No.30

This afternoon to Travis Perkins on Blenheim Road to see about a new saw and some woodworm fluid. My existing hard-point panel saw now being blunt after some years of intermittent use and my having using up our woodworm fluid on the ladders of reference 3. The points being hard enough to make sharpening impossible, at least at home, but soft enough to eventually get blunt. Notwithstanding, they have done pretty well - and truth be told, I don't really want the bother of sharpening at home.

On my way out, I noticed that the First Line Recovery people opposite must be headed up by another car number nut, as most of their vehicles had numbers of the form 'V29 FLR', where the 29 bit seemed to run from 1 to 30. A quick look around turned up a 30, my next number, only a couple of days after No.29.

I remembered that I scored No.24 at this very place last year, noticed at reference 1, but I had not realised at that time what exactly was going on. Nor had I got the to proper post naming convention that I now use, for ease of tracking and verification. Which was perhaps just as well, as it would have taken the fun out of it to have done the whole lot in one visit. I will be suggesting to the rules committee, that up to one number per visit be allowed, on the basis that Blenheim Road is off-piste and only visited on an occasional basis.

They clearly do do some heavy recovery, as evidenced by No.1 above, but I think their main trade is cars, vans and small lorries. Plus the odd mobile home, as in the snap from their gallery above. Plus they have special caravans into which I suppose they insert posh but broken down cars. One of these being visible behind No.30.

Reference 1: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2020/10/a-good-afternoon.html. 

Reference 2: https://www.firstline-recovery.co.uk/.

Reference 3: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2020/09/ladder-nostalgia.html.

Reference 4: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2021/03/no29.html.

Ladder trauma - nearly

Last September saw a not very satisfactory exercise in buying old wooden nostalgia blind, as noticed at reference 1. As it turned out, the new-to-us ladder did have its points. It was light and somehow, despite its lighter build, felt steadier underfoot when one was standing near the top - with the extra bar at the very top being a big help here.

However, BH tried standing on the very top, with the results snapped above. The bit of batten nearest the camera is the one that slots into the two side pieces of the ladder, cut to a wooden knob at each end so that it can pivot in the matching holes. One knob just about visible right. But the other knob just crumbled, the woodworms having eaten more away than I had realised, with BH falling down, upright and more or less inside the ladder. Luckily no more harm done than a bit of bruising - and I think I was more shocked than she was.

Shouldn't be too difficult to make up a replacement, only complicated by the fact that I have to get the two replacement knobs into the two sides without taking the ladder apart. A complication which I think I will solve by making a couple of fat dowels, each about two inches long, and screwing them into holes in the replacement batten. We will see how many weeks it takes me to get around to it. In the meantime, BH banned from standing on the very top of the other ladder.

Reference 1: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2020/09/ladder-nostalgia.html.

Gammon plus

After the shanks on the Thursday, it was the turn of the gammon on Sunday. At least a cut of cured pork, weighing something over a pound and probably cut from a leg by the people who supply Sainsbury's. Didn't look much like either gammon or ham, but boiled up it tasted quite like gammon hot and quite like ham cold. Rather good in fact. Served with a light white sauce and boiled vegetables.

And followed by a mincemeat and apple tart. Served on the same sort of white and blue enamel as was used for the same purpose when I was a child, although this particular enamel is of Chinese origin from an outfit called 'Bumper Harvest', probably not around sixty years ago. And seemingly not around now, as according to Bing, the stuff now counts as heritage, with a rather more elaborate sample snapped above at Etsy of reference 4, the people from whom I bought my woodworm infested ladder, noticed at reference 5.

The whole taken with a bottle of the Pierre Précieuse I came across at Terroirs and noticed at reference 1, something more than eighteen months ago now. Reduced to buying the stuff direct from Guildford at the moment, Terroirs being presently inaccessible. See reference 2. The people who did us the Christmas hamper noticed at reference 3.

What might be called a slimming Sunday, at least in appearance, that is to say without a Sunday roast.

Reference 1: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2019/05/alien-cheese.html.

Reference 2: http://lescaves.co.uk/lescaves-home.

Reference 3: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2020/11/wine-buffs.html.

Reference 4: https://www.etsy.com/uk.

Reference 5: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2020/09/ladder-nostalgia.html.

Bulkhead light

Following notice at reference 1, the new-to-us bulkhead light has now been installed.

First job, dig out the rats' tail file which came to us from BH's naval uncle and use it to file out the second fixing bolt, perforated but still stuck.

Second job, open up a circular hole in the back plate to take the supply. Wondered why the marked circle did not come ready made, with a plastic cover, in the way of the two holes which had been made.

Third job, remove relevant fuse, deploy the new-to-us ladder (reference 2) and take down the old light. The bar across the top does make standing near the top feel a bit safer. Uncovering a couple of quite large spiders who appeared to have bedded down for the winter.

New light installed in fairly short order, working first time. But I worry about the wires being rather close to the bulb, protective casings notwithstanding. Then it dawns on me why the chap before me had put kitchen foil behind the bulb.

Kitchen foil deployed and light still works. Hopefully it will absorb the heat for long enough to see us out - the previous foil having done for more than thirty years. But I dare say an electrician might pull a long face and suggest we spend several hundred pounds on having him install a proper light.

Then it dawns on me that the reason the light is called a bulkhead light is because it is shaped like a bulkhead, not because you fix it on one. And that bulkheads are the other way round. In which case one would used one of the two holes which were provided - left and right in the snap above - and the wires would be a lot further away from the bulb. Plus, cables coming in through a prepared hole in the bottom of the light casing much more sound from a water point of view than coming in through a hole that I have cut in the back.

That apart, the light looks to be well made. Solid looking, satisfying.

And it looks well enough with the cover back on, although the effect is rather spoiled by now knowing that it is the wrong way around. Not that the right way around would have worked in this particular location.

The next day, worried about the seal ring, which while sound was old, smeared vaseline all over it. Maybe that will help keep the water out.

So verdict, as in the previous post, fair. 

Reference 1: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2021/01/frustration.html.

Reference 2: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2020/09/ladder-nostalgia.html.

Nostalgia

A wave of nostalgia hit me last night (Friday) when I happened to turn up all the concert and show tickets from the summer season just past that were not, in the event, used. 

Don't suppose things will ever be the same again, at least not for us.

PS: this morning I was not sure that nostalgia was the right word, with my only being able to recall the title of the book at reference 2, noticed for the first time at reference 1. But search revealed lots of it at reference 3. I then check with OED to find that the word was invented at the end of the 18th century from Greek roots. A foreign import word which only rates a couple of column inches. Use limited there to a severe attack of home-sickness, but I think the generalisation to absence of other things over the last century since this edition of OED was compiled might be allowed.

Reference 1: https://psmv3.blogspot.com/2018/07/arts-crafts-2.html.

Reference 2: The Archaeology of Nostalgia - John Boardman - 2002.

Reference 3: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/search?q=nostalgia&max-results=20&by-date=true.

Reference 4: https://psmv3.blogspot.com/search?q=nostalgia. And so on. Perhaps one day when I am very bored, I will analyse my used of the word. Guessing, quite a lot of it will be for activities and things of my childhood, quite close to home.

Haw jelly

About a week ago now, BH decided that I was bored and needed an activity for the afternoon. Her eyes lighted upon the small hawthorn tree in our front garden, about to deposit its load of haws on the pavement and came up with the notion that I should pick the haws. It being quite possible that there were more than usual, it having been a good April for the flowers, as noticed at reference 1.

First boil

A plus point was the opportunity to deploy the new-to-me steps from Cornwall, noticed at reference 2, which turned out rather well, managing to be both light and steady. Furthermore, a light weight stainless bowl fitted neatly on the top stage, at about 15 inches wide proving an excellent receptacle. One could just drop the fruit from on high and most of the time it found its way in. A bit like picking black currants, except that both the haws and the clusters were a bit smaller. And one needed to be careful not to pull the twigs off with the haws. But after a while one's hands adjusted.

About an hour or so later, I had a pound and a half of haws. Meanwhile, BH had turned up haw jelly in Dorothy Hartley of reference 3, a book given her by my father, a long time ago now. With, according to Wikipedia, Hartley having served time as an advisor to our long-running rustic soap, 'The Archers'. So the first step was to boil them up with a little water, applying the potato masher from time to time.

Drip time

Next step, out with the jelly bag and, once filled with the mash, suspend from beam erected across the kitchen. Got to make a bit of a splash. With the bowl being the bowl mentioned above. A certain amount of hot bag squeezing to help things along. Left overnight.

Second boil: part I

About a pint and a half of liquor, so about a pound and a half of sugar. With our fine sauté pan from Marylebone doing service as a jam pan, which last are long retired. I associate to the days when we used a heavy copper jam pan, long since criminalised.

Second boil: part II

On to the second boil, removing a certain amount of froth, which seems to include all the stuff which makes the brew cloudy. Gell testing plate visible left, which a neighbour told us afterwards would have been better cooled down in the fridge. Get a better test that way.

The result

The result looked well enough, nice and clear, but sadly, had not set overnight. I had not got the gell test right. Notwithstanding, the egg cup full did rather well in porridge. Being liquid worked much better than the rather firm crab apple jelly noticed at reference 6. Although yesterday, BH went to the bother of turning some of that jelly into jam sauce - heating up the jelly with a little water and lemon juice - which worked much better with porridge than neat jelly.

Testing plate visible behind, complete with smears and splodges. BH rather likes to eat the scum, aka froth. Four jam jars - lately used for storing old screws and nails in the garage - clearly a bit optimistic.

We worried that liquid jelly would not keep, so onto the second boiling. With the bubbles being quite different to those snapped above. Something was clearly going on as the excess water boiled off. I stayed nearby, being a little concerned that it would froth over, in the way of boiling milk. A frothing over onto a hot hob which would have taken a good bit of cleaning up, never mind the waste involved.

Second outcome

Still didn't pass the gell test in a convincing way, but it looked right. And this time it did indeed set, having lost getting on for half its volume, after due allowance for sticky waste along the way. 

It will be interesting to see whether we bother with this particular sort of jam again. Probably not a good thing for us pensioners to use a lot of it, it being one of the most concentrated forms of sugar known to man, but it does do rather well on porridge and steamed jam puddings. And perhaps we ought to steer clear of butter and jam on toast.

Mother's Ruin

PS: on the facing page of Hartley, we had a cryptic reference to the use of a concoction of sloe gin, penny royal and valerian by country wives in 'connubial emergencies'. Diligent search at the time failed to confirm the notion that this was a 1950's style, covert allusion to abortion. While Wikipedia reveals this morning that penny royal, aka mentha pulegium, was indeed a folk remedy used as an abortifacient. A rural version of the potions advertised below.

Discretion assured

Trumpists and right-to-lifeists take note. The sort of people who hang out at reference 4. I had not realised until this morning they that as well as being opposed to start-of-life action, they are also opposed to end-of-life action, that is to say assisted dying. For which see reference 5.

Reference 1: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2020/04/good-year.html.

Reference 2: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2020/09/ladder-nostalgia.html.

Reference 3: Food in England - Dorothy Hartley - 1954.

Reference 4: https://www.nrlc.org/.

Reference 5: https://www.dignityindying.org.uk/.

Reference 6: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2020/08/the-crabs-continued.html.

Numbers game

Following reference 1, back in early July, I finally got around to having a go at the new numbers game last week, in the course of a trip around Jubilee Way. It started off auspiciously enough with 'A1 GRX' or something of that sort and by the end of the trip I had got to 12 going on 13. My impression was that numbers in the ranges 1-20 and 60-69 were common enough, while other numbers were much rarer, at least on UK plates. I wondered whether the rule was that anything that could be a number like the letters 'I' or 'O' was a number? No doubt Wikipedia could tell me all about these matters, but I have not yet had a chance to take a look.

Passed two washers at junctions, both of them seen before. One day I will pass one of them when it is convenient to pick it up.

Followed up these exertions with our weekly trip to the Blenheim, where just one gazebo had survived, with half of it available. The other half being taken by a small party of young men (with a van, naturally) relaxing after a hard day's work. Some of them may have been smoking and they were certainly talking quite loudly, quite robustly. But just a bit of banter, nothing aggressive about them. A spot of nostalgia for me. Almost the Blenheim of old.

On the meal front, the portion controller had been at work and the supplies of fruit and vegetables in the Pimm's was a bit slack. As were the portions of chips - although quite enough for BH. With BH's fish very nattily perched on a couple of her chips.

My burger was underdone. Not a problem in that meat is generally clean enough these days, but I still prefer my burgers to be firm rather than soft. One of the young men explained that he really disliked underdone burgers as they made the buns soggy. While the lady who was serving us, possibly the manageress, explained that she liked her burgers cremated. She certainly knew her trade, how to talk the customers back into a good frame of mind.

It looked as if the portion controller had been at work on my brownie too, before handing over to the apprentice to squirt the chocolate sauce. But I carp, it tasted fine and contained quite enough calories to be going on with.

Jameson's and Teacher's still missing, so I settled for Bell's to keep me going while BH drank her tea.

During the proceedings, an older customer joined our side of the beer garden. Once he had been served, he proceeded to complain at some length to someone or other over his mobile phone about something going wrong with his bus pass. Which made me think that I would not do well as a call centre operator; I would not have the patience, the (always) friendly and helpful manner needed.

No delivery lorries for Costcutter on this occasion. No marrows either.

The barmaid thought it would be OK if we picked one of the ripe runner beans from one of the planters. Now preserved against our own attempt at potted runner beans next year. Will we remember to water them enough?

Reference 1: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2020/07/a-new-to-me-game-for-long-car-journeys.html.

Return to the court

That is to say, Hampton Court Palace, not the place in Sloane Square, not visited now for many years, possibly 13 if blog search (in which royal cabbages figure larger than royal courts) and reference 1 is to be believed. And reference 1 notwithstanding, all I can remember is a great area of wall stripped back to bare brick. Some passing fad of theatre decoration. Nothing about seagulls at all.

One of the four fig trees marking the corners of the Royal Cabbage Patch. Who gets the figs, if any ever get to ripen?

Some access to the Royal Cabbage Patch, where volunteers have now returned after their enforced absence and are working hard to recover the vegetable garden from the weeds. No cabbages to be seen but there was some beet spinach, a vegetable which used to be of the few things which one could rely on on poor soil of my allotment back here in Epsom.

In the absence of many gardeners, the echiums seemed to be taking over the perimeter of the rose garden, to the extent of encroaching on the pomegranate. We wondered if the pomegranates were ever edible. Did we get enough sun for them to ripen? On the subject of which, see reference 2.

The box plants used to created the small edging hedges mostly looked very healthy. Either they are using some mutant strain of box or they spray. Much more healthy than most of those on and around our own Chase Estate.

We also came across some of the lilies, last noticed in the rather different context of Ruxley Lane, on the Ewell by-pass, for which see reference 3. It also turned out that a next door neighbour had some, not previously noticed.

The metasequoia outside the Tilt Yard cafeteria, the place at which we were once pleased to buy Maids of Honour tarts, relatives of the Wellingtonias presently under count, were not looking very well. Presumably the long drought had got to them.

Retraced our steps to the front door, so to gain access to the other parts of the gardens, to find that the talking barrels of the great court had been replaced by vintage cars. Of which more in due course. The vintage cars had also taken over the East Front gardens, but we were allowed to get at the privy gardens via a rather handsome, dark wood panelled gallery, the one featuring the dining room with the fake silver previously noticed. Sculpture not up to much either. We masked up, although the staff had mainly not bothered. Enough people about on this occasion for us to think it worthwhile.

First sunken garden in pretty good shape, if not as florid as some years. The subject of the jigsaw are reference 5. Only slightly marred by garden art, fortunately easy enough to miss. As I recall, off snap to the left.

The second sunken garden. Traditionally a more subdued design than the other one.

Dahlias in good form

Red and black spots in good form

Mind your own business

I remember being told on a tour of the gardens that had been made out of the rather grand house provided for the manager of what was the Norwich Gas Works, that spots on leaves were evidence of improving air quality. Maybe that is something I should take up with the RHS help line.

While BH took no notice when I drew her attention to the 'Mind your own business' smoothing over the transition from grass to wall in the margins of the sunken garden. A plant which plenty of people - including me - rather like, but which she would like to exterminate from our garden. Unlikely that she will succeed as it is persistent and hardy stuff.

Over the wall of the privy garden we had teams of people readying the east terrace for the display of classic cars, auction of same and so on and so forth. We got to talking to the one who was guarding the gate and it turned out he was commuting in from Sutton, which took him a while. Casually dressed, but he explained that he would be fully top-hatted for the show proper. And when he wasn't doing events, his event company employer hired him out for Covid testing duties. Lots of travelling involved, but at least it was work and at least one got about a bit. And from him, back into the great court to inspect the cars there, as it turned out the cars to be sold rather than the cars to be shown off, with estimates ranging up to £10,000,000 for a 1934 Bugatti Type 59 Sports, whatever one of those is. Or if you couldn't manage that there was a slightly older Bugatti something else, a snip at £3,000,000.

Older Bugatti

Battered interior

Even more battered exterior

One advantage of the older car was that one could see a lot of the workings. For me, the same sort of appeal as that held by traction engines, steam locomotives and medieval clocks. Lots of workings, inner and outer, to puzzle out. So owning such things a perfectly respectable hobby for the rich: perhaps footballers and pop-stars go in for it.

Not altogether the case that the more battering, the more you paid. Some of the smart looking cars were quite expensive too. And you can read all about it at reference 6.

One of the smarter cars

With this Lamborghini - a snip at half a million or so - being nothing like the one that parks near us, noticed, for example, at reference 7. Which, as it happens, I have not seen recently. Bet it didn't cost half a million though. Perhaps I ought to ask the Italian car dealer in Ruxley Lane.

Decided against eating at the Palace and after much palaver settled on fish and chips from the chipper at Horton Retail, otherwise Seafare of No.2 Chantilly Way. Or pie and chips in my case. A proper Pukka steak and kidney pie, not quite hot enough, and a huge portion of chips, rather good. Our first take-out meal for as long as I can remember.

And despite being rather full, we managed a record breaking score at Scrabble later in the afternoon. 274 for her and 316 for him, very close to the 600 barrier. My bonus for going out first not affecting the total of 590. If the plague goes on for much longer we might even break it.

Back to Tudor!

Interested to read, after the event, of the 19th century campaign to put back all the Tudor features and so forth which had been improved or replaced by Georgian activity. Nostalgia for things past was not invented by the National Trust, or even Historic Royal Palaces.

The Royal Potty

I was also reminded of that very important Palace functionary known as the Groom of the Stole. A job which earls were known to compete for on vacancy. Does our large leader keep such a person on the books at Downing Street? Reporting to Mr. Cummings, of course.

Reference 1: https://pumpkinstrokemarrow.blogspot.com/search?q=royal+seagull.

Reference 2: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2020/09/punica-granatum.html.

Reference 3: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2020/05/ruxley-lane-anti-clockwise.html.

Reference 4: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2019/03/hampton.html. For Maids of Honour tarts.

Reference 5: https://pumpkinstrokemarrow.blogspot.com/2012/07/hunt-for-green-all-over.html. Not completely clear, but probably the right sunken garden.

Reference 6: https://www.goodingco.com/.

Reference 7: https://psmv3.blogspot.com/2017/10/big-car.html.

Group search key: hce.

Ladder nostalgia

When I was very young, I used to sit on top of a wooden step ladder in our living room to listen to an early afternoon radio programme called 'Listen with mother'. After that my mother used to listen to 'Women's Hour'. Regarding the first of which, Wikipedia reminds me of the catch phrase: 'Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin'. So in my case, I was sitting on a ladder. The one at the back in the snap above.

In due course, after the death of my mother, we acquired the ladder - and despite having acquired various other step ladders along the way, this one has survives and lives in the garage. The step ladder of choice for jobs outside.

However, at some point, probably the result of careless storage, it got some woodworm, in the steps and in the platform at the top. Not that serious and dosed with woodworm killer from time to time. Then a few weeks ago, I thought that it might be better to have a step ladder without woodworm holes. Hard to be sure that there are not some new holes and there is plenty of old & soft timber where we live now. A hazard.

So I ask Bing about wooden step ladders. First up is some wooden steps from ebay, located half way to Cornwall. Not quite what I was after and rather a long way away. But somehow I manage to buy them by accident, without knowing. Luckily the vendor was understanding and cancelled the order when ebay chased me for payment a few days later.

Second up was another wooden step ladder from etsy, another car boot site, otherwise e-commerce site, to be found at reference 1. This one was much more like it. In fact, they were identical to the one I had already. A bit paint spattered, but the very thing. Located in Cornwall. Sold.

In due course the ladder was delivered by the people at reference 2. With it getting to Epsom via a depot in Cannock, a place only known to me on account of the Cannock Chase Murders of the late 1960's. Regarding which, Wikipedia tells us that the perpetrator died in prison as recently at 2014, at the age of 84, having done 45 years. Given that I have read that ten years in prison is enough to do most minds in, one wonders what state he was in by then: had he ever expressed any remorse or sorrow for the dreadful things that he had done?

Having had a problem with his lock, our van driver did not reach us until shortly after 2000 and after dropping of the ladder, he set off back to Cannock. He seemed pretty cheerful given the long day he had had and the long journey he was facing. And his computer system had been pretty good about sending us progress reports.

Detail

New woodworm

Old woodworm

More old woodworm

The parcel seemed a little lighter than it should have been, and opening it up in the morning, we found that it was not the same as the ladder in the garage. Made in very much the same style, using the same kind of timber (unknown to me), almost certainly the same manufacturer, but a different, probably cheaper, model.  Furthermore, the bottom step had been smashed at some point and rather crudely mended. Worse, the platform had woodworm. I was a little cross that the vendor had not mentioned this detail. Crosser still that I had bought a risky item like an old wooden ladder on the strength of a small picture on my laptop. Hopefully I have learned my lesson.

In any event, now the possessor of two bad ladders rather than the one good ladder intended.

All that said, the new ladder is not really a bad ladder, and being rather lighter than the original, might suit BH rather better than the old. Furthermore, the angles are slightly different, which might make it better for pruning bushes and hedges as it will stand in closer to the place of action. And both ladders now thoroughly dosed with Cuprinol woodworm killer. A clear fluid which did not have the dodgy aroma of woodworm killer of old: perhaps, like with gloss paint, the active ingredient has been banned by the men in Brussels. Regarding which see reference 3.

PS: I remember now that one of the childhood uses of this step ladder was getting into the loft, this being before the days of built in loft ladders. One had to carry the ladder up to the upstairs landing, climb to the top of it, slide the (quite heavy) cover off the opening to the loft and then pull oneself up into the loft above. Not sure that I could manage such a thing now.

Reference 1: https://www.etsy.com/.

Reference 2: https://www.xpertdelivery.co.uk/.

Reference 3: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2020/08/degradable.html.

The crabs (continued)

Some six hours after picking the crab apples of the previous post, we are now in possession of two and a bit jam jars of a deep red jelly - the product of near four pounds of fruit, two pounds of sugar and some water. Not bad at all on thin slices of the freshly baked batch 574, the last bread which will contain ancient flour for a while. In chemical terms, it can't be far from golden syrup with a spot of red dye.

A festival of nostalgia. Boiling down the jam. Lifting off the scum. Heating the jam jars in the oven. Jam covered utensils all over the place. Much washing up for the morning. BH was even able to turn up a full kit of waxed paper discs, clear plastic covers, the rubber bands to hold them on and labels. She thought from the Sainsbury's jam department - although she couldn't think how long ago they were bought and whether such a place still exists.

Three jam jars of jelly if one counts the one remaining jar of bramble jelly. We will see how long it all lasts. How much of it finds its way into desserts and puddings, rather than into porridge or onto toast.

Shire Hall

For some reason, the FT has chosen the Shire Hall at Cambridge to illustrate a piece about Tory plans to get rid of district councils. Plans which will they suggest will cause lots of fuss, not least because many of the Tory faithful are active in local government and these plans appear to mean a lot less councillors. Ironic that the Westminster Parliament is all set to slash the number of local councillors, but is very reluctant to cut their own House of Common down to a more sensible size.

However, the present post is not about that, rather a bit of nostalgia for the Shire Hall of my childhood.

As I recall it, the low building behind the blue sign used to be some kind of medical and/or dental facility for children. Where you went, inter alia, to be checked over when you wanted to work while under 16. There may have been another, similar building a bit further round to the left. Off camera to the right was another low building, more shed than brick, which housed the County Library - with the much grander City Library then being round the back of the City Hall a couple of miles down the road, across the river.

Shire Hall stands at the top of Castle Street, which climbs up Castle Hill from the river a few hundred yards to the south east. So further round to the left still was Castle Mound and at the foot of Castle Mound there used to be a middle sized conifer of some kind, around which county employees and their families would gather for Christmas Carols & Santa, one work-day evening shortly before Christmas. Nothing left of the castle itself; the work, I think, of Cromwell.

I am not sure if I ever got into the main building, but I must have cycled past it, on the way to and from school if for no other reason, hundreds, if not thousands, of times. Looking more or less the same then as it is looking now.

PS: checking with gmaps the following (Thursday) morning, I find that my memory of Castle Street is actually rather poor and that, that apart, it has changed a great deal. But what used to be the police headquarters - whether for county, city or both I no longer remember - more or less in front of Shire Hall, is still there, more or less untouched, except that the large cylindrical air-raid siren, very much visible on the flat roof above the main entrance, has gone. I think that when I was a child, they were still into testing it occasionally, in case of it ever being needed again.

Cradle of democracy

We may have invented Parliamentary democracy in its modern form and our Parliament may have achieved a great deal in, say, the two hundred years up to 1950. But since then, things have not looked so good, with nostalgia, tradition, poor quality MP's generally and old Etonians in particular combining to block progress towards something better suited to the 21st century.

Three examples of the House of Commons making itself look silly come to mind this morning. The complete failure to unblock the Brexit imbroglio, the Brexit impasse, with something close to the May compromise. The failure to make much progress on getting themselves modern premises. And the recent adoption of voting procedures which look ridiculous rather than silly.

And then there is my own pet project: getting on with adopting the latest (2018) proposals for updating Parliamentary constituency boundaries in line with population changes. We may not be into gerrymandering in the way of the US, but we still need to keep on the move.

And we shouldn't blame it all on our MP's. We elect them.

Reference 1: https://boundarycommissionforengland.independent.gov.uk/.

Fights back

We had been wondering about how Terroirs of references 1 and 2 had been faring in lockdown world.

With our last visit (reference 1) having been, inter alia, the occasion of the drunken whale which got misplaced, a misunderstanding which we did not get around to resolving in time, and which is now likely to have to sit in the pending tray for quite some weeks yet.

Nostalgia for their long lunches, enlivened by the odd drop of this or that, will grow. How long will it take to put things back together again when life is allowed to return to normal? Will we take to taking our lunches outside, where the air is fresher and we can keep and eye on the comings and goings of the police, rather than on the comings and goings of the young staff and the generally older customers? Not altogether clear that what one sees from Terroirs is the (Charing Cross) police station, as the entrance is actually around the corner in Agar Street - but they clearly find it convenient to park their big white vans in William IV Street.

Meanwhile, Terroirs appears to be fighting back and is offering a home delivery service, yet to be investigated, as per the snap above.

Reference 1: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2020/02/courtauld-first-campaign.html.

Reference 2: https://www.terroirswinebar.com/home.

Table Water

Started on the Carr's flour noticed at reference 1 this morning, with report on that front to follow.

In the meantime, BH remembered about Carr's (table) water biscuits, almost certainly the same people. Google and Pinterest knew all about them too, turning up the snap left.

While I am old enough to remember when the dining cars on the trains to Plymouth (and beyond) used to serve something very similar by way of dessert; Stilton (wrapped in a cloth), celery and all.

Perhaps BH will buy some for a spot of nostalgia. Will Sainsbury's, from whom we got the flour, do the biscuits too?

While I will ponder about the phrase 'table water biscuits'. Does the table bit qualify the water or the biscuits? Where does the phrase come from? What is the relationship with Jacob's cream crackers? Which, according to Wikipedia, were invented in Dublin in the late nineteenth century - while I had always associated them with the cracker barrels of cowboy films. See reference 2.

Reference 1: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2020/03/flour-supply.html.

Reference 2: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cream_cracker.

Dreamtime

Last time a dream in some work environment, nowhere in particular, but in tone, the old-style, comfortable civil service environment in which I spent most of my working life.

We had an expensive consultant working on something or other in order to reduce the risk of something.

I pointed out some important flaw in the statistical argument on which this work rested.

The consultant saw what I was getting at straight away, while most of my colleagues did not.

As it  happened, the colleague who was actually responsible for the work was on leave, so I volunteered to write up the statistical argument. Always best to be in charge of the written record.

At which point the dream changes gear, as it were, and I am struggling to remember how to build and edit a document - the writing up just volunteered - using a command line editor. Using the systems we used before one just double clicked on the (Microsoft) Word icon or on the File Explorer icon for a pre-existing Word document.

Gradually I wake up, to find that the important flaw has become more or less inaccessible. All I can recover is a rule that says if you do lots of independent trials, the risk of something untoward happening in one of them increases linearly with the number of trials. Which doesn't work because eventually you get to a probability which is more than one, which is not allowed. Waking up still more I get to the binomial theorem, with its expansion of (a + b) to the power of n, where n is the number of trials and a + b = 1. And where the increase is real enough but not linear. I associate to Dr. Bayes, who barely existed in my frequentist day.

I then turned my attention to command line editors, which I used to use back in the days of something British called George III, in its day - the mid 1970's - a very advanced computer operating system. And gradually the workings of command line editors came back to me, rather different from the editor that comes with Windows and Word. I look around for a suitable illustration to this post and the best I can do is something lifted from reference 1. Evocative for me; probably not for someone who has never used such things.

Along the way I learn that there are people out there, probably white males of my sort of age, who indulge in George III nostalgia, in effect building museums about same.

Reference 1: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/GEORGE_%28operating_system%29.

To the throbbing heart of North London

That is to say a visit to Kings Place up York Way. What used to be a rather poor and squalid area, now packed to the gun'lls with busy young people rushing about and doing the latest thing. Whatever that might be.

The occasion being what is called a Beethoven Late, a short concert given by the Brodsky Quartet, starting at the early hour of 1830 and featuring a late string quartet, Op.127. Introduced by a piece by Karen Tanaka called 'At the grave of Beethoven'.

A mild, damp evening when we set off from Epsom. Being with BH and there not really being enough time, I had to pass on a Wilko trolley in Station Approach, marking it down for another occasion. By which time, as it happened, the facts on the ground had changed. Someone else must be at it. See reference 2.

Arrived at the station to find that trains to the south had been disturbed by another landslip, that to the north having been dealt with. Luckily we were headed north on this occasion.

Quite taken with what seemed like the huge number of people rushing around the precinct to the north of Kings Cross station. What on earth were they all doing? Have we got to the point where more than half the population is working in offices, spinning work out of the aether, while the other half actually do stuff? Like building houses and brewing beer.

We worried about the cranes, some of which seemed to be very close together, snapped above. I hope they don't put their trust in banksmen and have installed proper anti-collision software. Perhaps such stuff is mandatory these days. I also seem to remember being told that building workers are no longer allowed to drink at lunchtime - something which was common enough when I was one  - perhaps for this very reason. No falling asleep on the crane. No exhibitionism with the extended jib.

Quite taken, once again, with the smart, new space - Kings Place - contrived in the lower regions of the new Guardian Building. It may not have the history and atmosphere of Wigmore Hall, but it does have the facilities. Including a café where we opted for an enormous tuna sandwich for a fiver or so, a six inch length of a pain (the proper name for a fat baguette?) , sold conveniently cut into two for sharing between two. Must be getting old, as I could not have managed the whole thing.

The older lady across the table from us was reading a heritage Penguin paperback, the sort of thing that I remember from my adolescence. Which sparked a quick peek through Bing, resulting in the nostalgia snap above. First left, was a book owned by my mother, which I don't think I ever read, although I did try a couple of times. Second, was a book of my own, read several times during my Hornblower & Forester phase. Third, the nearest I could find to the book in question, with fourth not being quite right at all.

Onto the hall which was more or less full, maybe half people of working age, no children that we saw. A relaxed quartet who stood to play to real music - except the cello that is, who was provided with a little dais to get her head to the same level as that of the others.

Tanaka had turned out to hear this performance of her work, commissioned by the quartet some years ago now. So not a world première or anything like that, but I don't suppose it sees the light of day that often and she did take her bow.

I thought the Beethoven a little patchy, not quite as smooth as I like it, but generally good.

Cello 18th century Irish, by Perry of Dublin. A first for me. Violin 1 and viola, 18th century Italian. Violin 2 early 17th century Italian, of reference 5. More than half a century earlier than a Stradivarius.

Decided against eating in and headed across the road, back into the precinct. Passed one rather flashy looking blonde climbing out of a taxi with her gentlemen. Passed up on the various bars and restaurants on offer, which all looked too busy and too noisy for our mood, opting instead to head for home. Including here both Vinotec which we did know and the German Gymnasium (of reference 4, possibly in somewhere called the coal yard) which we didn't. Maybe another time.

Amused to find a scaffolding gantry over the start of the escalators in the otherwise flashy new entrance to the tube station. Followed by unpleasantly loud buskers. Followed by offer of seat on the tube from another blonde. Declined, to amuse myself by peering closely at the moving light indicator board above the seats. Intrigued by the halos to right and left of lights that were on, visible at six inches, invisible at twenty four. The result of lights not turning off and on quite instantaneously? Do the bulbs have special filaments to address this problem?

A snap from the glory days of Middlesborough. See reference 3 below.

Reference 1: https://pumpkinstrokemarrow.blogspot.com/search?q=brodsky. We had previously heard this quartet, more than a decade ago, at Dorking Halls.

Reference 2: http://psmv4.blogspot.com/2020/01/trolley-368.html.

Reference 3: https://www.brodskyquartet.co.uk/group-history. With roots in the far north of Middlesborough. With musicians who must be very much of our own age.

Reference 4: https://www.germangymnasium.com/.

Reference 5: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Giovanni_Paolo_Maggini. Which suggests that you can pay a great deal for one.