment is real enough, founded during the army reforms of 1642. So of an age with the oldest and most illustrious units in our own British Army.

The fortress seems to be real enough too, with the illustration taken from the Adelaide Advertiser of Saturday 12th March, 1910.

So far so good.

But what sort of a fortress would allow someone who had been rotting there for 20 years to escape? When we are told by prison reform people today that as little as eight years in a modern prison is quite long enough to make someone permanently rotten?

And then who would bother to keep records in far-off Kamchatka? A very wild and woolly place at that time, although it has now been reached by streetview, which offers pictures of suburban Kamchatka (somewhere around gmaps 53.060805,158.61626) which might easily have come from suburban London, with their new build houses looking very much like anyone else's.

And how on earth would anyone know that some obscure Russian fugitive was killed in Formosa in the 1770's or the 1780's? Another rather rum place at that time, the scene of much feuding between various waves of immigrants from mainland China and the aboriginals. An already post-colonial place with the Dutch, Spanish and Portuguese of the 17th century having been kicked out, amidst much chopping off of heads.

PS: according to wikipedia, Formosa was once rich in a special sort of deer, the hides of which made very good armour for the Samurai, riches which led the Japanese to take an interest in the place.

New deal

Following Monday's discovery at HCP, I was pleased to see that yesterday's Queen's Speech trailed a new deal for pensioners. For £1,000 it is proposed to give a pensioner couple a year's access to all the nation's heritage. National Gallery, National Trust, Queen's Gallery, Ely Cathedral, Wisley, Kew, the Book of Kells, the lot. For £500 you can have any ten of them and for £250 you can have any five. To be overseen and deals issued by a new quango called OffCull, short for the Office for the Preservation of Access to Culture & Heritage.

While they are bringing this proposal to the boil, we can spend many a happy hour computing which of these deals will be best for us.

And not such a happy hour wondering how long it will before OffCull comes to abuse its soon to be commanding position over the pensioner world.

HCP 2

The broad bean patch at the palace. No sign of blackfly. A knowledgeable lady (not Greek herself, but with a bean loving Greek husband) explained that the smaller beans (left) with the purple flowers made a very good change from the normal ones (right) with the white flowers.

Most people don't like raw broad bean, so hopefully not too many of them will be pinched by passers by.

HCP 1

To Hampton Court on Bank Holiday Monday, to find it surprisingly quiet for a bank holiday, although it was picking up by the time we left at around 1330.

Over the years, the gardens have become less and less free with the pay gates getting nearer and nearer the car park. So we were not best pleased to find that garden season tickets - around £30 for two seniors for a year - were being withdrawn, the formal gardens were being integrated into the palace from a paying point of view and that the next best thing was an Royal Palaces season ticket for around £60 for two seniors for a year. The garden season tickets had been good value, in that we like the gardens and go quite often, probably half a dozen or more times a year. But doubling the fare seemed a bit thick.

But then we thought about it and calmed down a bit. If we had such a season ticket we would get quite a lot more out of the palace and we might even try the Tower of London, although a down side would be loss of leverage from all the bogoff offers from Southwest Trains.

They had also upgraded the car park, with a machine taking a picture of your car and its number plate on entry and exit - but with the net result being, so long as it all worked, a much slicker & quicker system.

Through all this to the rose garden, which was looking very well in early season bloom. A bonus as we had not thought of it beforehand.

Through the wilderness, awaiting its summer cut after the spring bulbs, but with a good sprinkling of rhododendrons in full flower. Laburnum arch in good form.

Onto the big herbaceous border along the east front, also looking very well with lots of plants in flower and lots to come. I was pleased to come across some fine foxgloves. Also the striking lily illustrated, this one more or less lying down which meant that it was out of the wind - the point here being that these big and floppy flowers are rather fragile.

Quick tour of the privy garden and the sunken gardens, all well. Koy carp all present and correct and the expensive wooden steps on the way to reconstruction.

Back to the Tiltyard Café, to find that the Maids of Honour (see reference 1) had gone missing. Very disappointed. But, as luck would have it, BH found a small supply lurking behind some cup cakes and all was well after all.

Out to inspect the vegetable garden, something which we are coming across from time to time. I suppose for the modern family, not brought up with vegetables out the back (covered in livestock), a vegetable garden is just as exciting as a flower garden. At the margins we came across various middle sized pudding trees in nursery bags and were not impressed that HCP was buying such things in, having thought that they took pride in doing everything themselves. Signs explained that it was all to do with the construction of a magic garden for children, part of the current drive for all these places to make themselves more child friendly. A drive which I think has gone too far; heritage is for older people who probably don't want their heritage to become a cross with Chessington World of Adventures. Which, to give another example, Polesden Lacey is in danger of becoming.

PS: pudding trees being family slang for topiary. Small trees carved into interesting shapes. The name taken from the shape of the yew trees out on the east front of this very palace.

Reference 1: http://psmv2.blogspot.co.uk/2015/03/folding-2.html.

Stuffing external

From time to time I mention the making of stuffing, stuffing which we no longer use to stuff a chicken, preferring it cooked outside.

So yesterday was a day for stuffing, taken, inter alia, with chicken and a nice little Chablis.

The stuffing was varied by being made with my own brown bread, rather than the usual white, bought in. The result was satisfactory, good even, and the stuffing vanished in reasonably short order, but I think I still prefer the white bread version, despite needing to make a special purchase. For one, it has a better colour. Other variations on this occasion included mixing some rape seed oil in, rather than adding a little to the protective bacon, and some freshly pounded black pepper. (Pound until you can smell the stuff at twelve inches seems to work for me). Two eggs rather than one, so not a particularly slimming dish - but one which makes the chicken go a good deal further than it might otherwise.

On the last occasion, I had some fresh (Waitrose) sage left over, so I hung it up in the garage roof, not sure whether it would dry or rot - with some people drying the stuff in a low oven before putting it away. As luck would have it, I remembered about it yesterday morning and found where I had hung it. It had dried rather than rotted, but did not look very appetising and smelt of nothing at all, but once crumbled up (between the fingers) a strong smell of sage emerged. The stuff still worked.

Supplemented by some more leaves from the potted sage on the back patio, now looking much happier than it did a month ago, when I had been making threatening noises about retiring it in favour of a new model.

For the record

Following the recent Darwin festival (see reference 1), we thought that we might visit Down House on our recent way to Kent. But, in the event, decided against as being too near the start of the journey for comfort.

We got rather nearer visiting Leeds Castle, an establishment that BH has been dropping hints about for years. We got to the car park. We walked through some very pretty woodland to the gatehouse, a gatehouse tooled up to process lots of visitors, complete with the sort of barriers that you get at cattle markets and football matches. But, unlike comparable NT establishments (this place is an independent), you could not get at the proper restaurant without paying to get in, in this case a substantial sum for the two of us. So we settled for tea and coffee from the snack bar which we could get at.

We actually took our picnic at a village called Littlebourne, a village which came with a large and well equipped village green. See gmaps 51.274483, 1.165926. One item being a collection of exercise equipment, with the one that I tried being seriously hard work. Another item being the orchard illustrated, kindly bequeathed by a villager. Tricky sort of thing for a village green committee to maintain, but they manage pretty well.

PS: and while we are thinking trusty, I have just noticed, à propos of something quite different, that one of things that the Saudis do with all their money is set up lots of nature reserves. Google maps is littered with them. See, for example, reference 2.

Reference 1: http://psmv2.blogspot.co.uk/2015/04/a-darwinian-fest.html.

Reference 2: https://www.swa.gov.sa/en/protected-areas/saja-um-al-rimth.

Not mine

Not mine for $19,000, even with a 7-day money back guarantee.

The piece has the merit of being carefully and decently made, but, to my mind, not much more. Rather empty compared with the Moore sculptures which it superficially resembles.

Offered this week by Saatchi from the studio of Marko Humphrey-Lahti of Royston, Herfordshire. A small town memorable to me for four things. First. as the end of the electric line to Cambridge from London Kings Cross. Second, as the home of a fine chipper. Third, as the home of the market where I once bought some very fine Worcester apples. Apples which I do not usually much like, being earlies which bruise easily and so travel badly. But these ones were spot on: excellent texture and a much better flavour than one usually gets with this particular cultivar. And fourth, as being next to Royston Heath, a fine place for flying kites. Possibly also a home for raptors. A collection of memorabilia which is now closed, as with the invention of the M11 we rarely visit the place.

More of the same on offer from the studio at reference 1. Perhaps he is punting for a share of the Russell Flint action.

Reference 1: http://www.humphrey-lahti-art.com/.

Leery

On Saturday, to the Rose at Kingston to see the Northern Broadsides production of King Lear, down from Halifax for the week. Just about a year since our last exposure to Lear, the Beale/NT one - which last, rather to my surprise, is still running.

Checking, I find that I went to both the Beale/NT version (references 1 and 2) and the Globe version (back in 2008, the first two posts at reference 3) twice. Not very convenient on this occasion as it closed the same evening and headed off for a last week at Newcastle-under-Lyme, where they have the effrontery to call their theatre in the round the New Vic. See reference 4.

A good solid production, cut down to about 2.5 hours including the interval, cut in such a way that I could maintain attention & comprehension throughout, slightly mangling some of the well-known bits in the process, but a much better job of accessible Shakespeare to my mind than the Globe has been managing of late. One loss was the sectary astronomical  of I/2/157. Another was the trial on the heath (III/6).

The primary plot - the tension between the needs of an old man, a power in decline, and those of his family and successors - done well. No music or dance interludes and they did brisk changes from one scene to the next; all good. Costumes vaguely of Shakepeare's time which I like, and lightly staged which I also liked. Strong northern accents which made me sit up when the closing couplet of a scene only rhymed when one of the words was pronounced with the short northern a (as in fast) rather than with the long southern a, which seemed odd, given that Shakespeare was southern. But despite a careful look, I cannot now track down the lines in question, so maybe I was imagining things.

Oswald camped up again which I find irritating. He held a position of some trust and while he might be a bit of a pain, I don't like it over cooked. We also lost the dignity of his death, when he has the presence of mind to try to take care of his funeral and his post bag before expiring. The busty blonde Goneril was a bit over cooked too. Edmund not evil enough.

The fighting was done with knives and clubs rather than with swords. Knives I do not like, although I guess they avoid the need for lots of fight training, trainers and health & safety people. Gloucester blinded at the back of the stage to strobe lighting, very tiresome. Edmund & Edgar final fighting done in slow motion, also rather tiresome and the sense of judicial duel rather lost.

House fairly full downstairs. Just one phone that I heard and some tittering at the wrong places.

Preceded by a visit to the nearby Ram and postceded by a visit to the slightly less nearby Stein's, where we had an entirely satisfactory and reasonably priced meal. Broth with liver dumplings followed by a German version of macaroni cheese (very good, aka Käsespätzle mit Salatbeilage), then half of BH's chicken lumps in a white sauce with boiled rice. Bavarian cheese cake (cooked not jelloed). Not sure about the wine, maybe a Spanish white with aromas of fennel, hay and exotic fruits.

Reference 1: http://psmv2.blogspot.co.uk/2014/06/sponsored-by-julius-bar.html.

Reference 2: http://psmv2.blogspot.co.uk/2014/06/leared-again.html.

Reference 3: http://pumpkinstrokemarrow.blogspot.co.uk/search?q=lear.

Reference 4: http://www.newvictheatre.org.uk/.

DIY time again

Moved to do a bit of DIY the other day, the first time for a while, and the first time for a long time that the chisel rack (to the right in the illustration left) had been used, a handy adjunct to the long serving, if unusual, work bench - mostly made, as it happens, from timber left over from the construction of the Croydon Art College before last. See reference 1.

The task in hand being slotting a piece of oak into a shake in a mahogany board (ex Hook Road), which will hopefully stop the shake spreading, with the necessary slot being just about visible in the top edge of the board. Or will it be rather a reminder about of the proverb about not mending old cloth with new? See Matthew 9:16,17, Mark 2:21,22 or Luke 5:36-39. The St. Luke version being, for example: 'no man putteth a piece of a new garment upon an old; if otherwise, then both the new maketh a rent, and the piece that was taken out of the new agreeth not with the old'. Italics in the original.

And while I was on shakes, I did similar service to our bread board, beech this time and possibly also from Hook Road, although the bread knife that comes with it dates from the early seventies. As the bread board was a good deal thinner than the mahogany board, I simply cut the slip (left over from the aforementioned piece of oak) into the back of the board. Glue from Wickes. Maybe it will hold the thing together for a few more years.

Reference 1: http://www.croydon.ac.uk/en/art/. No trace of the building I remember, either here or one streetview. Maybe I shall take a walk around the area.

Jogging the memory

A few days ago I was prompted by the NYRB to get a copy of the Sofia Coppola film 'Marie Antoinette', which I did not recall having read about, let alone watched, before. The prompt included two major strands. First, the story was that Marie Antoinette was a prototype version of our Princess Diana - and there are certainly some striking similarities in their stories. Second, the film was made by Sofia Coppola, whom I rightly assumed to be the daughter of the famous Coppola. Did the film acquire class by association?

We have now consumed the film, taking two sittings over it. The major irritation was the occasional burst of loud modern music which, for us anyway, clashed badly with the lush period settings (including the Palace of Versailles itself) & the costumes & the wigs & all the rest of it. Luckily the batteries in the remote were in good shape, and the offending sound responded to finger-tip control.

The film told the story more or less from Antoinette's marriage in 1770 until the day the Royal Family were brought back to Paris from Versailles by the mob in 1789, nineteen years of marriage, of which it took maybe seven for the consummation. The film is reasonably vague on the cause, concentrating rather on the effect, but suggests that it was the visit of her brother, the Emperor of Austria which finally got the ball rolling, as it were, in 1777. This is the story of the fat tome (see below), but as it happens I came across a different version this very morning, in a book about Catherine the Great, a near contemporary lumbered with a much worse husband, but one who was equally incompetent in the bedroom department, an incompetence dealt with by a minor surgical intervention, with the story being that it was the same surgical intervention which sorted out Louis. But while Marie Antoinette was pretty incompetent all round, Catherine the Great was competent all round and survived a dreadful young womanhood to go onto great things.

The film concentrates on Antoinette's private and court life and tells us nothing about her political interventions. Or about the bad effects of her favouritism. Tells us little about Louis' political activities, beyond his insisting that the French spend treasure they did not have on helping the Americans with their independence. But what it does tell, it tells rather well, capturing well the strange life of the court invented by Louis XIV to control his turbulent nobles, a machine which Louis XVI never learned to drive properly. The strange mixture of luxury, dissipation, intrigue and vacuity. Coupled with the royal duty to live more or less in public, more or less the whole time. All of which spawned Antoinette's much derided desire to get away from it all, to play milkmaid, in and around the Petit Trianon.

Kirsten Dunst does pretty well as the adult queen, but failed, for me, to capture very well the plight of a 14 year old girl sent out of Austria, into France, being literally stripped of all things Austrian at the border. Child abuse indeed, followed by a hopeless child husband in a court awash with intrigue.

Coppola seems to be fascinated by elaborate confectionery, with her having the French court consuming vast quantities of the stuff.  All lovingly captured on film and I associate this morning to the rather darker but also very lush work of Peter Greenaway. No idea whether the French were so keen on sweets, but since quite a few of the details of the film were based on facts, perhaps this one was too.

After the event, I remembered that I possessed quite a  number of books and memoirs which bore on the subject. For one the fat, possibly remaindered, tome by Jean-Christian Petitfils mentioned at reference 2 and with wikipedia suggesting that Petitfils is something of an expert on the whole business. For two a couple of interesting books by Chantal Thomas. For three a fine memoir by la marquise de La Tour de Pin. I even have some letters of Ferson. All of which lay undisturbed in some remote corner of the brain until after we had watched the film. So once again, prompted by watching a film to stir up prior knowledge and interests.

The parallels with Princess Diana, while real enough, did not, in the event, get any traction. I am not moved to stir that pot. But a related pot which one might stir, or at least think about, is what exactly was it about Antoinette which drove the massive production of torrid stories, pretty much all untrue, about her love life. OK, so the first part of her marriage was the talk of France, but so what? Could one really build so much stuff out of a non-event? Was it all no more than a way of letting off steam which did not have any more productive outlet under the ancien regime? Was it much the same as our own fascination with the love life of celebrities? One of the Chantal books may well bear on the matter, so maybe I will read it again. Maybe it will all come back to me.

Furthermore, I think we might actually take a look at the 'making of' bit chucked in with the film. Not the sort of thing I usually bother with.

PS: not just memory trouble this morning as I was also persistently reversing the o and the i in Antoinette. So finger trouble too.

Reference 1: http://pumpkinstrokemarrow.blogspot.co.uk/search?q=antoinette.

Reference 2: http://pumpkinstrokemarrow.blogspot.co.uk/search?q=louis+XVI.

Le Penseur

On Thursday, back to St. Luke's, as a careful reader might have deduced from the previous post.

For the first time attested, I rode in a ten car train from Epsom to Waterloo, the first time since all the considerable expense had been incurred on updating platforms to make this possible. Counting made easier, not to say possible, by the new technique of counting the pairs of yellow doors, rather than trying to count the breaks between carriages; the pairs of yellow doors showing up rather better against the red carriages when viewed at an acute angle than the dark stripes of the breaks.

Uneventful run on a red (Santander) Bullingdon from Waterloo Station 3 to Roscoe Street, with plenty of time for the traditional bacon sandwich, even remembering to ask for crusty bread, code in this café for thick sliced white.

On to hear Christian Tetzlaff, first heard in March as a stand in for Midori. See reference 1. On this occasion he gave us second Bach Partita (BMW 1004) again, plus the rather shorter third Sonata (BMW 1005). Strong stuff, complemented by some young people behind me who seemed to be able to chatter about recordings of the partita that they had known.

Calmed down with a brisk pedal from Finsbury Leisure Centre to South Lambeth Road and was pleased to make it just inside the half hour, thus avoiding the £2 penalty fare. Further calming down afforded by a drop of pink Swiss wine, Le Penseur Oeil-de-Perdrix de Genève, probably 2012 or 2013 and very nice it was too. So nice, that I completely failed to guess the price of the Mercedes CLK 320 convertible outside, going for £50,000 rather than the £30,000 which google suggested.

Several two aeroplanes scored at Earlsfield in the bright, clear late afternoon air. Western sun not a problem on this occasion for some reason. Maybe too early for it.

Moved on to asking Cortana about raspberry ripple, to be mortified to find that she knew nothing about my various posts on the subject, being more or less completely taken up with tales old and new about raspberry ripple ice cream. A bit of prompting and she deigned to tell me about the agent from whom we had rented the cottage but did not deign to tell me about my own blog until I had more or less fed her the address. And google did not make me feel much better, needing almost as much prompting, despite being the host for the blog. I used to do rather better at this in the days of http://www.pumpkinstrokemarrow.blogspot.co.uk/, but I consoled myself with the thought that my telephone only carries the beta version of Cortana; perhaps she will get to know me better as time goes on.

Then onto the number of objects in our house worth £500 or more, not counting cars, to be surprised at how small the number was. But, tiring of the first problem, I strayed onto the philosophical or perhaps definitional problem of when is an object an object? Do the various parts of one's sound system count as one object or two? Does it depend on whether they all appear on the same invoice or not? I associate now to a story about Woolworths, from the days when everything there cost sixpence and when things which cost more than that were broken down into their sixpenny component parts and sold separately.

Perhaps it all lies in the letter of the law. Like insurance: you are covered for some obscure risk when and only when that particular risk is written into your insurance policy. Insurance companies are not charities and do not pay out for things that you have not paid for. Hard luck stories are of no avail.

And so onto the Horton Clockwise, where the hawthorn is in better flower than it is here at home, where it is not a good year at all.

PS 1: YouTube has a previous Radio 3 concert performance of the partita by Itzhak Perlman at St. John's, who performs the piece sitting down. Of necessity to judge by the crutches, but presumably rather style cramping - not that I would know from what I get on the headphones. Odd how old fashioned the BBC announcer sounded - maybe just 25 years ago.

PS 2: the illustration is of a once orphaned, near dead pot plant chanced upon some years ago now near Crouch End. Now alive and kicking good at Vauxhall.

Reference 1: http://psmv2.blogspot.co.uk/2015/03/violins.html.

Discovery time

What appeared to be an unknown to me variety of aquilegia, snapped in the margins of a visit to St. Luke's. Judged to be an aquilegia on the strength of its leaves.

Checking this morning, I find that google does  turn up images very like this one for aquilegia. And wikipedia lists lots of different kinds.

To think that all these years I had only been aware of the one sort. I allowed colours to vary but not shape.

I offer the odd fact that while the Latin name 'aquilegia' comes from Latin for eagle, on account of the flower, seen from above, looking like an eagle's claw, the common name 'columbine' comes from the Latin for dove, on account of the flower, seen from below, of looking like a cluster of doves. Or was the responsible wikipedian getting a bit carried away?

Thinking harder, I think that Shakespeare mentions them from time to time. Checking at reference 1, this probably boils down to just once. There are two, but I am unlikely to have logged that in 'Love's Labour Lost', just that in 'Hamlet', Act IV, Scene 5. But the discovery will add colour to that speech, next time I see it. But did Shakespeare have a clue what a columbine was, or was it just a literary allusion of a sort popular in his day? Or was he just intending to portray a girl making such an illusion, rather than making it himself, in which case it would not matter very much whether he knew or not?

I note in passing that Karen does err in her line reference of 189. My edition of this work has it at line 179. A copy sold by Deighton Bell of Cambridge, one of the three or four outfits licensed to issue prize books for my secondary school in my day. Not that that is how it came to be in my possession - if for no other reason than that this particular book was probably sold in the 20's or 30's of the last century, with Deighton Bell themselves vanishing in the 90's of the same century.

Reference 1: http://www.karensgardentips.com/garden-types-styles-and-designs/shakespeares-flowers-and-gardens/shakespeares-flowers-columbine/.

Deal End

To close the story from Raspberry Ripple, a few snaps from cottage life. An interesting tap, with the water leaving it over the top, in the way of a garden water feature.

The combination bolt to the cellar. It might have been a small cottage but it still ran to a cellar. And I have never seen such a bolt before.

The latch to the bedroom door, worked on the blind side by a red braid.

The hooks on the back of the door to the bedroom cupboard. Leaving aside the detail that the nail sections appear to be square rather than round, I imagine they would be available from Screwfix in the absence of a blacksmith.

Old style floor boards, between twelve and nine by one. None of that tongue and groove rubbish, just about fit for chicken sheds, here. These ones peeping out from under the partition between the stair cupboard and the bedroom.

One of a number of side lights in the dining room. They rather reminded us of the rather grander side lights in the Wigmore Hall. Probably not available from either Screwfix or Ikea.

And so to bed.

PS 1: a pity that I did not think to take a picture of the inside of the electrical cupboard. That made quite a picture too.

PS 2: I normally avoid multi-snap posts, being put off by the vagaries of the formatting. But I am impressed today by what happens when you click on one to enlarge. Very clever, on this PC anyway. Telephone another matter.

G&S

Off to the Epsom Odeon earlier in the week for one of their cinematic relays of a live performance of the 'Pirates of Penzance' at the Coliseum.

Our screen was more or less full, mostly but not all grey hairs. But next to us a party of three or four boys, nine or ten years old out with a mum for what may well have been a birthday treat. Which it might of been for them, but the boy next to us, rather overweight, was rattling a particularly noisy sort of sweet paper, more or less through the show. I think the mum knew but did not know how to deal with it and eventually I tried a tap plus a word which did calm him down a bit. All rather tiresome, and my guess is that the birthday boy had selected the show on the strength of the word pirate, thinking that there was going to be a lot of swash and buckle and was probably rather disappointed.

And I was disappointed too. Not a great G&S fan in the first place, but I did not think this one translated very well to a gala performance at the cinema. The thing was too light weight to be accorded this sort of treatment. And I have never been keen on cameras zooming in to the wart on the end of the trumpeter's nose. Much better live and much better suited to a village hall, or at least a much smaller theatre.

Whereas the Billy Budd which I saw a year or so worked much better (see reference 1).

But it is a cheap and convenient way of taking in shows which we would not otherwise get into London for. On the strength of which we are now booked up to see the latest RSC version of the 'Merchant of Venice', not globular, having thought that quite apart from whether one liked current globe productions or not, a globe production would not work very well on the big screen. The globe really is intended to be consumed live. And hopefully the RSC show is set in Venice rather than Las Vegas. And hopefully in vaguely Elizabethan costume, rather than in black leather or black suits.

I note in passing that I once read in the TLS, ages ago now, that the 'Merchant' was not so much about Jews, although they were a convenient peg on which to hang the story, as about the money lenders, promoters and financiers, cut throat, native breeds all, of Elizabeth London. Must see if I can turn it up as part of revision.

Reference 1: http://psmv2.blogspot.co.uk/2013/08/to-clapham.html.

Deal in the rain 5

A view of Deal New Pier, from underneath the restaurant. The railing mentioned above is clearly visible.

Deal in the rain 4

Lumia managed better in the not very well lit interior than I expected. Illustrating the chalk & flint construction of the walls of the castle. No fancy stone cladding on the inside.

Deal in the rain 3

A memento from those far off days, before real heritage had been invented.

A late example of the genre, with earlier examples being rather smaller and a lot more basic, in blue and white, but with the key words still being 'Ministry of Work's.

Deal in the rain 2

Maybe they put a double charge in this one, trying to demonstrate that they really could do the 1,000 yards. Health & Safety certificate withdrawn.

Deal in the rain 1

We had thought to take lunch in the Royal Hotel in Deal on the last day of our holiday, so parked up in the car park adjacent. Off to a weak start when we had to leave a message on the dashboard in lieu of a ticket as the ticket machine was not working. Into the Royal Hotel to take tea (him) or coffee (her), but were unable to make a booking for lunch as the young man concerned (who had provided a very appealing small child, in charge of the grandfather) was far too busy taking amendments to a wedding to trouble with our lunch. But we left, fully intending to return.

In the event however, despite the wind and the rain, we thought to take a walk along Deal Pier, handsomely rebuilt in the fifties after being bashed about at the start of the war by a Dutch freighter. We thought that it was, maybe, one of the last piers to be built. And as the Royal's luck would have it there was a restaurant at the end of the pier, empty but which, notwithstanding, attracted us in. A place called Jasins (see reference 1). Apart from anything else it was licensed and a very welcome break from the wind and the rain.

Some adequate white wine (there seemed to be more choice on the shelves than our young waitress was offering), some good, warming soup, rather spicey, followed by some adequate fish and chips. The fish was just a touch soggy but the chips looked and tasted as if they had been cooked in a fryer on the premises, rather than oven chips. An interesting individual lemon meringue pie, not a patch on that in Smith's Falls (see reference 3), but then they still know about pie over there. Altogether, entirely satisfactory, if, at the end of the day, not that much cheaper than the Royal would have been. But a much more scenic dining room.

The cheerful young waitress had modest versions of the tattoos last seen at Exeter (see reference 2), and had spent serious time in Thailand as a teacher, perhaps EFL to judge by her accent. She also explained that sometimes, marching up the pier in the rain, to report for duty at 0800, she wondered about her place of work. We wondered about the motivation of three (line) fishermen, huddled together over a fag in the rain - with a novelty being that the rails of the pier were painted in black sections and yellow sections, with black reserved for fishermen. There were postcards showing the pier full of them so it must have been a serious sport at some point.

It turned out that both the Ball Tower with its clocks and the small museum were shut, so next stop Deal Castle, the last of the three knocked up by Henry VIII, this one not having been converted to a house and much more like a castle. A ticket claimed that the Tudor cannons had a range of a 1,000 yards, but I was not so sure. Extreme range, small chance of doing damage, maybe. Another ticket announced that the Marquis of Reading mentioned at reference 4 was captain of Deal from 1927 to 1935. Last but not least there were some handsome looking bread ovens in the kitchen, so maybe decent bread was some compensation for the cold & the damp that the garrison would have had to put up with.

Later, in the High Street, we spotted another young lady baring what looked like most of her thigh to the tattoo artist there, with little regard for who might be passing. After all, we might have been her mother. We turned up an opportunity to buy a copy of 'Tattoo Weekly' from the very well stocked newsagent nearby, settling instead for the Guardian. I was reminded of the subcontinental habit of carrying a lot more lines in their shops than is customary with us, a habit first noticed in a very well stocked off-license near the Cock Inn on Green Lanes just before Palmer's Green. Maybe near forty years ago, back in the days when one had off-licenses all over the place.

Regarding the Cock Inn, I learn this morning that 'on the junction of what is now the north circular, was the Cock Inn. Boudier says that there are indications that the pub may have existed as early as 1445 ... Increasingly run down, it briefly became a Polish Sports Bar, before closing as a pub in 2010 and conversion into a continental supermarket'. How the mighty have fallen.

Home to what was maybe the third version of mixed vegetable soup of the week, this one started with a chicken stock cube rather than with a packet of chicken noodle soup (Knorr). Decided against the winter's tale at St. Margaret's (mentioned yesterday), settling instead for 'Shakespeare in Love' on the DVD. A film which I am sure we have seen before, but which was a lot better than I remembered. I liked the way the story of the film had been woven into the first production of 'Romeo and Juliet'; a clever touch, presumably of Stoppard, one of the two script writers. Particularly given the recent visit to the Rose at Kingston (see reference 5).

Reference 1: http://www.jasinsrestaurant.com/.

Reference 2: http://psmv2.blogspot.co.uk/2015/04/isca-dvmnoniorvm.html.

Reference 3: http://psmv2.blogspot.co.uk/2014/10/train-spotting.html.

Reference 4: http://psmv2.blogspot.co.uk/2014/03/wooden-boxes.html.

Reference 5: http://psmv2.blogspot.co.uk/2015/03/romeo-alpha.html.

Menuhin

Home from Kent in time for a second visit to the Menuhin Hall, just south of the M25 at Cobham, gmaps 51.3071842,-0.3776681, our first visit having been getting on for a year ago now (see reference 1).

The concert was given by Adelia Myslov (violin), a former pupil at the Menuhin School adjacent, and Craig White (piano). Myslov was dressed up for the occasion, but rather than some rather skimpy & clinging evening dress she had opted for an expensive looking peasant style, long sleeved, long dress in brown, with what looked like an ornamental blouse on top of the brown dress, but BH assured me that it was all made in one piece. Oddly, a Russian who was trained in England by two other Russians (see reference 2). Plays a Storioni violin, on loan, but examples are available to buy at $500,000.

A rather mixed programme. Started with a wonderful Bach Chaconne. Followed by a Beethoven Romance for violin and piano, Op. 40. YouTube offer a version by Menuhin himself, together with an orchestra, as originally intended; rather better to my mind that what we heard. Then Poema Autunnale by Respighi, good but with things starting to get a bit more tricky. Also adapted from an original for violin and orchestra.

After the interval a rather more conventional Violin Sonata No. 1 from Brahms. Concert closed with a concert fantasia on Porgy & Bess by Frolov, another Russian, violinist and composer. Interesting as we had just had a dose of Gershwin, but a bit show offy for me. See reference 3.

An unusual venue, with the brown wood hall looking a little odd in full light, but it works well with the lights down and gives a good sound. Just the right size, that is to say small, for this sort of thing.

Reference 1: http://psmv2.blogspot.co.uk/2014/06/ripieno.html.

Reference 2: http://www.adeliamyslov.co.uk/.

Reference 3: http://psmv2.blogspot.co.uk/2015/04/rhapsody-in-blue-continued.html.

St. Margaret's at Cliffe 5

Lifted from a limited edition postcard of this Grade I listed building, bought inside.

St. Margaret's at Cliffe 4

A view of the northern beach.

St. Margaret's at Cliffe 3

A nineteenth century woodcut of St. Margaret of Antioch from Greece, here depicted abusing a dragon with a hammer. But, to be fair, it seems that the dragon had been trying to eat her.

At one time in communication with Joan of Arc.

Tortured to death around 300AD for not abjuring her faith and marrying the local big-wig.

St. Margaret's at Cliffe 2

Unusually elaborate carving to capitals and arches of the nave arcading. Unusual at least for a parish church.

St. Margaret's at Cliffe 1

On Wednesday 13th to a division 1 beauty spot - the beach at the hole in the white cliffs of Dover at St. Margaret's at Cliffe, aka South Foreland. Picked off the map.

Through the village one goes down a steep twisting road to the beach, to find a small car park, presumably very full at sunny weekends, and very much pot-luck whether having got to the bottom of the cliffs one finds a space at all. On this early season week day not a problem.

Shingle beaches at the base of the cliffs to left and right. Tea shed, school party shed (looking like an upside down boat) and school party lawn in the middle. Took tea at the shed, admiring the distant views of the French cliffs over the Channel. Lots of shipping in the Channel, making up for the previous dearth. Presumably there is not enough water in the Downs (between the Godwin Sands and the east Kent coast) for today's shipping and so no ships to be seen from Deal.

Snoozed a bit on the beach and then off to the Pine Gardens a short way back up the hole in the cliffs, gardens which were once a drill ground for troops getting ready to do battle with Napoleon. Handsome gardens with a range of interesting features. The facade of a building from Cheapside laid face up in the grass. A hut made of wattle & daub in such a way as to show of the technique. Raised beds of vegetables, including broad beans, not quite up to my allotment standards of years gone by. A place called the Calyx where they did things ecological for visiting parties, perhaps cuddle courses for civil service establishments round and about. Various composting contraptions. A tea house and museum. Lots of interesting plants.

Back to the beach for the second picnic of the holiday and a further snooze on the beach. Admired the bright blue sky against the bright white cliffs, reminding me of the similarly shaped red cliffs at Yaverland (see reference 1).

Back to the tea house at the Pine Gardens for tea and fruit scone.

Up to the village to find the church locked, but the key of which was held in the village shop, handed over by a nicely spoken young lady. The shop also managed a Guardian and the village hall was advertising a performance of the 'Winter's Tale', so we were not really very deep into the country at all. Notwithstanding, the church of St. Margaret of Antioch turned out to be very old and very Norman, to the point of extensive arcading to the outside walls. A lot of stained glass, some rather good. Various examples of very old carving, for example above and around the west door.

Reference 1: http://psmv2.blogspot.co.uk/search?q=yaverland.

Reference 2: http://catalogue.stmargaretshistory.org.uk/. A busy local history website.

PS: only this week learned that that Goodwin Sands were named for King Harold's greedy father, Earl Godwin, at a time when what is now wrecks & sands was his pasture land. Washed away in some flood or other.

Deal 1c

A clip turned up by google while continuing to ponder about Brain Thomson this morning. From 'National Service: A Generation in Uniform 1945-1963' by Richard Vinen. Which makes it rather look as if he ought to have known some of the truth then and ought not to be too blasé about the business now. Maybe through no fault of his own, but he is tainted, rather in the way that a Vietnam veteran is.

Deal 1b

From St. Leonard's continued into town to park next to the Royal Hotel, a hotel once graced by a visit by Admiral Nelson and his paramour.

Inspected the long and interesting High Street, interesting despite the large number of charity shops.

Found St. George's, which I initially thought was a 20th century construction, perhaps a reconstruction after bombing, but which turned out to have been built in the early 18th century. Large, handsome and apparently busy church, dressed on this occasion for a wedding. A double decker gallery with the lower gallery including the preaching chair and lectern, more or less in the middle of this snap. All most unusual, perhaps an ideal place from which to thunder out Finnegans Wake onto the congregation below. Perhaps with a learned explanation about the absence of an apostrophe.

Then found the Spires for lunch, a congregational church repurposed as a community centre. They did me a bacon sandwich, adequate but marred by the use of salty back bacon with too much fat and by decoration with crisps and a splash of salad. Not the real thing at all.

From there, along the esplanade to what was left of Sandown Castle (one of the three built by Henry VIII to keep out the French), then, having found a £20 note at the castle, back to the Foresters Inn for a drop of Paddy. Quiet and respectable house, catering mainly to older, respectable folk. Landlady ensconced on a handily swiveling chair. Rather busy for a weekday afternoon. Good atmosphere.

While there we pondered about whether it was reasonable for one Brian Thompson not to have known about the dark deeds being done in our name in Kenya while he was on national service there with the King's African Rifles along with a chap called Idi Amin - BH having picked up his memoir 'Clever Girl' from somewhere, maybe Raspberry Ripple (see above). Still not got to the bottom of that one.

PS: a toss up whether this St. George's was better than the converted church in South Street, Exeter, now a Wetherspoons, for FW purposes. The Wetherspoons has the minus of being an improper place, full of people who might not take FW seriously, but the plus of a very fine pulpit, carefully retained by the Wetherspoons conversion crew.

Deal 1a

Tuesday 12th May saw our first visit to Deal, starting at the old church of St. Leonard's on the western outskirts of Deal (known as Upper Deal, where the upper people lived) and opposite the ancient Admiral Keppel pub, the admiral presumably having once been a member, at least nominally, of the congregation. Presumably also the first admiral of that name, one Augustus Keppel, 1st Viscount Keppel PC.

The church is named for a Frankish saint from the Limousin region of France, venerated on account of prisoners, women in labour and sick cows. Not clear with which of these constituencies this church is particularly connected. The other saint of the name postdates the foundation of the church and is so disqualified from participation.

An old church with the columns in the snap above being old, maybe 11th century, and having been much altered over the years, with the snap being taken from the gallery in the extension added in the early 19th century, the gallery being intended for the use of seafaring folk whose timetable was dictated by the tides rather than by the deity, but who did not want disturb landlubbers at their prayers. Note the organ loft to the right, the altar just peeping out of the chancel on the left and the iron column of the extension, much the same sort of column as was used to hold up the ceiling of many a London gin palace.

Note also the stationary store bottom left, including for some reason a roll of the red and white tape used by the police for marking off forbidden areas.

A variety of interesting stained glass, including that to the main window in the Lady Chapel, a copy of a painting by Guido Reni. Not a proceeding which Pugin would have approved of at all, being a strong believer in the doctrine that stained glass should play to its containing window, rather than play over it.

All in all, an interesting and much-loved church, well worth the visit, despite once having been described by a visiting bishop as 'the most cockeyed church in Christendom'.

We were let in by a pleasant young lady sporting a small gold earring, the daughter of the incumbent. She worked the parish office.

Trolley 33

Near a month since the last capture, this trolley was found at a bus stop between Kiln Lane and Ewell, a place which had the virtue of being understandable with the culprit simply walking his or her shopping from Kiln Lane and abandoning the containing trolley on boarding a bus. But my capture at a time when it was raining and so not convenient it to snap it in-situ as it were. So that had to wait until I reached the trolley stand at Kiln Lane. The leftmost trolley in the snap.

As it happens, another trolley with a front wheel replacement, the left hand one as you push, just visible middle right. And, if you had asked me, I would have guessed the last one was a lot more recent than November of last year (reference 1). The only one before that was in the September of the same year. I think a different trolley in each case. I also think that they have more than one sort of replacement wheel.

Pity that they don't have serial numbers on these things, in the way of locomotives of old, then I could do a proper train spotter job.

Maybe as an alternative, I will construct a statistical exercise around trolleys, involving estimating the chance of finding a trolley with a replacement front wheel in the next so many days or weeks. An estimate which will need to be updated as the days roll by.

Reference 1: http://psmv2.blogspot.co.uk/2014/11/trolley-14.html.

Ramsgate 5

In the now dim and distant autumn of 2009 I bought a book about the stained glass of Augustus Pugin, a rather elaborate and lavishly illustrated book by a retired accountant, one Stanley A. Shepherd. Pugin being, inter alia, a famous artist in stained glass from the first half of the nineteenth century, a man who got through three wives and a conversion to Catholicism in his short life of 40 years. Possibly short, according to wikipedia, as a result of having contracted syphilis as a young man.

Then seeing the stained glass at Sandwich stirred the memory and I remembered about his church at Ramsgate, which turned out to be more of a village with a church, a shrine (to St.Augustine), an abbey, a retreat and his house, some of it now looked after by the Landmark Trust (see reference 2), seemingly a competitor, at least in a small way, to the National Trust. This remembering propelling us to Ramsgate on the day following.

St. Augustine's Church was a strange place, with some very fine stained glass (particularly the east window) and some fine furnishings, including, for example, the elaborate font illustrated. But despite all this, to me there was a slightly cold feel about the place, a feel not helped by reading that the font had been exhibited at the Great Exhibition or by the odd noises coming from the radiators. The spire of the font reached up into the sky but was not attached by a rope from the ceiling to lift the lid, as it were, when one wanted to actually use the thing. Inspection suggests that the inner pillar is the part which goes up, with the restraints sliding up the outer pillars. Perhaps there is some complicated contrivance of gears inside which crank the thing up. Victorians used to like that sort of thing.

Another interesting feature was the lady chapel, inside which one could see the repository for the host, a small golden casket placed on the altar, through a sequence of half open double doors. See through into the holy of holies. A clever evocation of the holy spirit.

I associate now to  Holy Trinity at Sloane Square (see reference 3).

From St. Augustine's headed north into town proper, to fine large red brick facings & arcadings to the cliff, rather in the way of Brighton. Down to the sailors' church mentioned at Ramsgate 3, up to the Pizza Express occupying the nicely repurposed bank building. More or less empty, but a decent lunch nonetheless. Up the High Street to see the church mentioned at Ramsgate 2 and then north along the esplanade at the bottom of the cliffs, but failing to make it to the splendidly named Dumpton, clambering instead up a path fashioned out of the fake red rock facing to the crumbling chalk cliff, the fake rock being very like that to be found at Battersea Park and nicely tricked out with niches for plants. And so home.

The pawn shop on the High Street deserves a mention, with a good line in 50p DVDs for us and a good line in knives for a young and weedy youth in the shop at the same time as us. The young lady assistant was very enthusiastic, particularly about our staying in a cottage called Raspberry Ripple, so enthusiastic that we wondered whether the enthusiasm was not substance enhanced - if not induced. For our part, the DVD was so good that we actually found out how to work the DVD player in the cottage in the absence of batteries for the remote, using three small buttons on the top of the thing.

The handsome library also deserves a mention, a library which allowed aliens such as ourselves to use their computers, subject to rather more adminstration than is usual. The software on the computers turned out to be ancient, so ancient that google mail had to revert to some ancient format, its current format being unsupported. Perhaps Kent Library Services are a bit short of money for that sort of thing. Perhaps the easy Blair money provided the facility in the first place, while the hard Cameron money for its maintenance was missing.

Reference 1: http://pumpkinstrokemarrow.blogspot.co.uk/search?q=letters+of+condolence.

Reference 2: http://www.landmarktrust.org.uk/.

Reference 3: http://pumpkinstrokemarrow.blogspot.co.uk/search?q=trinity+sloane.