Month: July 2010

Good morning to you all. Just think – this time next week Ms Playchute and I will be at the Ritz. Doesn’t time fly when you are enjoying yourself!

Ever since our Molly was a puppy she has been extremely fond of her food. (Aren’t we all!) So much so that whenever one even thought about having a piece of toast for breakfast she would be at your feet gazing longingly into your eyes trying to persuade you with a doleful expression that what she really, really, really, needs was just a small sample of whatever it is that you’re having. The merest rustle of paper or indeed the very act of opening the bread bin would summon her in a heartbeat. You hadn’t even removed the bread from the bread bin and you would turn around and find her sitting expectantly. Even more amazing, you could see (and hear) her snoring in the living room, tiptoe silently through to the kitchen and noiselessly remove the lid of the bread bin and hey presto! There she was.

Now, however, as she has reached an advanced age, she is no longer there in an instant. Nowadays, she arrives just as the toast pops.

Originally I put this down to loss of hearing but when I think about it, I realise that this is not the case. As I say, generally she gets there before the toast has popped so I reckon that she has indeed heard the bread bin being opened, heard the rustle of the wrapper as one extracts a slice of bread, heard the bread being slid into the toaster and the lever being depressed. Only then does she bother to rouse herself from wherever she has been slumbering to arrive just at the moment the toast is about to be removed from the toaster. Pretty damn clever – why waste all that time sitting and looking as if one is about to starve to death when one can achieve the same result by arriving a few minutes later?

We’ve had a fair few swallow invasions this week which is most unusual. Generally, we might get one or two who mistakenly find their way indoors. Usually, it’s the young ones and often it’s when they are just learning to fly. They flutter about and, when aiming for the garage (i.e., the Landing Bay), they take a slight wrong turn and end up flying through the open front door and into the entrance hall/gallery. This week, however, we’ve had three or four incursions and these are certainly not just out of the nest fledglings.

Those of you who have had the misfortune of visiting Penelope’s Playchute Palace will know that the entrance to our fine establishment opens into a two-storey gallery with an open landing at the top of the stairs. Naturally, when the swallows do come in they fly up to the ceiling and then flutter about in a confused daze looking for a way out. There is a skylight but that is generally closed and the only other way out is through a window in one of the bedrooms which are, of course, also generally closed. I accept that these infiltrations could be completely eliminated if one could be persuaded to keep the front door closed. Unfortunately, I live with someone who insists on keeping the door open during the summer so that the fresh air can “flow through the house”. No amount of discussion has managed to persuade her that the front door should be shut during swallow season and so we just have to put up with the consequences.

The main consequence, of course, is that whenever a swallow does find its way into the house, whilst fluttering about trying to find a way out, it craps all over the walls, the floor and even on the pictures hanging on the wall along the landing. If it finds its way into one of the bedrooms the crapping continues all over the carpet, bed linen and curtains. You’d think someone would get the message, wouldn’t you?

And, speaking of consequences, I ran across the following in the Daily Telegraph whilst waiting to have my hair cut on Friday.

Shitterton and a sign of the times
Villagers living in Dorset hamlet of Shitterton refuse to be beaten by thieves with lavatory humour.

The proud villagers of Shitterton in Dorset have clubbed together to erect a new stone sign at the entrance to their hamlet after the council signs were stolen by collectors.

By Stephen Adams

THE residents of Shitterton have grown used to being the butt of jokes. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t proud of their pretty hamlet in the Dorset countryside.

So it was a source of great dismay that the signpost announcing its name was repeatedly stolen by souvenir hunters with a fondness for lavatory humour.

So bad was the problem that, three years ago, the fed-up district council stopped replacing the sign, meaning that drivers passing through the hamlet could be unaware that they were ever in Shitterton at all.

Now, in a move that could exemplify David Cameron’s Big Society, a group of public-spirited Shittertonians has decided to take matters into their own hands. They each chipped in £20 to purchase a lump of Purbeck Stone weighing more than a ton and had it engraved with the hamlet’s “interesting” name to act as a proud, and permanent, sign.

Ian Ventham, 62, chairman of the parish council, who lives at Shitterton Farmhouse with his wife Diana, 61, said: “We have lived here for the last 20 years and during that time the sign has been nicked at least three times. We think it was kids who would like to have it stuck on the wall in a den somewhere because it’s quite an interesting sign.

“I don’t think it was malicious, they just did it for fun, but it was exasperating for us. We would get a nice new shiny sign from the council and five minutes later, it was gone.”

Not only was the lack of a sign annoying, he said, but “it could make life confusing for delivery drivers”. “It was my wife’s idea to carve it out of stone,” he said. “We thought, ‘Let’s put in a ton and a half of stone and see them try and take that away in the back of a Ford Fiesta’.”

Mr Ventham, a retired RNLI director, wrote to neighbours asking them to donate £20 towards the cost of the immovable sign. Of 50 households, well over half contributed. After being told of the plan, Purbeck district council agreed to give £70 towards the cost.

Mr Ventham said he felt the project was a good example of community empowerment as proposed by the Prime Minister in his Big Society.

“I am not sure if he is expressly thinking about Shitterton signposts, but I think he is talking about people getting off their backsides and doing things, rather than expecting them to be done for you,” he added. Not all are happy that the name is now set in stone, however. A few in the hamlet, on the outskirts of Bere Regis, prefer the more genteel Sitterton.

Mr Ventham said: “In Victorian times prudes decided to call it Sitterton, so even today in Shitterton we have Sitterton Close and Sitterton House. The rest of us prefer the rather more earthy Shitterton.”

The article also had these references to other “unusual” place names in the UK.

Who are you calling Ugley? Silly place names
The British Isles is dotted with a myriad of places seemingly named to amuse its inhabitants.

Three Cocks, Powys, Wales – Named after the 15th century coaching inn, still in business, which in turn took its name from the coat of arms of a local Welsh prince, Einon Sais.

Penistone, South Yorks – The market town is named after the Pennines, and should be pronounced accordingly. It’s just a shame an ‘n’ got lost somewhere.

Scratchy Bottom, Dorset – Dorset again. A dry, chalky clifftop valley just west of Durdle Door, the name is thought to refer to a rough hollow.

Thong, Kent – This hamlet near Gravesend was not at all funny until the invention of the G-string.

Grope Lane, Shrewsbury – Named after what used to be the Shropshire town’s red-light district.

Ugley – A hamlet in Essex. Recorded in the Domesday Book as Ugghelea, it probably means “woodland clearing belonging to a man named Ugga”.

And finally, finally, finally – I couldn’t believe this story from the BBC web site. Selfridges in London is launching its Christmas season on 2 August, earlier than ever before (but, only by a week).

Check out the latest at Stragapalooza 2010 including a Rattlesnake Advisory from our resident Health & Safety Consultant, Dr “Hanover” Bob Stragnell.

Love to you all,

Greg

 

Good morning to you all.

After a couple of weeks of absolutely splendid weather, this past week has been decidedly unsettled – blustery winds with thunderous buckets of rain interspersed with bright, clear but very blowy moments. Quite a contrast.

Certainly the vegetables enjoyed the brilliant sunshine and were particularly grateful when we remembered to water them from time to time. In particular, the black currants have outdone themselves this year which is somewhat unfortunate (for me, anyway); black currants are perhaps my least favourite soft fruit and, for some reason, we have about six bushes each of which is laden with enough black currants to supply the whole of the Far East with plenty left over for several dozen black currant crumbles. Ms Playchute enlisted the assistance of her sister Judi and our house guests last weekend to make a start on the harvest; most of the produce has now been transformed into black currant jam which, allegedly, many of our friends and acquaintances enjoy immensely. Good luck to them, I say!

As you will all know, we live in the country and there are a considerable number of horse-riding people in the vicinity. Just down the road at Aston-le-Walls there is a farm which is regularly used as a venue for equestrian competitions and, when these are in session the roads round about are crowded with horse transport vehicles. What struck me was that all of these vehicles have the word “Horses” emblazoned across the front, presumably to reveal to oncoming traffic that they are, in fact, carrying horses. I was wondering why vehicles which transport other animals, or indeed any sort of produce, don’t do the same. You never see a lorry/truck carrying lambs or pigs to market advertising their cargo across the front nor can I remember ever seeing a lorry with “Backed Beans” across the front. To be fair, sometimes there will be some form of advertising copy along the side of a lorry which will reveal what it is carrying – a large image of a Heinz Baked Bean tin is a pretty clear hint, I guess. But never across the front and I was wondering why this is so? Is it particularly useful to me to know that the lorry coming down the road in the opposite direction is carrying some horses? Would it make any difference if it didn’t have that information? Perhaps Amanda can enlighten me. Is this a universal phenomenon or is it strictly a British or European one? Is there some form of European legislation which requires vehicles transporting horses to advertise that fact? What about ponies? Or very, very large dogs?

A couple of articles caught my eye this week. The first relates to that age old question: Which came first: the chicken or the egg? Well, it now seems that scientists have solved that mystery and you can read the details here.

The second concerns an annual event of which I was unaware and, considering that it takes place not all that far from Miles’ beach house, I am surprised that I have never been invited to participate. I am, of course, talking about the annual “Amtrak Mooning” which takes place on the second Saturday in July each year. Looks like good clean fun.

Finally, a “new” section of the web site contains some information about the upcoming Stragapalooza Festival. There is an Arrivals and Departures board so that you can work out when not to be in camp as well as a provisional Menu board with the menu submissions we’ve had so far. Please let me know of any errors or omissions. Only a couple of weeks to go!

Love to you all,

Greg

Those of you with a better memory than I have will recollect that I wrote about some lower back pain I experienced whilst we were in Switzerland which prevented our hiring some bikes and cycling around the area. In fact, this pain had materialised a few days before we departed and I had visited our local quack for a quick assessment – this was somewhat different than the lower back pain I’d enjoyed on a few occasions previously but, after watching me struggle to bend over, he recommended a local osteopath, Clare Nicholls, who he said was excellent.

On our return from Switzerland I made an appointment and went along to see her. The first “surprise” was to discover that this was the Clare Nicholls who used to work as one of Penny’s couriers. When she had been working for Interlink and collecting deliveries from SeamStress’s front door we knew that she was studying to become an osteopath; indeed she left the courier company to go to university full time so that she could complete her training and start up in business. Since that time (about four or five years ago) she has started a very successful osteopath practice and produced her first child so she’s been busy.

She had me strip to my underpants (you will all be relieved to know that I had anticipated that this might happen so fortunately, I was wearing clean underwear) and then asked me to bend over and touch my toes as the doctor had done. I think they do this so that they can snigger behind their hands as they watch you struggle to bend over, let alone reach anywhere near one’s toes. After a handful of questions and a bit of prodding and poking here and there, she explained that my sciatic nerve was under stress or inflamed and this was causing the sharp pain in my right butt cheek. Her prescription was to pull me about and stretch me into impossible positions from which it was almost impossible to extricate myself and to give me a handful of stretching exercises which I could complete in the comfort and security of my own homes with, if I wanted, another consenting adult. The great thing about all this is that not only am I still a “pain in the neck” but I have also now been promoted to a “pain in the butt” as well. As Pen says, it fits perfectly.

I have to say, she is good and the manipulation she subjects me to as well as the daily exercises have improved matters considerably. In addition to my visits to Clare, Ms Playchute insisted that I attend a session of Yoga at the Gym.

So, off we went on Wednesday morning to give it a go. The instructor of this particular session was Debbie who is a perfectly pleasant young woman who is perhaps not the least bit as one might expect a yoga instructor to be. She is covered from head to toe with tattoos and sports bulging muscles that clearly have been chiselled from granite. Still, she was very patient with me as a beginner and I have to say it was very good – lots of good stretching exercises which undoubtedly will do my butt no end of good. Once I got past the “mumbo-jumbo” of communing with my soul and being at one with the universe, I discovered that I am, in fact, a natural at yoga and, in particular, at one of the very important exercises which one does several times during a session. I am really, really, very good at lying on my back with my eyes closed, thinking good things and relaxing. If they had been awarding them, I would have garnered a gold star or several.

As you know, le Tour started last weekend and I’ve been watching the highlights avidly every night. I even persuaded Ms Playchute to join me one evening this week and, although she was not particularly well-pleased, we both agreed that the achievements of these guys are simply unbelievable. Never mind that it’s more than 3000 km over three weeks of cycling; never mind the frequent spills and crashes resulting in acres of road rash all over their hands, arms, legs, backsides and, in a couple of instances so far, all over their face. (I think it’s four broken collar bones so far).

The stage we were watching resulted in a sprint finish after the days’ breakaway had been hauled in with about 10 km to go. As they approached the finish of the stage, not surprisingly, the riders got faster and faster as the sprinters and their teams lined them up for a dash to the line. The commentator then commented on how fast they were going (40 to 50 mph at the end of a sprint stage) and mentioned that this was after riding for nearly five hours over more than 200 km at an average speed of about 25 mph. Me? I average about 10 mph over a distance of about 20 to 30 miles and while I can certainly reach a top speed of 40 mph, that’s only when pedalling furiously down a very steep hill with a significant following wind. Give me a break!

Those of you on the Stragapalooza mailing list should have received a posting yesterday requesting information about your dietary needs and preferences and, for those responsible for cooking, some provisional menu details. Please complete the online forms and if, for any reason, the links in the PDF give you any problems, let me know. Only four weeks to go so get your skates on!

Love to you all,

Greg

Good morning on what we hope is a wonderfully wonderful Fourth of July (for those of you who celebrate such events) and a delightfully delightful July 4th for those of you who don’t.

It’s been a pretty decent week; tolerably good weather apart from a bit of overcast skies and a smattering of drizzle on Thursday. Taken with the fantastic weather we had last week, this fortnight has provided some outstandingly fine weather overall. This morning is glorious again – bright, bright clear blue sky with a moderate breeze. Indeed, I was talking with a teacher at one of the schools I was working in the other day and we realised that there had not been a single rain delay at Wimbledon so far this year. Normally, the arrival of Wimbledon fortnight is the cue for torrential rain and blustery gales (along with the national pastime of watching Britain’s latest hope for a title fall at the first, second or third hurdle). In contrast, this year the weather has been glorious and Andy Murray got all the way to the semi-finals before dashing the hopes of the nation. (Poor Andy Murray – he did say he was hoping to win this year partly to counter the depression and despair felt across the country at England’s ignominious departure from the World Cup. Maybe next year.)

A couple of more photos of Penelope’s garden (just to break up the monotony): Napoleon, a lovely pink rose with amazing “frilly” leaves around the buds and a most wonderful scent, Rosa Rugosa, Lavender Hidcote and Million Bells along with a courgette flower and, just to make up the numbers, French Beans. Prizes for those who can identify each one (as I can now, much to Ms Playchute’s consternation after hours and hours of studying). Continue reading “4 July 2010”