Category Archives: General

General comments on life as I see it

Luddites and Banking

Do you ever think about how long you have known some of your friends? Whizz and I have been married for 19 years, and my friendship with the couple we visited  the weekend before last, Cop and Tax, predates this by about 20 years.  In other words I have known them twice as long as I have known Whizz. Whizz recently referred to them as old friends of Lil’s, before realising that now, they are old friends of his as well. We are a couple of old gits… It happens.

The weekend with Cop and Tax , was as fabulous as ever. The couple, who many years ago, relinquished their unpopular careers in favour of self-sufficiency,  always provide a stonking dinner and a healthy country pastime. On this occasion the activity was a point to point.

Two Friends, Oil on canvas by Arthur Kurtz ‎

I will digress here to relate a tale about the last point-to-point I attended. It was with friends of Cop – some of the Hooray-Henries mentioned in this: past post. On that occasion, a rider in one of the races was known to my companions.

‘Never bet on him,’ they advised, ‘He always falls off his horse.’ (When I say bet, I’m only talking a couple of quid, probably less in those days). Needless to say, this ‘chap’ didn’t fall off, he stormed home in first place.

File:Cross country with horse and hound (1902) (14596537038).jpg

Cross Country with Horse and Hound, Peer, Frank Sherman, Published in Horse and Hound 1902

It was the memory of that first point-to-point that prompted me to attend an event of which, in truth, I disapprove in terms of its exploitation of animals. I don’t plan to do anything like that again. The occasion offered a viewing of the Grand National later on, but I’m afraid I refused at that jump. To me, the Grand National epitomises the ugly imposition of man(kind?) over its fellow sentient beings. Sorry race goers it is only my opinion and I don’t plan to throw red paint over you.

During my gambling life I have won nothing, hence, I hardly do it. If there’s a sweepstake at work or maybe a raffle, I invariably pick the option that arrives or occurs  last, or doesn’t arrive at all. The best thing I ever won was in a raffle, a bent, patent-plastic  belt. That is, until this point-to-point. For once I backed horses, to win, in three separate races, and two of them, ones with reasonable odds, passed the finish line in first place. Whoop Whoop, £7.50 profit. It may not seem  exciting to you, but it made my day.

Before we left for the races, Cop and Tax provided their usual, delicious, home-produced grub. Over lunch, Tax, at the grinning behest of Cop,  related her recent experience of banking technology.

Someone, I don’t remember whom, had given her a cheque. I imagine most readers will know that outside the Metropolis, banks are a rarity, and should you happen upon one, human cashiers are as common as elephants’ ballet shoes. Tax found herself at the mercy of a machine. She must insert her debit card and enter the amount, sort-code and account-number. This she did, and with a sense of triumph went home, confident that the total would somehow fetch up in her current account.

Days passed and the money did not appear, so she got in touch with a call centre – more buttons to press but at least she could talk to a human. The sum had not arrived, it must be assumed that it was one of those that had disappeared into the ether. Feeling justified in her mistrust of technology, Tax contacted the donor of the cheque, who checked their account to see whether it had been debited and reported back that it had definitely been through the account – in fact it had been through twice, once as a debit and again as a credit.

Poor Tax will never live down having carefully keyed into the bank machine, the account number and sort code on the cheque.

Someone else who will feel a bit silly, is the person who enabled this sign to appear across the country in a well known supermarket.

Stationary stationery!

Calories in Ikea Desserts 2019

 

Going Vegetarian

Here’s a thing: if you chant Nam Myoho Renge Kyo, your life will change.

One change I didn’t expect was that I would decide to go vegetarian.  Mavis is trying to do this too. Not in an obsessive way – if I’m served meat at a friend’s or relative’s house, I’ll eat it (with much enjoyment if my recent experience of a vegetarian diet is anything to go by), but I am trying very hard not to eat meat or its by-products, for environmental reasons.

hand globe world help earth illustration diagram planet worship protection protect attention respect awe appreciation recognition admiration handful of

I started by aiming for the Pescatarian option until a conversation with a passionate ocean conservationist put me off the idea. I am still investigating sustainable fish though and will keep you updated.

The challenge is combining vegetarianism with a Slimming World diet. Oh how sad I feel at the prospect, nay the actuality, of low fat cheese, no butter and low fat mayo.

So far I have had meat free sausages – not bad actually but you can’t live on them,  soya mince chilli, again not bad but it has an unpleasant after taste, and  roast dinner with fake steak, yorkshire pud and vege gravy (with added red wine). Mavis left her fake meat but I thought the roast was my most successful attempt to date.

Tonight I planned vegetarian shepherds pie. Earlier in the week I shoved loads of vegetables into the slow cooker as a base for the shepherds pie. Sadly, I made the mistake of adding potatoes. Potatoes, slow cooked for too long take on a nasty steamy flavour. The spuds were my first mistake. My second was to add soya mince – yes, that with the aftertaste. I flung in some soy sauce and decided against topping it with mash, as it already contained those steamy-tasting potatoes. Instead I topped it with Laughing Cow light triangles and 50% fat cheddar and bunged it in the oven for half an hour.  It was horrible! Actually, the topping was lush but if I was doing it again I’d leave out the slow cooked spuds and the mince, add lentils and top with mash.

Lunch has been soup – every day – with Lo-dough. Pretty sustaining and tasty. Breakfast, scrambled eggs or vege sausages and beans. Delish, and only one syn for two sausages (I had three).

I have never cooked vegetarian, apart from for inconvenient guests (ooh err, I’m one of those now). My go-to recipe for them is Delia’s lentil Moussaka. Why I haven’t done this for myself I have no idea. Note to self: do it.

Reading back through this, I don’t know why I, a keen cook, have entered into this new lifestyle with such lack of imagination. I think it’s because I’m trying to find things Mavis will enjoy. Well, that worked well, didn’t it?

I’m going to persevere though. There must be tasty, low syn, vegetarian meals to be found. I don’t hold out much hope for official Slimming World recipes as my experience of those has been as unimpressive as the above.

Watch this blog for progress reports and recipes. I will succeed, for the benefit of the planet.

It’s a MR E

I’ve always been forgetful and absent minded, but living with Whizz has made me more aware of my shortcomings in this area. It’s not that he ever criticises me, but he has such an amazing brain that I can’t help comparing my own to his. Lately, probably due to work overload, I have become TERRIBLE at keeping to appointments. I have an electronic diary, it bongs at me (when the sound is turned on), but somehow I still get things wrong. About three weeks ago I got home from work and was pottering around while planning dinner, when the phone rang.

‘Mrs Lil?’

‘Ye-e-es?’

It’s Tinkle Dental Surgery here.’

A pause then, ‘Oh my God. Am I supposed to be there?!!! I am aren’t I? I’m SO SORRY.’

The voice smiles, ‘Don’t worry. We can make another appointment.’

We did.

Now the problem with my dentist is that her days off coincide with mine, which means that I have to go to her after work, something I am not in the habit of doing. I made a new appointment on a Monday evening, and spent the next week terrified of forgetting it again.

Monday came and I was delayed slightly at work. When I escaped, I dived into my car, parked, sprinted across the car park and up the stairs to the dentist’s reception desk gasping for breath. ‘So sorry I’m late.’ I panted, ‘ I got held up at work .’

The young and very chipper young man behind the desk, looked at me over his computer monitor and asked for my name, then he stared at the screen for a minute and looked worried.

I got that sinking feeling. ‘Have I missed it again?’

‘I don’t seem to have… Oh wait a moment, here you are… Your appointment’s next week not tonight.’

Dammit!

The following week  I managed to arrive after the poor Hygienist had gone home. ‘I hate my life,’ I moaned to the amused receptionist, and banged my head on the desk several times.

We decided that Monday evenings wouldn’t work for me, and then it transpired that I could have a weekend appointment – who knew?’

My new appointment will be on 29th December. Lovely way to spend part of the Christmas break.

Despite my mental shortcomings, Whizz and I get along pretty well, mainly because, in some areas, our interests collide, and we share the same, sad sense of humour. When we walk the dog our discussions can be quite lively as I have reported here in the past.

On a recent tromp around the quarry I remarked that historically, love songs by men about women have focused on their looks only. I didn’t quote it but in fact the worst case of this I can think of, came from a childhood  78 record called The Girl That I Marry, who, according to the lyrics, ‘…will have to be, as soft and as pink as a nursery,’ and  ”stead of flittin’ I’ll be sittin’ next to her and she’ll purr like a kitten.’ Yuck. I wonder if he found her and whether she became suicidal after a week of marriage.

Anyway, Livin’ Doll is pretty naff: ‘Got myself a cryin’ walkin’ sleepin’ talkin’ livin’ doll.’ and Poetry in Motion, walkin’ by my side,’ etc. I felt that things have changed for the better until Whizz pointed out that in modern times, women  say or rap about men in a similar way. Could they not sing about their partner’s brains for a change? I need another walk with Whizz to devise some lyrics.

(By the way, I’m not old enough to have purchased 78 records. We had a collection of 78s handed down by my grandparents. The collection shrank each time we moved house, when many were broken.)

Back to our walk. I started picking on Happy Families – you know -the card game. I realised the all the men had the jobs, and the women were their wives: Mr Bun the baker, Mrs Bun the baker’s wife, and so on.

Happy Families - Family Fun Playing Cards

Whizz and I began to explore what a modern Happy Families pack might comprise, and this kept us occupied for ages. Here are some of the cards we came up with:

  • Master Race, the Neo-Nazi
  • Miss Tified, the Quantum Physicist
  • Major Cost, the plumber
  • Mrs Singh, the choir leader
  • Dr Facts, the US President
  • Professor Doubt, the Consultant
  • Councillor Couple, the Sex Therapist
  • Pastor Sellbydate, the Health Inspector
  • Mr Call the contact Centre Operative

Then Whizz got that twinkle in his eye. ‘And not forgetting,’ he grinned, ‘ Mrs Appointments, the Author?’

Haw haw, very funny.

It’s the school holidays so…

So I have time to blog, write, paint and generally catch up on domestic responsibilities. Well, that’s the theory, anyway. What has actually happened is that the time is, mainly enjoyably, slipping through my fingers. Nevertheless, here I am writing at last.

My dear uncle, mentioned in the previous post, departed this life recently. This was a devastating event, especially for his children, my cousins, and his older sister, my mum, who hobbled to the lectern and spoke very movingly at his funeral. Afterwards I was able, in his memory, to break my diet at the wake, on sandwiches, and a scone with clotted cream and strawberry jam. I gained half a pound when weighing in at  Slimming World on only my second week.

Death is not funny, but it is inevitable and over the years I, somewhat morbidly, have collected anecdotes about the interesting and sometimes amusing circumstances relating to it. This preoccupation might explain why I write books about people dying. Take a look here to read the first (so far the only, and I should be working on its sequel now – not blogging).

It is one of the characteristics of Brits, that we make a joke about the most terrible events – perhaps it is because we are not so good at putting our feelings into words. To many this tendency will seem horrible and insensitive, but you have to believe that we have the feelings, it’s just one of the ways we face the world with them.

Wood engraving by P. May, 1901. Published in Punch

My first story came from Woman’s hour,  years ago, and I believe the theme was that you can bury your loved ones in any way you choose. Something like that. The interviewee was a lady, let’s call her Imelda, I hope this wasn’t her real name, I don’t remember anything about her apart from what she did.

Imelda’s mother died after a long and disabling illness that kept her house-bound. Prior to her decline, Mum had been active and had many friends, but the friends had become equally disabled by age and so were unable to visit her before she died.

Upon her mother’s demise, Imelda decided not to leave her with the funeral directors and instead brought her and her coffin home, so that she could chat to mum and say her goodbye’s thoroughly. I’m not sure how long this took but having satisfied this desire, Imelda popped the coffin into the back of the car and took her mother to visit all her decrepit friends, so that they could bid her farewell, too. One can’t help wondering how the friends felt about this but clearly they were polite and offered tea and biscuits – to Imelda of course, this isn’t a Monty Python sketch.

Having done this, Imelda took her parent to her favourite spot, for a last look at  the view before she was returned to the funeral director’s for her final exit.

The second story is more a situation that tickled me, about a woman whose husband dropped dead while they were away on holiday in their caravan. He fell straight down the middle of the ‘van  so that she had to step over his body each time she made a cup of tea for the paramedics (we used to call those, ambulance men, I don’t think there were any ambulance women then, but now there are, it does seem more appropriate to give them a generic name). This picture has stuck in my head for years – I told you I was morbid.

More recently, the mother of a neighbour’s son-in-law died. The funeral was sad but went according to plan and the wake was held in the deceased lady’s beautiful garden.

The guests stood under the trees in the rolling lawns, sipping wine and nibbling on canapees when there was a gasp, and one of the older members of the group dropped down dead.

An ambulance was called and while the crew attempted, unsuccessfully, to revive the poor guest, the son of the lady whose funeral it actually was, had to make polite conversation with the remaining guests. Ghastly.

Finally, this week, here in Pebbleditch, a death with a hopefully happy ending:

I have changed the names and written this from my imagination as I was not actually present. Apologies if I got anything wrong.

Our village has been lucky enough to have a new football pavilion and the opening ceremony – albit some months after it started to be used – was held last Sunday. The celebration was also to induct local people in the use of the new defibrillator, installed on the wall of the building.

An expert in heart disease explained the symptoms that might indicate that a person was about to have a heart attack.

Raymond, the Vice Chair of the Parish Council, was sitting on a bench next to a somewhat generously proportioned gentleman.

‘The first sign might be profuse sweating,’ The instructor informed the audience.

Raymond looked at the man, who was sweating profusely.

‘Next the patient may become pale…’

The colour drained from the man’s face.

‘The victim may also become short of breath.’

At this point, the fat guy panted for a bit then dropped to the ground with a coronary thromboses. His heart stopped working and he had in fact, died.

You may be surprised to read that there were a number of paramedics on the scene and a defibrillator. He is now in a specialist hospital making his recovery.

I don’t know how to finish this post except with a joke, borrowed from my brother’s play, Losing Louis:

An old lady was very upset as her husband William had just passed away.  When she visited the undertakers to have a final look at her dear hubby she became distraught. Through her tears she explained to the undertaker that she was heartbroken to see her dearest William wearing a black suit, when it had been his wish to be buried in a blue one. The undertake apologised profusely, explaining that they always put bodies in a black suit, but he would see what he could arrange.

The dear lady returned the next day to have one last moment with William and when the undertaker pulled back the curtain, she smiled through her tears because William was smartly clad in a blue suit. ‘That’s wonderful,’ the lady cried, ‘but where did you get that beautiful suit?’

‘Well,’ explained the Undertaker, ‘Yesterday afternoon after you left, a man about your husband’s size was brought in and he was wearing a blue suit. His wife was quite upset because she wanted him buried in the traditional black suit.’

William’s wife smiled at the undertaker. ‘That’s such good luck. So you swapped the suits over.’

‘Oh no,’  the undertaker replied…

‘We just swapped the heads.’

Boom boom!