Hunting horn, dust, giving up

I have become addicted to Marcel's Pagnol's Childhood Memories, both the films and the books.
In the first book in the series, My Father's Glory, he is describing his fathers passion for bric a brac, and his mother's reaction to some of his more eccentric purchases. When his mother describes, as a waste of money, his outlay of three francs on a old hunting horn, his father replies: "Think for a moment: I can saw off the bell, and I have an ear-trumpet, a loud hailer, a funnel; the rest of the horn, if unscrewed, becomes the spiraling tube of an alembic. I can reshape it as a pea-shooter, or a water pipe, and one of copper, please note. If I saw it into thin slices, you have twenty dozen curtain rings; and if I pierce it with a hundred holes, you have a shower-head; and if I modify it with the help of an enema-douche, you have a popgun". That is exactly how I feel about bric a brac; and, incidently, some items of packaging, which always strike me as having numerous alternative uses.

I offer the vacuum cleaner a pile of dust, which some stacked canvasses have been hiding. It eats it up like a greedy dog gobbles a plate of liver.

A neighbour tells me he gave up smoking two weeks ago. "It's like losing a lover," he says. "I've nothing to live for." Then he adds; "I've still got my gum," chewing it manfully.

Bleak House, two cats, shoots

It's been a long, difficult read, but an enjoyable one in the end. I am on the last few pages of Bleak House. The plot is complicated and the cast of characters enormous; what is impressive is the way the connections between all the characters are made, logically and in good time. If I had watched the adaptation on tv, good as I understand it was, I would never have finished the book.

In the vegetable garden I note that there are now two cats who visit - the tortoiseshell kitten from last year, now a teenager, has been joined by (I presume) a relative who shares the colouring though is more orange than tortoisehell. Robins and blackbirds are not yet in evidence, but I hope that the bells worn by both cats will prevent any thuggery the cats have in mind. Tortoiseshell poses opposite me one paw slightly raised as though to tell me to mind my own business.

In the pots at home, tulips and daffodils, and in the vegetable garden, garlic and welsh onions are sending forth green shoots.

Camden Road, celeriac, heart in the sky

Camden Road is quite different from the rest of Tunbridge Wells. There are no smart cafes, no branches of restaurant or fashion chains, no boutiques. Instead there are little shops selling items of junk which don't pretend to be antiques; charity shops; specialist shops selling electronic bits and pieces; take-aways, emitting spicey odours; tattoo parlours; a homeopathy and meditation centre; and a mosque. Walking down Camden Road is a bit like being on holiday.

A pleasure anticipated is an enormous celeriac root waiting to be turned into juice or a puree or to be cut into cubes and roasted or mashed.

Above the busy shopping street, one of those bright red, gas-filled balloons in the shape of heart, has escaped and blows around against the grey sky.

Composition, silver shard, peacock's feet

I like the way birds and animals seem to arrange themselves as though composing a picture for the viewer. This morning, as I raise the blind, two pigeons on the roof opposite compete for one chimney pot, then agree to one each, as the weaker settles on the adjacent pot on the stack. Later, on the station platform, the shadow of the bridge that crosses the railway and the platform shows up black against the brightly lit tarmac beyond. On the edge of the shadow a pigeon, silhouetted, pauses in mid-strut.

As he train leaves Tunbridge on its way to London there is a gravel pit, become a small lake or a large pond. It is bordered by water meadow and frequented by Canada geese, ducks and other wild fowl. Here, even practised commuters raise their eyes from their reading matter, to view the scene. As the train distances itself from it, this bright morning, the expanse of water, from being a mirror, is seen only as a silver shard in the landscape.

Alan Bennett again. "Speaking of a peacock, " he writes in Untold Stories ..."its flesh is not supposed to decay, a symbol of immortality and resurrection. Less well known is the fact that it was supposed to scream at the sight of its own feet, not recognising them as its own - a predicament which one sympathises with more and more as one gets older."

Sausages and lentils, wagtail, soap

Giuseppi, from whom we buy some chunky Italian sausages, presents us with the hock end of a parma ham. To go with the sausages, we braise Puy lentils, flavoured with finely chopped and sauted shallots , a clove of garlic and a touch of chopped chilli, in some left over chicken stock. We add the hock to the lentils, grill the sausages, and unite the two parts of this simple dish on a serving plate, the lentils made unctious with a little of the fat from the sausages.

I love the swooping flight of the wagtail. If I were a bird that is how I would fly.

In a restaurants gents, I note one of those plastic bottles with a spout and a handle to pump liquid soap onto your hand. The label describes the soap as "white cranberry and coconut".

Gilding, window cleaning, sarnie

After last night's rain, the morning sun gilds the branches of trees, evergreen leaves and even the black paintwork of railings.

The cafe owner prompted by the sun, which shows up the dirt, spreads soap and water over the window making a lace-like pattern. Watched from the inside his shadow, wielding the squeegie, dances for a moment before clearing the soap with broad sweeps, and becomes the man again.

In the cafe I hear: " A bacon sandwich on brown bread with brown sauce". Not my cup of tea, quite. But the words have a ring about them, which are for ever England.

Woodpecker, camelia, loaves

There are no woodpeckers in this corner of Tunbridge Wells, but an old friend emails me to say that one has arrived in his Hampstead garden,
"and at around 9 o'clock begins rata rata rata, a dull but pleasant sound that tells us there is still hope and to get on with the the day. But every time we hear him (why do we always say him?) I think of you and know that you would mention him..."
Well, Tom, now I have. My bird book tells me, incidently, that yours is almost certainly a great spotted, rather than (the rarer) lesser spotted woodpecker. It says that in recent years great spotted woodpeckers have spread to central London parks and in some districts even visit garden bird tables. It could also be a green wood pecker.

The two buds of the Camelia that began to open when it was still January, their green sheaths become a gentle pink, have now, like a drama unfolding, become flowers, braving the February wind.

The sight and smell, and subsequently the taste of two golden, freshly baked loaves, standing on a rack to cool off.

Nothing to pay, seen sideways, make it simple

Receiving a bill, or rather a statement, which tells you there is nothing to pay on your account.

Alan Bennett, writing about some of his favourite paintings, quotes E. M. Forster: "Only what is seen sideways sinks deep".

For a long time I knew of a restaurant called A La Bonne Franquette. It was only the other day that I realized that the phrase meant "simple and without fuss", which is how food should be prepared. That was the belief of Escoffier, who famously advised, faites simple!

Trolley, No Entry, scallop pie

In Sainsbury, a full-sized trolley, stacked high with purchases moves towards me, apparently self-propelled. Then I see, pushing it, a very small boy, his arms stretched up to reach the handle. From in front, he is completely hidden by the contents of the trolley: inconspicuous consumption.

A No Entry sign used by the workmen in the Grove, has, after Saturday night's usual revelry, ended up, high among the branches of a tree - some sort of surrealist message warning high flyers.

Tonight, a pie made from scallops in a light sauce, surmounted by mashed potatoes. The scallops are sliced and placed, as yet uncooked in the dish, and covered with a Bechamel sauce. This is covered with mashed potatoes, glazed and put in the oven. By the time the potatoes begin to colour, the dish is ready, as the scallops require very little cooking.

A piece of cake, primula, googol

A slice of cherry cake and a nice cup of tea.

A primula in the front garden has bloomed; there are two meagre blossoms but they offer a pleasing contrast to the uniformly grey sky and cold, damp air.

With all this fuss about Google, I refresh my memory about the origin of the name. It is a mis- spelling of "googol" which describes the number 10 to the power of 100 ie 1 followed by 100 zeros.

Sitting still, connections, switches

In this cold weather, I have notice that pigeons sit perfectly still, like decoy pigeons, in the bare branches of trees. I am not sure whether it is because they are conserving energy, asleep, or too cold to do anything else.

In the last six months I have gained particular pleasure from three books - The Three Musketeers, The Woman who Walked in the Sea by Frederick Dard, and Bleak House. I have just begun a fourth called The Five Hundred Millions of the Begum by Jules Verne. There was no reason for the choice, other than a combination of chance and inclination. Yet there is an unexpected connection between the first two and the second two. The central character of the Woman who Walked in the Sea is known as Milady, a deliberate reference to a character in The Three Musketeers, also known as Mildady. In the Jules Verne story there is a reference, in a threatened legal confrontation, to Jarndyce v Jarndyce, the interminable case in chancery which is central to the plot of Bleak House.

There is a special pleasure in switches, some more than others. There is a small table lamp recently come into our house which has a simple, metal lever switch, comfortable to touch and with an immensely satisfying click.

Old men, spectacles, email from Africa

" Above all, old men are dangerous, who have only the memory of things past left them, and have lost the remembrance of their repitions." I read this in John Florio's contemporary translation of Montaigne's essay on liers, and take it to heart.

In the opticians waiting for a check up, I see five recesses, in each more than 100 spectacle frames - nearly six hundred in all; but they can't see me.

I was gladto have been included in Glare Grant's first email from Africa, where she speaks of the lions, and other wild animals she has seen in her first couple of days in Tanganyka. She it was, who started the idea of noting three items every day, which have given pleasure, and which I and others have taken up. I'll be following her adventures with pleasure and interest.

Animal laws, cheers, snowdrops

Pets can stop worrying, or so I read in the paper. An Animal Welfare Bill is promised by the Government later this year, which will insist that owners guarantee five "animal rights". Among other provisions, owners are warned to provide pets with adequate mental stimulation and to ensure they do not become overweight. Owners who fail to guarantee the rights will apparently face a jail term or a £5000 fine.

I enjoy the polite exchanges between strangers in supermarkets and the like, especially the word "cheers" which always comes in useful. Today, from the young man at the checkout in Morrisons: "You alright?" "Fine," I say, "cheers!"

There is a bank in one of the gardens in Mount Sion, which always has a fine display of snowdrops. Would they be in bloom already? Sure, the white buds are opening already.

Moving sky, leaden clouds, horse-chestnut buds

It is one of those windy days when, if you look in certain directions, the sky seems to be moving, as clouds scud past patches of blue.

In the Grove, when I look towards the east, (a contrast with the sky in a north-westerly direction) there are mauvish, leaden clouds, against which the white-fronted houses in Buckingham Road, show up, brightly lit by the lowering sun.

The branches of horse-chestnut trees terminate in sturdy, clearly defined, sinuous, black shoots each of which carries a chestnut coloured leaf bud, egg-shaped and glistening in the afternoon sun.

"Grand-looking woman", sun, dry leaves

Here's something I enjoyed today while reading Alan Bennett's monologue, The Last of the Sun. Dolly, an old woman in a nursing home is speaking:
".... Mr Pilling says. ' A grand-looking woman, your daughter."
I said,'You're not alone in that opinion.'
'Why,' he says, 'who else thinks so?"
I said, 'she does' ".

Walking in the sun on a cold day and feeling a hint of the warmth it has in store for the future.

A beech sapling in the Grove still hangs on to some of its leaves; they are a rich, copper colour, but dry as bones; they rustle noisily in the wind.

Christmas cards, thaw, lost remote control

Last night the corniest of Christmas cards through the window where the newly fallen snow on hedge and rooftops had a sort of golden glow imparted by the street lamps. This morning, in the bright sun, there is still a Christmas card view, but less kitch.

At lunch time the snow on the branches of the big oak on the corner of the Grove was already beginning to thaw. Big drops of water, illuminated by the sun, are falling with wide spaces in between.

I read, in The Spectator agony column, of a labrador, which swallowed the remote control of somebody's new digibox.

Sound of starlings, fine snow, garden birds

I have been trying to decribe the wonderful complex sounds that emerge from the starlings (the collective noun, "murmuration", somehow falls short if it is thought of as onomatopoea), which have recently been clustering on the trees in the Grove and on neighbouring rooftops. Here is how an ornithologist, Bernard Tucker, quoted in Birds Britanica, describes the sound:" A lively, rumbling medley of throaty warbling, chirruping, clicking and gurgling sounds interspersed with musical whistles and pervaded by a peculiar creaky quality."

Snow so fine that you can't see it, this afternoon, but you just feel the sharp pin pricks as the wind drives it into your face.

Most of the birds that I encounter are garden birds because I rarely now manage to get into open country, woods, heathland and hills, or the sea shore. So the supplement in today's Independent is more than welcome. It has put me right on one thing I have been worried about for some time. The big ungainly bird ( black from head to tail and claw) that I have seen lumbering about the Grove, is a carrion crow, and not, as I had foolishly thought it to be, a raven.

Cold wind, pistachios, pantechnicons,

Cold is passable, but cold winds are less pleasant; the only consoling thing about today's blast is being able to get out of it into a warm place.

There are few natural colours in food more beautiful and delicate than the green in the pistachio nut. Roasted and salted the taste matches the appearance. Unsalted they are good to taste and look at in pistachio ice cream. I read: when the fruit, of which the nut is the kernal, is ripe, the shell usually gapes open at one end to expose the kernal, which in Iran is termed khandan (laughing).

Walking home from the High Street today I pass, both in narrow streets, two vast pantechnicons, loading the worldly goods of two different households. Inevitably in the next day or two, two more will arrive to install new households.

Rime, Yorkshire tea, fish and chips

Does memory deceive us? My memory tells me that it used to be a common experience in winter to wake up on cold, still mornings when trees, hedges, grass, rooftoops were covered in rime or hoar frost as though with icing sugar. This seems so rare nowadays that it is, as this morning, worthy of comment, and celebration.

We've been drinking a brand of tea called, I don't know why, Yorkshire tea. The more I drink it the more it seems to me to produce just the sort of strong, cheering cup, that makes tea such an important feature of daily life.

Sankey's is an unusal pub/restaurant, in that it has as few rules as possible. There is a relaxed atmosphere and no hint of a brewery run by accountants planning every item on the menu. Where better I ask myself to eat cod and chips (Heidi had a generous Cornish crab salad), accompanied by a bottle of Sauvignon de St Brie.

Finger-nail moon, quiet cold, sod's law

Raising the blinds this morning, I see, against the bright blue sky, beside the chimney pot across the road, a pale moon reduced to a finger nail.

Perhaps it's the cold without a wind, this afternoon, which makes things seem especially quiet, although the usual things are happening in the Grove. I hear the drone of an aircraft, children's voices, the workmen renovating the paths; but around me, when I stand still, I also hear the footsteps of people passing.

Sod's law, which insists that buttered bread always falls butter-side down, seems to work with the post, which always arrives address-side down.