Wednesday 2nd October - in praise of milk jugs

We almost never use a milk jug. It's so easy to just slurp some milk out of the bottle or carton or plastic container into a mug or slosh it into a bowl of cereal.

However yesterday morning I unpacked the bag of groceries to discover the plastic milk container had leaked and the bottom of the bag had a shallow lake of milk in it.

The container was still over half full, so along with wiping over the groceries and washing out the bag I decanted the milk into a jug.

'I'll ne manquait que ça,' I muttered under my breath... (I've always roughly translated it to mean 'that's all it needed' but if anyone knows better feel free to add a comment)

I learned the phrase from 'The Diary of a Provincial Lady' by E M Delafield many years ago. It's still a favourite read, and I have it through audible too. (There several two different versions and it's worth listening to the samples of both to decide which you prefer; I chose Georgina Sutton).

So, back to the milk jug; it's just an altogether better experience, pouring milk from a proper, well-designed pint jug. Milk bottles etc are just not as good. The milk alternately dribbles and glugs out, and it's all a bit hit and miss. This morning's breakfast was much improved by using a jug.

So much so that I've ended up blogging about it.

Life is much improved by these and other similar simple trivialities.

My other phrase for when events have caused great annoyance and I really would rather not revert to anglo-saxon is

'Ee, I am vexed'. Another quotation, this time from Albert and the Lion'.

I'm not as fond of the 'Albert and the Lion' monologue, although I do like the couplet, which occurs here in the story;

....

There were one great big lion called Wallace

His nose were all covered with scars

He lay in a somnolent posture

With the side of his face on the bars.

Now Albert had heard about lions

How they was ferocious and wild

To see Wallace lying so peaceful

Well, it didn't seem right to the child.

So straight 'way the brave little feller

Not showing a morsel of fear

Took his stick with its 'orse's 'ead 'andle

And shoved it in Wallace's ear.

You could see the lion didn't like it

For giving a kind of a roll

He pulled Albert inside the cage with 'Im

And swallowed the little lad 'ole

Then Pa, who had seen the occurrence

And didn't know what to do next

Said "Mother! Yon lions 'et Albert"

And Mother said "Well, I am vexed!"

(Albert does re-emerge in Albert's Return')

However I've always enjoyed ,'The Runcorn Ferry', another Stanley Holloway monologue.

The same schoolfriend who taught us 'what a queer bird the frog are' used to recite the monologues to us after lights out...

 'shh, Mrs Taylor's coming; and she would pause the monolgue before continuing when we heard the footsteps receding along the corridor. (We all loathed Mrs Taylor; that she pronounced 'margarine' with a hard 'g' and 'garage' with the emphasis on the second syllable and a soft 'g' were the least of her many irritating affectations). 

Here are the the monologue;

The Runcorn Ferry

On the banks of the Mersey, o'er on Cheshire side,

Lies Runcorn that's best known to fame

By Transporter Bridge as takes folks over t'stream,

Or else brings them back across same.

In days afore Transporter Bridge were put up,

A ferryboat lay in the slip,

And old Ted the boatman would row folks across

At per tuppence per person per trip.

Now Runcorn lay over on one side of stream,

And Widnes on t'other side stood,

And, as nobody wanted to go either place,

Well, the trade wasn't any too good.

One evening, to Ted's superlative surprise,

Three customers came into view:

A Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom it were,

And Albert, their little son, too.

"How much for the three?" Mr Ramsbottom asked,

As his hand to his pocket did dip.

Ted said: "Same for three as it would be for one,

Per tuppence per person per trip."

"You're not charging tuppence for that little lad?"

Said Mother, her eyes flashing wild.

"Per tuppence per person per trip", answered Ted,

"Per woman, per man, or per child".

"Fivepence for three, that's the most that I'll pay",

Said Father, "Don't waste time in talk".

"Per tuppence per person per trip", answered Ted,

"And them, as can't pay, 'as to walk!"

"We can walk, an' all", said Father. "Come Mother,

It's none so deep, weather's quite mild".

So into the water the three of them stepped:

The father, the mother, the child.

The further they paddled, the deeper it got,

But they wouldn't give in, once begun.

In the spirit that's made Lancashire what she is,

They'd sooner be drownded than done.

Very soon, the old people were up to their necks,

And the little lad clean out of sight.

Said Father: "Where's Albert?" And Mother replied:

"I've got hold of his hand, he's all right!"

Well, just at that moment, Pa got an idea

And, floundering back to old Ted, He said:

"We've walked half-way. Come, tak' us the rest

For half-price, that's a penny a head."

But Ted wasn't standing for none of that there,

And, making an obstinate lip,

"Per tuppence per person per trip", Ted replied,

"Per trip, or per part of per trip".

"All right, then", said Father, "let me tak' the boat,

And I'll pick up the others half-way.

I'll row them across, and I'll bring the boat back,

And thruppence in t'bargain I'll pay".

T'were money for nothing. Ted answered: "Right-ho",

And Father got hold of the sculls.

With the sharp end of boat towards middle of stream,

He were there in a couple of pulls.

He got Mother out, it were rather a job,

With the water, she weighed half a ton,

Then, pushing the oar down the side of the boat,

Started fishing around for his son.

When poor little Albert came up to the top,

His collars were soggy and limp.

And, with holding his breath at the bottom so long,

His face were as red as a shrimp.

Pa took them across, and he brought the boat back,

And he said to old Ted on the slip:

"Wilt' row me across by me'sen?" Ted said:

"Aye, at per tuppence per person per trip".

When they got t'other side, Father laughed fit to bust.

He'd got best of bargain, you see.

He'd worked it all out, and he'd got his own way,

And he'd paid nobbut fivepence for three!

Marriott Edgar

Tuesday 30th September - Following a tree

 

Here it is, the oak, and the apple at the bottom of the garden. Still very green.

We've had nearly all the apples from the tree now, sharing them with friends and neighbours. The oak tree is still full of acorns, dropping to the ground or onto your head all day every day. If you walk on the grass down there your feet alternately crunch on acorns or squelch on fallen apples.

Here's the same view at the end of January;

I find it hard to get my head round how a tree can go from bare branches to full leaf in a matter of months; how a seed grows into tomatoes or beans or flowers in such a short time. 

'We sow the seed and scatter the good seed on the land' and then just weeks or months later we are eating what has grown. 

Or, in the case of a fruit tree, from bare branches to hundreds of apples in 8 months.

It's all very mysterious. 

Pome 

You have to imagine this being recited my Cornish friend's father, in a strong, slow West Country accent, with an expression of great solemnity;

What a queer bird, the frog are
When he sit he stand (almost)
When he walk he fly (almost)
When he talk he cry (almost)
He ain't got no sense, hardly
He ain't got no tail, neither, hardly
He sit on what he ain't got hardly

I couldn't remember all the rhyme so I looked it up

It appears to have originated in USA, and it's a song, and a round! I never knew!

Monday 29th September - the fatsia

 This is the most extraordinary plant. Most of the time it's just leaves, and then, in Autumn, this appears;

Some kind of bud... I'll keep you posted as to what happens next!

Actually, I do already know what will happen. But the first year this border was planted we had no idea. 

The border was designed and planted up by a gardening expert. All I said was that I wanted there to be something interesting to discover every month of the year. He was, to my mind, a bit high-handed about how he went about things, assuring me that it would be great and I'd love it. Well, I trusted his judgement and the first year was certainly a year of surprises as I only had a vague notion of what the plants were. 

The fatsia was only one of many delights that were in store!

Sunday 28th September - Furnace

Window from Buckfast Abbey, Devon

Furnace

May God in whose furnace faith is forged   

 In whose being beauty breathes   

 From whose dawning darkness flees   

 Shine on you     

 May the Father whose love for you  

 Beats with a rhythm time itself can’t stop   

 Whose presence in your exile   

 Is the promise of home   

 Whose certainties are deeper   

 Than the cellars of your city   

 Whose breath is life   

 Breathe on you     

 May the son whose story   

 Is a mirror of your own   

 Who has journeyed into darkness   

 To find a key to your prison   

 Who has dived the deepest oceans   

 To find pearls for your wisdom   

 Who has looked into your heart   

 And found a beauty worth the battle   

 Who has written your name   

 On a white stone carved in secret   

 Hold you     

 May the Spirit   

 Who has waited millennia to fill you   

 Who shaped the word that moved the wind  

Of the morning that conceived you   

 Who holds the earth on which you stand   

 As a midwife holds a newborn    

 Who fully knows you   

 Wholly own you     

 So may God   

 The faithful Father   

 God the scarred Son   

 God the sculpting Spirit  

 Journey with you

Gerard Kelly, ‘Furnace’ in I See a New City: Poems of Place and Possibility (Chamine Press, 2020) pp. 50-51. 

Used today in the Lectio morning prayers.

Lectio is a free app delivering morning, midday and night-time prayers every day. I used to follow it, but got out of the habit. Today a friend alerted me to this wonderful prayer - maybe it's time I thought about restarting following Lectio again.

 

Saturday 27th September - through the letterbox

 came the next 2By2 stitching collaboration letter - oh happy happy happy! We always have not a clue what to expect. 

All this

was tucked inside the envelope, plus the write-up to give the background to the stitching.

The fabric comes from a recent visit to Quarry Bank that Ang and Bob took the grandchildren to earlier this month the summer. She was able to buy a fat quarter of the fabric they weave in the mill, printed with bees. She's added the hexagons, and embroidered over the bee with a with embroidery floss. The wings are filled with a delicate glittering tracery of rainbow metallic thread.

Just beautiful. 

The letting was stitched over waste fabric, the sort which dissolves away in warm water - very clever! That's why it looks so neat. 

Here's my September square; I have crocheted a granny square using variegated sock yarn and one of my godmother's fine crochet hooks.

She would say it's quite a thick hook! The others in her wallet are for crocheting using cotton thread, as she used to make loads of intricate doilies and table runners, lace curtains and other items. She was born in 1929 and grew up in Finland, knitting and crocheting everything including her stockings from a young age.

I sewed the granny squares down onto the linen fabric using brown perlé thread.

 

The August squares are below, and the September ones above.

I'm temporarily out of Limericks, but

The common cormorant, or shag

Lays eggs inside a paper bag.

The reason why is clear, no doubt;

It is to keep the lightning out.

But what these unobserved birds

Have never noticed I that herds 

Of wandering bears, all eating buns

Steal the bags to keep their crumbs.

I've just checked; this was perpetrated by Christopher Isherwood. 

Why is it I can remember verses like these but struggle to learn Proper Poetry?

Friday 26th September - great housewives of modern art

 This is a favourite book. I don't know how it came my way; I'm almost certain it was a present from someone.  Every so often I nearly manage to pass it on to a friend when I'm looking for a small gift, but my hmd hesitates, and it goes back on the shelf!

It's a picture book, with pictures of wonen doing ordinary housework, but done in the style of modern artists. 

I think of it whenever I get out the duster and wreak havoc on the cobwebs that trail along the tops of the walls where they meet the ceilings. I've found the best technique is to use the massively ecologically unsound Flash Dust magnet, so I'm consumed by guilt every time I get it out... I hope to find a better solution one day. The feathers on my feather duster aren't firm enough and just dust them, leaving the strands in place. A broom or vacuum cleaner turns the cobwebs into black sticky lumps that glue themselves implacably to the ceiling. 

But, by twirling the dust magnet gently along the length of the strand I can collect it like the girl operating the candyfloss machine at the funfair. 

Overcome by success on the cobwebs front, I levered myself out of the settee where I was slumping, half asleep after lunch, and set about the sitting room bay windows which have been getting on my nerves every time the sun shines through them. I could manage to reach them by climbing onto the blanket chest pushed into the bay.

I won't know if they are all streaky or not until the next sunny morning. That's the depressing thing about window cleaning; they look wonderful when you just finished them, and then, the next day, you realise you have to do them all over again!

These fits of houseworkiness don't come over me very often, more's the pity...

Another Limerick?

Don't mind if I do...

There was an old man of Tralee

Who was stung on the knee by a wasp.

When they asked 'does it hurt?'

He replied 'not a bit!

But I'm s glad it wasn't a hornet!'

Blame my dear old Dad, he taught it to us.