Nothing makes a day so worthwhile as learning something new and yesterday I heard the expression ‘moral turpitude’ used in a lunchtime conversation.  (Yes, reader, whilst you’re discussing anything – property prices, upcoming dental work, vegans – anything to give your poor brain a rest from B*****, I am involved with higher things like moral turpitude.  That is how I roll).

My dining companion was relating how he had once been deported from America for that very offence and escorted onto the returning ‘plane in handcuffs.  ‘I knew things were serious’, he said,’ when I was taken to a room occupied by 20 young Arab men’.  When he was told the grounds for deportation, and never having heard the expression before, he thought it must be some kind of sex crime but realising that protest was probably fruitless, he just came back.  You might, at this point, take a little time, Google it and see if you yourself have ever Been guilty before planning your next holiday to Florida.  It turned out that his actual ‘crime’ was to have made a fairly simple but stupid mistake on some application form.

But enough of other people; let’s get back to me. I know, I know that I have been absent for several weeks but I doubt any of you have an understanding of the pressures I am under.  Tomorrow is the Day of the Concert at Cadogan Hall in Chelsea, 6.30 kick off, and rehearsals have been nothing short of draining, especially as they have to be slotted into an already over-heated existence.  (Spring planting at allotment, summer wardrobe planning, still Head of Empathy).

After the last one I felt as though I had a cheese grater lodged halfway down my throat and turning to my vast knowledge of ENT procedures I decided that the way forward was to gargle with whisky.  It did help but on reflection it might have been more sensible not to have swallowed all of it but I did have an important evening event to attend within the hour.

A staggering 800 tickets had been sold last time I asked but if you still haven’t got yours go to the Princess Alice Hospice website and get one.  We are hoping to raise £20,000 for this amazing place and if you can’t make it just send a cheque.

And flowers to my dressing room please.

 

 

I met yet another mother yesterday at her wits end because her child had decided to become a vegan.  How do they do it?  Having been slaves to them as babies – thank you, Penelope Leach – driven halfway to the Moon and back ferrying them to football and ballet and archery and (Cont on page 94) we enjoyed a brief respite when they went to university; an all-too tiny glimpse of the sunlit uplands of how we imagined our later years.

Then like the terminator they were back. Oh, they might boomerang in and out for a couple of years before they fully realised that nothing could ever compare to the comfort and luxury of their childhood home, or compete with it in terms of cost.  Battle hardened by over twenty years of parenting we did the only thing possible and pretty much ignored them and their revenge has been veganism.

We have grown used to being blamed for all the ills in the world; all grown ups are fascists, racists, colonialists, property owners (Cont on page. 94) but to add to our sins it turns out we are now meat eaters, the source of all that was, is and ever will be wrong with the world.  Does no-one else think it odd that so perfect and liberal a generation cannot tolerate anybody who is different?

We must agree with their politics, their disdain of alcohol and now their rejection of meat.  Happily vegan wine is available – who knew it was made from cows? – but kiss goodbye to everything else you’ve ever enjoyed because it’s not just the joy of a bacon sandwich that’s verboten although that is a pretty good example.  Bacon – bad, bread bad (contains dead yeast) and butter very, very bad – all those poor cows being milked.  (I wonder where they stand on breast feeding, come to that?). So no cheese either.  Or Cadbury’s Creme Eggs which were discovered in my home.  Contain gelatine apparently, aka dead baby cow.  OUT. NOW.

So for mother’s everywhere here is another tiny straw to clutch at – an inadvertently vegan recipe.

Chop up some carrots, cover with water and boil till soft.  Allow to cool.  Mix in two dollops of grated ginger and a tin of coconut milk.  Liquidise, re-heat at leisure and eat.  But don’t serve with toast.  You’re not that stupid.

 

… you mighty and despair.  A quote from Mr Shelley in his poem about the fleeting nature of power and fame which brings us with a single, unusually efficient leap to the Baftas.  Results to be announced tonight.  I spend the early part of every year, when I’m not folding a la Kondo,  catching up with all the BAFTA and Oscar nominations and I’m spending the early part of today giving you my top tips so that you can nip down the bookies and get a bet on.  Although you’ve probably got an app that put bets on for you before the nominations were even announced.

So, in no particular order:

Best supporting actress:  I would say Amy Adams for Vice but this being Britain it will probably be Rachel Weisz for ‘The Favourite’, which those of you who read my review at the time might recall was long on corridors and short on plot.

Best supporting actor: I expect this will be Richard E. Grant for ‘Can you ever forgive me?’.  He was born to play the part but having re-watched ‘Withnail And I’ yesterday, it’s pretty much a more nuanced re-run of that part, although the judges are probably too young to have seen the original, bless ‘em.

Best actress:  This will go to Olivia Coleman or there will be a riot but it should be a close run thing with Glenn Close for ‘The Wife’.  It’s certainly a better film.

Best actor:  The Hollywood clout will probably swing it for Christian Bale for ‘Vice’ ( As in President, you muppet, not porn) but Steve Coogan’s performance in ‘Stan and Olly’ merits a serious mention.  Put a fiver on each way.  He must come second.

Best film: Byseveral furlongs this has to be ‘Roma’, an absolute treat for anyone who loves cinema, and it should scoop best film and best director for Alfonso Charon.  Let’s hope it’s not robbed by xenophobic support for ‘The Favourite’.  The Bafta’s have always seemed more thoughtful than the Oscars and I hope they don’t let us down.

I went to the opening of the Don McCullin exhibition this week and was appalled to discover afterwards  that only one person I spoke to about it had even heard of him.  (The legendary war photographer, just in case…). The one person who had knew his work had had a similar shock recently discovering that younger folk had not heard of Marlon Brando.  How fleeting is fame even for the best?  Despair, reader, despair.

 

Probably. Certainly, according to trustworthy Radio 4 but clearly I’m not even going to draw the curtains, never mind venture out there and damage any of my beautiful pairs of boots.  That part of winter defined as Stay Under Your Duvet Darling has arrived and as you are not here to be offered gin, sadly, let me give you some advice.

My mission to totally ‘Kondo’ my house continues at speed and opaque tights have been in the firing line.  However,  even rolled and arranged in regimental rows it is still impossible to distinguish black from navy first thing in the morning.  And thank you for that very obvious suggestion but what lady over the age of 30 wants unforgiving overhead lighting in any room, least of all the boudoir?  And not for reasons of personal vanity but because surely no-one wants to see who their current lover is before coffee and a fag.    Solution?  Stitch a little length of red thread into the waistband of the black ones.  Sorted!  And while we’re here invest some money in buying Wolsey tights.  It is a classic example of ‘You get what you pay for’.

Now onto something more heartwarming and in my new mode of inclusiveness even Vegans can eat it!  I refer to parsnip soup which even a moment’s research will reveal was, without doubt,  what is referred to as ‘The food of the Gods’ in classical literature.

Take about ten parsnips, peel and slice in half lengthways.  (Get them delivered.  Going out will defeat the whole purpose of staying warm and cosy).  Roast in a hot oven for 40 minutes; in goose fat for the true epicure, vegetable oil for the rest.  They should have a good colour.  Chop and fry an onion until lightly browned, add half a chopped apple – I would suggest a cooking apple, parsnips being sweet enough already – and give them a minute of two.  Add the chopped, roasted parsnips, lots of chopped parsley, a pint of vegetable stock and seasoning.  After about 15 minutes remove from heat, add milk – vegans can use oatmeal milk which would actually work rather well – and blend.

If possible leave to the next day to let the flavours infuse but I tend to scoff it straight from the blender.  Cold outside baby but toasty and delicious inside.  Enjoy!

Imagine my excitement when I read on my neighbourhood website that the council were sponsoring an anti-idling day.  There is far too much of it, even in leafy Richmond and it is an all too common error to mistake a higher state of stillness for mere physical inactivity.  Way too many people have jumped on the bandwagon of doing nothing which true devotees like my friend Raymond and myself have spent a lifetime perfecting.  Let’s get out there and get them doing something useful.  (See last week for some very suitable suggestions for idle hands).

However, yet again I fell prey to my own boundless enthusiasm.  It transpires that what the council actually had in mind was engine idling, which for the non-technical is having a vehicle’s engine running when stationary for more than a minute.  What kind of double think is this in a borough where the speed limit is about to be dropped to 20mph?  Cars will hardly be moving at the best of times; during rush hours the average driver will commit about 200 crimes a mile. (It need hardly be said that an entirely unintended side effect of this is that it will generate buckets of money with the poor motorist being charged £40 for each offence).

The day started at a local school which had been built in the middle of a large, busy car park.  Not, I venture, the most obvious commitment to breathing clean air.  There was, it need hardly be said, a health and safety briefing – don’t inhale as you cross the playground – and the donning of hi-viz tunics.  My spirits rose briefly as it seemed like an ideal opportunity to show my sons that I had been part of the gilet jaune movement but sadly they were blue and, worn over my padded coat, made me look like a fat, trainee Hobby Bobby.

There were actually a couple of genuinely interesting facts.  Apparently an idling engine produces enough noxious gases to fill 140 balloons a minute!  Am I the only one who spots a re-cycling opportunity?  And in 2017 one particular street in London, probably somewhere Godless south of the river, exceeded its annual quota of emitting poison in just five days!  Worrying statistics people  although one feels honour bound to mention that at one time 70% of all pollutants came from buses rather than cars.  London air is the filthiest in Europe and that’s another good reason to leave it.  Have your fumes back, Brussels.

We then spent thirty minutes being photographed with the children and some local Councillors.  We waved black balloons about despite a little concern that they were plastic and helium filled and therefore not as green as a zealot might have wished.  (There was muttering in the ranks).  We then ventured forth and preached to the unconverted, all six of whom turned out to be van drivers as they are the only people who would even dare to stop in the red route world that is Richmond town centre.  They were touchingly remorseful and by coincidence, none of them had ever done it before.  What are the chances?

One little thing did occur to me.  How do the emissions of six vans compare to the jumbo jets which fly low over the town every thirty second and whose number will rise when Heathrow is expanded?  I did ask and was reassured that for what didn’t seem entirely convincing  reasons,  they cause no pollution at all for the man in the street struggling to draw breath.  So that’s all right then.  World saved and home for tea.

 

My plan was to have uploaded the video of the event I attended last night as a way of explaining why I might be a little tiny bit below par today.  (I should, should, have resisted going out for the fourth night in a row but Old School that I am, I never fail to turn up when I’ve accepted an invitation).

In case I haven’t managed that marathon technical task, it featured about 50 ladies from one of my choirs, at least 49 of them the worse for drink, singing and dancing along to an ABBA song in a restaurant, a belated Christmas celebration held sensibly when we all needed cheering up in January.  Talk about the hen night from heaven.  Luckily we knew all the words and could go on for hours.  I expect the owners will be begging us to go back next weekend …

So a quiet day today while I get my voice back and an opportunity to catch up on Netflix’s latest offering – ‘Tidying Up’, a subject which rivals list making (See last week’s blog) as my definition of a Good Time which can be had by all.  It stars the lovely Marie Kondo, a tiny, exquisite Japanese girl who looks as though she has just been taken out of a very beautifully wrapped box.  Nothing is permitted within a mile of her unless it ‘sparks joy’, a rule I should have incorporated into my life many years ago.  There is apparently something on You Tube where you can watch towels being folded.  Each to their own but Ms Kondo takes it to another level. Step aside ‘Game of Thrones’ and ‘Bake Off’ – this is without doubt the hit of 2019.  Get ahead of the hordes and watch it now.

I am also very busy watching all the BAFTA nominations and let me say that if you are pushed for time or feeling fragile don’t bother to watch ‘The Favourite’.  Very fine acting but not much of a plot unless you like watching people walk up and down long rooms.  Nice costumes.

As I left the restaurant yesterday and stepped/staggered into the cold night air the dulcet tones of ladies singing Leonard Cohen’s  ‘Hallelujah’ floated down the street. And that did spark joy.

I was consulting the page in my diary containing details of the 500 things to be done before Christmas, this being Christmas Eve, when a colleague leaned across and asked in a conspiratorial whisper, if I was a list maker.  A whisper, sir?  This is a habit to be shouted from the rooftops; your list maker is a person to be praised above all men/women/etc.

We then had a very pleasant conversation exchanging list making tips and habits.  Do you carry over uncompleted tasks to the next list? Yes.  Sometimes for days or weeks on end.  Do you add on things you have done that were not on the list in the first place?  Obviously. Then tick them off?  Of course!

Sadly the rest of the room was listening in a manner that suggested that immediate sectioning under the Mental Health Act should be the very next item on the agenda. Oh, foolish doubters.  There must somewhere be a list of the most brilliant people in the history of the universe who have all been passionate list makers because it is the way to success, order, tranquillity, satisfaction.  (Must make a definitive  of good things about list making …)

Some of you may be familiar with the device used by television presenters where the words they are about to say unroll before them, projected onto the front of the camera.  TelePrompt, Autocue, other brands are available.  Cue endless scope for larks to amuse bored crew by inserting the odd completely random word or operating it at an ever increasing/decreasing pace.  The latter once memorably happened when the girl winding the machine became transfixed by the sight of a cameraman, who had unwisely partaken of a rather liquid supper, urinating into a waste paper bin held by a  Scene-hand.   Could the snowflake generation have handled this situation with such creative aplomb?  I think not.  Even the newscaster was a little discombobulated by it, despite years of exposure to high jinx on air.

This leads us onto Eddie Stobart, a man clearly after my own heart, who has produced a hefty booklet containing the names, Home Depots and registration numbers of all his lorries, which booklet to be kept in the car at all times for ticking off sightings.  What bliss, with the added bonus that it provides a way to occupy Sluice Nurse on long journeys when her lemming-like directional abilities are not required.  Which is always and heartfelt thanks to Staff Nurse for coming up with the idea.

And now onwards with a happy heart to commence work on the 500 tasks to be done after Christmas, which starts with untangling the five lengths of fairy lights ripped off the tree with somewhat reckless haste by Elder Son and left on the sitting room floor in a Gordian knot.  At least two hours of mind-numbing work required –  I think that deserves a double tick.  Possibly three.  What a perfect start to 2019.  Happy New Year, reader.

Let me start by dedicating today’s thoughts to a young chum called Melisa.  It appears that she and her father enjoy reading my blog together and may I congratulate them on an excellent choice of an improving bedtime story for any young person.

I used to read my own children tales from the comic ‘Viz’ , especially the one called ‘Spoilt Bastard’ hoping in vain they would spot the similarities and change their ways.  Another top source was ‘Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes’ – you think that’s an invention?  Google it and send me a tenner.  Still in print, people.

Young Melisa labours under the rather appealing belief that given a choice Boris Johnson would marry her rather than me. (A notion up there with unicorns and Santa)  If he did, young lady, it would be a welcome sign that he had at last managed to contain at least one of his more ridiculous ambitions.  Let us simply recall that George Clooney even named one of his twins after me which was a sweet gesture but ever so faintly needy.

Now on to more important matters.  Christmas is survived and the turkey only a thing of memory.  Despite having persuaded me to send thousands of pounds on pate, cheeses, hams and other over-priced victuals the children spent the entire festive period on a diet of Turkish Delight and Quality Street.

(I myself ate mainly sherry trifle – I’m an adult.  And incidentally did not gain an ounce of weight.  Could this at last be the Holy Grail of dieting?)

They have, if nothing else, a respect for British traditions which means that there are ample provisions for my forthcoming party which I have decided, in a flash of inspiration that is my trademark, is to be gin based.

Who doesn’t love gin and haven’t I got enough bottles to float the Titanic?  All I have to do is get a few mixers (Although that is probably unnecessary), slice some lemons and passion fruits, fill the ice bucket and we’re sorted.  It will be a sophisticated event, quite unlike the wine-based brawl of last year and we will no doubt compare tasting notes and toast the eventual happy outcome of the Brexit fiasco.  An result possibly up there with Melisa’s fairies.

Let me finish by replying to all of you who have wondered why yet again I have not been mentioned in the New Year’s Honours.  Because that’s not why I reach out to you, readers, not for temporal reward.  All I ever hope for is that I bring a little comfort and joy into your  lives in an educational, inclusive and above all, caring way.  Fingers crossed for next year.

And let’s hope it is good for us all.  Happy 2019 one and all.

It says something for the indomitable spirit of humanity that despite having endured the routine incompetence of daily life for many decades I can still find it in me to be moved to something approaching fury.  I refer to the fiasco that is the events at Gatwick Airport.

Yesterday I was at a friend’s house listlessly shovelling mince pies into my mouth (Note to self:  really very fine pastry, must get her to make some for the freezer) and discussing the fact that we had been roused from early onset festive torpor (brought on mainly by the over consumption of said mince pies and alcohol) by the sorry events at Britain’s second largest airport.

It was a Trumpesque moment.  This MUST be fake news.  A nation that lets people die on the very steps of Parliament rather than reduce the billions spent on the defence budget cannot bring down a TOY PLANE?  It could not, apparently, be shot out of the skies because of the danger of where the bullets would end up.  A valid point from our friends at the Ministry of Health and Safety.  Were all the stranded passengers milling about on the runway,  refusing to move out of harm’s way perhaps?  Or are there no snipers available in the world that can hit a clearly visible object without spraying the surrounding countryside with lead?

Bring in a bloody tank then.  That wouldn’t need to take more than one shot for it to be game over.  Am I the only still living person who can recall that at one point during World War Two we managed to shoot down a very large number of big boy planes over the next county that were equipped with actual weapons and living pilots who were pretty determined to use them?  Such a shame that we no longer train pilots to perform at that level.  Let’s hope none of our enemies read the papers.

In a rare moment of compassion, it being Christmas, I am prepared to accept that we may not have been told all the facts.  It could be that the drone had a small but deadly nuclear device attached to it, or a bucket of anthrax.  These are details that would suggest caution but if it turns out to be the work of two stupid boys with an Airfix Kit I think questions should be asked.  Or better still let’s put the lads in charge of the nation’s defence and we can conquer the world, airport by airport, for less than a hundred quid.  I’ll take a small percentage of the money saved for having come up with another brilliant idea.  Yet again.

And now, it being 0615 am, I will open the first bottle of the day (Milk, people, milk) pop a pastry in the microwave and slump back onto my pillows to rally for the days to come.  This is no time to admit defeat.  Any day now the whistle will sound and we must leave the trenches of exhaustion for the front line of December 25th. Bayonets ready men!  Charge!   Merry Christmas, one and all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was seeking a little richly deserved peace and quiet yesterday in one of the less visited rooms at Strawberry Hill House (Have I mentioned the amazing exhibition there at the moment?  Tickets still available) when who should walk in but my dear and valued friend Anthony.  After all, how many men do you know that at a moments notice could do a Latin translation or provide the name of Norman Scott’s dog?  (Rinka, a Great Dane, in case you didn’t know). But was he focussed on the wealth of treasures around him?  No, he had tracked me down to complain about the absence of a blog this week.  The responsibility of inspiring such devotion is a little overwhelming, even for me.

My mind of late has been on higher things; namely my ceiling.  And walls.  The decorator has finally arrived and the house will go to the ball before Christmas.  Thank God for technology, not a phrase in daily usage I venture, because with a click on my iPad I was able to send pictures of the paint samples to my thirty most trusted advisors and decide on a colour without leaving the house.  FYI the way forward, so long Farrow and Ball’s ‘Elephant’s Breath’, is now either ‘Skylight’or ‘Cornforth White’.  I opted for the latter, largely on the basis that John Cornforth has connections with Strawberry Hill.  (Have I mentioned ….) and it goes with the carpet.

The Internet was also employed by my old schoolmate who was able to send me a snap of the perfect skirt for the Christmas season which she will hopefully despatch tomorrow. Note to self:  check for snowdrifts in Scotland.  Even I wouldn’t want her to risk life and limb just to get to the Post Office when, at a pinch, I could wear something else.  Who said that empathy course was a waste of time?

On a more serious note I see that The Sunday Times is doing a survey on Queen Bee syndrome.  Now I would never deny that men have their faults (See pages 2 – 95) but I would still rather work for a man than a woman who hates all other women.  Men are simple, straightforward creatures who can generally be persuaded/ordered to do what you want whereas a lot of women who’ve made it to the top seem to make it their mission in life to ensure that no other woman does.  Shame on you ladies.  Let your New Year resolution be to work on empowering and supporting your sisters.  Or brothers, I should add, in these gender fluid times.

Herein ends today’s sermon.  Now let me get back to admiring my walls.  Do I need to get out more?