Gardens gorse and jam

Tuesday 31 January 2012

I’ve done it, I’ve written every day for a whole 31 days. So what am I going to write about today?

Some days I don’t know what I will write until I get started. Today is no exception.

The cousin we visited over the weekend said that when our mutual grandparents lived in Doddinghurst  Granddad had a huge garden. I told her that he gardened in NZ too. I remember him down on his knees with a large round garden sieve trying, unsuccessfully, to eliminate oxalis. The small plant that is cultivated here as a pretty flower is a darn nuisance back home. Across the road from us is a small roadside garden is a prickly yellow flowered shrub called gorse. Every time we walk past it I have a little chuckle to myself at this sickly looking plant that is being cosseted is a nuisance weed back home.  

The house in Tama Street was on about a quarter of an acre .Divided almost equally, if I remember rightly, by a high hedge. Within the huge clump of bamboo at the right end of the hedge was the dumping area for the mown grass. Always warm and sweet smelling, it was lovely and soft to climb up on. Granddad’s shed was at the opposite end of the hedge. His sanctum, that smelled of birdseed. Here were his pride and joy, in the form of raucous budgies, breeding birds.  One of them, Noddy, became a family pet. Patient as a saint, Granddad had taught Noddy to wolf whistle and to say who’s a pretty boy then. He was a pretty boy who could give you a nasty nip if he was teased too much.

At the very back of the section was a huge lemon tree that was always loaded. Well that is until someone sneaked over the back fence, picked every one and made off with them. Granddad was furious. Lemons that provided the juice to top Mum’s yummy pancakes. Try as I might mine never taste as good. Granddad also grew the bushes that produced  sour tiny purple beads that Mum turned into the scrummiest royal purple treat. . Filling the house with the warm sweet syrupy smell of blackcurrant jam. Yum

more food for thought...

Monday  30 January 2012

A very chilly start to this morning, just 1 degree outside when we left for our walk down to the station. No frost on the ground though. I forgot  to take my gloves with me when went for a walk at lunch time and boy were my hands cold. 

There was a programme on tonight called Ration Book Britain. It was about the affect severe food shortages that Britain faced during the war, and right up until 1954. I Didn’t know until I saw the programme that ration books were still being used up until then. I cannot imagine how hard it was to feed a growing family, let alone clothe them on the meagre portion allocated to each family member.  Despite the sever austerity measures, according to the programme, after the war British children were healthier and grew taller after the war than before. 

It really made me think about how lucky we re to be able to wander down to the supermarket and just about buy whatever we want whenever we want. It also made me think about how careless we are as a society about food wastage.  The supermarket labels the fruit and veg with sell by dates. Why cannot they simply just look at the produce and weed out the ones that are no longer fresh. Supermarkets aren’t the only ones. In a golden arches store the other day the people at the table next to us left almost a whole burger uneaten, which was of course thrown away. Surely when they offered it they knew they wouldn’t be able to eat it all. Is it a case of as Mum used to say that their eyes were bigger than their stomach or was it pure greed? The same is true when we go to the movies and see people coming in with huge boxes of popcorn and giant sized cups of coke. Apart from the fact that when we leave it looks like most of the popcorn winds up on the floor I think about the amount of sugar they are consuming in the coke. No wonder we are in the midst of a diabetic epidemic.

food for thought..

Sunday 29 January 2012

Woke up to a foggy day and it is quite cold. More so here in Colchester than in London I think. But the forecast for the rest of the week in London is or daytime temperatures not much about 3 degrees. Brrrrrrrr

I was thinking the other day just what a metropolitan cry London is. While waiting at Canada Water to catch the train home a dark skinned chap walked past talking on his phone in  language that sounded like it would have been more at home in Africa. Then there was the group of giggly girls chatting away in what I thought I recognised as French. Next to them a young asian mum called to her child in her own language. Standing on my right was a man reading a paper that looked like it was in German.

The same is true of the place that I work. With me in the lift to go up to the twelfth floor to get a real coffee could be Italian, German, Polish, American and even the occasional Englishman.  

They come to London from every imaginable country all looking for work. There was an article in the paper just recently complaining about the number of non-British working in the food industry here. Go into any coffee bar and it is unlikely that you will be served by anyone English born. On Wednesday before the movies we had a quick eat at a gourmet burger bar that asked if we wanted to make a donation on the bill to save the Kiwi!  Yes that’s right save the Kiwi. And on the menu was a good old kiwi burger complete with beetroot and pineapple. When I asked why the South American chap who served us told us that The Company originated in New Zealand.

Colchester...

Saturday 28 January 2012

Yesterday evening after work we caught the train over to Colchester. A short hour ride away from London. By fast train that is. So by half past seven we had found out accommodation, just a short walk away from the station. A bit basic, but the bed was comfy,  and there was plenty of hot water in the shower. We slept fairly well too, despite the fact that the room is on the road side. Thank heavens for double glazing.

This morning we found our way to cousin Sheila’s by bus. When we first came over here we found it is a bit too difficult and expensive to own a car. As well as road tax, insurance, MOT, and the cost of fuel, we would have had to pay a fortune to park it where we lived before. That is if we had allocated parking for our house number, which we did not. So we would have had to park it a bout half a kilometre away. When we moved to Crystal palace one thing we wanted was allocated parking. We do have that, but still choose not to own a vehicle. It is so easy to get around in London, and National Express coach service is very well priced.  As well as that, when we go by bus or coach The Man doesn’t miss out on viewing the scenery as he would if he was doing the driving. He cost of travel is quite low too, we both have, in The Man’s words a geriatric pass. This gives us free travel on all London Trains and buses, as well as some out of London too. So when coming to somewhere like Colchester, the geriatric pass gets us to the end of zone 6 which means that we only need to purchase an extension to our trip.

We had a lovely day reminiscing with my cousin, and trying to put names to people on different pictures. The last time we met up was when she came over to NZ and that was quite a few years ago. The morning flew by very fast and too soon we had to break for lunch. So off to the local tavern for a very nice pub lunch. By the time we got back to my cousins house it was just about time for us to return to our hotel.  We’ll meet up again tomorrow

More about stories...

Friday January 27 2012

I'e been writing about stories for the last couple of days and I still have a bit more to say about stories. The Sunday morning stories in particular. Memories of different stories bubbled up and I went to bed thinking about Max Mainspring the mechanical man and Maxi The Taxi, who sang

'My name is Maxi, I drive a Taxi

and I give the kids a ride around the square,

I let them ride for free

but they had to promise me,

to brush their teeth and wash their face and always comb their hair.

Then there was Little Toot, the tugboat who was always getting into trouble, but saved the day in the end. As did Flick The Little Fire Engine. Despite being the smallest engine and not allowed to go out with the big engines and fight real fires, Flick puts out a big fire in the fire-station and is then considered big and brave enough to go out with the big engines. Well done Flick. Not to be confused with Herr Flick in in the sit com 'Ello 'Ello.

The sad story of the Happy Prince used to almost make me cry. The bejewelled statue convinces a migrating swallow to stay and strip away the jewels to give to the poor, culminating in the swallow freezing to death. A happy story.

But Danny Kaye's telling of The Magic Toyshop was a favourite, probably because he was the story teller. As was his using song to tell the story of the Ugly Ducking and Hans Christian Anderson, Danny Kaye was a true comedic actor, but he could be serious as well, as the movie Five Pennies testifies.

I am probably boring you with allt his old stuff, but I am enjoying reminiscing. And as the Krispie add used to say (does perhaps still say) just one more OK?

Finally, for this time anyway, was the story set to the music of the Waltz of the Flowers. About mice who were compelled to dance by the music and how they fooled a waiting hungry cat by dressing up as flowers. Looking for all the world as if the flowers really wee dancing by themselves.

OK I'll stop now.

Triangles and Triffids

Thursday26 January 2012

My sister and I used to get up early on a Sunday morning to listen to the children’s request session on 2YA or National Radio as it is called now.  

I never like the stories about Sparkey.  Sparkey and the Talking Train, Sparkey and the talking Piano Poor Sparkey, no one believed him when he said that the train was talking to him. Telling him that the right front wheel was loose. And the one about the Selfish Giant, I never liked the t one either, even when I heard it as an adult. Give me Diana and the Golden Apple. With her childhood sweetheart Milanyon, winning the race and her hand in marriage. Or Gerald Mcboingboing. And you really must look at this link; it has the original cartoon story. I didn’t know until I found it on YouTube that it was written by Dr Seuss.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uNsyQDmEopw

I could go on and on and on about the stories that I loved as a child. Then when I was grown up I rediscovered the programme, but the stories had changed; now they were NZ based and the presenter was the multitalented Dick Weir.

Back in the late 60’s and with no TV we would listen to National Radio in the evening, to series like The Day of the Triffids, and an omnibus of a weekday afternoon programme called The Archers. Set in the fictitious town of Ambridge this was an early soap.

Talking of soap, I had a lot of time off school as a kid and would listen to Dr Paul, and Portia Faces Life, radio programmes that were sponsored by soap companies like Rinso and Persil. Ditties, such as the original Persil Washes Whiter or Somebody’s Mum haven’t been using Rinso.

Then there was the toothpaste sponsored evening radio programmes, Life with Dexter, a bumbling man who got up to all sorts of silly exploits. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YrKylh4I9uY

But wait as the old saying goes, there’s more.

But not tonight

Tell me a stroy...

Wednesday 25 January 2012

I’ve always loved stories, especially ones that are read or told to me. I it any wonder that I love movies too. Tonight we went to see W.E., a new take on the Edward and Mr Simpson story.  How much of it was based on reality we will never know, but if even part of it is truth it is an amazing story ofa woman's love and sacrifice. 

I vaguely remember Dad making up a bedtime story for me when I was sick. By closing the door into the hallway he created a sun that was setting. Then there was Miss Lawson, head mistress of Hutt Central School. If we got too noisy she would say, ‘The book is closing’. She would continue to close the book and if she actually closed it there would be no more story. My favourite was The Elephant’s Child. Who with his many aunts and uncles and with his mere smear nose, and his insatiable curiosity lived on the banks of the great green greasy Limpopo River, all set about with Fever Trees. I was excited to find an audio of Rudyard Kipling’s Just So Stories, but quite disappointed to discover that the story in my memory is different to the actual story. I wonder if the teacher gave us her version rather than the one in the book.

Then there was the book that I took to school to be read to the teacher, The Littlest Angel, and I can still see in my mind’s eye the illustrations of the small winged person who gave up her harp and wings and probably other things to while on her way to see the Christ child. Of course, when the Littlest Angel finally got there she was ragged and her feet were cut, but she was considered the one with the most gifts.

I clearly remember a book about the behaviour of cats that I gave a morning talk about. Obviously in the days before shyness took over. The book described how, when a cat is eting or drinking contentedly its tail be held straight out behind it   just off the floor.  That book came from the Lower Hutt Library, as did another of my favourites about a large ginger cat called Orlando.

At Petone Central School one of the teachers read Ian Serraliers Silver Sword. It was all we could do to wait for the next episode of this story about a young boy set in a war-torn county.

Mr Monroe at Hutt Intermediate spoiled me for Tolkien’s books. He read us The Hobbit, and try as I might I have never been able to get into this book. I pick it up from time to time, but after a chapter or two give up.

Unlike Diana Gabaldone’s books that I find hard to put down, but then they are another story altogether.