These are grapes - I don’t know what the strange growths on the vine leaves are …..

It was very hot in the shop yesterday and supplies of ice cream had been laid on for the relief of suffering workers. This was a very good thought, but every single time we said “time for an ice cream” some PESKY person would come in and start trying on clothes and OF COURSE, because of heat and stickiness, nothing worked at all.

It isn’t as if we had anything useful like air conditioning which is the only reason I would go into a shop at the moment. Why? Why on earth would anyone think it a good idea to go into a shop (with no aircon) and “just browse” when they could sit in a darkened room with a fan and read a BOOK? They might even watch tennis, or the Tour de France for the scenery and drama …..

Fortunately I was rota-ed (our lives are dominated by The Rota - a sacred document characterised by great flexibility which means that we never quite know when we are “in” and at what time to begin and stop …) with my friend, for we have become friends, united in disapproval of flexibility, as liking to know when precisely we can do nothing. She informed me she thought she would like to live in the North. I’m not sure whether that was rota related or heat related.

The rota (you see? DOMINATED by the daft thing) and it’s attendant technology, still in its adolescent and unpredictable era, was once organised with an A4 diary and pen. There are now four different Apps, the diary, HIGHLIGHTERS, various spreadsheets on the back of the kitchen door, all OUR diaries and pens, because we have been asked to make a note of what all the Apps are telling us because they are flexible (UNRELIABLE). “Just ironing out the glitches ….”

It has all been very tiresome, and there is absolutely nothing like making a worker bee’s life tiresome to create unrest and awkward questioning thoughts. This period is over (knackering bit this), and resignation, which is the next stage in adjusting to bonkers ideas, took it’s place …. and NOW we have reached the dizzy heights of hilarity and frivolity and it is the butt of jokes and the spreadsheet on the kitchen door becomes more and more illegible as tippex (yes, it still exists) is applied and highlightings in pink and yellow and green (colour coding is vital in these matters) appear.

WhatApping starts. “Just checking I’m meant to be in today? Is that an early or late start? What is the bus timetable?” This last aimed at me as a determined bus user - except when it is hot - there being nothing as hot as a hot bus.

Really, it isn’t as if I was paid much, either!

The heatwave has been strangely BONDING. There are those types who stride about, bronzed and happy as anything in the heat. Not wearing hats. Revoltingly cheerful and full of enjoyment and being positive. And then there are those who come over all pathetic and hug the shady side of the market place, hatted and pallid and drooping about, moaning gently. Or being grumpy and cross. Can go either way.

The Launch Party for our Lit Fest (in Sept) - all Friends and Volunteers and anyone else remotely interested invited - was held on Thursday (v hot day) in the bookshop and I aligned myself with the pathetic moaners, amongst whom was the Lady Mayor(ess) in quite a lot of regalia which I initially thought was extravagant accessorising, but no gown or ceremonial hattery which would have helped identify. I have since sold her two light summer frocks, one formal and the other floaty.

Then I met someone who was leaning against the wall “nice cool wall, this” and entered into LitFest chat - she was a newby volunteer as well - but she had done her homework and read the programme which mysteriously led to the unexpected question “Do you have a partner?” “Eh?” Is this normal for a LitFest chat? Was there Chick Lit involved? When I said “no”, she asked “would I like one? For company?” This was becoming a bit existential and I lost my head and said “God NO, not in this heat!”

It was far too hot to contemplate such a thing, but it did occur to me that she might have had someone up her sleeve and I might have missed something AMAZING because of being inflexible in my approach and overheated. By the time my frazzled brain had had this thought, and I could do something about it, she had moved rapidly on and I learned she was a recently retired prep school teacher (THIS was why she had read the programme ….) who had come back from Salcombe with husband and just finished A Levels daughter for the LAUNCH. “Bother” I thought. And then I thought …. “Prep School….” and recovered my nerve.

I drooped (sic) into the Bookshop yesterday to say thank you for noble party giving in heat and to buy a card for my sister who HAS A DEEP DEEP HATRED OF SEAGULLS because they clunked about on the roof of a holiday chalet she was staying in years ago in a threatening sort of way and DISTURBED HER SLEEP and did unspeakable things to the BINS:

“Seagull and Chips” by Laura Skilbeck Here is her website

The tall and languid assistant and I bonded over heat, and then I met her (in a hat - one of US) in Waitrose standing, possibly unhygienically (this is a real word, I’ve looked it up) close to the cheese shelves for coolth, and we moaned about PEOPLE coming into our shops JUST as we were revving up to shut down and asking for HELP. “Why do they do this? Why? Have they never worked in a shop before?” It was nice and cool by the cheese. And we bonded. We will know who the other is.

Today is blissful Sunday and I am not at work, but sitting on the balcony and thinking about nothing very much apart from just how much stamps now are (card for sister …) and being very pleased that I have the makings of salad for lunch and don’t have to go anywhere at all. Iced coffee is possible. Delicious.

Just to finish off on the subject of flexibility: whilst at the bakers in the village I picked up a “what’s ON” in the village hall and ….. THERE …..(think Damascus Road Moment, Scales Falling From Eyes sort of thing) ….. was “Seated Yoga Tuesday Mornings 10.30” and I thought THAT, that is what I shall do. No lycra. I can’t imagine lycra in such a setting. I shall become flexible but sitting down. Ideal.

I admit that this information has been greeted with disapproval “Must Do Better” in some departments but what they don’t know is that I used to be a skippy agile thing until we returned to England in the middle of winter and lacrosse did for me entirely, soooooo incomprehensible and dangerous, and just not very clever. Galloping about in navy blue with sticks being fiendishly nasty. The mud. Mad.

But seated yoga sounds just the ticket! Who knows what might happen? I might do strength training with weights which is definitely really, really very good for one. AND it is possible to begin with tins of baked beans. Sitting down…..

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Please do leave a comment if you would like to, and also, if you would like to, press the heart below as it is a helpful thing it seems.

And for some reason this is the first thing (apart from the emergence of nasturtium and calendula seedlings - VERY thrilling) to fill me with thrill for many years. Thrill has been sadly lacking, because of DUTY and attendant tiredness, and recently (DUTY done) my brain is recovering, and has woken up and has been sulking it is soooooo boooooored. “I’m bored” it says. “I’m really, really bored”, and “no, I don’t want to go for a walk, I’m bored” “I can’t find anything to read, I’m soooo bored.” See, that is the state of play at the moment. If I was my parent I would be very fed up of me.

Adam Phillips wrote a book about Boredom Being A Good Thing. I remember reading it years ago ….. boring. Sorry, but I do recall being a bit bored by it.

Usefully, My Friend In France rang yesterday and said she would, when my nerve was steadier, have French Conversation with me on WhatsApp. There is a tentative plan for a visit at the end of September(ish) (lovely fruit and veg ..) and I do think it would be rude to only speak English, and what if I wanted to go into a Farmacie and buy things with propolis in them or arthritis relief remedies (thumb is playing up)? Or discuss Racine, for example ….. most unlikely.

Before work I shall pop into the White Horse Bookshop and see if they have a French grammar and vocabulary book for beginners. Then I shall look up the French for Thumb. Fingers I can do. Doigts. There!

This is E-1027, the house that Eileen Gray built.

And all this happened because my sister mentioned that she had been to something at the Institute Francaise in London and I was so jealous I looked it up and there, there was a film about Eileen Gray and her HOUSE on the cliff above the Med (in full on sparkle, sparkle mode) at Roquebrune and I thought “that is NOT boring”. And “I shall do something about my French and then periodically I shall visit and I will understand what people are saying and that will be a lovely thing to do.” I can hop on a train (well, two trains) and look at the light, and eat the food, and understand what people are saying ….. which has been a hindrance. And then I shall come home and be nice - because I’ve been away and the weather might be better.

On a negative thrill theme, we have new technology programme things at work, and whilst some people say they know how it works, there are ISSUES. No one says PROBLEMS these days. However, in my view it is a PROBLEM if they can’t get the pay right. On the one hand I might owe them money, but on the other, they might owe me money, and guess what? The possible amount of money I MIGHT owe them, is considerably greater than the possible amount of money they MIGHT owe me. I sent a parent-like email suggesting training might be a good idea. I shall probably get the heave ho and have to leave the country. But I shall have proper French up my sleeve.

Whilst I was independently trying to work out how these programmes operated (faint but pursuing), and why they might be useful, I read the blurby blurb about how wonderful, fabulous, gorgeous …. and effective it all was and how it would transform and unify all information and liberate this from that, and I came across the proud announcement that the NHS was using it. At which point I gave up entirely, and thought “well, that explains everything about the NHS, they are relying on yet another system that no one knows how to work” and “that is probably why there are absolutely no notes about anything at all on my NHS App, which the surgery insisted I had as it would solve all information ISSUES.” Which it clearly hasn’t. My notes are a free and open space ….. a blank, in fact. Liberated from information.

To the extent that it was simpler for someone from the hospital to TELEPHONE me on my LANDLINE, on a Sunday at 5pm when I had just got back from work and was negotiating camembert on an oatcake (speechless really), to tell me in a rapid and incomprehensible accent that all was OK. Definitely not French. As I wasn’t expecting this form of communication I had to inhale the snack, and ask for a slowdown version. She was the very nice nurse who had waved the photo of my insides at me as evidence that something had happened, but I was so groggy I didn’t take in the significance of what she thought she was indicating.

Anyway, all is WELL, and I have vowed to avoid anything medical unless it ups and actually bites me. Which this had, so I do have some common sense, but the DRAMA - so exhausting. The WAITING ….. aaaagh. So GOOD, it is done. I shall paint my nails and get on with life.

What with this and that, and boredom, I have booked myself a micro break in Devon, on the River Dart, so I can potter about and have separate lunches with cousins, so no one has to change sheets and do laundry. And this morning at 6am a long chat with a friend about sheep and grass and how odd it was that we BOTH on Saturday went to our Butchers and said “Lentils aren’t cutting it, I need STEAK”. And how we felt much stronger after the steak and new potatoes and salad. We are going to fix a date for more sheep chat and a visit from me to her, because she has sheep and I don’t - so I am more mobile. Lovely Herefordshire, so that won’t be boring. I shall take steak as a present. Better than chocs.

Another long chat about a cross (as in sulking badly) scented pelargonium with my sister. It is a hunched and strangled looking thing and I can’t work out what it is - it is not Pelargonium crispum. I only mention this because for some reason I find it very difficult to pronounce “crispum” without “lithsping” and now I can’t stop trying to pronounce it and this is causing hilarity for the owner of the PLANT. She has just tried to send me a WhatsApp text in a lithspy way, but autocorrect has been very strict and won’t let her. Now we are both hysterical.

It occurs to me that I really shouldn’t be bored because I do a LOT of chatting about very unimportant things, and anything to do with any politician is fingers in ears and eyes shut and “la la la laaaaa”. My dentist said, having inspected the scar on my chin, that I must keep exercising the muscles for flexibility purposes …… and looked at me firmly when I asked “does talking count?” and said “well, if you do a lot of it …..”. So that is OK.

Enough of this frivolity, I must get dressed and have breakfast and it’s not raining, which is a change, although we DID NEED THE RAIN. So English ….. but can we have some warmth please?

Here is that rude thing, no ps and qs which I think could be better said, so imagine this “Please, if you wish, I would love it…”:

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See, just RUDE I think. Bossy.

AND if you want to you might press the heart thing below - as it is useful - apparently - but as we can see my grip on technology is reducing rapidly - and I don’t understand this.

PS a friend has sent me a video of the castle at Grimaud and it has warm weather sounds …..

I found this photograph on something, but mine will be much less fun, maybe more edible than visual.

It is amazing how peculiar a general anaesthetic (nothing desperate, and really quite quick) has made me feel. I went to work yesterday and was entirely pathetic, not at all my normal self, and had to be fed chocolate muffins to keep the boat afloat. And I had to turn down an invitation to eat Fish ‘n Chips for supper from and Mrs B, which is an unheard of exception to the rule. Mrs B and I go a long way back and have been known to become very silly indeed. We regress.

As you know, it is important to have a “Capable Adult” attending whilst the “procedure” (humph) takes place and get you home and hang around for 24 hours, and my noble “Capable Adult” and I spent a lot of time misunderstanding the instructions on the various letters, texts, messages, emails from different departments, with the result that I was entirely starving and dehydrated well before necessary. CA said in a stern sort of way “well, they should have been clearer ….”.

We did a test drive, because CA lives in London “I don’t need a car in London” and hadn’t driven since she hired a car to go to Malvern and got lost. Neither of us could remember when that was as mists of time had descended. My car is recovering from being a kangaroo, and we were both nervous wrecks by the time we got to the hospital. Then we waited and waited and waited. Which was fine because we both had thrillers to read. My blood pressure, normally very NORMAL, was of the levels that make people look thoughtful. Clutch control.

Something they don’t tell you about is the HECTIC flush on face and neck for a couple of days after the GA. Think Victorian heroine languishing on chaise longue in the grip of consumption, with bewhiskered admirer (haven’t got one of those handy by - you will have to imagine him - I see him as rather effete with pomaded locks - pomade from D R Harris without doubt….) kneeling, grief stricken, beside her, imploring, imploring the Good Lord to take him instead and leave his beloved ALONE …. At this point, I expect she is absolutely longing and longing to be rid of him and for a Capable Adult to pour a glass of wine (tonic wine, of course, for health purposes). Let me see if I can find a picture:

This is a hopeless picture, because I’ve just spotted the weeper has a bun - but it could be an early “man-bun”, couldn’t it? And I’d definitely be better dressed, nails done, etc, even if HECTIC as to complexion. Imagination is required.

ALSO, post GA, strange neck and shoulder ache. Again absolutely no mention of this, not a word. Research revealed that this might not be anything dramatic, but most probably to do with a muscle relaxant administered, presumably to relax one for some nefarious reason (this dodgy thought was introduced by my supplier of chocolate brownies yesterday - she also has a lively imagination) “you have no idea …..”. More chocolate.

Lovely weather (not today) and last weekend a friend and I went to look at The Watts Gallery

Which is STUFFED with Pre-Raph and ecstatic art and the most extraordinary sculpture of Tennyson, and the Mortuary Chapel is something else, and as you can probably tell, not really my thing at all. However, the planting was GREAT, and the landscape LOVELY, and could they really have been quite so high minded and where DID the money come from to do all of this, that is what I want to know.

I am more of an Impressionist sort of girl myself, and like to keep my darkest inner turmoil off canvas, thank you very much. It’s MINE, hands off. Ordinary turmoil is fine. Visions of all my arty forebears twirling with horror, and my father becoming very Uncle Matthewish “self-indulgent twaddle” and hooting with laughter about the well endowed and exotic examples of fantasy. Oh dear. If you LOVE Watts etc, please do not be offended. Here is G F Watts as a youthful person in Italy. This I GET. This is early Romantic:

I AM gripped by the technical ability. Apparently G F did something clever with oil paints. He extracted the OIL, and painted with the remainder which somehow achieved the sort of GLOW (oh how we love GLOW)/aura round his figures. He REALLY loved a GLOW. Such as this:

This is “Endymion” by G F - lots of imagination here, I think. Which I don’t really GET. I wouldn’t buy a postcard and pin it to my china cupboard, for example. The china cupboard has lots and lots of postcards of paintings on it. But not like this one. It was at this point in the exhibition that I had to leave, and sit in the garden accompanied by the spectral vision of my father and uncles becoming more and more hilarious.

That is quite enough of that!

Actually ….. they don’t look that WELL, do they? Perhaps POST-Consumptive. And WHAT, I ask myself, is that thing at bottom right?

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If you would like to, of course, not obligatory at all!!

I think I’d better concentrate on ice cream. It is still quite early for a Sunday, but the day has potential. My balcony is almost planted, I think a rose (rambling?) four tomato plants, a couple of old variety geraniums will finish it off. There is internal discussion about a fig in a pot. To go with the vine. I’m not going for an olive because everywhere to be seen, and I think a fig would be better. Also I could make fig ice cream …. Church bells ringing …. in a perfectly ordinary CofE sort of way ….

If you would like to “like” or “follow” or “subscribe” or “leave a comment” PLEASE do. I think “rambling” is a good word - and reflects my thought processes (more hoots from spectral parent) to a T.

A peaceful rustic scene - painted by a Great Grandfather. However, no doubt quite a lot happening here - foraging, wood gathering, hard work. And who knows what might be lurking in those trees? She might possibly be thinking that she needs a rest. I shouldn’t be surprised.

For a week I shall pretend I am somewhere where nothing is happening (but it will be lurking in the woods …..). I am going to have to pretend this, because I am overcome with ennui, the tail end of winter, the bitter wind etc, etc. World events. Technology. Stuff. Sludge. A sort of mental “crise de foie”.

I shall retreat into my shell, snail-like, perhaps eat lettuce, go in for a soothing cup of herbal tea sent by My Friend In France. How they love a remedy. None of this brisk paracetamol x 2 four times a day and onwards. Non, mais non. One must fait attention, take it seriously, rest, rest and more rest. Gently does it. Don’t over do it. As our Mother would say “now, don’t do too much”.

No reading, no discussing the impossible, no intelligent suggestions as to why the technology isn’t working, nothing. No bright ideas. Definitely not. For a week I shall be a void …. and then, with luck, I might not be full of too much news, too many thoughts, bus trauma (I’m going to drive), too much information. I shall be a clean slate. There.

No TV.

Just Fred Vargas on Audible for half an hour here and there. Eccentric characters, inventive plots, well read.

Maybe, I shall do this for longer than a week.

Good things: I bought a neck cream, and then I looked at herbs on the market stall in Salisbury.

Must work out how to make the “Leave a Comment” button less dictatorial - see above, not doing it this week, but please do, if you would like to. And then the heart thing if you wish to is apparently useful.

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See above again, but I’ve no idea what the difference is between “subscribing” and “following” - but just now I don’t care - do, please, do entirely as you wish.

Lots of “wishes” here ….. wishing you WELL!!!

In my view it is quite enough to be getting on with daily life and possibly continuing to keep a weather eye on the horizon, without having to work out what your best version of yourself is at the same time. Or worse, “your higher self”. Which always makes me think of being a Prefect. So why I read this stuff I have no idea. Probably an idea worth investigating when I have lots of time and can have a rest.

I looked at the headlines.

Which was a mistake.

Because I now feel unwell.

I wonder what George Washington might be thinking - this is a wallpaper I saw at Claverton Manor. American Museum Bath

However, on the up:

I caught our new post lady who has reposted a card for someone else into my letter box three times and sympathised madly about what a complicated little enclave we had, and directed her to the correct address. She is grateful, I am delighted - because I thought that I’d have a lie down on the floor drumming heels tantrum if I had to repost the beastly thing AGAIN. Yup, my higher self is stepping out of the room.

And the NHS have sent a letter (well, almost a book) of instructions for my DSU incredibly minor op - how they love an ancronym - Day Surgery Unit - on Thursday. I am now in full on explorer mode trying to work out from the map where on earth to park and which entrance to enter by. I shall wear my most comfy shoes as I expect to walk and walk and walk to find my way in.

I have to be CLEAN. OK. NO make up. This is not OK. Lowering to morale at this age. I could have done it earlier on in life, but now I feel my real self with makeup on. Lipstick essential. NO scent. For goodness sake, what is this? Do NOT tell me they do this in France. No WAY. Remember, not in France, in Wiltshire. Rural life. It is OK, no one will notice. Onwards.

But I will notice ….

“Marm ‘25” is made. Three pots of the newly invented “Caramelised Marmalade” are now in the china cupboard (it has other things in it as well). The black bits are where it stuck to the bottom of the pan whilst I was discussing methods of making Marm with a relation. “Did you STEEP?” Of course I steeped. For 24 hours. “Will it come out of the jar with a spoon, or will we need a pickaxe?” This is a reference to a previous incarnation of Marm which was entirely solid and lived for years and years in the Cupboard of Doom, whilst everyone tactfully ignored it. Jars and jars of it.

Relatives are putting THEIR Marm into the village show. I am not.

Now, what else? I had to loiter, yes, loiter in a doorway yesterday evening whilst waiting for the bus. This because I have developed an acute intolerance (age) to people in bus queue (sitting comfortably on benches) eating noisomely (not a word) vast bags of crisps (rustle, rustle, crunch, rustle) or what I think might have been fish and chips (part of me DID want to ask where the Fish and Chip van was so I could have some, but I was too cold to investigate), and it was so very ick making I had to leave my place on the bench and LOITER. Which made me sulky all the way home. And it was one of the manic bus drivers so we hurtled.

Potential creative moment: I think I might make myself a poster (people call this a MOOD BOARD) with pictures etc, and pin it over my stove, and it will say:

Dear Miss Lock,

Please remember you live by yourself (I object to “live alone” - which sounds very isolationist and not chatty, whereas I think “living by yourself” is cosier somehow, suggesting possibilities for self indulgence, and “hello, Self, what shall we cook for supper?”) and you are not responsible for the nutrition or delight of others in the culinary department. You do not have to think in multiples.

You do not like leftovers of madly healthy undelightful things. If unhealthy usually eaten all at once so the left over thing isn’t an issue. You do not have a large freezer. You like to cook. You will please make yourself a list of easy and utterly delicious things to cook for yourself. If necessary you can cook for more, but only if necessary. Do not think you will carefully freeze lentils or dreary soup in ziplock plastic pouches .

Also please give up frozen spinach - you don’t like it and the greens from the market are nicer.

Also (is this list getting longer?) you know that you actually like chopping up carrots, onions, celery and perhaps a potato to make soup, and you like listening to music and/or chatting on the phone whilst you do it. It is pointless doing lots stuff to “save time” and miss the niceness of a chopping/chatting moment.

In fact you don’t need to “save time” at all, and if concentrating on making something delicious is “wasting time” - well, then, so is reading, and mysteriously deciding it might be interesting to learn Latin, etc. Love Sarah”.

AND:

“PS It is worth making good chicken stock and freezing that. And stewed apples. And blackberries. But forget itty bitty left overy things. Cook less, better, and eat it up. (That sounds JUST like my better/higher self - who has re-entered the room - so smug).

PPS It is an inherited thing you must get over: you do not need to keep numerous little china bowls of unidentifiable left overs in the fridge for weeks. Don’t do this thing. This might require therapy.”

Now I am going to chat to “My Friend In France” - who is v intelligent and an excellent and efficient cook, besides being a great many things I am not. She went to New York and worked, and I went and gaped in wonderment.

If there are any photos in this it is a miracle, because I have new phone and it seems a bit complicated.

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Isn’t that bossy? No please or thank you. I’m adding PLEASE to Leave A Comment!

But only if you want to. And press the heart at the bottom of this post, but, again, only if you want to. I won’t mind if you don’t. It’s fine …. really.

This is my very small Christmas Tree and my fancy shoes that I can’t stand up in but they are Dior and I got them in the vintage shop because they are gorgeous.

It is something of a relief not to be in the hustle and bustle of town and the shop today, where customers are either super decisive and in a great hurry (very unnerving if trying to wrap things up NICELY under the eagle eye of our Manager - who is very sweet but wrapping NICELY is important), or completely indecisive and dithery, and possibly in this case accompanied by someone who is a bit fed up. I quite often say in a light hearted way that the coffee shop next door is very good and has newspapers. Sometimes this works, but sometimes it doesn’t.

My partner in crime (the Dream in Cream) has evolved into her Lavender and Faded Burgundy Era with lots of sparkly jewels. She looks great. Not neat, but approachable and charming. I am head to toe black as ever. With a really good lipstick. Not quite Cruella de Vil (too round) but approaching spiritually by the end of the day. We think we might put a sign in the window saying “Not Just Retail Therapy” because we do get to learn some quite tricky things and offer water “are you drinking enough water? So good for the brain ….” this is me. Lavender Lady offers biscuits. Sometimes we are quite good at solving the problem, and sometimes we aren’t and don’t even try …. “No, I don’t think that is the right colour for you, it isn’t going to help at all”.

Such an odd time of year, and so very different from the past - without the scaffolding of the Old and Bold (we are now the Old and Bold), and the traditions that made the whole thing inevitable and familiar. These bowls for clementines and nuts, this sugar bowl, these candlesticks, this silver, these coupes for champagne cocktails, and those little Georgian cut glass bowls for fine chocolates. This is when we put the bird in, this is veg prep, bread sauce, brandy butter on a silver plate, let’s ring so and so, shall I put the ham on, who is coming to Boxing Day drinks - have we got enough? Make more salted almonds and cheesy nibbles. Is there a child about to do handing round? Can we borrow one? Do you think it will snow?

Time to read “Little Women” again, this is the Alcott house in the snow.

When I was quite small I went to stay in a house rather like this somewhere near Washington DC - and the little girl I was friends with and I were completely enchanted to wake up to proper icy winter - it was such an excitement. We had waffles and maple syrup and bacon for breakfast and were shooed out to rush about in the snow. Grownups nowhere to be seen ….. totally unsupervised. It was LOVELY. But they were keen on properly brushed hair and sitting up at the table.

So it feels odd, now that the dust has settled and things are calmer and sorted, and now the lack of people and tradition and the silly minutiae of our lives makes itself felt. And being somewhere else. It has been discussed and agreed that it is better not to try and recreate, but, goodness, how to do it? So this was useful and suddenly stopped the embarrassed “just me” moments:

India Knight on Tiny Christmas Possibilities

I do hope this link works. I’m not sure how I can tell. Our IT Guru at HQ says “Sarah, the new IT Lead” whenever I manage to get the beastly thing to do what I want it to do. He says “but you want it to do things it doesn’t want to do, and no one has thought that up yet ….”

And despite having had a LONG conversation yesterday evening about my birthday (which is creeping up) and having a big party for everyone I don’t actually know that well (apart from Friends and Relations) in my perfectly sized flat for me, but not for a possibly random crowd, I have decided to have a very small (possibly several) party moment. Also one has to consider the weather.

We didn’t worry about whether the weather would be a problem about getting to parties. Did we? Or did the grownups? I don’t recall a lot of worry going on. If the snow was deep and crisp and even I think we used to walk for miles to go to a party. I remember one Christmas in Devon when it snowed and snowed and it was beautiful. We would arrive pink nosed and thrilled and carrying party shoes. I still have my shoe bag from school - very useful. Turkey red. Games kit in navy blue bag. Drawstring. Not that I did games very much, and never now. So I don’t have that one.

I am contemplating getting one of those trundle bundle shopper things - because heaving shopping and market vegetables about on the bus is exhausting, and I note that quite a lot of people have them and their arms are a normal length and they don’t look stressed out by controlling cauliflowers and onions from Normandy (spenny but if one is going to make French onion soup, one might as well invest in French onions, non?). My arms tend to feel very elongated on market days, so I think some of my most unexpected and much appreciated shop bonus will be usefully spent on a bright red one. I’ve spotted it in the shop next to the Oxfam Bookshop. I nip into the Oxfam Bookshop every time I go to post stuff to customers and say “THAT post office has just the most enormous queue whenever I go …..”.

I don’t think this is what my cousin who knows about these things meant when she said “brighter bag” having closely examined a photo of me clutching quite a tall table lamp I’d snaffled in a sale. She was meant to be paying attention to the glories of the lamp and not her windswept relation. She also mentioned that eyeliner might be useful. She is away at the moment so I can’t discuss this in detail. She is a very good photographer and extremely observant. And the beastly camera doesn’t lie. Or so they say. No mention at all of the lamp.

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If you want to …. and also press the “heart” thing below, as this is a GOOD thing to do. AND please have the sort of Christmas and New Year that you really like, if you can, and if you can’t, quite soon it will be calm …..er.

Moss was used to make this wreath some years ago for Mrs B’s fine blue front door.

A cousin sent me this on one of his travels - a lovely DREAM of a starry night sky - but:

Last night I had a most peculiar DREAM about Romanesco cauliflowers - see pic below - and lot of other vegetables, of course, being unloaded into a warehouse on the other side of the road from the flat. This is pure wishful thinking. There are neat terraced cottages on the other side of the road. In my dream Covent Garden Vegetable Market had conveniently come to me. Which is definitely even more exciting than the Flower Market, although that is pretty high up the list of earthly delights. Can you think of anything nicer than a delicious wholesale vegetable market just outside your door - so down to earth and properly useful? Possibly on a smaller scale, like the ones in France, as more manageable.

Imagining the veg in old Covent Garden - I used to zoom through it on my way to the Strand.

I loved my route to College, through the back door of the British Museum, quickly bowing to Bhudda as I whizzed up the North stairs, through the map gallery, down into the King’s Library and zip down the front stairs, Museum Street, past the umbrella shop, on to Floral Street to wave at Food for Thought (utterly delicious for lunch when funds permitted), and through the demolition site that was Covent Garden to pick up some veg from the few remaining stall holders and then fall into King’s to be mystified by some entirely incomprehensible lecture or, far worse, a tutorial.

Alas …. I wasn’t really born to be an academic. “Alas”? Probably because lots of them are very funny, and tremendous gossipers, and have decided views. I am good at that bit, and quite a lot of other things, just not serious academic thought. “Do Keep Up, Miss Lock …. so much potential ….” sigh.

Lovely views of the river, though, King’s. And fond memories of parties at the Inns of Court. As well as others.

I’ve just looked up the meaning of dreaming about cauliflowers. Either tragic or happy - very confusing indeed, I shall pay no attention at all. Cauliflowers! What they can do for one ….. where, oh where will this lead?

The flat is utterly silent. Normally Radio 3 is burbling away, and I’m doing this and that, or getting made up to get on THAT bus to work, or cooking my supper etc. But today nothing is happening and I’m not wondering whether I should be doing something, there is enough to make lunch, and tomorrow will have time to flurry about in. A Quiet Day.

Have just removed my dreamy head from the stars to find the tomatoes I’d put in the oven to have with pasta for lunch are now carbon, not even star carbon, just crisp carbon. Inedible. They are the colour of aged, deep dark oak panelling. Just pasta and lemon for lunch.

Delicious.

Do, please, if you want to:

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It is Thanksgiving today. For those celebrating, have a lovely time, enjoy all your friends and relations and your own foodie traditions. There always are particular traditions! Which reminds me. Marzipan for the cake ….

There is a heart below - do press to “like” as apparently this is “a good thing” - appreciation is so thrilling to receive. Hey ho, off to rescue a burnt baking tray.

Well, I’m home. I got lost on the way back and went round in circles - when SatNav repeatedly says “turn left”, it means you are going round in circles. Do not believe it. When you see a signpost for Hungerford and that is where you know you can get home from, follow it. Don’t trust SatNav.

Before I began to get lost, I had coffee, a brownie and looked at pottery and STUFF (very nice STUFF, I do admit) at a very cool farm shop sort of place. It is super tidy and tempting, and I bought a gingham blouse (it definitely isn’t a shirt) for next summer, which will look just the biz over some sort of linen dress or trouser affair, and a very sweet hand thrown bowl for porridge. It is porridge weather.

And whilst sipping my coffee, I had a ponder about glamour. I suspect it was the effect of buying porridge bowl wholesomeness that brought this on. All very well in its place, all in favour generally speaking, keeps things orderly, but I started to think “no, not really what I want today”.

When I eventually got home I thought that, whilst lovely, gingham isn’t really glamorous, and brownies have that element of home cooking, delicious, but hardly seductive, and as for porridge ….. really, Sarah, get a GRIP, quite soon you will be thinking “apron”. Do not do that thing. No. Way.

And then I turned around several times and couldn’t settle and wondered why on earth I was in a fuss about glamour. It is 2024 and I’m not sure it is a thing. We aim for health, and wellbeing, and sensible things like that. Normally I’m keen, but not in this weather. Oh no, please, not more being stoical. How dreary. How DULL. How well-behaved. I might need a tonic. To restore balance.

I got straight back in the car (this wasn’t the time for the BUS) and top speeded (this isn’t very fast - it just feels that way - too bendy) into town and found a miraculous parking space and flew into the smart second hand (vintage to you) shop and said “are they still here?” and they were.

I’d seen them yesterday. A pair of too high, too small, too divine Dior party shoes with the original bag. Reader, I bought them. I flurried round the shop in a fit of glee. They are worn. They were loved. They were expensive. I am going to find a display cabinet to put them in and remind myself of this and that.

Not the best photo of all time but …. LOOK!

There is precedence for this unprincipled behaviour. The Best Of Aunts, having persuaded her mother to hand over the dosh to pay her landlady, went and spent it ALL on a black velvet opera coat lined in cream silk brocade - with tiny pleats round the hem and cuffs. It was called “Sin At Dawn”, this coat …. I am sure it went down a storm at the Cafe Royal. This was the Aunt who introduced me to a seriously louche pub under Piccadilly Circus, before whisking us off to a Private View in Bond Street.

I don’t think the pub is there any longer. I expect tidied away in the way that Soho is tidy these days - but perhaps there are unbranded, unbridled hidden depths? Maybe, probably not.

And there we are, having nailed the fact that just a little bit of glamour is probably a good thing.

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Please, but only if you would like to. And apparently it helps with encouraging others to read this frivolity if you could kindly press the “heart” below.

OH DEAR, I THINK IT WILL BE LENTILS FOR SUPPER - THE LARDER NEEDS GLAMMING UP - I think it might have to be Macaroni Cheese instead. Do people who own Dior Party Shoes actually eat Macaroni Cheese? I bet they don’t.

- made by the lovely Gill Fox Hats. You have to measure your head when you order so it FITS, isn’t that something? Not only suitable for the Frazzled Englishwoman:

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Frazzled Englishwoman & intentional clutter

The current trend on interiors TikTok is called Intentional Clutter, which is Gen Z for ‘spaces decorated by people who love stuff’. At the same time, there’s the annual reprise of a more fashion-based trend called Frazzled Englishwoman. This one reappears every autumn/winter and essentially means ‘artless, slightly flushed woman, very much a stranger to the mirror selfie, messy hair, charmingly dishevelled, possibly idiosyncratically dressed, trying to get from A to B in the drizzle on her bike…

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2 years ago · 300 likes · 70 comments · India Knight

but also, deep bliss she does hats and decorations (that is the only way to describe them) for Alexandre Manamis, whose SS25 collection is called “Dreamer of Dreams” and is pure dressing up box rags and riches.

Blowed if I can work out how to connect to them - I sort of think “creatives in freezing garrets in Paris” and above technology (bet they aren’t really). But look up on Instagram and you will see what I mean.

This is a very important visit, a real birthday tomorrow - not one of those middling ones - and a miraculous gathering of the clan, a proper curry lunch, a walk round the field and poly tunnel, an inspection of the wood, and, without doubt, discussion of the state of the lane.

We might become nostalgic. We all know the house, field, wood and lane from babyhood. It is the house our grandparents bought when they left France in 1940. Now not cold or damp! We will wonder how our grandmother coped - whilst Dartmoor is lovely, it really is NOT the Cap d’Antibes.

Soon I shall collect the birthday person from the station here in darkest Wiltshire, and then we will debate A303 or motorway, and eat oatcakes and grapes (delicious from the market - absolutely the right time for them). I am preparing for this by listening to my road trip playlist - this sounds very efficient, but I can’t make it work in the car which is why I’m listening to it in the flat right now.

Then we will get to the hotel at Buckfast Abbey - the last time I was staying, there was an absolute bevvy of Bishops and their acolytes - I must they did look very glamorous in their purples and reds, if somewhat startling at breakfast.

If still light enough, will go and look at the gardens. Medicinal and Millennial, both lovely and with good labelling, which is essential. This is a photo I took earlier:

Isn’t that lovely? And all sorts of useful herbs and the potential for potions is great. Luckily one of the cousins is very into potions and I’m going to get a recipe for a cure for the Common Cold. Apparently it is genius.

Isn’t it nice, just nice, when you have a treat weekend in store and you decide you are not going to have a worry about anything other than “did we used to have PEANUTS with the curry lunch?”. This has led to intense discussion and Whatsappery. The logical positive branch of the family say “if you WANT peanuts, HAVE peanuts”, and the Dreamers of Dreams say “but DID we have them. If we DIDN’T, should we NOW?" Breaking with tradition and basically being dramatic about the whole thing.

Off I go, to pack a basket, and get supplies for the journey - just in case of traffic jams.

As ever, dear reader, if you have enjoyed this silliness, please press that “heart” below, and comment and subscribe and there will be more to follow - possibly a full report of the weekend, suitably edited for diplomatic reasons ….

Salisbury is about an hour away on the bus, which goes round about everywhere, so I’ve seen a lot more of Wiltshire than before, and some of it is lovely and some of it ISN’T.

She is BACK, they have been to the CoOp, and there is discussion about taking boots off. She has taken them off outside. Her socks are now very wet. There is hopping about going on and a LOT of dripping and the beginnings of a drama. I think it is time for tea.

Anyway, Salisbury. I bypassed shops (bored of shops). Except, except this:

Captive Worlds

They do Terrariums “For Office And Home” (and aquariums, if that is your thing) and they had the sweetest little teeeny weeeeny terrariums for the desk area, I imagine.

They provide a “relaxing visual wonder in your home” and if you were very stressed they might just be calming, but they have sold out, so I didn’t get one. The website has things for sale to build your very own creative terrarium such as:

This is “Elderly Stone”

I know how it feels to be "Elderly Stone” because the ferocious cream I am applying to various areas of sun damage on my face has done something similar to the above except red. I just hope it calms down by the time I head to Dartmoor (more stones) in 10 days time for a family gathering. There will be questions.

Well, then into the Close and there was the Cathedral, looking just like itself, amazing and, despite its vast size, somehow ethereal in its setting. A nice, efficient person sold me a ticket for £12 and gave me lots of pieces of till receipt and told me to keep them because the ticket is valid for a WHOLE YEAR. So that is pretty good, I think. Very chuffed by this I then went in and was thoroughly suitably awed.

There are very good guides (they have nice green sashes on - so you can identify them) and you can join a group and get super information, but for this preliminary visit as an adult (as children we visited often) I had an independent meander. The memorials are deeply moving, too many young men finished too soon.

There is also the skeleton of a rat, although that does require the eye of faith, because it is rather squished up and could well be an “elderly stone”. It seems that the presence of the rat skeleton MIGHT indicate that someone in a tomb MIGHT have been poisoned, but this is inconclusive evidence. The jury is out on this one. Richard Osman might have a think about this as a plot.

This is a pillar of a highly ornamental monument - I can’t remember who it commemorated but I am taken with the gold vine on black background and spent quite a lot of time admiring and wondering where I could work the idea into the flat, perhaps in the kitchen? Being fruity.

In the Chapter House (brilliant floor tiles - replicas of originals made by Minton) is the MAGNA CARTA - there are only four copies in the whole World remaining, and one of them is in a rather amateur tent affair (staple gun in evidence) to protect from the light in the Chapter House.

During WW2 the Chapter House was used to provide shelter for bombed out families and a false ceiling was installed to make sure that if the windows were shattered the glass wouldn’t fall on them. There is an example of a modern day pack of basics for refugees, and basic it is indeed, but I can see that it would help in dire need. There is a chapel specifically dedicated for prayers for victims of war, or really, victims of anything at all, which is the point.

Then I had another walk about, going the wrong way round, but they were very forgiving, went to the shop and bought Adam Nicholson’s “How To Be”, which I thought would be useful, and skipped (for the time being) the books about Green Men and Stone Circles, but I will get on to those soon.

On to an early lunch, steak frites and a firm red, and people watching. Back onto the bus, having waited for it sitting on a bench under the plane trees on the edge of the Market Place.

All in all, a good day was had, and no dealing with NHS complications. They can wait.

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Now I am going to watch “Inspector Ricciardi” on Channel 4 World Drama - I am fascinated by the curl on his forehead which escapes his swept back hair. He has soulful eyes, which is useful because he doesn’t talk a lot, but the eyes have it. Italian and dramatic.

I have had a sudden cold in the head. It appeared last Sunday. It is abating this Sunday. Not entirely gone, reluctantly leaving the party, reappearing to add to the saga every now and then.

There is a marmalade cat snoozing in the window of one of the houses opposite, looking like a Sempe cat. Sort of like this:

I wish I was as totally relaxed as that right now, but not, because of pesky hanger on who won’t go.

Butternut squash soup (the first of the Season) has been made with lots of cumin, black pepper, some chili flakes, lemon juice. And cream swirled in the bowl. Not toast because of sore throat, but bread and butter for dunking purposes. Very soothing. My cousin and “My Friend In France” both said “ginger, you must add ginger”, which I would have done if I’d had any, and the village shop doesn’t supply such exotica. So no ginger. But it is on a list.

In a rash moment “oooh, I might be feeling better” I went to a near-by village hall on the edge of Salisbury Plain to see “Drawn to War” about Eric Ravilious and it has haunted me ever since, Alan Bennett and Grayson Perry, amongst others, spoke so well about his art and life. You must try and see, it is elegiac. Take a hanky if prone to tears. 1

"Drawn to War"

Apart from the film, there were excellent canapes and a glass of wine (or elderflower fizz) and lots of chat and all for £8-00 which I call a superior evening out. And the most amazing full moon over the Plain as we emerged.

He was married to Tirzah Garwood and there is an exhibition of her work at Dulwich Picture Gallery 19th November 2024 - 26th May 2025. Do look her up - hooray for Dulwich Picture Gallery, is what I say! Also thank you to my sister who pointed this out to me.

Tirzah Garwood

Here is an example of her marbling - which I think is gorgeous - apparently she did something very clever, from a marbling point of view, in that she used oil paints. Must do more research on oil paint and marbling ….

And here is her autobiography, published by Persephone Books "Long Live Great Barfield" which I have not read. Yet. I know I can order it, but I feel a bus trip to Bath (on the top of bus to admire the views) coming on so I shall be tempted by other things as well.

As you can tell, I am now completely obsessed by this group of artists, and not only that, but what is it that compels people to paint, write, play or compose (or both) music, make films, design wallpaper, decorate themselves and their homes. What actually is it? I know millions of words have been written in an attempt to analyse this and understand it, but …. what? Is it as simple as boredom with hunter gathering? I wonder. Actually that isn’t simple, but it is all I can come up with as I set off to do a bit of hunter gathering …. off to work I go.

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I hope all the links work, and do leave a comment if you would like to. I understand that pressing the “heart” below (aged laptop doesn’t do emoji) is helpful for other, new, readers to be drawn inexorably to my posts. All subscriptions are FREE - although if I reduce my hunter gathering pursuits a little, I might think (don’t worry - it takes me ages and ages to make up my mind) about this.

I sent a message to my sister asking if she thought it was me, my phone, or some psychic thing that was making it so difficult. She says her surgery have had to make a video about “how to make an appointment on the NHS App”, and the way to get the link to this gripper is by asking the receptionist at the surgery for it….. and no, you cannot just ask the receptionist for an appointment whilst you are standing in front of her or him. No WAY. You have to watch the video.

She watched it three times, whilst IN the surgery, and became convinced that Camilla P-B (now Queeeeen) was doing voice overs for the NHS in her spare time, and was so taken with this idea that she had to watch it again, taking notes, in order to make her appointment.

She decided she needed to go home to have a rest, and thought she would ring up to make the appointment, which she did. Only to realise that she had IN FACT managed to make an appointment on her trial run. And had made up various answers to impertinent questions online. The receptionist said “so NOT heart?” to which she replied “not YET ….”.

That was yesterday, and today I woke up with a feeling that all the tender little seedlings of “oooh, this is nice, I like this” and “wouldn’t it be fun to ….” were feeling a bit damped off. And all because of an App. And an enormous behemoth floundering about in its own technology. Swallowing its own tail, and all in a tangle. No wonder people strike. I would resign.

BUT, I have applied new lipstick (not too red, not too pink, and no brick, bright and NEW), some scent, a JUMPER (Autumn) and made coffee, and am about to go and FtoF (this means a Face to Face - rather than telephone - appointment according to the App) the extremely nice ticket officer at the railway station (yes we have a real person) and buy a return ticket to London for my cousin’s birthday lunch on Sunday. And generally reclaim the persona of an intelligent, cheery female who can DO stuff.

To digress …. I’ve just looked in the mirror (glasses ON - which helps) and really like the “just lipstick” look, I think it is rather taking and, yes, I like it. I’ll try it on the ticket operative. I may even try it at the shop. This very day. It is raining so hard, I could always say the rest of it washed off …. This is a liberating thought.

Just checked the weather APP thing - it says “moderate” rain. And Thunder And Lightening. “Moderate” is not how I would describe it. I shall wait to go to the railway station. The thing is that the dip below the railway bridge floods. Will the bus get through? I am not subjecting my precious, if dull, car to floods again, it is too expensive, and I know I won’t get through because I don’t have waders at the moment, just hanging about in my hall, and my wellies sprang a leak not so long ago and I’ve not replaced them. Because I thought “Summer …..”.

Lipstick bright planter (one of five) just down the High Street from the shop, and I think I’m going to do this sort of look next “Summer” on the balcony. It is so cheerful and abundant and in your face waving and “I am so over the top gorgeous, I love me”. Not subtle. Clever, but not subtle. Photo doesn’t do it total justice, but you will get the idea.

Boom, crash, bang - thunder. Now feeling thoroughly determined and about to get drenched en route to the bus stop. I shall BUY lunch (normally I make and take) next door at the coffee shop and eat biscuits with the Dream in Cream Associate in World Domination in the Shop and all will be well. I’m not sure we are going to be busy.

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I’m not sure about these buttons on Substack either, but am putting them in because I can.

Do, please chat away to me, and if you feel like it press the “HEART” below because it helps other people see the post. Onwards, be bright whatever the weather ….. I’m about to order bulbs for December …. and am going total bling magenta and purple ….

She has led an extraordinary life and I used to rent a cottage in Observatory Street in Oxford from her and she would arrive at top speed in a bright white BMW armed with Chianti and other delights from Lina Stores (the original one in Brewer Street) and we would have rather shaky feasts on a card table and she would tell me about her life in Italy. And Somalia. And Sardinia. And Dartmoor.

She has fond memories of the family and told me that my father had dowsed (he was taught by a great uncle and was a member of British Society of Dowsers) her drawing room to find the spot she was happiest and she had moved her best armchair there and it was just perfect. Apparently she had been sitting on a bad ley line, so no wonder uncomfortable. He sorted the ley line later. We are talking peak Dartmoor here!

I am going to dowse my sitting room and find out if my complete reorganisation of furniture explains how pleasing it is now. It wasn’t in the least bit before. I didn’t dowse it, but had a sudden feeling last Monday that I needed to shift EVERYTHING round. Including bookshelves and that means unloading them and then reloading them, hoping that everything will fit in again. Not for the faint hearted.

Here is a photo of cheerful dahlias in a green vase to celebrate now comfortable sitting room.

I remembered to take a notebook with me on my visit in order to record laundry methods before the modernisation of Italy, which she told me began with the arrival of television in the late ‘50s. The central local bar would have one and everyone would watch there, entranced by washing machines and other American swishness.

However, fascinating though it is to learn how wood ash filtered through hessian grade cloth to clean linens is (I assume delicates might not have survived this), it was thrilling to somehow get onto Violet Trefusis. Who appears to have been something of a number, which I already knew, but what I didn’t know was that she had a table in the antechamber to the antechamber (there were lots) with a large, beautifully printed notice “Presents HERE”.

Presents were absolutely expected. R left her a tinsel crown (naughty hooting from R and shrieks from me), when she was eventually invited to dine (her father in law and husband were regulars, I gather, VT being a lively type, and so, I suspect, were they). R not amused “I had to DEFEND my husband ….”. “Which was really quite unexpected, but you must recall I was quite young at this point, when you think of that gardener person at Sissinghurst! I do hope I’ve not shocked you ….”. This she did by ringing up and bothering the butler a lot when she had seen transgression in the offing in the opposite Palazzo. Like every two minutes … which REALLY interrupted his stately progress …. and THEN she would put the phone down … I suspect this is now illegal …

Hooray! The post has arrived and has been signed for, and I must dash out (which I couldn’t before - waiting, waiting, ironing, putting on laundry, washing up, hating all my clothes, waiting …..) and get the things I need to get in order to finish the work I need to get into the post by close of play today. And you thought I was a person of leisure and retired. I keep trying but it is useless, things keep appearing, people ask me to do stuff and instead of saying “no WAY, I am painting my toenails today”, I say “but, of COURSE ….”.

And the washing machine has beeped, so I can hang up all the clothes I’m going to see if I can SELL, and then buy one jumper and a rain cape thing.

It is definitely end of August and I’ve actually bought next year’s diary. Green. A5. With lots of pages for notes.

Speaking of “notes”, I’m going to post this on “notes” because then anyone who likes this can press the heart button. This is an emoji and I don’t have it on my ancient laptop and still, regrettably, haven’t worked out how to download one so that it works when pressed ….. but I shall. One day.

I am going to experiment with salad dressings "The Secret of Cooking" by Bee Wilson and not confuse myself with other books. And when I have done some of that, I shall cast an eye over my tiny kitchen and ask a colleague to come and inspect it. She dresses a dream in creams and off whites and is one of those people who achieves a lot, very quietly, without making one feel guilty or inadequate.

The tiny kitchen (not a romantic tiny kitchen in Paris …) was installed, I think, in the early 2000s and has units spray painted in then fashionable sludge green with a hint of yellow in it. Someone then chalk painted over this vinyl in a different sludge green. I have stuck postcards and recipes on the cupboard doors, but ….. I like shelves. I would take a photo, but I haven’t done the washing up and ….. just too drear.

The wall units, because of tininess of the kitchen, cause bruising to the forehead, especially when beating semolina to make gnocchi. They are thick MDF and, whilst the smallest possible cupboard unit, this means the interior of the cupboard is still smaller.

The dream in cream has done lots of renovations and survives to tell the tale so I know she is just the right person to inform me if I am quite mad to have the pesky cupboards removed. It seems the wiring behind the cupboards is a shocker according to “Downstairs” …. and even I can tell it is all a bit dodgy.

“Downstairs” have just told me that the reason they are returning to Australia is because, moan, moan, everyone in the UK MOANS. We moan about the weather. We moan about the potholes. We moan about everything. I was placidly doing my recycling and I got moaned at.

I was sympathetic, but what to say? I didn’t like to ask whether it was only residents of the UK who moaned …. they appeared to be quite good at it and doing it at me. Perhaps they picked it up by osmosis?

Anyway, here is a cheerful photo:

This is a photo of a cousin circa 1920 - he ended up being a lawyer - no doubt a thoroughly good egg and party person. Absolutely NOT a moaner. We love his knitted shorts and Guernsey. “Be more Harry” we say. That element originally came from Guernsey - they were wine dealers and shipping agents (great combo), amongst other things. My father said this was where his mother’s tendency towards smuggling came from. Shipping agents, good cover for smuggling.

The main road between me and my work is littered with bright yellow signs for diversions and slightly differing information about when it will be closed for mending purposes. From today for two weeks between the hours of 9am and 3pm. Maybe. The possibilities for mending are numerous so I don’t think two weeks is going to be enough, and I am confused about the BUS route.

I asked the reckless but completely gloomy bus operative about plans for this disruption and he regarded me with total disinterest and shrugged. I sense that being a fantasy rally driver on bendy roads in a double decker bus might be dispiriting and will go to the railway station and ask the cheery ticket person if they know anything about the bus palava. Or better still the world famous Lardy Cake making bakery. I am on holiday, after all.

My laptop is is having a LOW battery moment, and a little light is flashing at me - it says “plugged in, not charging” so I have sent an email to someone in the village who purports to be a PC Doctor, because, yes, I have done “restart” and I have unplugged and put on beetroot to cook (salad), had coffee, plugged it in again etc, etc, and the message remains the same, so I think emergency action is required. I wonder if the PC Doctor is on hols? Bet he IS!! Perhaps he is off to the bakery for Lardy Cake.

If you wish you might press the HEART button below - apparently it makes the post more visible to non-subscribers. And DO comment …. and if anyone knows how to get a proper heart symbol to appear in this section, please let me know. I can’t find one anywhere.

PS - utterly predictable confusion in the village as everyone realises that the “Road Closed Ahead” signs are now true and “Diversion” signs are leading people astray. Getting tense out there. The bakery is doing a roaring business.

Here is Viola “Bowles Black” finally flowering on my balcony. It has taken months and months since receiving a tiny pack of seeds from Special Plants Nursery (for passionate gardeners) for this to happen. Almost daily inspection of progress - nothing, nothing, nothing and then a hint of green and then ….. pause for thought. Really, we are not talking speedy here. We are talking serious concentrated positive thinking and encouragement. However, here we ARE. Success. There are other little plants, but this is the first to flower. You have to admit, very sweet indeed. Thrilling.

I wrote about the beginning of this saga here: Another little thing in case it is interesting.

Also thrilling is the number of readers who have liked (here I wish to insert a pretty heart, but haven’t worked that out yet), followed and subscribed, since this kind mention by India Knight (guru):

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Sunday

This is Assiette de fraises, or a plate of strawberries, by Pierre Bonnard, painted in 1922. You might think it was a detail from it, but it’s the whole canvas. Bonnard’s use of cropping is radical …

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2 years ago · 199 likes · 12 comments · India Knight

“Bonnard, like Vuillard, was another member of Les Nabis - see the previous picture post - as was Sarah Lock’s great grandfather. She wrote about it here.”

In other news, I have a week off - apparently I have to take holiday otherwise it upsets HR (I’m not sure we actually have an HR department - but whoever keeps an eye on these things has insisted I take hols before a certain date and so that is what I’m doing). I am having lunch today with a friend in Pizza Express because neither of us does much apart from hoot with laughter when we meet, so a dainty dish isn’t really the right thing. Although, I must say that now PE don’t do The Save Venice pizza I can’t make my mind up about which pizza I need. It seems they can’t get the ingredients - so peculiar, because I can get capers and anchovies and sultanas quite easily. I purse lips.

A couple of days ago in the shop a mother and daughter came in to sort out a birthday present for the mother’s 90th birthday party - as you can imagine this required lots of negotiation by the daughter (I’ve been there) but in the end we succeeded in choosing a lovely necklace with ONE pearl on a wire. Very chic. They had been out to lunch at Malverleys Farm & Dining and raved (in a civilised sort way of course) and said it was lovely. I haven’t been yet, but plan to quite soon. We became fast friends, what with chic necklace and foodie talk, so I managed to extract the source of divine linen shirt the daughter was wearing and bought it. In the sale but even so:

Plumo of course:

This is the Sailmaker shirt and can you see the buttons go all the way down to the hem - so smart. Anyway it is lovely and I am waiting with bated breath for it to arrive, no doubt just in time for the sun to come out and make white linen necessary (currently in head to toe navy linen … and a vest camisole). Please bear in mind that I don’t look remotely like the model, being rounder, shorter and have freckles and could, I suspect be her grandmother, so the effect won’t be entirely the same, but I shall love it I know.

There is much to learn about Substack - but now I can do a link and insert a photo without too much pain, next will be how to insert a heart and I’m sure there is an easy way to do this but …. I must get on the bus so I can go and hoot in Pizza Express.

If you felt like it - apparently if you like this by pressing the heart (MUST learn how to insert this) it is a good thing. And DO comment - I’ll certainly respond - I love a gossipy comment moment. Off I go ….

HOME by India Knight

Sunday

This is a detail from Aux Clayes - Geranium sur une table bleue by Édouard Vuillard, 1932. I really love paintings of domestic interiors and Vuillard’s are particularly wonderful. He captures every d…

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2 years ago · 241 likes · 28 comments · India Knight

And, of course, I wanted to live in that painting there and then, particularly as I had, the evening before, been in a very beautiful old, old, old apartment (over a shop) which was painted purest white. I loved it, but my natural inclination is towards layers and layers of pattern and colour. So Les Nabis are my sort of people (although I do wonder whether life might have been a little fraught for the non-artistic me. It is all very well, but it is a bit testing to find that the very vegetables you intend to have for supper are actually a still life and must not, on any account, be moved from the very table you are about to lay up for said supper …. and if you do, absent mindedly, begin to stone apricots for a flan … genius is disrupted and it is all your fault). I know this.

A great grandfather had a studio in Pont Aven and painted there - a little before Les Nabis really got their act together. I’ve been to Pont Aven and it is charming. And here is a picture of him in his studio, in full on artist mode - there is a hubble bubble just out of shot, and I absolutely feel he was experimenting with an early hippy/alternative lifestyle and having a lovely time in a garret (he doesn’t look particularly hungry or in the grip of existential angst, I must say - I rather think he was probably quite chirped) . In later photos he is full on Edwardian Gent. In Antibes, so perhaps not entirely tamed.

It is not a brilliant photo, but you will get an idea:

And see the little Levantine stool on the right? Here it is in my sitting room:

Rather battered by the passage of time, but still, here it is.

And, thrillingly, I think I’ve worked out how to post a photograph on Substack. I had to have a soothing bath with a cap full of Olverum bath oil to restore shattered nerves - now all I have to do is remember how I did it. But what I haven’t worked out how to do is create a link for you to go directly to Olverum delight. I will work that out, but now I must hop onto a terrifying bus and go to work.

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The BUS. I use the bus, even though I’m sure my blood pressure goes up dramatically, because parking is a bore, and I have a bus pass and feel I should use it. Anyway, the bus drivers appear to be determined to break the land speed record and we bucket round bends and through floods (there is still a very damp area at the TOP of a hill - I’m working on the geography of this mystery) at a terrifying rate of knots and everyone clings onto the seat in front of them and prays.

We all politely say “thank you” to manic drivers as we stagger onto firm ground taking deep breaths and rolling eyes at each other. “Got here, then!” says one old man. Bus zooms off as we pull ourselves together and resume normality. Sometimes I really cannot face it and then I drive, being careful to avoid any possibility of being bus adjacent, if you get my drift.

Now for some makeup and the bus. Off I go. Tomorrow I shall be at home and Zooming about wallpaper and that will be lovely.

Today my attention was caught by the weather, which is not surprising as it is the first day of sufficient warmth to necessitate watering the balcony.

And then, rather late, I hopped into town to go to the butcher, the market, Waitrose and the shop (this is my part-time job) to see if there was anything I needed to do for an event we are holding next week. 

Two of my colleagues were there and we discussed guilty secrets, being clever or not, the benefits or not thereof, makeup, the weather and parking.  And cakes for the party. 

Also footfall.  The machine that counts footfall told us that there had been over 80 people in the shop the day before.  S…. and I said it was a lie, and even though someone had brought in the most enormous woolly hound (I mean vast, huge, etc) it would only count as three people at most. 

Back onto guilty secrets – our very elegant and willowy manager said she rather fancied a news reader who looked like a boiled egg, but couldn’t remember his name, and said that he had a lovely voice and if you shut your eyes he became a guilty secret. 

S…. thought she thought that a certain politician was her cup of tea and Willowy one and I shrieked and said NO WAY.  And she said it wasn’t his politics that she was keen on.  Du vrai?  There is surely no accounting for taste.  I’ve met him, and definitely charming, but even so ….

My guilty pleasure – having had to look him up because I could NOT believe that anyone could possibly change so much (playing Prince Andrew in “Scoop”) and thank goodness still as divine as ever, Rufus Sewell (without the makeup) is top of my list.  For the time being.  I am fickle.

It has just occurred to me that this is completely and utterly objectifying and probably illegal and if anyone knew where I lived they would come and protest at me. 

Then, on the vegetable stall front, my attention was caught by bunches of baby spinach, fine French beans, mushrooms and dates.  Bought all of those.  And grapes. 

Left the bunches of thyme as they hadn’t dried out, really they were damp, and would go mouldy on me in a flash.  I do love bunches of dried herbs hanging about in the kitchen, as they make me feel continental and cool.  And strings of onions. 

On to Waitrose, for ordinary candles, where I saw the most wonderful jacket.  It was a cream canvas swing sort of jacket with lovely, lovely flowers printed on it – not all over, each flower was distinct. 

The person inside the jacket was young, and did not look like a sofa, which I would.  However, there was nothing to stop me thinking it was a gorgeous thing and suffering a tiny pang of regret that given my, now almost accepted, curvy, cosy outline I could not possibly wear it.

I knew that swingy, floral jacket was a million and one dollars, and returned to the market to look at the clothes – “Made In Italy” – and decided I rather liked some of those, and if I bought a really lovely pair of shoes, that would (might) work well for the country wedding I’m going to in May.  Except it is on a farm and gumshoes will be the way forward.  Washable.

Loaded the car (feeelthy and in need of cleaning and the twigs removed from inside) and pootled home avoiding potholes and listened to Italian arias on the radio, diverted to garage to book feelthy car in for its MOT only to be told it was due for a full service.  Gumshoes it is.  No fancy footwear for me.

And here I am, thinking about what a satisfactory day it has been.  Not in the least important, but things have been done, chats have been had, no one has asked me an impossible question about what I am doing and why, nor about what I am going to do in the future.  Officially I am now a pensioner so ….

It is rather like that stage in life before everything becomes serious and difficult and a huge performance (because there is no escaping that bit) when anything seems possible and there is time ahead.

Now there is not so much time ahead and sometimes things are serious and difficult, but somehow the performance element erodes and the things that really have to be done get done and quite a lot of the act can be dropped.  Not all, because sometimes performing is fun.  But not all the time.  Tiring.

These definitely caught my attention.  These are the prettiest tiles I’ve seen in a long time, and I get a bit hooked on tiles, as a favourite Aunt was very keen on them and osmosis is a powerful thing.  They are sold by a company called Claybrook and are “Fellini (and why not?) Argilla Gloss”.  Not to mention the styling - the squiggle!

PS “osmosis is a powerful thing”. Well, that has caught my attention, much can be explained by “osmosis”, as I think it incorporates both nature and nurture. One to ponder further.

Anyway, lovely tiles:

Total bliss - and the pot!

Tough wasn’t in it.  Really quite old school, Mrs V. However, eventually I was permitted to talk to visitors about plants, pot up and water by myself, and weed, and feed the chickens in the morning.  This was a terror, they were not nice chickens.  They looked wonderful, being rare and fluffy, but we didn’t bond.  Nevertheless, apart from appearing to be pretty, sweet little things, they produced fabulous compost. Practical.

After more time, and plant identification, and mutual besotted love (in a reserved way, be assured, not a gush in sight there) for Helen Ballard’s utterly amazing Hellebores (it was at this point I think I was allowed into the kitchen to make coffee ….), at the end of the day, in the gloaming, when the garden was silent, she would lead me into the potager (instructing all the while) and bestow salads and vegetables upon me for my supper.  An honour.  You can imagine. 

Amongst all the rare, choice plants, there, in the immaculate potager, a sweet little viola was permitted to self-seed, and somehow that was almost more pleasing than the rest.  Life progressed, and I grew things I loved, and one of the things I grew was Viola “Bowles Black” – which I would put in pots with curly leafed parsley and decorative and delicious the combination was. 

Life moved on again and I couldn’t find seeds anywhere and for years I have periodically looked and searched. And THIS very week I found a supplier and instantly ordered a packet of seeds and I can’t wait for them to arrive and be sown and have promised plants to friends and relations and if they don’t love them as much as I do …. but they will, I know,

So life has shifted a few degrees yet again, as it does, and is a little more open and settled and because I’ve found my viola, the door of the cupboard in my mind into which I had stuffed quite a lot of the things (possibly most of the things) that pleased me (labelled “I’ll do that later”) has swung open and I’ve just spotted a variegated honeysuckle growing over the wall of a neglected garden, and having spotted that rather rare plant, have stuck my nose over the wall and ….

Ummm, a plantsperson lives there.  I can tell.  The sort of person who finds a plant and thinks “where will this adorable thing do well?” and pops it in to find it’s place with the other plants.  And oddly enough mostly that method works very well.  With appropriate chat and some space.  Don’t we all?

PS I’ve also ordered white and blue sweetpea seeds. My balcony will become a bower of loveliness! I hope Mrs V would approve.