Monthly Archives: May 2008

Z is teacher’s pet

Really, I should be ashamed of myself. When I was at school, I was always the one skulking at the back of the class, never offering an opinion, never volunteering, not joining in group discussions (if I had a good idea, I’d keep it for myself, put it in an essay and get marks for it – why offer it free to the whole class?) and generally remaining as disengaged as possible from the whole thing. Now, it’s a different story. I volunteer, I show my work, I offer to take over while teacher’s on holiday – heh heh, the rest of ’em can’t even hate me for it, because they are grateful not to be nobbled.

Enough of luncheon club. Tonight, I had to go out at 5.30 for a meeting, the Sage was leaving at 7 for his and we wouldn’t meet for dinner. So I bought pizzas and left them for him to choose and cook his own, leaving me and Ro to eat when we were ready. I phoned home to tell Ro I’d be 10 minutes; could he put mine in the oven please? He sounded hesitant. When I got back, I discovered the reason.

The Sage had cut a pizza in half and put it in the oven, not noticing that it sat on a polystyrene base. Ro came down after he had left, went to put his half in the oven, and found a noxious aroma and melting plastic on the oven floor. He took the grid out and dumped it outside and shut the oven door – at least, with the hot oven of the Aga, it should all char itself away, wafting the awful and unhealthy stink out of the flue. He used the little summertime oven to cook our pizzas, being rather more practically minded than his father.

When the Sage (should I call him that tonight, in view of the blunder?) came home, I asked him if he’d actually eaten the pizza? He was blissfully unaware that there had been a problem. I can only think that the polystyrene had melted away from the pizza so quickly that it didn’t stick at all – lucky he used the grid shelf instead of a baking sheet. But surely he noticed the smell? No. He was in a hurry.

I’ve just realised that I’ve two things on next Thursday, neither of which did I put in my diary. Everything always goes in the diary, I can’t believe how careless I was. I’ll have to phone tomorrow and change the blood donor appointment by a couple of hours. Good job I noticed, if belatedly.

Z holds the line

The main news of the day is that Dave’s back. He has photos to show us, but he says we won’t see them all – just one for every comment that we left while he was away, I expect.

I’ve spent some of the day making phone calls. I don’t like making phone calls very much. When I was a little girl, I once curiously picked up the phone – in those days, telephones were always in the hallway. No one had one in the living room and certainly not in the bedroom. Ours was in the gun room; not that guns had been kept there for years. A dog bed was at the end of the room in front of the desk, so you stood in the dog bed to make a phone call. Anyway, I picked up the phone and a voice said “Number, please.” I slammed the phone down and ran away.

The phobia lasted for years. I didn’t mind answering a call, but I hated making one. It wasn’t just that barely-remembered memory; I was always sure that I’d ring at an inconvenient time and that the person at the other end would be irritated but too polite to say so. I found business calls much easier than personal ones, so I’m sure that was much of the reason. It was no better if I was going to invite someone for dinner or a similar jolly. I was convinced that they wouldn’t want to come and would be too polite to say so. The Sage issued all invitations for years.

I’ve got over it now. But I still find the whole thing about evening calls is difficult. How do you know when people have their evening meal? We eat around 7.30 – 8 ish usually, unless we’re early or late, but any time between 5.30 and 9.30 might catch people cooking or eating. Emails are so much simpler.

Anyway, I don’t have hang-ups (hee hee) about the phone now, but I still don’t much like it. So, this morning, I stopped thinking about the calls I needed to make and had done for a couple of weeks, and just made them. And now I feel quite free.

Did you know, you young people, that you used not to buy your own phone? They were all rented out by British Telecommunications (or was it always Telecom before it was BT?) and you had to pay a quarterly rent. When we moved house in 1976, we found one in a bedroom that, evidently, had been forgotten. We rigged up a line – we couldn’t get in the phone engineers as we shouldn’t have had it, and had the rare luxury of a phone in the bedroom. We still use that phone. It’s a bit crackly, but splendidly retro. We only answer calls though. However did we manage to dial numbers all those years? My finger always slips and I keep having to start again. Mind you, numbers are longer now and there’s more scope for mistakes. When I was a child, our number was Oulton Broad 40.

Don’t mention the war?

A meeting to organise the Village Festival today. It’s almost as thrilling here as in JonnyB’s village, except that we’re not quite so excited about chickens; having Chicken Roundabout only a mile away makes us blasé and sophisticated.

Anyway, the posters will be marvellous. We all liked them. There is a fine portrait of a beer glass full of amber home brew (no, I’m not taking the piss (d’you see what I did there?), the village publican has a micro-brewery in his garage) with a jolly flower on a long stem poking out of the top. It really does set the scene for our village fête. It’ll be interesting to see if the primary school puts a poster up and, if they do, if anyone complains.

There is to be a hanging basket and flower tub competition, a treasure hunt and a display in the church on the subject of ‘childhood memories’. I have asked the Sage to write about the war. No, really, he may only have been a little boy, but he remembers a bomb landing, bouncing him off his tricycle and saying to his mother “I hope Hitler doesn’t do that again!” He also remembers the American airman having bountiful supplies of Smith’s Crisps (with the little blue twist of salt in every pack) and similar goodies, unobtainable by the Brits. He also has a model aeroplane, carved by airmen on their way home from a raid; it is a prized possession. As are the (empty) butterfly bombs collected by his father.

Before the meeting, I said ‘hello’ to the children. I confirmed that Squiffany could come and spend the afternoon with me, while Pugsley and his mother went to a singalong in the library (no signs saying ‘Silence’ nowadays). When I left, Pugsley cried. “Granny, Granny,” he wailed. I was intensely gratified. “Want bed” he added. “What, are you tired?” I asked … “Ah. You want to bounce on my bed. Okay.”

Mind you, that afternoon he thanked me for reading to him and giving him biscuits, and gave me a kiss. Grandchildren are awfully good for one’s wellbeing.

Late for his own funeral

I’ve just got back from the church, where I was organist at the funeral of a man who had lived in the village for nearly 30 years. He had been involved with many village interests, such as the bowls club. The church was full, everyone had known and liked him.

The family had asked me to play Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring as a voluntary. I’d timed myself; 5 minutes, and worked out a couple of places to go back and play from again if I finished a little early. it’s tricky, that last voluntary as the coffin comes in. Ideally, you want the music to go on softly as the priest leads in the funeral cortège and finish about the same time he ends his introduction – 10 seconds either way is as much leeway as you have. The trouble is, you don’t know he’s approaching until he comes into the church; not if your organ is at the front (altar end) of the church at any rate (if it’s in a side room or loft, you can have a gofer to keep you informed) so you have to go by the time and hope that the hearse turns up on time too.

It didn’t. It was 15 minutes late.

The funeral cars were going to pick up the family from the house. This is a small village, but the driver had been given the wrong directions – left, left and left again was correct, but it’s where the first left is taken that matters. So when he was already running late, to drive worriedly past the church where the minister and the Sage (who had been directing mourners into the car park) were standing waiting, was disconcerting, especially as the crematorium was booked after the service and that’s quite some way away.

But that’s their problem. I didn’t know anything about the delay, so I played my bit and then repeated the last three lines, then went back to half way and played again, and then I started from the beginning, and then I played the last few lines and … well, yes, I suspect the congregation was as bored as I was. Although pretty, it is quite a repetitive tune.

At last the trestles the coffin was to stand on arrived. Considerably late, I might add; normally they are brought in before the congregation arrives. So I launched into the last page. And played the last three lines twice. Still no coffin. I started from the beginning all over again and was half way through when, at last, I heard the opening words of the funeral service. I switched seamlessly *cough* to the end again and finished at the same time as the opening address. I felt harassed. Fortunately, the first hymn was The Lord’s My Shepherd, which I could play with my eyes closed.

It was a lovely service. Near the end, waiting to play my closing piece, I glanced at the family in the front pew. The grandson, a lad in his early twenties, looked smart in his dark suit. As I looked, he took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. Tears came into mine, too, and I had to look away.

Afterwards, Sybil the verger and Mrs B were talking about the man who’d died and his late wife. “Of course, no one made sandwiches like Eileen”, said one of them. “Lovely, they were.” “I remember,” said Sybil, “the first time Ivan made me a cup of tea. He asked how I’d like it and I said ‘weak’, so he poured my cup first. Always afterwards, he’d remember to pour my cup first so that it would be just as I like it. He always remembered that sort of thing about everyone.”

A simple fond memory that demonstrates how people thought of him, I think. But then, I’m sentimental that way.

How to keep in business

An explanation of what I said yesterday, or part of it at any rate.

Of course, one has to make a profit to keep in business and there is a normal mark-up on wholesale prices to cover costs and leave some profit too. But there are some things that people want to buy, but that are so expensive or so quickly perishable that you’re never going to make money on them. So, do you refuse to stock them? One reason that a local shopkeeper is in business is a genuine wish – and it’s good policy too, for customer loyalty – to provide the best possible service. One example of this is that Al delivers, free of charge. Most of the people he delivers to are elderly ladies who either are more-or-less housebound or who can get out but can’t carry their heavy shopping home. A few are working people who can’t shop during the week but still want to support independent shops.

The best way of making money from a shop is by attracting customers – obvious, indeed, but maybe in a less obvious manner than the one you first think of. Take cherries. They are expensive and spoil quickly. You must sell them in two days, one if the weather is very hot. Al’s first summer, he bought a box of cherries, sold half and had to throw away the rest – which meant that he lost money on cherries. By the time he’d built up the business for a couple of years, he could sell the whole box of cherries in a day – which meant that he not only made the profit on the second half of the box as well as the first, but he also didn’t make that loss on the second half; win-win, you see.

Regarding the peppers. If you went to the greengrocer and asked for a pepper and there wasn’t one, you’d have to go to the supermarket – and next time, you might go there in the first place rather than risk finding yourself unable to buy an item you wanted and wasting your time going to two shops. One can run out of things of course, especially if there’s a sudden change in the weather (everyone wanted salad yesterday and we ran out of cucumbers), but there’s a difference between “I’ve just sold the last one” at 3 o’clock and “We’re not stocking them until the price goes down” at 9 am. You try to gauge demand and buy in what you need, to create as little waste as possible while not turning away customers. If Al put his mark-up on the peppers, that might put the customer off buying; a pepper that had cost 65p suddenly going up to £1.20 or whatever could make you decide to do without; and then half the box would end up being thrown away and wasted. Better to make and lose nothing than lose more than you make through wastage. Chuck-outs are put in boxes and go to an animal sanctuary, by the way; anything unsuitable is composted, and our chickens eat cabbage and lettuce leaves. And grapes. They like grapes. Pigs are very partial to a pineapple, you know – they play football with it until it falls apart, then eat it.

Back to the explanation.

So, you take the rough with the smooth. It’s having customers and giving them a good product that matters most. Al decided early on to specialise in local and seasonal produce, as far as possible. Yes, there are many exceptions here – peppers for one – and not everyone on the green bandwagon understands that. I wrote sometime last year about the person who was perturbed at the distance bananas had travelled…I explained that bananas are not grown commercially anywhere in Europe, let alone Britain. Al was early in making this policy and it’s paid off. He supports local growers, and one of his Norwich wholesalers is making great progress in sourcing all sorts of products in East Anglia now, including, at present, flowers (many of those sold by the two excellent local florists are Dutch) and vegetable plants. He also cheerily buys from people who have a glut in their garden – if you think of doing this with produce from your allotment, check your rental terms first, it may not be allowed.

Ooh, stop press! Al’s website is up and running. Here is the link.

Here I sit all broken-hearted…

Can’t remember what I was going to tell you. I’ll burble for a bit, then I’ll remember.

Al’s splendid home-made paper bags are the hit of Yagnub! People offer to buy them and can hardly believe that he gives them away. Ro and Dilly were dubious when he started to make them, as the time he takes is out of proportion, they think, to their usefulness. I was enchanted from the start. I became all excited…it is true that I am noted for my enthusiasm about quite small matters. I won’t post pictures and that, as his website will be up within the next week and I will then abandon the habit of a lunchtime and actually put up a permanent link. By the way, if anyone is ever hurt that I don’t link to them when they link to me, I did explain it a while ago; I don’t link because I like you all too much to choose. I read everyone’s blog who comments on mine – even if I don’t often comment, I read you – and I read a fair few who have never commented, or replied to my comments.

I’ve remembered, and how could I have forgotten the Talk of Yagnub! In the wee small hours of last night, a car drove along Mahsrae Street, failed to make the bend and, over-correcting, thwacked itself into the pub on said bend. The local constabulary were called out and found that the passenger had got out and legged it, but the driver was trapped. He had to be cut out and the rest of the night and the whole morning was spent in contemplating, measuring, gathering evidence (chalk marks on the road to prove it!!(!) ), working out what had happened (daft bloke drove too fast, crashed) and clearing up. Lots of sand on the road to mop up fuel and oil and the aforementioned, albeit in parenthesis, chalk marks dotted across to show the car’s trajectory. The corner of the pub looks a bit bruised. It has been worked out that the car was travelling at something like 70 mph, which is quite unheard of in Norfolk; this is Suffolk which is only slightly racier.

I worked in the shop this afternoon, as Al and Dilly were doing something bee-related. The sunshine has made bees blissfully happy and they are calm and purposeful. Al and Dilly are deciding on the final siting for their hive – I’ve told them the best place, as BW and Mr BW have eyed up the land and told me (with reasons. Splendid). Many prices have gone up startlingly. Lemons, for example – what is it with lemons? Nine months ago, Al sold them at 6 for £1, or 20 pence each. They were the only item where the price had not changed in the five years he had owned the shop. He kept that price until he would have been selling at a loss, but now he has to sell lemons at 38p. Limes, which once were 35p, are now 25p, on the other hand. There is no sense in this that I can see. A few weeks ago, he sold peppers at £3.30 per kilo and made a profit. Suddenly, the wholesale price went up to £5.40, so that’s what he’s selling at. He makes no profit, he looks on it as part of the service until the price goes down again. A lady came in and asked for a green pepper; I apologised for the high price and told her 94p. “That’s all right,” she said, “Tesco’s have got them at £1”

We sold out of lettuces, cucumbers, salad potatoes and Cornish new potatoes, though. And green peppers, as it happens.

Toadying, brooding and toddling

I’ve loaded on the photos, but haven’t had time to look at them yet. However, I suggested that you might have PICTURES, so pictures you will have. One of them moves!!(!)

When the Sage found a fine young toad in the garden, I took it straight through to show the children. “Look at this” I squeaked excitedly. Dilly turned round with an interested expression … “Wooah!” she said and stepped back, startled. “You should know by now what makes me excited enough to show Squiffany and Pugsley” I said. “Yes”, resignedly, “last time you were this happy, you brought a snake skin in to show us.”

“Frog, frog” observed Pugsley. I explained. “Toad, toad”, he corrected himself and stroked the dear little chap’s head. We looked at him carefully. His skin was dry and he crawled slowly over our hands. He had clear brown eyes, unexpectedly beautiful.
Afterwards, we put the toad under the box hedge. He had been remarkably good-natured about the whole episode which I appreciated, as it can’t have been a great pleasure, except when I kissed him … well, it works with frogs, it was done in a spirit of scientific curiosity. Nothing happened, though.

While we were all outside, I showed the children where a bantam had laid a clutch of eggs. We were shifting the pile of branches from the dodgy fir tree that had been cut down before it fell on the house, a few weeks ago, when we saw a beady eye – she didn’t stir, just looked at us.

She’s still there now, patiently sitting. Fortunately, we don’t have skulking foxes here at present, as indicated by the numerous rabbits frolicking in the kitchen garden eating everything that puts its leaves above the ground.

And, just for the ‘aah’ factor, here’s Pugsley.

No winks…

…let alone forty.

The chap involved in the emails rang today – he’s quite oblivious that his manner comes close to insulting and is hurt because someone else was frosty with him yesterday over the matter. How fortunate that I chose to reply to what he should have said rather than what he actually said.

Gorgeous day again. I wonder if this is all the summer we’ll get? Last year, we had summer in April – that was when I was in Cornwall cooling my toes in the sea – rather than in May, June, July or August. That it’s hot now has no bearing at all on what it will be like for the rest of the summer.

Later, I’ll get out my camera and put up the photos from Madrid. I didn’t take many, actually, but I’ll see if there’s anything you would be delighted to look at.

Z sleeps again

Another one-and-a-half hours. A pity that it was between 1.30 and 3 am, and that this was my total night’s sleep. I woke because I’d been lying on my hand, which had gone dead, and by the time it was revived I was wide awake. Ho hum.

The Sage has gone off to the dentist to have a new crown fitted. He’s a bit gloomy.

I am too, as I had a sniffy reply to my mollifying (I’d hoped) email of yesterday, which included the phrase ‘my principles will not accept the wool being pulled over the Committees eyes.’ It wasn’t. I’ve written again, setting out details that I, fortunately, jotted down yesterday and evidently he didn’t, taken full responsibility, given a fuller explanation and apologised again, and asked what more he’d like me to do -politely, not aggressively. I’m slightly pissed off, but I won’t show it at all because that won’t help. The whole thing is trivial in itself, but his feelings aren’t so I’m continuing to respect them

Damn bloody voluntary jobs. I wouldn’t do this sort of thing for money, you know.

However, as always, there is good news, and excuse me going on about me, me, me (whoops, this is what I do anyway, isn’t it?). My hip doesn’t hurt at all and I put my trousers on effortlessly standing up (yeah, laugh, you’ll be old one day) and didn’t have to think about the height I drew my leg up to. I’m not sure what’s gone right, and I’m not assuming it’ll stay like that, but I’m certainly going to appreciate it while it lasts.

A bit of work in the greenhouse before it’s too hot, then back to the computer, then babysitting Pugsley this afternoon. I must fit in a visit to the town for veggies and exercise, too. And maybe forty winks, later?

Z is taller!!(!)

I ventured into heels today. They weren’t high, two inches or less, but I haven’t been able to wear even that height for months and it was such a pleasure. I didn’t limp more than usual and it didn’t hurt and I felt like me again. I’m short enough as it is, and wearing flat shoes all the time makes me feel glum. It’s like – well. whatever your regular finishing touch is; perfume or mascara or, I don’t know, trimming your beard or wearing pants or something. I may pay for it tomorrow, but I don’t care.

At the committee meeting wot I chair, this morning, there was a matter that I did, admittedly, push through – not going to go into it all for the protection of the innocent, but it was for good reasons. The person who had raised the matter has written to me (cc-ing the secretary) saying that I was hostile. Oh dear. I thought I was merely forceful. I have, of course, apologised profusely, said I didn’t feel in the least hostile and am upset (I am) to find he found me so, and explained why I acted as I did. I hope he’s mollified – I didn’t retract what I said, but accepted that he felt overridden. I like to be told though – if he hadn’t said anything, I wouldn’t have known how he felt, so it’s better that he did. I must remember to tone down, however – I know I can be overemphatic on occasion, but usually people are amused rather than upset by that and I merely embarrass myself rather than others.

Oh well. At least I have my luggage back. As I went on into London on the way home from Madrid, friends took my suitcase home with them and, not having a car, I didn’t go and fetch it and S brought it to today’s meeting. Almost afraid to open it – a couple of weeks for used clothes to stew isn’t a jolly thought.

I went to have my hair cut today, and mused on names. There were four staff members there; and it occurred to me that each of their names was absolutely typical for their age – Susan, in her 50s, Deborah, in her 40s, Joanne, just 30 and Laura, 20-something. Not that any of those names are not used at any time, but that some names reach a peak of popularity over a few years – when I was at school there were 4 Andrews out of a dozen or so boys, and as many Elizabeths*; though as we were all born in the year of the Queen’s accession or coronation, that is not surprising.

* Among the girls, need I state?