The lady cobbler

THE SHOP is just off the Promenade, on the poorer, West End side of town, and going inside is like stepping back in time. It’s a cobbler’s shop and a leather merchant – but of a type you simply don’t generally see these days. The first thing that strikes you is that it’s a lady who is the proprietor. Behind the heavy wooden counter you see her workshop, and there is nothing high-tech about it; I think the most modern item I can see is a Singer sewing machine, one that’s worked with a treadle. Other tools I can see are a mystery to me, part of the mystique of her craft. It’s in here that she carries out her repairs of shoes and leather clothing, and charges a pittance for her excellent work.

My Good Lady and I are here, though, for a different reason. We’re shopping. We’re shopping for my Chrissie pressy – a pair of leather gloves which MGL is insisting on buying me. I certainly need a new pair, my fingers are poking out of the holes of my existing gloves. And it’s MGL’s idea to come here for them. So here we are, and as we step in, there is an almost overpowering smell of warm, sweet leather. A baffling assortment – I can’t call it an arrangement – of bags and purses greets us, shelf upon shelf of them. We ask for gentlemen’s gloves; and the lady cobbler rummages amongst her stock, first in one place, than another, until - triumphantly – she pulls out a pair gent’s quality black leather gloves. I try them on and they fit perfectly. “How much are they?” I ask. I’m expecting something in the region of £15 to £20. The lady cobbler glances at the ticket. “Six ninety-nine,” she says. Less than seven pounds for a pair of quality leather gloves!

If you are ever in Morecambe and in need of leather goods, I can recommend The Lady Cobbler on Regent Road. Even if you can’t find anything you like, it really is an experience going there, a blast from the past.

The other shoe

WE SEEM to be getting a little more into the festive spirit, what with enjoying our Christmas goose yesterday, and putting up our little tree, and, this evening, attending the candlelit carol service at our local church. Trouble is, though, for me, there’s the spectre of bad news that always haunts this time of year, a bit like Old Marley’s ghost haunts Scrooge in A Christmas Carol. It’s as if I’m waiting rather anxiously for the other shoe to drop. Somehow, all the glitter and excess, the deliberate cheeriness and the impossible expectations of a good time just magnify the fact that bad things still happen. We’ve already had a little troubling news, with friends and family needing to go for medical treatment soon, but we’re just hoping we get away without something more serious cropping up.

Blogging problems

I’M WRITING this in the hope that I can get it posted. For reasons best known to itself, Blogger is not accepting my scribblings. They seem to appear on the edit page, but not on the actual blog. My Good Lady has been having fun with Blogger, too, with her paragraphs unformulating themselves when she clicks to publish. At least she’s managing to get something to appear, more than I am.

Anyhow, here goes, fingers crossed…

E-card

I'VE JUST been sent an E-card, and I thought it so delightful I've decided to share it with you. Just click on the link, or copy the address into your browser.

http://www.jacquielawson.com/viewcard.asp?code=0212320003

I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Evening out

OUR FIRST stop on our evening out is to pick up Little B from the Pub. Oh, he’s capable of driving himself, but I think he feels safer with someone else behind the wheel during the dark hours – his eyes aren’t quite what they were. In any case, it makes sense for us to take one car instead of two.

The next people to arrive at the restaurant are PD and his wife Lin. We’ve not seen much of either of them lately, so their appearance is doubly welcome. They seem well. PD has lost weight and is looking good – abstinence clearly has its virtues. He looks at my glass of clear liquid. “What’s that?” he demands. “Gin and tonic,” I reply, “without the gin.” And to his querying look, I add, “Doctor’s orders – seems I’m drinking too much.”

Next come Mike and Helen, and I’m really delighted to see them. It’s Mike’s first evening out in weeks, since his illness has kept him housebound. They both seem in good spirits and glad to be in company, glad to be out.

Finally, Fran and Den make an appearance, and the gang’s all here. The meal is standard fare, unfortunately, although I have to say my game pie is tasty, and the red cabbage excellent – this from one who hates cabbage! It all turns into a grand, cheery, noisy evening of good friends all together.

Oh, how blest we are in our good friends!

The big roast day

IT’S BEEN a hectic week, this, what with workmen in evidence and with our various toing and froing. By the end of the day I’ve been too tired to come along a post a blog and for that I have to apologise to regular readers.

It’s going to be a busy weekend, too. Dave C is coming round in the morning to replace a second double glazed unit which has lost its seal. The Mr P, the music teacher, is holding one of his carol services at the local priory church and he’s keen for us to go; I really would love to oblige him but I don’t know if we’ll have to time. The BIG event of this weekend is the roasting of our Christmas turkey. It’s thawing away beautifully even as I speak – a five and a half kilo bird, free range and corn fed. Naturally, we shall be having all the trimmings: stuffing, roast spuds, Brussels sprouts, both cranberry and bread sauces – the full Monty.

Why do we have Christmas dinner so early? Quite simply, to make life for us easier on the Big Day. This way, we get the trauma of a four hour roast out of the way, and all that’s left for us to do is to freeze the leftovers. On Christmas Day itself we usually take a couple of slices of leftover breast, coat them with a mixture of cream, mustard and grated cheese – pop them under the grill for a few minutes and Bob’s your uncle! With just a few veg on the side, the whole Christmas Day dinner takes about half an hour. In the meantime we can open a bottle of champagne and put on a DVD of Calamity Jane, or Casablanca, or It’s a Wonderful Life.

I must say, though, that this year it’s all going to be a bit different because we’re have Christmas Day lunch out with our friends, Helen and Mike K. This should be very agreeable, too, and we can save our grilled turkey thing for Boxing Day.

Oh, isn’t it all very exciting!

Changes

IT’S ALL change time. My computer expert, Rich P, the son of my old friend, Mr P, the music teacher, comes along to advise on setting up our home network. He almost hoots with laughter at some of system setups. “Get away, as fast as you can, from AOL,” he tells me. On checking our telephone exchange, he decides what we need is Eclipse as our new ISP. “It should run at least sixteen times faster you’re your present Internet Service Provider,” he tells me. (Personally, I have difficulty keeping up with our present one – 16 times faster?) But I must bow to his enthusiasm.

It shows my age, I suppose, but I find anyone who is full of energy, and youthful extravagance, very appealing to me. And very persuasive. (Exhausting, too, but that’s just my depleted stores of energy and lack of spare RAM.)

Anyhow, I’ve busily set up a new email address, this one with Google, and sent off a batch of emails to inform friends and family of our new location. On Rich P’s advice I’ve also reinstalled Mozilla Firefox as our main search engine. I always liked Firefox, and I’m not sure quite why it disappeared from our desktop.

_________________________

IT’S BEEN a good day, what with seeing our friends, Mike and Helen, and only spoilt by my semi-deafness. My old earwax problems have hit me with a vengeance and in both ears at once. I can hear – but it’s as if everything’s outside an oil drum. One thing you always know, when you’re with real friends, three hours seems like three minutes.

We stop at our favourite Cantonese restaurant on the way home, and have a delicious meal of chicken and mushroom soup, followed by pan-fried chicken in a lemon and honey sauce, exquisitely balance in true yin-yang fashion that only truly great Chinese chefs achieve.

I eat my meal using chopsticks rather than a fork. I was once told off by a waiter in Sydney: it was a Japanese restaurant and I asked for a knife and fork to eat my meal; he told me, disapprovingly, that if I respected Asian food I should eat it in the Asian way, using chopsticks. Cack-handed as I am, the waiter slid a piece of card between the sticks, and then attached a rubber band around them. This is the way the Chinese teach children how to use the sticks, he told me, and this is the way I eat my meal today. Today, the waitress snigger, at seeing the rubber band, but I’m too deaf to hear any disparaging comments she might have…

Christmas dinner

THE EVENING goes well enough. There is much laugher, some of it bawdy, and a general congeniality amongst everyone – except me. And perhaps, My Good Lady. We seem to be struggling to get into the Christmas spirit – we’re a pair of Scrooges, really. It isn’t too bad a meal: the broth is just what you’d expect, a few vegetable floating in a clear stock. Okay, but nothing special. I have the turkey next, and MGL chooses the salmon. Both good, if not exceptional. The dessert we opt for is ice cream, which tastes like ice cream - again, nothing out of the ordinary. That’s where the meal is disappointing, it’s okay at best. Nothing exceptional. Last year, they pulled out all the stops. Their first year in business, they went overboard to impress. Now, they’ve gone almost too safe in their menu. Don’t get me wrong, there are some very talented chefs at the Pub – one of them has even contributed to a standard modern textbook on professional cooking. They somehow just don’t seem to get their balance right.

Food aside, though, neither of us is quite in the festive spirit at the moment. Maybe it’s just the disappointments of the week - we’ve written about those earlier. Anyhow, MGL and I return home and pop open a bottle of Chardonnay. To the sounds of some classic jazz recordings, we console ourselves before retiring to an early bedtime. It was an interesting, if somewhat (for us) a bit of a downer.

Anti-climax

IT’S ALL a bit anti-climatic in the end. The weather clears up at our end, so we set too to prepare the meal for the dinner party. But then, about lunchtime, we get the call: Ellie and Ged feel they can’t risk coming after all. The roads around them are already like ice rinks, and more foul weather is predicted for the evening. So there we have it: starter and dessert made, new potatoes par-boiled and ready for the sauté pan – and all in quantities for four people. It’s all rather deflating, really. My Good Lady and I make a meal of it as best we can, but we can’t manage double portions; but after all the planning and shopping, of all the mixing and blitzing and cooking, we end up feeling somewhat let down – not so much by our friends as by the wretched weather. We pop along for an hour’s consolation at the Pub and some of the gang in the Geriatrics’ Corner, on learning of our efforts, suggest that we should have brought some of this food in. Thick crab soup, cherry cheesecake… “M’m,” says Little B, smacking his lips. Ah, well, maybe next time…

Bittersweet

AS I WRITE, the outside world dons a silent, white mantle of snow.

Normally, this shouldn’t bother me at all, but we’re expecting company tonight. We’ve got the menu planned, and the shopping’s all done. We’re about to prepare a thick crab soup for starters, then a duck confit with parliament potatoes, and for dessert, one of My Good Lady’s delightful red cherry cheesecakes. We’re under starter’s orders, ready to go – and of course, this is when it starts to snow for the first time in about five years. Our friends are driving down from a village in Cumbria where we used to live – not a journey to be undertaken when the weather is iffy. All we can do, I suppose, is wait until the very last minute, and if the snow doesn’t clear, give them a call and ask what’s best to do.

Meanwhile, I’m continuing to scan my photo slides, and I’m now in the midst of that miscellany of people pictures that don’t quite fit in any other category of time and place. And I’m struck by the depressing realisation of how many of our family, friends and colleagues have died over the last few years. While I can look back on happy memories with a smile, I also get the sad awareness that I shall never see some of these people again. Whoever coined the word “bittersweet” was right on the mark.

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!

A TV gripe

WATCHING the last episode of The Restaurant (BBC 2) this evening, I’m struck by the inevitability of the winning team. After all, if I was Raymond Blanc looking to form a partnership with a view to opening a new restaurant, there’s no question of who my choice would be. In fact, it was obvious from the very beginning of the series – and that, of course, begs a question: if it was that obvious why bother watching? M’m… Maybe it’s something to do with the dearth of good TV programmes, despite the choice of something like 40 digital channels. I have no patience at all with so-called “reality” shows, and I’ve not much more time for the various “talent” programmes – cheap telly at it’s most crass. (Where is the entertainment value in seeing people humiliated? Sorry, I just don’t see it.)

But maybe I’m just getting jaded in my viewing habits. When episodes of The Avengers and Columbo and The Rockford Files are the highlights of my evening’s (recorded) viewing, maybe it’s time I gave up high definition, digital TV for something really hi-tech: a good book!

Quiet Tuesday

IT'S A quiet day in the Geriatrics' Corner of the Pub. Just myself, My Good Lady and Little B. Liam and Ricky are behind the bar, but there's so little for them to do, they join us in completing the Times2 crossword, what there is left for us to do. The bitter coldness of the day means that they've lit the stove - but the wood is so damp, it simply won't burn. Ricky puts some pieces of coal in, which helps, but nobody can claim it's exactly a roaring blaze. Little B sits all afternoon in his coat and scarf.

Little B has brought in his latest toy, a laptop computer. He's never used a computer in his life, but now, admirably, in his seventies, he giving it a go. His aspirations are modest enough: he wants to go online and post the occassional email to his friends. Unfortunately, the shop where he bought the machine gave him no instruction at all on how to use it, not even on how to turn it on. He brings it along in the hope that we can be of assitance, but my knowledge of laptops is almost as lamentable as Little B's. Ricky it is who points out there there is no wireless connection available at the Pub. Poor Little B puts his new purchase away in his carrier bag, sadly no wiser. I hope he's not regretting making his purchase - I really do believe computer shops have a duty to give some basic instruction on how to use the products they sell. I'm quite miffed on Little B's behalf.

Evening. I do us a spicy chicken stirfry for dinner - My Good Lady's desire for spice remains insatiated (she's planning a hot curry for us tomorrow). It's odd how little spice the French use in their cuisine - a pinch at most. As a result, we've come back from Perpignan with a serious case of spice depreviation, and MGL in particular is suffering from it.

Later we watch a bit of Millionaire (ITV 1) before opening a bottle of wine, a rather dry Aussie Chardonnay. We have a chunter about the day and it's doings, our plans for tomorrow and next week, all to the sweet sounds of Ella Fitzgerarld. These are the magic moments of our lives - we just chill out, with a glass in hand and to some great tunes. Sheer bliss!

Another last Monday

FIRST, I have to see the doctor. Some sort of liver problem. Seems that the combination of drugs and wine I'm on isn't as good for me as I thought. He's a decent chap, though, he doesn't lecture me or give me any pep talk or anything like that. Just suggests that I become aware of how much I'm drinking and maybe tone it down a little bit. "I'm off to a dinner party tonight," I tell him. "That's all right," he says, "start tomorrow.

Nevertheless, it's on this somewhat sobering note that My Good Lady and I go off to our last-Monday-of-the month dinner. Now, I must say, some of our friends can be a bit on the boozy side at these dos. I feel positively abstemious on my pint of Theakston's bitter and my one little glass of Chardonnay.

It's still a grand evening, though. All the more agreeable to see PD and Lin after a somewhat prolonged absence, and seeing them in such good spirits, too. Fran and Den are there, of course, old troopers that they are! And Little B is in great form, too - when he can get a word in edgeways.

The surprise of the evening is bumping into an old friend. We haven't seen Stella Dave for well over a year, now, and he's looking prosperous and happy. He greets us like long-lost brother and sister. When we first knew Stella D he was something of a down and out - out of work, barred from driving, frustrated and bitter with the world around him, a brilliant young man just spinning his wheels futilely. He spent his days in the Geriatrics' Corner of the Pub, over his one pint of Stella Artois lager, angry that others couldn't appreciate either his talent or his whacky sense of humour. Somehow, we drifted together, the three of us, and over a couple of years we formed a relationship of sorts. We gave him some support and company, he gave us his friendship. We were there for him the day he got his job in IT, and we knew he's make a go of it. And he has - boy, is he a high-flyer, now! Europe, America - all over. He once gave us a broad wave from behind the wheel of his BMW... Anyhow, it's really good to see him again.

My Good Lady and I return home and pop open another bottle of wine, a rather nice Italian Pinot Grigio, and drink to the health of our whacky, wonderful friends. As for my liver, well we have much to drink to - it only slightly damaged, after all

Home again

IT'S GOOD to be home. It's wonderful to have all one's little comforts welcoming you back. I sometimes think that the only good reason for going away is the return, and of picking up the pieces of one's life left so rudely behind.



It has been a good holiday, although not totally without incident. The flight out to Perpignan is the usual horror, compounded by the fact that my back problems have not fully settled. Two hours squashed into the confines of a tight, narrow seat does nothing to ease my discomfort. Moreover, I'm feeling unusually claustrophobic, but this proves to be the onset of a rather bad cold which puts a blight on our first week's stay.



The place itself is pleasant enough, a comfortable, spacious gite, on the edge of a tiny village in the foothills of the Pyrenees, and with a magnificent view of "dog's tooth" mountain, Canigou. In fact, we come to think of this mountain as our third significant other, "Monsieur Canigou" - so vast is he, so great his influence, that he has a weather system all his own. When I get up in the morning, I greet My Good Lady (MGL), and then step out onto the terrace and say "Bonjour, M'sieur C", just to keep him happy and placated.

The scenery is, in fact, one of great features of the area. But the whole place is awash with artists old and new. This is, after all, the stomping ground of the likes of Matisse and Picasso, Braque and Derain, Chagall and Max Jacob; the villages of Collioure and Ceret can boast galleries and museums with collections (donated by the artists themselves) that many a capitol city could envy. No shortage of culture for us, then. Nor is there any lack of contemporary beards and pony-tails, nor of tourist-trap art shops charging ridiculous prices for distinctly mediocre work. And of course, the inevitable bijou cafes catering to visitors and locals alike. In parts it's a bit like the Lake District in England - very beautiful, no question, but also very, very touristy.

Perhaps the thing that impresses us most, though, is the Catalan people who we find to be generous, warmly humorous and very independent in spirit. It's the only part of France we've visited where the locals actually take pride in speaking English. We get a feeling that their first language is Catalan, even more than French. MGL and I get along with them great, although I'm sad to say we don't meet anyone with whom we form anything but a superficial relationship.

It was a good holiday for us - MGL and me and (I'm sure) M. Canigou - but like I said, it's great to be home again.

Introducing myself

ALLOW ME to introduce myself. I’m the Oxcliffe Fox. Why Oxcliffe? Why Fox? Well, I live in the Oxcliffe area of Lancaster, and Fox rhymes with “ox” part of Oxcliffe – it’s not because I have any particular predilection for the pesky beasties.

Likes:
music of all kinds, but especially jazz (Miles Davis is my hero);
movies, mainly old and soppy ones, although I can enjoy a good, cracking thriller;
books – I’ve always got at least one on the go, at the moment it’s the Canadian classic Klee Wyck by Emily Carr;
food and wine, oh yes, I find cooking to be very therapeutic when I’m stressed out and I love a glass of wine pretty well any time;
visiting other countries: France is my second home, emotionally speaking, and we’ve met some great people all over, including Australia, Canada, the West Indies…
company of good friends – and in this regard I’m blest indeed;
My Good Lady, my wife now for thirty-odd years and in whose smile I find an infinite joy.

Dislikes:
politics & politicians, if you type the word “liar” into Google it’ll come up with the name of some politician or other;
reality tv, oh, give me strength!
travelling, especially flying; my idea of hell is an all-day wait at Heathrow airport, followed by a long-haul flight;
cabbage, my dad use stink the whole house out when I was a lad, and I still shudder at the memory of the stuff in school dinners.

Anyhow, this should give you an idea of who and what I am. Hope you enjoy this blog, and that you come by often.

First day of a new blog

I’M PLEASED to be writing in my new home blogsite. The old AOL blogs from both The Oxcliffe Fox and The Oxcliffe Vixen will shortly be deleted, presumably as part of some sort of streamlining stratagy. Time/Warner, who used to own AOL, and who could never make it pay, have now sold this ISP to the Carphone Warehouse - and heaven only knows what'll happen now. Hope all our old friends and readers will stay with us and here on Blogger, and maybe we'll maybe meet some new friends here, too. Meanwhile, I must get on and set up a new blog for My Good Lady.