Facing the consequences

I MAKE THE MISTAKE of standing on the bathroom scales today - and I'm shocked to discover I've put on nearly half a stone in the last few days, the consequences of over-indulgence.

No wonder my trousers are feeling a little tight around the old waist.

This discovery, though, has put me into something of a flap.

Gone the days when I had no worries about putting on weight - it fell off almost as quickly as it went on.

Not so these days; some of it might come off, but by no means all.

The thought of drastic measures fleetingly passes through my mind - rejoining the gym, for example, and embarking on a diet of salad leaves... New Year resolutions and all that.

But then sanity returns, or maybe just plain laziness; why should I worry about putting on a few pounds? I get all the exercise I need just caring for My Good Lady, surely, what with pushing her hither and yon in her wheelchair?

And as for chomping on endless salads - to what end? On the whole my diet is a fairly healthy one and I have to say I do prefer to be the shape I am now than the stick insect I resembled in my youth.

So here I am, having already abandoned two resolutions and it's not even the New Year!

All the same I think I'll keep my eating to our more normal one-course-a-day for a while, just to be virtuous!

Olio

I'M LEAFING through an old cook book, given us long ago by an elderly neighbour who felt she no longer had need of it.

It's called The Olio Cookery Book, and it's by someone called L. Sykes; on the inside of the title page is the date of 1954 - the year wartime rationing came to an end.

The word olio is Spanish, apparently, and it means a mixture, medley or collection - and the book certainly is that.

Clearly compiled during the days of still-lingering deprivation and hardship, it encourages us to waste nothing and is full of little homilies to encourage us to virtue: things like "It is a sorry goose that will not baste herself" and "He that has no head deserves not a laced hat" and "Do as the lassies do, say no and tak' it".

Some of the recipes are as bemusing as these snippets of wisdom: I can't truthfully say I've ever heard of ray suds nor mock crab made from any old bit of white fish and served up on crab shells.

We are exhorted to make vegetarian stock by boiling up vegatable peelings - including potato, swede and onion skins.

As for making marzipan cakes by using mashed potato, sugar and powdered chocolate - the imagination boggles!

One or two recipies, though, I do like. Bible cake, for example:

½ lb. Judges V., verse 25 (last clause)
½ lb. Jeremiah VI., 20
½ lb. I Samuel XXX., 12
½ lb. Nahum III., 12 (chopped)
Season to taste with II Chronicles IX., 22
A pinch of Leviticus II., 13

and so on...

The other recipe I'd like to quote in full. It's for Bridescake and it goes:

1 lb. of love
½ lb. of butter of youth
½ lb. good looks
1 lb. sweet temper
½ lb. of blunder of faults
1 lb. of self-forgetfulness
1 oz. pounded wit
1 oz. of dry humour
2 tablespoons of sweet argument
1 pint of rippling laughter
A wineglass and a half of common sense

Mix the love, looks and sweet temper into a well-furnished house, beat the butter to a cream, mix these ingredients well together with the blunder of faults and self-forgetfulness, stir the pounded wit and dry humour with the sweet argument, then add it to the above.
Pour in gently the rippling laughter and common sense, and thoroughly mix.
Bake well forever.

I'd like Delia to try this one on!

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE

The weekend before Christmas

WE HAVE AN ENJOYABLE MEAL yesterday, a lamb, carrot and swede bake - it plops away for four hours, the aromas of garlic and rosemary and of course the gently cooking shoulder of lamb infuse the whole house. By the end, we're almost drooling at the prospect of the wonderful treat to come.

To distract ourselves My Good Lady and I put up our little Christmas tree - artificial, of course - and very pretty it looks too.

And the sight of it now heralds the immediate run-up to the big day; we don't believe in putting such things up too early, as seems to be the fashion - nor do we waste time and electricity in festooning the outside of the house with strings of lights and oversized snowmen and Santas and the like.

Just our little tree with its fairy lights and a few baubles symbolising, I suppose, a light of hope in the winter darkness.

And finally, even MGL is coming round to something a little more like celebratory merriment - she even suggests opening a bottle of something vinous in the evening to help things along.

Yes, all in all, a pleasant weekend.

Full of festive spirit - who, me?

PEOPLE WHO KNOW ME WELL will tell you that I favour the bah-humbug school of thought when it comes to Christmas, and especially to its more commercialised aspects.

So it comes something of a shock to me that I seem to be enjoying the build-up to the festive season rather more than usual - certainly more than My Good Lady appears to be doing.

For example, as I write this blog, I'm listening to Desmond Carrington's radio show and with much pleasure to his collection of Christmas songs on the BBC iPlayer.

As we wander around the supermarket today, doing our weekly shop, I find myself humming along to White Christmas.

And I'm even keen to hang our modest decorations - usually a tedious task, but one I'm actually looking forward to this year.

Very odd behaviour for me, this - I feel a bit like Scrooge after his metamorphosis!

What is even odder, though, is that MGL is so lacking in the spirit this year; I try to push some cheer her way and she seems to push it right back at me.

It's as if our usual roles are reversed.

But oddly enough I think our feelings stem from the same cause - because it has been such a rotten year; and whereas MGL just wants to put the year behind her, I somehow want to rejoice over some of the good things we're blessed with.

It's all rather disconcerting.

Grand evening out

OH, THE PLEASURE of clear, cold days and sharp, frosty nights - what I think of as real Christmas weather!

After all that rain, rain, rain - such a joy... at least for the time being.

Even worth the minor inconvenience of having to pour a kettle full of warm water over the car's windows to melt the ice before we can set off.

There are seven of us at the Christmas dinner in the end - maybe not as many as we hoped for, but more than we feared. And an enjoyable time, I think, was had by all - certainly by My Good Lady and I.

As for the food, the Pub did us very well - although, I must say, portion control is not exactly their strong suit. By the time I'd got through the butternut squash soup I was almost too full for the main course - an excellent steamed venison pudding with mushrooms, button onions and red wine gravy.

And even if numbers were somewhat down on previous years, the warmth and conviviality of the company was no less boisterous than in previous times.

Yes, a grand evening out.

A couple of disasters and a modest triumph

IT'S BEEN A weekend fraught, this, between the burnt turkey and the drains overflowing with blockage.

First the Christmas turkey. It's the first time we've tried roasting a bird as big as this in our new fan-assisted oven, and boy, did we get the timings wrong on this one!

What emerged from the cooking was something that was so dry as be virtually inedible.

Moreover, by some mental aberration we weighed out nearly double the amount of Brussels sprouts than we should have done, and somehow, too the gravy ended up so thick as to almost need cutting with a knife!

Of course, when I lifted the bird out of the roasting tray it fell to pieces, all in a heap - a real mess of meat, skin, bone and stuffing!

We ate as much of it as we could but neither My Good Lady nor I were exactly calling for second helpings - indeed a fair bit of it went out onto the bird table and there at least some starlings seemed to enjoy it.

The remainder of the turkey went into the freezer and it will no doubt in due course find its way into curries and quiches and the like.

Meanwhile, the drains have been overflowing for some time, and no amount of plunging with the mop or using chemical blockage remover seemed to have any effect.

So, today, we have to call in the professionals. They finally manage to lift the manhole cover and there we discover the problem - when we had the driveway re-cemented a couple of years ago a lot of debris found its way into the drain, partially obstructing the water course.

And of course all the gunk that gets flushed down into the drains simply built up and up until the inevitable overflow.

Oh, the lads got it cleared quickly enough, but it was just one more problem which we could have done without.

Still, it hasn't been a totally unrelieved weekend of gloom - in fact, my experimental cook session was a modest triumph, though I do say so myself. A simple enough dish - a pilau, a Greek rice thing, but given a lift by my using Morecambe Bay shirmps. Beautiful!

Somehow a small compensation for an otherwise stressful few days.

Friends past and present

WE ARE SITTING IN the Geriatrics’ Corner of the Pub, the two of us alone except for Dick and a couple of the staff behind the bar.

The logs are crackling away warmly in the stove, a cosy reminder – should one be needed – that it’s mighty cold and dark and wet outside.

And looking around the Corner I reflect soberly that it wasn’t so long ago that this room was regularly filled with light and chatter and laugher. There would often be twenty or more friends gathered here, all talking at once, filling the place with life (and almost deafening noise).

How quickly things do change!

But I mustn’t allow myself to get too maudlin – we’ve much to look forward to. Especially tomorrow, when we’re roasting our Christmas turkey.

What? A little early you say?

Ah, but there’s madness in our method!

By doing our annual Big Bird early, we free up the actual festive days for something we can make up quickly and easily. Turkey slices topped with cream and grated cheese and grilled for a few minutes and served with home-cut chunky chips and Brussels’ sprouts for example – the whole meal takes no more than thirty minutes. And it’s quite delicious.

And so, instead of worrying about our Xmas din dins, we can pop open a bottle of fizz and put on a favourite video – something like Casablanca, or Calamity Jane, or The Jungle Book.

Actually, we’re having our Christmas Day lunch out this year, with friends, but the principle still applies to the rest of the festive season generally.

With friends… Yes, somehow after this ghastly year we’re more aware of our friends and we’re deeply grateful for them. We really are very lucky to have them.

Techno problems

I'M OVER AT FRAN AND DEN'S today, trying to fix their computer printer problem - that's to say, trying to get it to work.

Nothing I do seems to have any effect and finally I admit defeat. "Get a professional in," I tell them, and I give them the name of the young genius who sorted out my IT difficulties.

Thing of it is, I don't really understand the techno side of - well, anything really... I just push a few buttons and hope for the best.

A sad reflection from one who used to work in the early days of the computer industry.

I mean I remember the days when you needed to use reels of paper tape, with holes punched along its length, to input data; and heaven help you if the tape snapped or got itself mangled up in the machine's gubbins. You literally had to repair it with scissors and self-adhesive plastic.

Room-sized computers in those days had less computing power than a modern pocket calculator.

Don't get me wrong, I love the whole modern technology thing: to me it boldly goes where no technology has gone before. I suppose I love it because it's mysterious, and because like most ignoramuses, I only partly understand it.

"Omne ignotum pro magnifico" the old Latin tag has it, "Everything unexplained is (thought to be) magnificent". Very true.

The only trouble is that the more technology advances the further away from me it gets!

I suppose I still wish that all technological problems could be solved with scissors and Sellotape.

Lists

MY GOOD LADY IS finalising the list for this year's Christmas dinner at the Pub, and we're struck by how depleted it is, by how many empty chairs at the table there will be.

Somehow the onset of the festive season always lends itself to such ruminations.

Meanwhile, I've been browsing online for some possible holiday reading. On my favourites list is the prequel to Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy: Once Upon a Time in the North. I also quite fancy a cookery book by Raymond Blanc - but I'm quite happy to make that a mutual present to each other.

For her part MGL tells me she'll be pleased with a couple of new jigsaws and a box of chocolates - one of her most lovable traits is how easily satisfied she seems to be.

Today, too, I've rung in our wine list for the next few weeks - it would never do, after all, to run dry!

Meanwhile, too, we've started compiling our food list, beginning, naturally, with the turkey...

Seems at times as if our lives are ruled by lists, which I suppose they are - lists for this, for that, for the other. What would we do without them.

Jazz moments

THE JAZZ EVENING at the golf club was a pleasant distraction, even if the band was strictly amateur.

The only surprise was the guest appearance of a man playing blues harmonica - he was the real thing, engaging with the tune and then letting go and blowing up a storm on his modest little instrument.

We didn't stay to the end of the second set; My Good Lady started to feel uncomfortable - severe discomfort in her knees and tired overall - so we excused ourselves from the rest of the group and took our leave.

But as I listened to the band I had a series of little flashbacks to some of the most memorable live jazz performances we've attended over the past few years.

The Dutch duet, for example, singing and playing outside on a pavement café in Gouda, in Holland.

Or jazz at the winery in Port Stephens, New South Wales, in sight of the vines.

Or again, the evening when everyone ended up on the dance floor of the restaurant in St Lucia - and I do mean everyone, including kitchen staff and waiters; I'm minded of the waiter who we knew as Baloo - for his resemblance to the bear in Disney's Jungle Book - jigging around with a bottle on his head!

As Noel Coward once said: "Strange how potent cheap music can be".

In a twilight mood

FOR THE LAST COUPLE of days I've been in one of my out-of-sorts moods of which My Good Lady has already spoken; they come upon me with fearful suddenness and for no apparent reason, and whilst I'm in their thrall I'm generally withdrawn and weary to the point of total exhaustion. I'm also a pain to live with because I'm overly critical of everyone and everything around me.

And while I'm not entirely clear of the mood today, I am feeling as if it might be in abeyance.

Lightened enough at any rate for me to take an odd, detached pleasure in the wedding party of our friends Fran and Den on their big day.

And lightened enough, too, for me to agree to opening a bottle of wine with MGL this evening - an above average Pinot Grigio.

Hopefully I shall shake off this strange, living-in-a-twilight sort of mood in short order.

Party night

THE TOAST OF the evening is "absent friends", and very appropriate it is, too.

Four of the ladies present are widows, two of whom have lost their husbands in the last year, and that's not counting our friend, Little B, who would have almost certainly been of our company tonight.

Still, we're here to celebrate the coming union of our two seventy-five year old youngsters, and to wish them every future happiness.

To this end, after we finish our fish and chips, we fellahs withdraw to the other bar of the Pub and leave the ladies to discuss whatever it is that ladies do discuss at such events; we lads get down to the serious business of the evening.

And as I sit and nurse my single glass of dry, white wine - I'm driving!- I watch with amusement as the chaps down their pints until Sailor John is three sheets to the wind and sailing without the need of a boat.

I give Den one piece of wisdom: "You'll soon be the master of the house, but don't forget that Fran will still be the boss!"

He nods his head seriously. Poor chap, not yet wed, but he's already looking ten years older!

But it's a pleasant evening, and I hope and believe that Den and Fran enjoyed the company of their friends.

Players

IT'S OUT OF SOME perversity that our clapped-out old radio/CD player suddenly comes back to life - after having died on us, mid-disc.

Actually, the machine has been playing up for some time; the tape deck is unusable because of it's slow speed, it makes our collection of tapes sound as if they're being tortured.

One of the CD channels too, has virtually disappeared - it comes across as a whisper and the other day even the radio gave up the uneven battle against the aging electrics.

So, finally, we decide to splash out on a new hi-fi - all gleaming and grand and full of mysterious knobs and buttons, many of which I'll probably never use, but which impress me inordinately.

And as if sensing its imminent demise, the old player makes one last heroic effort to come to life and to prove its worth.

And while it's still going I'll leave the new upstart in its box, at least until the weekend when I'll have the time to assemble the thing.

Oh yes, it's all change in the Foxes' den!

Little B's sendoff

LITTLE B's sendoff isn't too bad - though he doesn't escape a bit of religious drum-beating, despite his written request.

And I think he'd be flattered by the turnout - the little chapel at the crematorium is practically full - and Little B enjoyed having a bit of fuss made over him, and being the centre of attention. (Well, don't we all, from time to time?)

At the Pub later, in the Geriatrics' Corner there is an arrangement of people's photos of the man, including a couple of old ones, showing Little B as a young man. Mrs B, the retired headmistress, shows her barbed tongue by remarking: "Why couldn't I have known him when he was handsome?"

The buffet is a bit disappointing; they've catered for about forty, whereas there's closer to a hundred people here. The result is we have a couple of sandwiches, a handful of frites and a tiny bit of salad. Hardly a substantial meal.

I suggest to My Good Lady we treat ourselves to a proper meal at our favourite Cantonese restaurant, and we invite Helen to come with us. It seems appropriate, since the place was one of Little B's favourites, too.

The result is a very engaging couple of hours this evening over a very good dinner. At one point Helen asks what will become of Geriatrics' Corner gang, now that Little B has gone. "It won't be the same will it?"

And I have to admit that no, it won't in all probability. Still, who can tell? - and I quote the old Jewish joke: if you want to give God a good laugh, tell Him your future plans!

We end this sad day on a lighter note, and yes, I must say, with relief that it all over. Little B's sendoff has been hanging over us for the last two weeks; it's time we started picking up the pieces of our normal lives - whatever that happens to be now.

Night musings

THE PROBLEM WITH my having an early night is that I tend to wake up early too.

Tonight, for example, I go to bed with My Good Lady - and yes, eventually, I get off to sleep. This is around 11 o'clock.

By 2 a.m. I'm wide awake, and I know it's no good my turning over and hoping to get off again.

No, if I'm not to disturb MGL I have to get up. Which I do.

Over a cup of tea I come along to this computer; MGL has been complaining about getting online with this machine, so I take it in hand and sort out the little glitch that's appeared on it.

Then I go to the Internet bank and pay off a couple of bills, then check my emails and read a few blogs, while at the same time listening to David Jacobs on the BBC iplayer.

And I can't help being struck by how, in the course of my life, things have changed.

My parents never even had a bank account until later in their lives; money was always kept in a sock drawer or under the mattress.

Mail, of course, was always the slow kind, and anything foreign always came with exotic-looking stamps in the top right-hand corner.

As for radio, you listened to what was known as a "wireless" and if you missed a programme, well that was it, unless they repeated it, which they did only for soaps.

The world seemed a much larger place in those days, full of eye-popping terrors and wonders and mysteries.

Our idea of what America looked like, for instance, came from movies and magazines - and it always appeared so glamorous, so different... and so unattainable.

Today, you can get there in a few hours and at a price that most of us can afford.

Would I go back? No. Never. Not in a million years!

But I do sometimes wish that that child-like wonder remained, and that we weren't so addicted to Hollywood special effects for our thrills...

Sorry... Just the kind of musings that occur when you can't sleep!

Backache, and the arrival of November

BACKACHE IS MY bugaboo today.

I'm limping stiffly around trying to get the Sunday chores done as best I can, and trying to move carefully to avoid setting off the gripes in my lower back.

I do us a spicy spag bol for dinner - nice and easy, and after dinner I have to go and lie down on the bed to rest my aches. No matter how carefully you try to walk and reach and stretch, you can't entirely fail to snag your already throbbing muscles and make them worse.

At one point we fear we may be running low on milk, and I have to venture out to the local Spar and get us a bottle. It's not the rain that's so bad, I find, as the awesome gale that's blowing around us - I'm almost bend double at times trying to push against it.

November certainly seems to have arrived with a roar!

Oh, roll on May and our next holiday in the south of France!

Last of the regulars

MY GOOD LADY wakes me by throwing herself into my arms and telling me with a sob that we've another funeral to go to.

Little B was found dead in his bed after MGL raised the alarm; he hadn't appeared at the Pub yesterday, and failed to answer his phone this morning.

The thing of it is, though, Little B was one of the mainstays of the Geriatrics' Corner; he was there every afternoon and every evening, drinking his halves of mild - a quiet, lonely man of tidy habits and gentle demeanour.

The one word that describes him best, I think, is neat: he was neat in his dress, neat in all his doings and arrangements. Neatness meant everything to him.

He was the last of the Geratrics' Corner's regulars - the rest of us just go, now, maybe a couple of times a week.

Little B was our friend, and our lives will be emptier for his absence.

Slowing down

I'M DEFROSTING THE freezer this evening, having emptied out the whole contents of the very full chest, and then attacked the inch-thick ice with a scrapper and a kettle of hot water and a cleaning rag.

And at the end of my exertions I have to admit I felt well and truly winded: my back was aching, my arms felt leaden and I was puffing like a grampus.

It's in such small efforts that one shows one's age creeping up on one with the stealth of a sneak thief.

To be honest, I'd become aware of my slowing down earlier - most notably when trying to push My Good Lady in her wheelchair around the eight-mile circuit of Stanley Park in Vancouver last year.

Or even earlier than that, when chest pains had necessitated my going for an angiogram the year before.

The funny thing is one isn't actually aware of growing older - you see the ageing process in others more than in yourself - until one day it falls upon you like a collapsing brick wall.

Anyhow, I've learned my lesson: next time I'll buy a self-defrosting freezer!

Going stag

WE ARE SUMMONED to the Pub by our friend, PD, who has started to appear there more regularly again, and of course is begging for lifts from us again.

His resolve, it seems, to come only once in a blue moon has lasted but a few months, and his capacity for beer is moderated only by his limited ability to pay for it.

Still, it is quite pleasing to see him - it's always a good laugh in his company - although it can at times get a little manic.

Talk is now markedly about Fran and Den's coming nuptials - it seems that the happy pair are to hold hen and stag parties, although My Good Lady and I have decided against attending these revelries. We don't wish to seem like party poopers but such things are really not our scene.

To be honest, I never even wanted a stag party before my own wedding, but unfortunately my father had other ideas.

The result was that I stood before the altar the following morning in a semi-comatose state, and said my marriage lines to the rhythm of beating drum in my head.

In any event, the session is to be held in the evening and we're not great ones for staying out late - we just get too tired and, in MGL's case, uncomfortable.

We're half hoping to persuade Fran and Den to have a pleasant meal with us earlier in the evening, then the ladies and the gents can split up to do their thing, while MGL and I slip quietly away.

I'm sure nobody will miss us.

A classic dish for dinner

THE RECIPE IS from Raymond Blanc and it's a cracker!

Duck breast with black cherry sauce, and served with sweet potato.

Actually, its the potato that comes as a revelation to me - previously I've never been that enamoured with sweet spuds, but by gum, they really went well today.

My Good Lady and I did the meal between us, with her as the chef and me as the kitchen dogsbody. I don't mind helping out, though.

First we sear the duck breasts, draining off the excess fat as we go, and frying them until the skins are crispy. Then into the oven with them.

Next the sweet potatoes get sliced up, and again fried in a little oil and butter until they're just beginning to brown, and then into the oven with them!

And while the cooker does its magic, we make up the jus - black cherries, stoned and blitzed, then with some brown sugar added, a good splash of red wine and ditto port, we make up a rich and very tasty sauce.

The whole thing takes about forty minutes, and you have a true classic dish on the table.

As we enjoy every mouthful I remark to MGL that, if I had my time over again, I think I'd like to be a cook. Not a chef, mind you - a cook.

Last thing I'd want to do is sweat away in some restaurant, churning out the same menu day and night.

No, I mean someone who could experiment with food and wine, with flavours and textures and colours, and then serve the results up in the form of the written word, in cook books and magazine articles.

That would combine my love of writing with my enjoyment of food and drink.

I can think of worse ways to earn a crust...

A mixture of fortunes

IT'S BEEN A freaky sort of week, beset with weariness from our holiday trip and some health concerns on both sides.

I went along to get the results of my latest medical blood-letting only to find that my cholesterol is still too high and now, it seems, I may have a problem with my kidneys.

Moreover, our Christmas Day lunch plans were scuppered when, upon enquiry, we discovered that our chosen venue has been fully booked for months - more or less since last year in fact.

Looks as though we're roasting our own goose this year.

Still, on the up-side of things, we were pleased to congratulate Fran and Den on their engagement - the happy couple are to be wed in about a month's time and we're to be invited to a reception at the local golf club.

Moreover, it's PD's sixtieth birthday this weekend and we take him along to the Geriatrics' Corner today to help him celebrate.

So, then, a week in which we experience a mixture of fortunes, some good, some troubling.

C'est la vie!

Almost here

WE'VE BEEN HOME for four days now, and I'm still not entirely sure I'm here.

I almost expect to wake up in our hotel in Pompei; home life doesn't seem quite real to me.

Oh, it's great to see our friends here of course, and from their reactions at our appearance they seem quite pleased to see us.

Nevertheless a sense of unreality still pervades my consciousness like a half-seen ghost.

Somehow, the holiday made a deeper impression on me than I expected.

Slowly, slowly, though, things are getting back into their normal perspective; I'm adjusting to driving on the left again, and to the sedate manners of other road users: I'm getting accustomed to the taste of good English bitter, and to the wonderful normality of My Good Lady's cooking.

Tomorrow we're off to do our first big shop for about five weeks, and if anything can bring me to earth, that should.

Yes, I think I'm almost here.

Arrivederci time

EVEN AS I write, My Good Lady is in our room packing our bags in preparation for our early departure tomorrow morning. (The reason I'm not helping her is that she's shooed me out of the room - packing, it seems, is a woman's thing, and best done alone.)

We had planned to visit the ruins of ancient Pompeii again today, but we've decided against it - it's just too much like hard work. So instead, after packing, we're off the find a nice bar where we can sit and watch the world go by and slake our ever-present thirst on something long and cool.

Besides, we're expecting a rather heavy evening of it, this evening.

We're going to dine in our favourite restaurant for the last time and to say arrivederci to all our chums there - and knowing them, it's going to be a very Italian time of it. They've already turned our modest evening repast into something resembling a five course feast, so heaven only knows what they'll do tonight when they learn that it's goodbye.

My Good Lady is a little sad to be leaving, but I for one am looking forward to being home - cold, wet, dark and miserable. Pure bliss!

A sense of triumph, Italian syle

• I THINK MY idea of Italy, when were planning our holiday, was of driving along country lanes, past fields of olive groves and vine plantations, stopping at tiny villages which served the local produce, and sleeping in old abbeys, now turned into comfortable hotels, or with farmers who rented rooms out in old disused barns.

• In my dreams, of course, all the Italians spoke a sort of Hollywood pidgen English (after all, I do know that they watch N.C.I.S. and C.S.I.- Miami, not to mention countless American movies, so they all bloomin' well ought).

• Sadly, that has not proved to be the case.

• Of course, it is entirely our fault that we chose to stay in a city. And, what's more, in the sprawling, ugly metropolis that is Naples/Pompei. Disability needs dictated.

• Idyllic though a Compania abbey or farmhouse sounds, we had to settle for a place that was wheelchair accessible.

• And not many abbeys and farmhouses are!

• Nevertheless, we came close to my ideal yesterday when we drove up Monte Faito.

• This modest mountain (1,100 meters/3,600 feet in height)was a drive along countless, blind hairpin bends and along road surfaces that would make most drivers blanche!

• Not me! Not to one taught to drive amidst the English Lake District or the Cumbrian Pennines.

• Even the Italian drivers had to give way to me - even they were nervous!

• As for me, I was in my element; this was fun!

• And the views from the summit of our adventurous drive were wonderful - right across the Bay of Naples (which between thee and me and this awful computer keyboard, is really something special; a visual delight that so many authors and artists have commented on - when we get home, I'll post one or two of our snaps here just to make you drool.)

• But what really pleased me was my sense of triumph; finally, I'd got these pesky Italian roadies on my turf, and guess what - they were lacking!

The odd custom of promenading

IT SEEMS TO be some sort of high church day today (Sunday).

In the morning, there's an open-air mass said to the gathered crowds in front of Pompei's massive cathederal. And people have been streaming in since yesterday - our hotel seems full to overflowing with visitors, mainly Italian.

We are told, upon enquiry, that it is the feast of St Francis of Assissi - a native, it seems, of these parts.

Now, it is a well-known belief in the Roman church that saints have the power to perform miracles - even long-dead ones, and the spectacle of these crowds is marked by the number of people on crutches and in wheelchairs.

Whether any such miracles have occured we haven't been able to ascertain.

Nevertheless, come the evening, there does appear to be something of a carnival atmostphere about the town, with more people than ever promenading around the place - there must be thousands of folk, all dressed up to the nines, milling around, back and forth, back and forth - all evening long.

We return from our favourite restaurant at about 10pm and the throngs are still there - still moving back and forth, up and down.

It goes on until about midnight, this odd entertainment, and then with much honking of horns, squealing of brakes and a great animated yelling of insults, the cars and motorbikes and Lambretta type scooters start up all at once, and leave the town centre for their homes in the seedy suburbs of Pompei and Naples.

The centre of town, by the early hours looks as if it has been ravaged by the marauding hordes - I've never seen so much filth and litter anywhere except perhaps after a Glastonbury Festival.

As I understand it, this odd custom of promenading takes place every weekend, and yes, in a smaller way, most evenings, too. We tried it ourselves once, but it proved to be a rather barren form of amusement to us.

The Italians think highly of it, though.

"Sympatico"

FOR THE first day of our holiday we are experiencing a day of rain.

Rain in the morning. Rain in the afternoon.

And I, for one, am not entirely sorry.

My Good Lady has already told of our trip to Sorrento and the Amalfi Coast yesterday. She politely failed to mention my collision with a bus!

All right, not a collision exactly, more just a scrape. Enough to put a dint in our hire-car, though. Another one!

Just hope our insurance covers it.

Anyhow, a quiet day today. A time for the old nerves to get themselves settled.

We more or less lock ourselves away in our hotel room today and watch as the rain falls and we can get back to the business of reading our holiday books.

The rain eases off this evening and we venture out to our favourite restaurant. It's our fifth visit, and we're almost becoming part of the family there.

Our regular waiter, Mario, greets us like long, lost cousins, steers us away from the crudité on the menu with a very expressive gesture, and generally guides us through our choice of food with, as we would put it, a nod and a wink.

The point I'm getting at here, is how surprisingly well we get on with restaurant staff - we, who have little knowledge of the language, and yet who are, in their word, sympatico.

I have to say, I really like the Italians. Except as drivers (who are all insane) I love their warmth and friendliness and hosptiality. If only we spoke their language more fluently, I'm sure we'd be invited back here by some of the people we've met.

All roads lead to - chaos!

IT'S THE Italian drivers that are the bane of our holiday here, in Campania.

I was told they were all mad before we came; they are!

But worse still, the road networks are completely potty. I mean we tried to get to Salerno the other day. Our road map indicated that we should take the main S444 (or whatever it was) but we found that none of the roads actually had any numbers indicated on them.

What's more the main S roads look no different to smaller P lanes and tracks - and these aren't numbered either.

Sign-posting is virtually none existent at any of the junctions and roundabouts you come to, and all the roads are in an appalling state of repair, potted with holes, with large tracts of them unsurfaced and jarringly uneven.

The there's the slight problem of lane and junction markings - again, there aren't any; and whereas in England you know who has right of way at such places, here it seems everybody has right of way.

The result is utter gridlock, with drivers simply forcing their way through and totally disregarding everyone else in sight and completely oblivious to the dangers they are causing.

And in the midst of all this chaos, My Good Lady and I sedately pottering along in our usual English way and causing no end of confusion by our very lack of madness!

In truth, I think we are more of a danger to the Italians by our simple obedience to the rules of motoring and our general courtesy to other road users.

If we survive to another day, we shall speak more of our trip later...

Bags packed and ready to go - sort of...

OUR BAGS are packed and standing in the hall, and we’re as ready to go as we’re likely to be.

We’re not bothering with a taxi this time; instead we’ve booked a room near Manchester Airport for the night and we’re leaving the car there for a couple of weeks.

This has the double advantage of being cheaper than a taxi and gives us an extra couple of hours in bed before reporting to the check-in desk at the ungodly hour of 4.30am.

I have to say we’re both in a bit of sombre mood this evening, considering we’re off on our summer hols in the morning; my general anxieties have rubbed off on My Good Lady, I think, and unfortunately I don’t feel in any position to be reassuring – although almost certainly things will work out perfectly well.

My trouble is, I’m so in need of a break, that I require a holiday in order to put me into the mood for a holiday.

It’s been a bit too long since our last vacation, and a stressful year to boot.

If we do nothing else but eat and sleep and read our novels for two weeks I’m sure it’ll still do us a power of good.

Fingers crossed!

What's the Italian for "nervous"?

BETWEEN THEE, ME and this laptop, I have to confess to being a bit nervous.

I’m talking about our coming holiday in Italy – we’re off in a few days time, and I feel far from prepared for the trip.

First, there’s the language problem. Try as I might, I can’t get my head around Italian – for some reason it just won’t stay in. Each time I speak it comes out as French!

“Buongiorno” – hello - comes out as “bonjour”; thank you, “grazie” is confusingly transformed into “merci”; and as for Italian verb forms – Gordon Bennett!... Someone once told me that if you can speak French you should be okay in Italian. Not true. The two are horses of quite a different stripe.

Then there’s the problem of the region where we’re going.

Naples is the fourth largest city in Europe; it’s also one of the most violent and the dirtiest. Pickpockets and snatch thieves abound – you’re strongly advised not to carry valuables with you, and definitely to steer clear of the street gangs that hang around in certain public places such as the train and bus stations.

Tourists, it seems, are a favourite target for them – although, strangely, the guide books don’t seem to mention them.

A number of our friends who have visited the city have all commented on how unsettling an experience it is.

Then, of course, there’s the problem with Italian drivers. They’re all mad! They like to drive fast, fast, fast, and God help you if you don’t get out of their way!

They’ll sit on your exhaust-pipe and blow their horns, making impolite gestures with their hands all the while.

All in all, then, I’m beginning the think we might have been better going to Cleethorpes!

Experimental fish dish

WE'RE OUT shopping for fish - a couple of neat fillets of plaice, locally-caught if the fishmonger's to be believed.

It's my experimental cook day, and I've already prepared the spicy tomato relish to go with the fish fillets which are to be turned into goujons, and coated in tempura batter before being deep-fried in my trusty old wok.

We've got a little time to spare, though, so we pop along to our village local where I can enjoy a pint of Thwaite's Lancaster Bomber bitter. This local has a good range of guest beers, and I study their names with bemusement - "Fluffy Duck" and "Riddlers Piddle" giving me cause to smile.

Back home, I whisk up the batter - a mixture of flour, cornflour and ice cold fizzy water - and dip the strips of fish into it. I've tried to skin the fish, but given it up as I was hacking off great lumps of flesh - I love the way some TV chefs pull the skin off just like that...

As I lower the battered fish into the hot oil, I reflect that this is the first meal I've done us for a while, and that I'm getting a little rusty. The wretched cold which has had me in it's coils for nearly two weeks, and which I'm still not completely clear off, has crimped my cooking style.

The fish, I'm pleased to report, turns out lovely and light and cripy, while the tomato dip is sweet and gently spicy. I'm rather chuffed with my effort.

The £655 pizza

PD IS telling of a family birthday party held at a local branch of Pizza Hut.

There are about twenty family members present, four car loads of them.

"You can imagine our shock when, on Saturday morning, we all got parking tickets for £150 each!" PD says.

It seems they didn't read the posted notices, saying that the car park was a private one, and that only the first two hours were free. After that, the charge was £10 a minute!

And, due to the slowness of service, they were fifteen minutes late in finishing their party.

Needless to say, PD and all his family are somewhat upset. "We thought fifty-five pounds for a family treat was really good value," he says sadly. And he adds, "It was a party; we didn't look at the car park notices; we didn't worry about the time!"

Anyhow, the family have rung Pizza Hut to complain, they've rung the police to seek advice, and PD even rang My Good Lady to consult her legal knowledge.

The advice is universally the same: "Don't pay!"

They've been advised to write a letter of complaint to the car park owners and to Pizza Hut.

If nothing else, £655 for a pizza would seem somewhat excessive.

Samuel Marchbanks, aka....

THE BOOK arrives in the morning post.

I ordered it a few days ago from a private seller associated with Amazon, and it cost me just 1p!

Of course, the postage cost £2.65 - but even so, I still think I got a bargain.

It's called The Papers of Samuel Marchbanks and it's a collection of short articles and pieces written by Canadian author Robertson Davies.

I've been a fan of Davies for many years and his novels are well represented on our shelves, as well as his witty and gently ghostly book of short stories, High Spirits.

Glancing through Samuel Marchbanks, though, I'm amused just by some of the titles of the pieces in the collection: Davies's wit and wisdom (sometime crotchety) span subjects as diverse as "Garbage and Our Culture" to "Religion without Tears", and encompassing "Female Beauty", "Improved False Teeth" and "Romantic Poverty".

He was of course writing before the advent of the personal computer - a device for which, I'm sure, he would have had no time - by my goodness me, what a blogger he would have made!

Autumn showers

WE ARE driving along the Coast Road towards the Pub when the heavens truly open!

We are pelted by a shattering downpour, rain so heavy that it bounces off the road and forms a mist that blurs the line between the concrete of the road and heavy, water-laden air.

And as if this isn't enough, the gale blowing in from across the expanse of Morecambe sands, lashes the stair rods of rain into a deafeningly shrieking menace - the whole car (by no means lightweight) shakes as if buffeted by a giant, wet hand.

My Good Lady and I glance at one another, both sharing the same thought which she puts into words: "I wonder why we came out today when we didn't have to."

We do get there safely, and soon afterwards the shower ceases and the sun comes out. Returning home, in fact, we have the opposite problem: sunlight bounces off the wet road dazzlingly.

"I'm hungry," MGL remarks. I'm cooking this evening and I assure her that dinner shouldn't take long.

I do us an old favourite this evening, although a new recipe for me: Chicken à la King; leftover chicken shredded into a creamy mushroom sauce (actually, made up from a packet of dried mushroom soup) and served on rice with a few extra fried mushrooms on the side.

We sit in the comfort of our kitchen enjoying our tasty meal and watch as yet another heavy shower rattles against the window. It seems that autumn has arrived with a vengeance!

Quiet anniversary

WE PASS our thirty-fourth wedding anniversary in a quietly celebratory mood. We do contemplate doing something a little special, but decide simply to open a bottle of champagne, bought just for the occasion, and to leave it at that.

We're dining out tomorrow as it is - it's our last-Monday-of-the-month dinner. And with the big day falling as it does on a bank holiday, and a wet bank holiday at that, we decide just to batten down the hatches and raise a quiet glass of fizz at home.

The day itself has been a little anti-climatic, what with doing our regular Sunday household chores, then I whip us up a quick and easy kipper and egg kedgeree for dinner.

I suppose after thirty-four years you tend to take such anniversaries for granted a bit; we rejoice in each other's company every day which I feel is far more important.

Still, next year is our thirty-fifth, our coral wedding anniversary, and maybe, if health and finances permit, we might get to the Great Barrier Reef off the coast of Queensland, in Australia.We've been half planning some such trip for at least a couple of years now - it might be quite exciting.

We shall see.

The pleasure of a good read

I'VE RECENTLY been dipping in and out of ebooks, some of the favourites of my bookish youth.

I grew up with the likes of Stevenson and Sabatini and Conan-Doyle. I sailed the seas in the company of Jim Hawkins and Long John Silver, I fought in the French Revolution with Scaramouche, I prowled the squalid streets of Victorian London in the company of Sherlock Holmes and rode into thrilling adventures with the dashing Brigadier Gérard.

And one of the joys of the internet is that I am able to do so again, to my heart's content, with websites like the Gutenberg Project and the Internet Archive Search.

And how do these much-loved classics stack up, today, in our technologically less innocent days? Surprisingly well, all told, is my belief. Oh, of course, I can't approach them with the same thrill of discovery that I once experienced - going to the public library was always something of an adventure for me - goodness knows what sort of treasures I might unearth there!

The one thing that has never left me is the pleasure of reading. And flicking back over these old tomes I'm reminded why I so easily got hooked.

It's a shame that what Stevenson called "the wiser youngsters of today" can't put aside the computer game and the television set and discover for themselves the satisfaction to be got from a thumping good read.

Farmer Fred's carrots

WE DIG up some of my carrots for the first time – you know, the ones I've grown from seed in a container in the back yard…

They are to accompany a recipe for guinea-fowl My Good Lady is attempting, a French recipe that we picked up on our last holiday and which we have to translate with the aid of a dictionary.

The bird itself is rather nice, although the recipe doesn’t deserve to be preserved for posterity.

As for the carrots – well, they taste suitably earthy and carroty. I hear a lot about how home-grown veg tastes so much better than shop-bought, and yes, it's okay, but I have to say I think shop-bought ones taste almost as good. Perhaps not quite as fresh, but that’s all…

Still, I suppose there is something satisfying about slipping out into the garden, pulling up some your own vegetables and, after a quick scrub, popping them straight into the pan.

And I do take a certain pride in having succeeded, this time, in growing something edible from scratch.

I’m hoping to have another bash next year, maybe with some other varieties.

Oh yes, yours truly is becoming Farmer Fred in person!

Dopey day

FOR MY experimental cook session today, I use my trusty wok to do us a stir-fry - a Thai red curry with turkey served with rice noodles. Works well, too, especially the noodles - they add a neat touch of lightness to the slightly harsh bite that Thai curries always have.

That aside, it's a day for general dopiness, of busily doing nothing very much. The morning rain doesn't help any, either - in fact there's a distinctly autumnal feel to the day.

We venture out to the Pub for an hour, just to break the day up a bit. I'm in an odd mood today, both restless and weary, itching to do something and yet not being bothered to. My little stir-fry is about the highlight of it - that and the wine, a rather splendid Rioja.

By this evening even My Good Lady is feeling tired. We watch some telly in a rather desultory sort of way, and then she decides to call it a night, and to take her book with her.

A dopey day, then.