Envy

I have just discovered a new concept: Kitchen envy. I know there are all sorts of envy one can have from being envious of people who have escaped the snow and ice to dancing like Kara Tointon. But kitchen envy is a new concept.

There you are, pottering around in your own space, trying to cram or more often uncram saucepans from undersink shelves, which are totally wrong for that purpose and wishing the bookshelf above the fridge could be removed so that you could have a bigger fridge and then you find yourself in a space only slightly smaller than this house, which calls itself a kitchen! Complete with two double ovens, two door fridge with ice maker, thermostatically controlled wine storage, boiling water out of a tap, etc etc etc..

And all this belongs not only to one of our children but two of them have undertaken major kitchen reconstruction and enlargement. I know they have suffered weeks of disruption, forced to cook on camping gas cookers, feeding children in hallways but I am envious! Still it is comforting to know that my condition has a name - kitchen envy!

Entente not so cordiale

What a giggle! There we were, returning to England, crossing our fingers that the forecast of snow and ice would not stop us in our tracks. But first, there was the short skip and jump to get us from chez nous to the Channel Tunnel. It seemed that we were the only ones wanting to get home on Saturday morning. Empty lanes led to the checkpoint. Credit card inserted and out rolls the piece of paper to dangle from the car's mirror. Drive on to the French passport control, where they normally could not care less, don't really look at you and wave you though.

This time, with a couple of cars in front of us, nothing appears to move. Then a gendarme appears and makes everyone reverse into another lane. Mission accomplished we wait and wait while nothing ahead moves and we run the risk of missing the next train. Since this blog writer is never without wonderful solutions to solve every problem and seeing that the next lane also has a green arrow to welcome you through and no car waiting, I have the bright idea of simply moving the cones, separating our stagnating lane from the empty one.

Well, you should have seen the feathers fly! Quicker than you can say Jacques Duhamel, the flic who had waved us back in the first place, was at my side. "But madame, you can't do that. You are not allowed to do that. Imagine if everyone took the law into their own hands" etc etc.

He was no doubt disconcerted a have a five foot nothing woman of a certain age perpetrating this crime. The fact that I said that we didn't want to miss the train and that that lane had been empty, cut no ice and we had to move back while he solemnly replaced the cones.

He must have felt bad because he finished off by wishing us bon voyage and a bonne journee. As for us, I am afraid we could not stop laughing.

Back to School

Wow! It is quite something to sit and listen to someone give a lecture, make notes and concentrate from 10am until 5pm. Not something I am used to but last week found me sitting in Room 104 at the School of Oriental and African Studies, having a hugely enjoyable time finding out more about Oriental and Middle Eastern narrative art. Simply because I find myself irresistibly drawn to eastern art. I have a room full of it at home.

All the pictures seem to tell a story. They are not figments of the artist's imagination but legends, myths, tales of religious happenings or of travellers' adventures and they are all painted meticulously, with very fine brush strokes. Each one, to me, is a masterpiece and it obviously adds greatly to one's enjoyment to understand better what is going on in the picture.

It was hard work, not least going into town with commuters - during a week when it poured solidly, going to the SOAS canteen for lunch - enormous portions for student appetites - paying visits to the British Museum and Victoria & Albert in order to look at choice examples of the art we were studying, with curators explaining things in detail in rooms off the side.

How much I will remember is another matter! But it was great fun and, who knows, I might do it again.

New Generations

I have come to a terrible conclusion: The next generations, existing and future, will gradually lose the power to communicate person to person, face to face.

What are they doing on the tube, on the bus, walking along the pavement, shelf browsing in the supermarket? They are on their mobiles, their blackberries, their iPhones or whatever. They are playing games, involved in virtual reality scenarios, they are texting, twittering. face booking and, in fact anything other than engaging with another live human being.

Given that our bodies have evolved over thousands of years to our changed way of lifestyle, from four legged to upright, we no longer have tails, the amount of hair we have has decreased dramatically - at least for most of us -, our appendix is useless - what was it every used for anyway? where will this end? Probably we will lose the power of speech. Certainly the ability to write longhand seems to be on its way out. No one can spell unless there is a spellcheck facility and as for arithmetic - did I hear you say "What's that?"

Sad, sad, sad!!

A genuine fake

What price ethics? One of France's greatest treasures is the cave at Lascaux, covered with wild beasties from pre-historic times. Dozens of them in vibrant colours, imaginative and fascinating. You pay your chunk of money, the guide takes you down, explains everything to you and you admire what your very distant ancestors were capable of doing. However....what you see is actually a recently painted, faithfully reproduced copy because the original was thought to be in danger.

So they constructed an inch by inch replica of the original cave and copied what was there. Great idea and Nicholas Sarkozy was there a couple of days before us, when they were celebrating the anniversary of the cave's discovery.

The question is: How ethical is it? Would we rush off to see a copy of the Mona Lisa or the Parthenon, however beautifully reproduced? Tell me!

country matters

Little mother earth I am not! I like to think of myself as well-schooled in all country matters but I am not prepared when it comes to the crunch. I have stock-piled jam jars all year long in preparation for the annual harvest of crab apples from our French garden. The tree is a gift from Vicky, designed to provide shade in the front but, something clearly went wrong with the main stem, because it stopped growing at about five feet. No shade perhaps but masses of beautiful red-skinned sharp little apples destined to drip through muslin stretched from the legs of an upended stool and be transformed into fabulours jelly.

Now what? High winds last night, knocked quite a few off their perch and the fact is that they will not survive another two weeks before they are anywhere near their waiting jam jars.

So - think, think, think. Small fridge freezer, few plastic boxes. What to do? Salvation comes in stewing them, just a bit to reduce their volume and then putting them into hastily purchased sealable plastic freezer bags. Cram them in the space available and, swith a bit of luck, the interrupted jelly making process can continue when we return from foreign parts. Watch this space to find out whether it worked.

Food or Turner Prize contender?

We love to eat out and the last ten days have offered one celebration after another, all in restaurants. Most of the places we visit serve good, well-cooked food at a reasonable price. This week, we have been more reckless and visited some much praised establishments, where it is better not to ask the price, otherwise one might leave before ordering.

Well, apart from the fact that they seem to major on the cheapest stuff around - pork belly, rabbit, mackarel - the look of most plates is pretty ridiculous: A painted splodge of this, a dot of that, a 3 millimetre cube of something else, soup on an enormous plate with a tiny indentation. And, of course, it is not called soup but some pretentious description including the words, mousse, foam, reduction, jus and god knows what else. And It is not enough to put the food in front of you. Somebody has to stand at your table and give you a long spiel of what the plate contains. In our most recent experience, the poor French trainee, could not remember the end of the seemingly endless description and, with tearful eyes had to summon another waiter to finish her sentence.

Some dishes were very good but others, with your eyes shut, you would not know what you were eating. And while I am being a grumpy old woman, why is it assumed that we will want a glass of champagne as an aperitif and why in their wisdom - or is it their greed? - were there no half bottles of wine at all in one (clip)joint?

A taster menu for £100 madame?

Lazy days

It's August. London is deserted. Roads are empty. Parking meters are going a-begging. Virtually nothing has to be achieved, so it's time to go through wardrobes; throw things out.

Is it ever difficult! Here, I find a fitted black velvet jacket, lined with white fur, which my father had made in China for my mother, perhaps 75 years ago. the skin has become brittle, the velvet is splitting. Nobody wants to wear fur. Will my little grand daughters use for dressing up? Or shall I continue to keep it because it brings back memories?

And there is the size 10 outfit I loved to wear 40 years ago. Two sizes too small and yet and yet.....

Monsieur's never worn suits are revealed to have moth enjoying an undisturbed munch, so that's no problem. Out out out! But what about the never to be worn again dress collars in a gorgeous black and white leather case?

Life complicated!

Walk Out Time

I suppose I could blame it on my brother. I was just nine and he would have been twelve. We were being taken to the theatre and then, at the last minute, the person we were going with, couldn't make it. So, since we were considered quite sensible,we were allowed to go on our own, packed into a taxi to take us to the theatre and money to get one to take us back again.

The first thing my brother did on arrival at the theatre, was to exchange the spare ticket for cash and for us to march to the nearest food shop to stock up on essentials, like frankfurters, with the proceeds. Back to the theatre and front stalls seats.

Even before the first interval, Wolf nudged me and whispered "This is crap" or something similar, I nodded in agreement and, without further ado, we forced everyone in our row to stand up, to let us out! I am afraid I have been at it every since!
Not often but where appropriate.

Like on Saturday. The Old Vic. A Sam Mendes production of As You Like It. Well, we didn't! In spite of sitting in the third row, we couldn't really hear properly and soon after, decided that we did not particularly care either.
We did have the grace to wait until the interval but then, we felt that enough was enough and out we went.

Bad habits die hard!

A turn up for the books

I will give you ten guesses - or if you like, a hundred guesses - to answer what I was doing yesterday. Family excluded!

No, no, no. I was not doing any of those. No hang gliding, no Britain has Talent, no consultation with David Cameron and Nick Clegg, no tea with the Queen. Not even a little gentle weeding in the garden. Give up? Well, I was at a rock concert! Well one does, doesn't one?

A bit different from the norm perhaps, but if you closed your eyes, you would not have guessed that the musicians were all teenagers and even younger and, you know what, it was not only great fun but some of the music was very enjoyable.

What was particularly remarkable was that this concert had been organised by a music teacher. A normal teracher of classical music but this being the 21st century, kids love rock and are more than capable of adapting their more humdrum learning to what they really enjoy and listen to on their I-pods. On show was huge self-confidence and a total acceptance by the performers of being on stage and giving their best, without nerves. Unlike my generation which quaked in its collective boots when people watched what we did.

Mrs Average

I have discovered, slightly to my dismay, that I am really quite average! Whenever Mr or Mrs Everyman are being asked their opinions, it is exactly what I think. Rather disappointing! I thought I was original and someone whose voice was going to be heard uttering fascinating new thoughts instead of which, I find that I am just saying the same as everyone else. Well most people anyway.

Take politics. My better half spends a huge amount of time imbibing newscasts and interviews with and about those wishing to govern us. I spend my time trying to avoid most of those. One daily dose of news is enough for me.

As far as I am concerned, politicians are bad news. They are a lousy lot who never tell the truth. They are not the great and the good. They are unctious, misleading and basically incompetent and I am fed up with the whole shebang. And surprise, surprise, that's what everyone thinks. Do away with the old system. that's what we want!

All's well that ends well

PS to last post. Would you believe it, the police did catch the handbag snatcher. Except for M's camera and mobile, the bag and all its contents were returned. So that's one crime solved.

On another topic, I have to say that I find the silent sky and the reason for it, quite entertaining. Of course, I am sorry for the travel chaos it causes and for the billions of pounds lost in revenue by airlines, hotels and other businesses but a part of me is tickled pink by nature gaining the upper hand. I like storms and blizzards and I quite like it when the forecasters get it all wrong. That does not mean that I like the consequences - when people suffer - but I like reminders that we don't know it all.

Catch the thief!

The cheek of it! M. is parking her car in a parking lot, her baby and toddler in the back. A man appears in front of her ostensibly to guide her into the space. And hey presto, while she is backing, he opens the passenger door, snatches her handbag and jumps into a waiting car and it shoots off.

With formidable presence of mind, she memorizes the car's registration number and immediately phones the police and gives them the information. The police arrive within 2 minutes which is commendable. Less commendable is that, 24 hours later, the police said that they couldn't really do anything because the incident had not been captured on CCTV. However, when a more senior policeman was telephoned, the story was: "Oh yes, we know the car. It is stolen and we will pick the culprits up sooner or later."

But for goodness sake, if one spoon-feeds the registration number to the police within seconds of the crime being committed and also gives them the exact location, why are they incapable to picking up the gang (and it was a gang) immediately?

Perhaps the police would like victims to ascertain the attacker's address and when they are going to be at home, before they act!

It talks, it walks, it speaks. It's a book.

There I was, sitting on my exercise bike at the gym, earphones plugged in and I hear a talk on The Human Library. The what? Well it is what it says: a library of human beings,whom you can take walkies in order to hear them speak about themselves. And what you can talk to them about are your prejudices, your hang-ups.

How do you feel about druggies, bank robbers, disfigured people, muslims, pro-life campaigners? You are bound to feel uncomfortable with the views or behaviour of some members of our society and the Human Library exists to try to overcome some of our (perhaps ignorant) views. Such libraries already exists in over 50 countries, including Switzerland, Hungary, Israel and Egypt with more joining.

Taking a 'book' out is free and you may be in for an interesting experience if you have a go. Best sellers include being a muslim, being HIV positive or you might have a problem with the idea of male nannies and want to address that. Find out more by Googling The Human Library Organisation.

Democracy

Democracy. What an emotive word. Full of promise. Full of hope. Indeed, isn't it what we are supposed to have here? Isn't that what we brag about to people in other countries that here, we have freedom. We can say what we like, we can live how we want. Our homes are our castles. This is the country of Fair Play . A country where what we think and say is respected and where our voice counts for something.

Or have I got that all wrong? Is that cloud cucckoo land, some nirvana that perhaps, used to exist or was written about in fairy tales, that's no longer worth the paper it's written on?

Our governments seem pretty corrupt. We march for what we believe in but no one is interested. We give our views in local so-called consultations and they don't take a blind bit of notice. We are no longer deemed innocent until proved guilty.
We are fined for parking legally and have to spend time and money reversing some idiot's decision to write out a ticket. We are photographed Stasi style by countless CCTVs.

They talk of closing the A & E department of our local hospital. Thousands protest but I don't suppose it will make a blind bit of difference to the people who take the decision.

What's to be done?

www

Any number of my friends claim that computers are beyond them. Talk of the internet and their eyes start rolling. And yet, for those of us who are boilers rather than poussins, it is bliss.

The world really is my oyster, as I sit snugly indoors, buy the goods I want without either waiting for an untrained assistant to serve me, queue to pay for my self-selection, incur huge parking costs or battle it out on London Transport.

Last week in France, we had some guests of dinner. One of them wore a stunning oriental creation. Had she bought it in Japan, I asked. No, she said. You can buy these wonderful clothes on a japanese website - Kimono Flea Market Ichiroya. Click on it and literally hundreds of wonderful fabrics and garments are on offer. Such possibilities are real magic carpets.

This morning, I click and buy an outdoor light and then some concert tickets. And,of course, are endless games of spider patience to play!

hilarity all round

It's Monday morning. Time to go to the gym. Body put through its paces though more slowly than some pumping iron around me. Never mind. We are not in competition. Shower next. Down to the changing rooms but the lock on my locker will not yield to my blandishments. Clearly, someone thought it was theirs and turned the wheels. Now, I only ever turn one, so I can rotate it blind and sesame opens. No luck this time and without glasses, couldn't read the numbers clearly. The lady next to me has a go, can't manage without her glasses either! Turns out noone in the vicinity can. Someone younger approaches and opens the lock for me. That's what happens if you go to the gym at 10.30am when all the able-bodied people have gone to work!

Reminds me of a visit to Sicily when standing at a bus stop with others, a woman approached and asked something. No one answered and she then asked - probably in disgust - "Does anyone speak Italian?" Nobody answered but we all laughed.

snow snow and more snow

Here I was writing about the marvels of modern technology and hey presto, we are back to primitive and basic aspects of our daily life. We are in France, chez nous, in the Pas de Calais where, before Christmas snow stopped Eurostar from operating and where our hilltop village was cut off from civilisation for several days.

Once again, the garden is a fairy snowscape and the only discernable movement outside is a gorgeously plumed pheasant, plumping up its feathers, clearly in the hope of turning it into a duvet. It walks across the field, up to the top of its legs in snow Doesn't it know it's got wings?

Yesterday it was joined by two hares, lolloping in an ungainly fashion across the snow with the smaller of the two spending minutes just sitting there. What an idea! A turnip and a crust of bread were clearly not visible or too close to the house.

Adam with family sets off from London to join us. Several telephone conversations later and halfway to the Tunnel, we urge him to turn back. The roads are still clear there but here, it is snowing heavily. Luckily, he accepts our advice and now he is back in his own house, watching neighbours skidding in the snow which is now falling in London.

We have enough food in the house to last us for a long time. The only trouble is reading matter. I have finished the two lengthy tomes I brought with me. So have to scan bookshelves for books I have already read but forgotten. Gabriel Garcia Marquez will do nicely!