OK, so we got back to Brighton yesterday evening looking a bit like a pair of boiled lobsters. It was so good to see some sun while we were in France that we both overdid sitting and just occasionally working in the courtyard. This was not at all what we had expected so neither of us had packed shorts and we had no sun cream. Could have bought some, I suppose, but didn't think of it. Anyway, it was quite enough hassle just driving to the boulangerie every morning without making diversions.
Now, of course, comes the reckoning. Piles of washing, seemingly dozens of letters and emails to deal with, I must remember to fetch the dog from kennels, there's shopping to be done, and so the list goes on. (I'm not really complaining. After all, I brought all this on myself so there's no point anyway.)
I set the computer in the car back to zero at the start of the week. On our return it showed we had travelled 1035 miles and the fuel consumption was an average 50.7 to the gallon. Granted, much of that 1035 miles was spent cruising on motorways at 70mph (according to the speedometer, so probably nearer to 66) but we did have a couple of horrendous traffic jams - both in England on our way to the shuttle under the Channel. What usually takes an hour and a half took two and a half hour so we missed the train we were booked on. Even I don't allow for that much delay!
The wine rack looks a lot healthier this morning.
Must get on.
Tuesday, 2 July 2013
Monday, 1 July 2013
More about Nicholas
What I am about to relate dates from the few months after we had completed the purchase of Les Lavandes
and while I was renovating the house, spending alternate weeks in
France and England. I ate at the restaurant in the village at least
once each week I was in France.
Nicholas has a style completely his own: untidy in dress, seemingly forgetful and harassed, scurrying here and there. The problem is no so much that Nicholas has a poor memory, it's more a case of being disorganised and having too many other things on his mind. When he comes to the table to take the order he has usually forgotten either the order pad or, more likely, his pen. He then has to work out where he was when he last used the pen, but even when it has been located at the back of the bottles of spirits behind the bar or in a flower pot in the garden, the chances are that it won't write. I have taken to carrying a spare pen in my pocket when we eat there.
One day Nicholas was almost jumping up and down in excitement when I arrived. He couldn't wait to show me his latest acquisition, a set of plastic flower pots complete with plastic flowers for use as table decorations. He explained that he had bought them at a village I had never heard of. The name sounded something like Nasal. Nicholas put me right: Noz was a new retail outlet that had recently opened in a nearby town.
‘I'm going there tomorrow morning,' Nicholas told me. ‘Would you like to come with me? I'll pick you up at nine o'clock.'
It was difficult to refuse him without appearing boorish, so I agreed, albeit less than wholeheartedly. That said, I rather expected that the proposal would have been forgotten by the morning so I was more than a little surprised to see a car stop outside the house on the dot of nine o'clock.
We drove to a down-at-heel industrial estate where the most dilapidated building of all bore a sign proclaiming in letters three feet high, "NOZ". The store was a cavernous warehouse and looked like an enormous jumble sale or a refugee clothing centre. Just inside was a counter loaded with socks, some in pairs, some lonely singles. There were green socks, blue socks, flourescent pink socks, and even one pair of red and white striped socks. Next was a section containing hundreds, or possible even thousands, of adjustable spanners about three inches long. They looked as though they were made of plastic, but when I picked one up I found it was actually metal. Exactly why one would want an adjustable spanner three inches long was beyond me. In any case, they looked pretty fragile and I reckoned they would break the first time they were used.
And so it went on: boxes of chocolates of a make unknown to me, just inside their best-before date; very large bras in canary yellow or leopard-skin-print; a rack of X-rated Spanish videos; sprays of red, plastic delphiniums (red delphiniums?). Trash, from front to back and from side to side. I took a chance and picked up a box of chocolates. (I tried one when I got home and threw the rest away.) As I joined the checkout queue, Nicholas rushed up, proudly flourishing four small bricklayer's trowels.
‘Just what I need for serving tarts,' he exclaimed.
I didn't have the heart to mock him, but I suspect Florence drew the line at using bricklayers' tools in the restaurant as I have never seen them in use.
Nicholas has a style completely his own: untidy in dress, seemingly forgetful and harassed, scurrying here and there. The problem is no so much that Nicholas has a poor memory, it's more a case of being disorganised and having too many other things on his mind. When he comes to the table to take the order he has usually forgotten either the order pad or, more likely, his pen. He then has to work out where he was when he last used the pen, but even when it has been located at the back of the bottles of spirits behind the bar or in a flower pot in the garden, the chances are that it won't write. I have taken to carrying a spare pen in my pocket when we eat there.
One day Nicholas was almost jumping up and down in excitement when I arrived. He couldn't wait to show me his latest acquisition, a set of plastic flower pots complete with plastic flowers for use as table decorations. He explained that he had bought them at a village I had never heard of. The name sounded something like Nasal. Nicholas put me right: Noz was a new retail outlet that had recently opened in a nearby town.
‘I'm going there tomorrow morning,' Nicholas told me. ‘Would you like to come with me? I'll pick you up at nine o'clock.'
It was difficult to refuse him without appearing boorish, so I agreed, albeit less than wholeheartedly. That said, I rather expected that the proposal would have been forgotten by the morning so I was more than a little surprised to see a car stop outside the house on the dot of nine o'clock.
We drove to a down-at-heel industrial estate where the most dilapidated building of all bore a sign proclaiming in letters three feet high, "NOZ". The store was a cavernous warehouse and looked like an enormous jumble sale or a refugee clothing centre. Just inside was a counter loaded with socks, some in pairs, some lonely singles. There were green socks, blue socks, flourescent pink socks, and even one pair of red and white striped socks. Next was a section containing hundreds, or possible even thousands, of adjustable spanners about three inches long. They looked as though they were made of plastic, but when I picked one up I found it was actually metal. Exactly why one would want an adjustable spanner three inches long was beyond me. In any case, they looked pretty fragile and I reckoned they would break the first time they were used.
And so it went on: boxes of chocolates of a make unknown to me, just inside their best-before date; very large bras in canary yellow or leopard-skin-print; a rack of X-rated Spanish videos; sprays of red, plastic delphiniums (red delphiniums?). Trash, from front to back and from side to side. I took a chance and picked up a box of chocolates. (I tried one when I got home and threw the rest away.) As I joined the checkout queue, Nicholas rushed up, proudly flourishing four small bricklayer's trowels.
‘Just what I need for serving tarts,' he exclaimed.
I didn't have the heart to mock him, but I suspect Florence drew the line at using bricklayers' tools in the restaurant as I have never seen them in use.
Sunday, 30 June 2013
Two coffees, please
I am breaking one of my cardinal rules today and re-posting something that originally appeared nearly two years ago on another blog.
I do like French coffee. Ask for a coffee in a French bar or restaurant and what is automatically brought to you is an espresso; small, dark, strong and (one hopes) hot. There is one bar we used to stop at regularly where I became aware of a bit of a scam over coffee and Englishmen. I ordered a coffee in exactly the same way as every Frenchman does - "Un café, s'il vous plait" - expecting the usual espresso. What came was un double, a large (double-size) espresso at twice the price. This happened several times before I twigged and insisted on being served a normal café.
The Old Bat likes her coffee white - which leads to several different complications. The first doesn't really matter, but we do find it amusing when her request for café au lait (coffee with milk) is repeated by the waiter or waitress as café crême (coffee with cream). She actually prefers milk to cream in her coffee but this doesn't matter as she is invariably served with milk. We have never fathomed why it is that in some bars, white coffee is café au lait while in others it is café crême.
The next question isn't always asked: does she want her milk hot or cold? It is always brought in a separate jug to be added as she wishes, but sometimes it is brought hot and sometimes cold - and sometimes, albeit rarely, she is given the choice. In our favourite restaurant the proprietor remembers that she prefers her milk cold, but he always makes a point of checking that is what she wants - especially in cold weather when she does sometimes ask for hot milk.
The really awkward complication arises in our village restaurant. What size cup does she want? In most places the answer is accepted readily: small. A standard espresso is served with its accompanying jug of milk. Except at Le Fourneau. Nicholas, bless him, complicates matters by asking is the size is normal, medium or large. The problem is that sometimes his 'normal' is the standard espresso but sometimes it is un double. A request for a 'small' rather throws him, even if the request is spoken in French.
Which reminds me of another complication that arose while we were in the Auvergne. It was while we were on our way to the source of the Loire and we decided to stop at a roadside bar for a coffee. There was a man behind the bar of about my age (ie getting on a bit) to whom I posed my request for two coffees, one white, one black. I spoke in French, as usual, in the expectation that my request would be understood despite my English accent.
[Going off at a tangent: I am told that the French consider French spoken with an English accent to be sexy, just as we think of English spoken with a French accent.]
So, I expected to be understood - but I wasn't. So I repeated the order. Still the Gallic shrug and a puzzled expression. I tried using slightly different words. 'Two drinks,' (waving two fingers), 'one black coffee,' (waving one finger), 'and one coffee with milk,' (waving one finger again). At this, the barman disappeared and returned with a lady (his daughter?). I repeated my request for two coffees, one white, one black, in my very best French with a sexy English accent. The lady turned to the man and said exactly the same as I had (but without the sexy English accent) and, wonder of wonders, he understood!
That is the only time I have had difficulty in making myself understood when ordering coffee.
I do like French coffee. Ask for a coffee in a French bar or restaurant and what is automatically brought to you is an espresso; small, dark, strong and (one hopes) hot. There is one bar we used to stop at regularly where I became aware of a bit of a scam over coffee and Englishmen. I ordered a coffee in exactly the same way as every Frenchman does - "Un café, s'il vous plait" - expecting the usual espresso. What came was un double, a large (double-size) espresso at twice the price. This happened several times before I twigged and insisted on being served a normal café.
The Old Bat likes her coffee white - which leads to several different complications. The first doesn't really matter, but we do find it amusing when her request for café au lait (coffee with milk) is repeated by the waiter or waitress as café crême (coffee with cream). She actually prefers milk to cream in her coffee but this doesn't matter as she is invariably served with milk. We have never fathomed why it is that in some bars, white coffee is café au lait while in others it is café crême.
The next question isn't always asked: does she want her milk hot or cold? It is always brought in a separate jug to be added as she wishes, but sometimes it is brought hot and sometimes cold - and sometimes, albeit rarely, she is given the choice. In our favourite restaurant the proprietor remembers that she prefers her milk cold, but he always makes a point of checking that is what she wants - especially in cold weather when she does sometimes ask for hot milk.
The really awkward complication arises in our village restaurant. What size cup does she want? In most places the answer is accepted readily: small. A standard espresso is served with its accompanying jug of milk. Except at Le Fourneau. Nicholas, bless him, complicates matters by asking is the size is normal, medium or large. The problem is that sometimes his 'normal' is the standard espresso but sometimes it is un double. A request for a 'small' rather throws him, even if the request is spoken in French.
Which reminds me of another complication that arose while we were in the Auvergne. It was while we were on our way to the source of the Loire and we decided to stop at a roadside bar for a coffee. There was a man behind the bar of about my age (ie getting on a bit) to whom I posed my request for two coffees, one white, one black. I spoke in French, as usual, in the expectation that my request would be understood despite my English accent.
[Going off at a tangent: I am told that the French consider French spoken with an English accent to be sexy, just as we think of English spoken with a French accent.]
So, I expected to be understood - but I wasn't. So I repeated the order. Still the Gallic shrug and a puzzled expression. I tried using slightly different words. 'Two drinks,' (waving two fingers), 'one black coffee,' (waving one finger), 'and one coffee with milk,' (waving one finger again). At this, the barman disappeared and returned with a lady (his daughter?). I repeated my request for two coffees, one white, one black, in my very best French with a sexy English accent. The lady turned to the man and said exactly the same as I had (but without the sexy English accent) and, wonder of wonders, he understood!
That is the only time I have had difficulty in making myself understood when ordering coffee.
Saturday, 29 June 2013
Another of my favourites
Robert Goddard has long been my favourite author. I was travelling to Plymouth by train years ago for a weekend with the Joint Services Interrogation Unit to which I was attached and was reading a Wilbur Smith adventure novel. A man sitting opposite asked if I had read Goddard. When I told him I had not, he recommended the books to me, suggesting I should first read In Pale Battalions. I did, and was very quickly hooked. Nowadays, when I suggest to people that they might enjoy the books, I always make the same recommendation: read In Pale Battalions first.
Back when I started reading his books, Mr Goddard had only about three published. He has since brought out one a year, each one of which I have bought, and the next is due out on 4th July. The synopsis/introduction I have seen is
~~~~~
Meanwhile, this is probably where we will be eating tonight, the restaurant in our village in France. The patron's wife, Florence, does the cooking and very good it is too, while Nicholas sees to front of house. He has been described as a combination of Basil Fawlty and Manuel, which is not all that far from the truth! A cabaret in his own right, but I do have to get myself into the right frame of mind to enjoy it.
Back when I started reading his books, Mr Goddard had only about three published. He has since brought out one a year, each one of which I have bought, and the next is due out on 4th July. The synopsis/introduction I have seen is
1919. The eyes of the world are on Paris, where statesmen, diplomats and politicians have gathered to discuss the fate of half the world’s nations in the aftermath of the Great War. A horde of journalists, spies and opportunists have also gathered in the city and the last thing the British diplomatic community needs at such a time is the mysterious death of a senior member of their delegation. So, when Sir Henry Maxted falls from the roof of his mistress’s apartment building in unexplained circumstances, their first instinct is to suppress all suspicious aspects of the event...I shall be placing my order as soon as I get back to my computer.
~~~~~
Meanwhile, this is probably where we will be eating tonight, the restaurant in our village in France. The patron's wife, Florence, does the cooking and very good it is too, while Nicholas sees to front of house. He has been described as a combination of Basil Fawlty and Manuel, which is not all that far from the truth! A cabaret in his own right, but I do have to get myself into the right frame of mind to enjoy it.
Friday, 28 June 2013
Local boy made good
One of the most popular authors these days - in Brighton, anyway - is local boy Peter James. This has become especially so since he started writing the Detective Superintendent Roy Grace series, all the books in which are set in Brighton. His earlier novels, however, are not to my taste. The latest Roy Grace book was published earlier this month and, as usual, my good friend Tony was given a copy by his son as a Fathers' Day gift. When he has read them, he lends them to us. The Old Bat enjoys them as much as I do.
We are at present in France, where we manage to do a lot of reading, but Tony had not finished the latest (Dead Man's Time) in time to lend it to us before we came away. However, he just happened to be on Brighton station last Saturday and saw a young lady giving away copies. Yes, giving away! Tony (who has a bit of a thing about the Old Bat) got himself in position to be given a copy which he promptly brought round and presented to her ladyship.
The reason behind the giving-away became apparent when we looked at a flyer inside the book. It appeared to be a collaboration between Visit Brighton and Southern Railway in an effort to attract more tourists to the city - though why they were giving the books away to people who were already here is something of a puzzle.
There is a new, interactive web site on which one can discover more about Roy James' Brighton at www.peterjamesbrighton.com - although when I tried to use it last Sunday it was more inactive than interactive. Possibly it was not working due to large numbers of visitors and things might have calmed down a bit by now.
~~~~~
If I am correct, the foxgloves will be in bloom in the lanes around the village.
We are at present in France, where we manage to do a lot of reading, but Tony had not finished the latest (Dead Man's Time) in time to lend it to us before we came away. However, he just happened to be on Brighton station last Saturday and saw a young lady giving away copies. Yes, giving away! Tony (who has a bit of a thing about the Old Bat) got himself in position to be given a copy which he promptly brought round and presented to her ladyship.
The reason behind the giving-away became apparent when we looked at a flyer inside the book. It appeared to be a collaboration between Visit Brighton and Southern Railway in an effort to attract more tourists to the city - though why they were giving the books away to people who were already here is something of a puzzle.
There is a new, interactive web site on which one can discover more about Roy James' Brighton at www.peterjamesbrighton.com - although when I tried to use it last Sunday it was more inactive than interactive. Possibly it was not working due to large numbers of visitors and things might have calmed down a bit by now.
~~~~~
If I am correct, the foxgloves will be in bloom in the lanes around the village.
Thursday, 27 June 2013
A few firsts
The first film I remember seeing at the cinema was The Cruel Sea. I was 11, or very nearly so, and at school in Ventnor, on the Isle of Wight. This was a residential school run by an order of nuns. I have often wondered what it was that persuaded the nuns to take children of that age to the cinema to see a war film. Even now, 60 years on, I still think it was one of the best war films ever made. And I have seen a few of that genre: Reach for the Sky, The Dambusters, Yangtse Incident, The Longest Day, Bridge on the River Kwai inter alia.
Which leads nicely into the first record I ever bought. But before that, the first 45rpm record, which was the theme from the film Bridge on the River Kwai. I had bought a few 78rpm records previously as that was all we could play for some time. My very first record would have been on the Embassy label, Woolworth's own. It was either Carolina Moon or Dream, Dream, Dream. Being on the Embassy labels, they would both have been cover versions.
And then there was my first car, a pre-war Ford which was 25 years old when I bought it for the princely sum of £20. But hey! It went. I managed to get 60 miles an hour out of it on one occasion - or that was what the speedometer showed. It was on a downhill stretch of road with a following wind. I drove that car from Brighton (Hove, actually) to Coventry to see the new cathedral, slept in the car (a distinctly uncomfortable experience) and then came back down Britain's first - and then only - motorway. As I tootled along in the left-hand lane, a Jaguar passed me in the middle lane as though I was stationary and a Rolls Royce passed him in the outside lane as though he was stationary!
I had to stop at garages frequently with that car - to fill up with oil and check the petrol; it guzzled oil furiously. There was a time when I miscalculated and there was a loud clatter from the engine. A big-end had gone. I managed to get the car towed home (a story all of its own) and I and the lad next door stripped the engine down and rebuilt it.
I had my first RTA in that car. Driving back to Brighton down the A23, I braked as I approached traffic lights. But nothing happened and I hit the car in front, which hooked itself onto the car in front of that. They had to be separated by a garage but I was able to drive home - very carefully. Fortunately, nobody was hurt. The police did try to do me for something - probably driving without due care or some such - and I had to prove to them that the brakes were working OK. I told them the brakes had been seen to and they wanted to see the receipt from the garage but I had done the work myself. In the end, they just gave up.
~~~~~
And here is my first car - with me working on it.
Which leads nicely into the first record I ever bought. But before that, the first 45rpm record, which was the theme from the film Bridge on the River Kwai. I had bought a few 78rpm records previously as that was all we could play for some time. My very first record would have been on the Embassy label, Woolworth's own. It was either Carolina Moon or Dream, Dream, Dream. Being on the Embassy labels, they would both have been cover versions.
And then there was my first car, a pre-war Ford which was 25 years old when I bought it for the princely sum of £20. But hey! It went. I managed to get 60 miles an hour out of it on one occasion - or that was what the speedometer showed. It was on a downhill stretch of road with a following wind. I drove that car from Brighton (Hove, actually) to Coventry to see the new cathedral, slept in the car (a distinctly uncomfortable experience) and then came back down Britain's first - and then only - motorway. As I tootled along in the left-hand lane, a Jaguar passed me in the middle lane as though I was stationary and a Rolls Royce passed him in the outside lane as though he was stationary!
I had to stop at garages frequently with that car - to fill up with oil and check the petrol; it guzzled oil furiously. There was a time when I miscalculated and there was a loud clatter from the engine. A big-end had gone. I managed to get the car towed home (a story all of its own) and I and the lad next door stripped the engine down and rebuilt it.
I had my first RTA in that car. Driving back to Brighton down the A23, I braked as I approached traffic lights. But nothing happened and I hit the car in front, which hooked itself onto the car in front of that. They had to be separated by a garage but I was able to drive home - very carefully. Fortunately, nobody was hurt. The police did try to do me for something - probably driving without due care or some such - and I had to prove to them that the brakes were working OK. I told them the brakes had been seen to and they wanted to see the receipt from the garage but I had done the work myself. In the end, they just gave up.
~~~~~
And here is my first car - with me working on it.
Wednesday, 26 June 2013
Memory? Or imagination?
First (or any early) memories can be both fascinating and dubious. Fascinating because when one reaches my age, they refer back to a time when the world was quite different. And dubious becasue one can never be entirely sure that they really are memories and not figments of one's imagination based on what one has been told.
My first memory dates back to the dark days of World War II. I recall lying in bed watching the searchlight beams as they criss-crossed the night sky searching out German bombers. And then just after the war, the large pits that had been dug on the ridge of the North Downs where we quite often went for walks. These were tank traps, dug to stop tanks making progress in the event of an invasion. Are those true memories, I wonder?
Another early memory is from another occasion in the years immediately after the war, possibly about 1947. I was probably about 5 and my brother about 3. Our mother had rented a place somewhere on the Isle of Thanet - Ramsgate or Broadstairs, I think. The weather (I was told) was not good. In fact, it was pretty awful - not that I remember. My memory is of seeing my brother standing at the top of the staircase moments before he fell down it.
I was talking to a friend the other day about early memories and saying how interesting our children and grandchildren would find them. We both agreed that we really should make the time to set down at least some of them. But that is the difficulty - making the time. There always seems to be something either more important or more urgent that needs doing. One of these days, maybe . . .
~~~~~
This picture of me, my brother and my mother may well have been taken in 1948 as the empty deck chair suggests my father was with us. My brother and I are wearing dreadful knitted swimming costumes.
My first memory dates back to the dark days of World War II. I recall lying in bed watching the searchlight beams as they criss-crossed the night sky searching out German bombers. And then just after the war, the large pits that had been dug on the ridge of the North Downs where we quite often went for walks. These were tank traps, dug to stop tanks making progress in the event of an invasion. Are those true memories, I wonder?
Another early memory is from another occasion in the years immediately after the war, possibly about 1947. I was probably about 5 and my brother about 3. Our mother had rented a place somewhere on the Isle of Thanet - Ramsgate or Broadstairs, I think. The weather (I was told) was not good. In fact, it was pretty awful - not that I remember. My memory is of seeing my brother standing at the top of the staircase moments before he fell down it.
I was talking to a friend the other day about early memories and saying how interesting our children and grandchildren would find them. We both agreed that we really should make the time to set down at least some of them. But that is the difficulty - making the time. There always seems to be something either more important or more urgent that needs doing. One of these days, maybe . . .
~~~~~
This picture of me, my brother and my mother may well have been taken in 1948 as the empty deck chair suggests my father was with us. My brother and I are wearing dreadful knitted swimming costumes.
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