American authors

I’M STRUGGLING to install a wireless home networking connection between our two computers. Lordy, what a to-do! Who was it who claimed that computers were designed to make our lives easier? If I could get my hands on this rogue I’d make him eat those words!

Anyhow, I break off to go, with My Good Lady, to the monthly farmers’ market. We have to stock up on some fish and meat, including, much to my bemusement, some sausage meat to use as turkey stuffing for our Christmas bird. Why I’m so bemused is because, not so very long ago, MGL hated sausages, couldn’t abide them. Now along with the meat, she buys some Cumberland and black pudding sausages, just for the hell of it. It’s true what they say: there’s nowt so fanatical as a convert!

From the market we swing by our local to get a spot of lunch. Pea and ham soup is the special – my favourite! Unfortunately, it turns out to have the consistency of wallpaper paste, or one of those Campbell’s condensed soups but without the dilution.

The lounge bar is crowded for a weekday afternoon. I’m somewhat miffed to see some children of school age wandering around, their parents seemingly oblivious to the youngsters’ truancy. “Did you hear that?” MGL suddenly asks. She’s been eavesdropping to a neighbouring table’s conversation. “They claim that the only American novelist they can think of is the one who wrote Gone with the Wind. They concluded there were no others!” I can tell from MGL’s tone that she isn’t going to leave this one alone. Her hackles are definitely up. “Have they never heard of Hemingway, Steinbeck, Mark Twain?” And I think, oh lordy, she’s off…

On the way home I hear her muttering: “Henry James, Jack London, Herman Melville…” And then periodically, throughout the day, she adds to the list, almost as if she were trying to solve a stubborn crossword puzzle: “Scott Fitzgerald, Susan Coolidge, that woman who wrote the Scarpetta stories –"

“Patricia Cornwell?” I offer.

“Yes, her!”

We have an afternoon zizz, to refresh us before our dinner of a homemade venison pie. But even a good dinner doesn’t stop my indefatigable wife: “Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, John Updike, even Louisa M Alcott…” And she adds, with disgust, “How could they not have heard of Henry James?”

“Yes, love,” I say. “Have another glass of wine!”

A good Monday

AFTER a quiet weekend, My Good Lady and I go off to do a spot of supplementary shopping – things we can’t get at the local supermarket. Venison, for example. And damson jam and damson beer – both to be used as a glaze for some duck breasts we’re to have tomorrow. We also manage to locate some of our favourite French soft cheeses – Vignottes and Chaumes. (What is it about these French cheeses that appeals so much? Why is that they can make them so delicious? If you don’t believe me, compare a bog standard French Brie with it’s Cornish or Welsh counterparts and I think you’ll see what I mean.)

Because of road works and traffic congestion on the A6 we’re late on parade at the Geriatrics’ Corner. Nevertheless, Fran and Den have saved a couple of crossword clues for us. One is an Icelandic literary form – four letters: _D_A. “Edja,” says MGL with a bit of a prompt from me. “Never heard of that,” murmur Fran and Little B in unison… It really is an education in the Pub sometimes.

It’s one of MGL’s lamb curries for dinner this evening, and excellent it is, too. Why is it that, on the whole, curries made at home taste so much fresher and tastier than takeaways? Even when using jars of ready made sauces? There’s a mystery in it I fancy. Later, we watch University Challenge (BBC 2), and play a game or two of mah-jong against the computer, before opening a bottle of vino – an excellent Viognier from the New World.

On the whole, then, a good day, especially for a Monday.

Of Little B's computer and MGL's eye problem

LITTLE B has concluded that the learning curve is too steep for him. He has decided he can live without the hassle of trying to work out how to use his recently purchased laptop computer. I feel a little guilty about this because I encouraged him to get it. Anyhow, on announcing that he’s planning to sell it, I offer to buy it from him. It seems the least I can do. My Good Lady and I have been discussing getting a laptop, anyway, and this way I can make sure Little B gets a fair price for his nearly new computer.

We are returning from the Geriatrics’ Corner of the Pub this evening when My Good Lady asks me if I’d cook our dinner for us. “Of course,” I say, “but why?” That’s when she tells me her eyes are playing up. From time to time she gets these bad spells, a bit like migraine blackouts but not usually with the headache. She doesn’t feel up to doing the Sardine Quiche – and to be honest, neither do I. So, after a rummage around in the freezer I locate some breadcrumbed fillets of plaice. Not quite as exciting as her planned quiche, perhaps, but a pleasant fish and chip dinner, nonetheless.

By the time its ready, however, some of her mischievous cheekiness is back, indicating her eyes are correcting themselves again – well enough, indeed, to watch a little telly, I forget what.

All of this distracts us from the bad news we received earlier in the day. Our friend, Mike K, has been ill with a viral infection for the last week or so, and he’s taken a turn for the worse today. Helen, his wife, has already summoned the doctor – Mike suffers from Motor Neurone Disease, so this is a potential very serious illness, especially if it turns into pneumonia. We spend the day hoping for the best but half fearing for the second shoe to drop. Hospital visits might be on the horizon.

Cut out

WE are pulling up at a road junction when the car splutters, judders and the engine cuts out. There’s quite a bit of traffic behind us, too. I hastily put on the emergency flashers and I try to wave other vehicles on; they pull around me, but with unjustifiable ill grace. After all, it’s not my fault the car’s suddenly conked out. I turn off the engine – it’s already stopped, anyhow. My Good Lady is rummaging in her bag in search of the mobile phone, thinking of ringing the breakdown service. I turn the ignition key, just in case; the car splutters again, then to my astonishment, it fires. It gives another couple of bone-shaking judders, then settles down to its customary purring. I engage the drive and we pull smoothly away, sweet as you like. I hastily remember to switch off the flashers.

We had this sort of trouble with the car a few years ago – I forget what the fault was, something electrical, I think. Anyhow, on top of all our other bills coming up just now, here’s yet another, with more work for Neil, the mechanic.

Sunday things

I SEEM TO have got out of the house cleaning habit since our holidays, so today I make bit more of an effort. While My Good Lady busily sorts out the washing, I dust and vacuum the kitchen and wash down the bathroom, I have a go at cleaning out the study, and then the lounge… After three hours, I’m fair pooped, and I still have dinner to cook.

Luckily it’s only a prawn stir-fry. It takes me but a few minutes to chop up the spring onions, tomato and yellow pepper, then another ten minutes in the wok just warming it all up along with some bean sprouts and with a good pinch of chilli flakes. I serve it up with some egg noodles, and a lovely Alsace Pinot Gris.

Evening. Over the last couple of weeks I’ve recorded the two part Sharpe’s Peril (ITV 1) and we decide to give this a view. We used to quite enjoy this series in its early days; unfortunately this is a rather predictable offering, the familiarity of the plot themes definitely beginning to show their age. And poor Sean Bean is looking as if he’s been through the wars, too. Still, it passes an undemanding couple of hours. Actually, I’ve been half wondering about investing in a high definition Freesat box, but then I can’t help thinking: why bother? It’s not so much the quality of the picture that needs sharpening up, but the quality of the programmes.

Fire, fire..

THE STAFF in turn are trying to get the stove going, but not with much success. The wood’s too wet is the excuse. A sad tale! When My Good Lady and I were first married, we lived in a cottage that needed piles of logs which I had to chop with my little hatchet. We always managed, so why can’t they? We never even needed firelighters – indeed, we couldn’t afford such extravagance. Someone suggests putting a squirt of petrol onto the fire, and Gaz, the manager/chef of the Pub, recalls an incident from his misspent youth…

“We’d been out drinking,” he says, with a wistful smile on his face. “We got back to this friend’s farmhouse at about two in the morning. We tried to get the fire going – it was a wood-burning thing, like this. No joy. So, my mate poured some petrol on it. Just a drop he thought, but he set the chimney on fire! We got a knocking on the door from neighbours; they’d seen a blast of flame about five feet high shooting up from the top of the chimney! They nearly called the fire brigade!”

Meanwhile, the fire in the present stove is all but dead. Little B puts on his scarf, to help keep him warm, and I’m wondering about slipping on my coat when Mr P, the music teacher and keen cyclist, comes in, complaining about how warm it is, here, in the Geriatrics’ Corner. He strips off down to his t-shirt, as if just to make us all feel like wimps!

Travel plans and memories

I KNOW that PD will be disappointed, but we decide not to bother with the fish night at the Pub. Partly it's the menu that I'm not keen on, but partly too it's the atrocious weather we're having. It's definitely a night in which to batten down the hatches against the rain and the wind. Anyhow, we have a fish evening of our own, with one of My Good Lady's excellent tuna pies for dinner. Later, too, we crack open a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, and discuss our travel plans for next year.

My Good Lady has already spoken of her wish to visit the place of her birth, Brunei, the independent little state on the island of Borneo. I'm quite keen to explore Singapore a little more deeply. We've been there twice, but on both occasions only as transit passengers on our way to Sydney. My two main memories of Singapore consist of the cleanliness of the streets and of lunching at the Bar and Billiard Restaurant of the Raffles Hotel. After our second meal there, the maître d' shook my hand and told me I was always welcome to come back. I couldn't help thinking, not bad going for me, a poor lad from Lancashire, hobnobbing in one of the most iconic hotels of the Far East. And the meals weren't even all that expensive! It'll certainly be great the go back there.

Pictures

MY EPIC efforts to scan all my photo transparencies – some 14,000 of them – have now reached the miscellaneous categories, the hotchpotch of snaps that don’t really fit under any other file designations. Things like “Abstract” and “People”. Under the latter heading, I’m scanning a miscellany of pictures of both myself and My Good Lady. MGL looks great, of course, then as now; but my goodness me, what an odd looking cove I was back then! My hair was long and my beard was black and bushy and rather unkempt. I look a bit like a tramp. I’m going back some twenty-six years you understand – but what MGL ever saw in me is a mystery! I don’t know if I look any better now, to be honest, but at least I now wear my hair shorter. And if my face is a bit more wrinkly – oh all right, a lot more wrinkly! – at least it seems as if it’s more lived in, more mine. I hardly recognise the character in the pictures, and I’m not sure I like what I see. C’est la vie!

Weekend things

WE RECEIVE an extended email explaining to us how our compensation is to be paid. We have some savings with this Icelandic bank that’s gone bust, but we’re assured that we shall get all our pennies back – eventually. It seems a rather convoluted way of doing it – they’re setting up a system of electronic transfers; personally, I’d be happy with a cheque, but it seems that’s not to be.

Meanwhile, my allergies seem to be on the march again. My eyes are stinging, my nose running… the usual symptoms. Not quite sure what’s set it off – not pollen levels, surely? My Good Lady admits that she used a lavish dose of talcum powder after her shower this morning, so perhaps it’s her I’m allergic too at the moment.

Despite bouts of sneezing, I manage to get the cleaning and vacuuming done this afternoon, and I even do us a Chilli con Carne for dinner, albeit using a jar of ready made chilli sauce. It’s okay, but next time I think I’ll put a good pinch of extra chilli powder into it. It definitely needed an extra bit of bite.

The highlight of the coming week is the fish night at the Pub on Tuesday. I know PD would be pleased if we came and joined him and his wife Lin; the trouble is it’s a fixed menu – there’s no choice. And the starter is a Cullen Skink, the Scottish smoked haddock soup, which I don’t much like. And it seems a waste to pay £25 a head for something I’m not sure I really want! Anyhow, we haven’t finally decided yet, I’m still mulling it over.

Waiting day

A DAY of waiting. We have an appointment with Neil, the mechanic; he’s due to pick up the car for repair – the vehicle is almost gushing petrol now. We wait, and wait, and wait… My Good Lady rings him mid-morning. No, he hasn’t forgotten about us, he’ll be along this afternoon, he says. Late this afternoon. So we wait, and wait… Teatime arrives. He’s not coming now, surely? No point in ringing the garage at this time, anyway. Perhaps he’ll come tomorrow morning. The trouble is, Neil is more or less a one-man band; things depend on how much work he has on his plate at any one time, and of course how quickly he can get through it. He’s a good chap when he finally gets to us, and his rates are more than fair. But there does seem to be a lot of hanging around, waiting for him to appear.

Evening. We get caught up with the excitement of the US elections. Actually, I nearly sent Obama an email, wishing him well. As the most IT-savvy presidential candidate of all time, I might have even got a reply back from the man himself. I take a modest satisfaction in his success and I hope that when he takes office next January he doesn’t promptly move to the political centre ground, as so many of his Democratic predecessors have done. Commentators say he is the best hope in a generation (those of course who don’t condemn him as an out-and-out communist!) for changing the nature of what it means to be American, and for what Americans expect of themselves. Unenviable task, indeed! But maybe as a black man he has some motivation for at least attempting it. We shall see.

Returning home

WE’VE BEEN out visiting. We’re driving home through the gleaming wintry twilight as the orange of the day melts into the blue of the night. We’re filled with a kind of inner glow ourselves, the one that comes from having passed a very pleasant couple of hours in the company of good friends.

It’s after five o’clock, though, and on our way to do a spot of shopping we get snarled up in homebound traffic. My Good Lady turns to me and tells me ignore the shopping. “We can manage until tomorrow,” she says. “Let’s eat out tonight, I don’t feel like starting to cook.”

So this is what we do. We stop at the Pub and have a bite of dinner there – a rather excellent steak and ale pie in my case – before going on home. I’m struck by the sight of the huge crescent moon, low in the sky, almost like something from a Samuel Palmer painting. We finally pull up in our drive and I switch off the car engine and we sit for a moment, both of us content with the afternoon and the evening. It’s been a good day.

Long, long week...

IS IT really only a week since we got back from our holidays? I’m almost ready for another one! To describe me as frayed is to put it mildly.

All right, my health problems are only minor – indeed, by the measure of some of my friends, miniscule. But real nonetheless. And to be told so by a doctor is sobering. Change your lifestyle, or else… This in itself goes hard.

But then at one point in the week, a neighbour is hauled off in an ambulance – serious heart-attack, his second in a week.

On more mundane levels, we discover our car is leaking petrol, our life savings have dropped by nearly a third (credit crunch, indeed!) and the computer printer is playing up again.

Isn’t it good to be home!