Memories.

I do find that memories can be triggered by the strangest things.  The other day, as I was setting off from the car park to walk in Stanmer woods, a family was just arriving back at their car.  One of the family was a boy of about 8 or 9 - wearing long trousers.  That was what started this train of thought - this train of thought that will, in all probability, become circuitous.

Seeing that boy made me think of how things have changed.  When I was that age, no boy under 11 or 12 wore long trousers in normal circumstances.  I don't suppose any boy of that age possessed any long trousers, anyway.  And nobody wore jeans; indeed, I doubt one could even buy jeans in the England of the early 1950s.

I was reminded of my first pair of long trousers.  I must have been 12 or 13 before my mother bought them - at (I think) Featherstones, a men's outfitters in Rochester High Street.  I can't remember why we went to Rochester to buy them, but I suppose it is possible that Featherstones were the stockists of my school uniform and as these trousers were for school wear, it made sense to my mother.  I was very self-conscious when I donned those trousers at home later that day and was told to go next door to show my grandmother.

I said those trousers were for school wear, but that meant that they would be worn at any time.  It was considered quite normal for boys to wear their school cap (or Cub cap) whenever leaving the house and I can distinctly remember wearing my school blazer (it was a beautiful purple jacket) and cap when on holiday.

~~~~~

As well as poppies, there are great swathes of ox-eye daisies in bloom.

Popeye can still have his spinach . . .

. . . and Olive her oil.

I don't recall ever eating at a restaurant where I was presented with a bowl of olive oil in which to dip my bread.  Apparently, this is done in plenty of restaurants on the continent, but not - as far as I can recall - at any where I have eaten.  On the other hand, I have often eaten in restaurants where an unmarked bottle of olive oil was placed on the table for sprinkling over pizza.

It was planned by the European Commission that this practice should be banned from next year in order to protect consumers from being served any old inferior oil.  It seems the proposal was to be adopted simply because there were too few countries that opposed it.  Many - including, I am sorry to report, the United Kingdom - simply abstained.  Under the proposals, olive oil would have to be served in labelled bottles (presumably still sealed) so that people would know they were not being fobbed off with rubbish oil.

Fortunately, after strong public reaction, the proposal has been withdrawn.  But it now takes its place in the Daft Legislation Hall of Fame, along with other European directives such as:

• Bananas must not bend abnormally.
• Bananas should be at least 5.5in long and 1.05in round.
• Peaches below 2.2in diameter must not be sold between July and October.
• Carrots must be 0.75in wide, apart from baby carrots. 

I think all of these directives have been rescinded as well.  At least, I hope they have.  But that is a flavour of what it is like to live in a country which is a member of the European Union and ruled by unelected bureaucrats in Brussels.

~~~~~

And another thing.

It is still possible to have one's milk delivered to the door here in England.  It comes in glass bottles with, as far as I have been able to ascertain, no label of any sort.  I have no problem with that personally, but I do find it passing strange that this practice is permitted.  Given the nanny state we now live in, that is.

~~~~~

A roadside scene in France.

Au revoir pendant une semaine

Demain on partirons pour la belle France. J'ai laissé quelques messages planifiées de façon à ce que vous me manquez pas trop. A bientôt.

Reading labels

I suppose if I had followed the advice given to me and my fellow students (although in those far-off days we were called pupils) by the master who taught religious instruction I might have read the back of the car park ticket I mentioned yesterday.  He (our RI teacher) told us we should read everything that came into the house, even if was only the back of the corn flake packet.  I'm sure that if he had been teaching nowadays his advice might be a little different.  Back then I'm sure we didn't receive the avalanche of rubbish that comes through the door nowadays advertising double glazing, solar panels, Chinese and Indian takeaways, pizzas - even travelling knife grinders.  There is just no way I am going to sit down and read every word of the menu for a Chinese takeaway, from the egg noodles through the chop suey and on to the free prawn crackers if your order is more than 25 pence.  Make that £25.  Nor will I read the 78 varieties of toppings available on the pizzas, which they think are the best in town.

That said, we (that is the Old Bat and I) have taken to reading more carefully the labels on foodstuffs since the quack told me I had a 30% chance of getting heart disease and I needed to reduce the level of my cholesterol.  And so it was that I was idling glancing at the nutrition guide on a bottle of semi-skimmed milk.  "Less than 2% fat" it proclaimed in a prominent position on the front of the label.  The label on the bottle of whole milk standing right beside it proclaimed "Less than 3.6% fat".

(Yes, we buy both semi-skimmed milk - for me - and whole milk - for the Old Bat.)

Then I looked at the small print.  On the semi-skimmed: "Typical values per 100ml - Fat 3.6g of which saturates 2.2g".  On the whole milk: "Typical values per 100ml - Fat 3.6g of which saturates 2.3g".

Eh? Should there not be a greater difference?

It was quite obvious, even to me, that the supermarket had a problem with the labels on their semi-skimmed milk.  Presumably, all the labels for that size bottle - the 2 pint bottle - had been printed incorrectly.   I rang the customer help line to let them know.  I'm not entirely convinced that the young lady I spoke to fully appreciated the reason for my call.  She insisted on telling me the nutritional values of semi-skimmed milk despite my assurances that I wasn't greatly interested in knowing what they were (or even are, as I don't suppose there has been any alteration since yesterday) and that the reason for my call was to point out that Asda had a problem.

Granted, this is not exactly earth-shaking, but I know that there are an increasing number of people who absolutely have to rely on buying products that meet certain guidelines - gluten free, for example - and they really do need to read the labels.  But if this label is incorrect, how many more are?

Later:  I have received a phone call from Asda saying that the message has been passed to their buyers but they don't work at weekends so I will hear nothing more until next wee.  By which time I will be in France.

~~~~~

Another picture of that field of poppies.

Dropped!

Yes, me!  Can you believe it?  I was dropped from the team!  Me, who was the highest scorer for the team last year.  Well, I might have been - I can't actually remember the details but I know I did score pretty well with my three balls in one game.  But all the same . . .  Well, it hurt to be told I wasn't wanted.  At least, it would have hurt had I been told but I wasn't.  Not in so many words.  The team members' names were announced - and mine wasn't among them.

Last night was held the final event in this year's Zone Olympics for Lions Clubs in our area.  This was the skittles match in which each club could enter one team of six players.  I have to admit that in previous years, Brighton's team has not exactly outclassed the opposition.  In fact, we have usually done not at all well, so perhaps it was time to make a few changes.  Our team last night included on two players from last year, but if my memory serves me correctly (and that doesn't happen so very often nowadays) one of those players achieved the distinction last year of winning the wooden spoon for the lowest personal score of the evening.

But despite having been dropped, I did get a game.  One club had nobody there so we made up a team for them from the spectators.  Ironically, our team of misfits actually won the event - which was my way of thumbing my nose at Brighton's selection committee (of one).  Having said that, the Brighton team did manage a pretty creditable third place - and that was more than enough to make us winners of the John Wilkinson Memorial Trophy as we had already won the shove ha'penny, the pool, shuffleboard, quiz and 10-pin bowling.

All in all, a very pleasant evening with an excellent buffet and good company.  There was certainly plenty of friendly banter flying about.

~~~~~

As I walked across 39 Acres during the week I noticed a field with a dense display of poppies - the same field where I photographed the display four years ago.  I haven't managed to get up to the field yet, so this was then:

I could have kicked myself

I mentioned earlier this week how the Old Bat and I lunched at the pub at the Devil's Dyke and I paid £2 to park.  Having expended that large amount of cash (which, incidentally, was donated by the Old Bat as I had no change - but I did pay for lunch) I returned to the Dyke to walk the dog later that afternoon as the ticket was still valid.  It was only on the following day that I removed the ticket from the car - and that is when I could have kicked myself.  It was only then that I noticed the ticket was in two parts with a counterfoil which could be torn off along the perforations.  On the back of the counterfoil it was announced that the cost of the ticket would be reimbursed when spending £10 or more in the pub!

Maybe that will teach me to be more observant in future.  But I doubt it.

~~~~~

When walking in the park one day last week - or maybe it was the week before.  But whenever - I was chatting to a fellow dog-walker who suggested we go to look at "his" Judas tree.  He called it his tree as he had paid for it.  Quite a few people had responded to a plea from the council to cover the cost of new trees they wanted to plant.  I had never before heard of a Judas tree and, although this one is still young and small, was mightily impressed.  It has very attractive, deep pink flowers which come out before the leaves - some of them directly from the trunk of the tree.

Quite how the tree acquired its name is a matter of conjecture.  It is a native of the eastern Mediterranean, so some say the name is a corruption of Judea, where it is found.  Others say that the name was given because it was from one of these trees that Judas Iscariot hanged himself.

Not a variety I had heard of before.  As my old granny would have said, "You learn something new every day, then die and forget the lot".

Another worry

We had a Lions' meeting last night.  In fact, there were two: a meeting of the Housing Society management committee followed by a business meeting of the club.  I think I managed to behave reasonably well at the management committee but I do get bothered by business meetings of the Lions Club.

It's not always my fault.  At least, I don't see it as being always my fault.  But I haven't said what it is that bothers me.  We will gloss over the unkind comments made by various undesirables

on yesterday's post in which I said that I find it difficult to make small talk at receptions and similar occasions.  What bothers me is that at Lions' meetings I say too much.  There is seldom an item for discussion on which I have no opinion, and I always seem to make my opinion known whereas others manage to say almost nothing during the entire meeting.

But, as I say, I don't see it as being always my fault.  Sometimes it's because I am asked directly what I think about a proposition.  Whether that happens because I am known for having strong opinions or whether it is because I am one of the longer-serving members of the club and am therefore seen as a sort of eminence grise, I could not say.  Other times we sit in silence after a proposition has been made or a question posed.  Somebody has to start the discussion and that somebody, far too often, is me.  Like last night.  One of the Lions had asked for money for something (just what is immaterial) and we sat there until, finally, I asked how much he wanted (he hadn't said).  Anybody could - indeed, should - have thought of that question, but, as usual, it was me who raised my voice.

It sometimes becomes quite embarrassing, but I wonder how long meetings would last if I didn't speak up?

~~~~~

Yesterday we saw the village of Poynings from the top of the Downs.  The cricket field lies just outside the village.  Here it is.