pumpkinstrokemarrow

Woke up to an important realisation. I have been wondering for some time why water companies are moving into domestic buildings maintenance and it has finally dawned on me why.

Entirely appropriate that I should reach this important milestone - my 1,000th post - while visiting the green fairy (see above). We shall see what I can manage in the morning.

I was rather shocked to read the other week that in Iran, that seat of ancient civilisation, they still go in for stoning people. Which in the case of women seems to mean burying them up to their necks (one would not want their breasts to be accidentally exposed during the proceedings. They are also given a ritual bath before the off to make sure that they arrive, wherever they are headed, in as pure a state as possible), and then chucking half brick size rocks at them for the ten minutes or so it takes to do them in. One wonders what sort of people volunteer to do the chucking? I seem to remember that when St Margaret of Clitherow of York was pressed to death, a nearly as unpleasant way of doing people in, the city fathers hired a few vagrants to do the dirty work.

I read something in yesterday's DT about how if we only have 1 policeman out of 10 on the streets at any one time we have clearly lost our way. Time to sack all the chief constables and try again with another lot. Which prompted me to wonder whether the DT writers are about as bad at sums as they seem to think all those likely lads and lasses coming out of bog-standard comprehensives are.

Because if you do it in Shoreditch there may be a slight delay. Anon.

Wake up this morning to the news that Greenpeace has shut down BP petrol stations across London, news which is confirmed by the Sky web site which also contains a selection of twitters, mostly against some for.

Our road has been very concerned since the start of the year about our holes. Apparently we had the wrong sort of rain at the end of the year before, which did terrible things to the road's foundations and now we have lots of holes, along with lots of other roads in the county (Surrey).

Spent the first part of the holiday re-reading Hatto's version of 'The Nibelungenlied'. Truly a tremendous thing - particularly so given that it is a prose translation of a poem. Odd that I have never come across it before. Perhaps a result of the schools of my day preferring Latin and Ancient Greek to Ancient German.

The 14 days away can be accounted for in the following fashion.

Two arty snippets caught the eye. Firstly, a lady sculptor (sculptress?) sees fit to suspend a disused fighter plane, covered in deeply significantly graffitti of her own confection, from the dome inside Tate Britain. Much chattering in the Guardian about the deep significance. Secondly, a gentleman sculptor sees fit to exhibit a pyramid of 7 undistinguished office chairs of descending size as one ascends. Note the magic number 7. Much chattering in the Guardian about the deep significance. Trace had clearly better watch her back. Keen and hungry new talent is nipping her no longer impoverished heels. Perhaps it really is time for her to push off to her retirement boozer in the country. I'm told she likes a drop so she can contribute to the local economy by drinking up the takings.

Yesterday to Havenstreet for our biennial circumnavigation of the Valerian Sun Club (a search finds the place fast enough; for some reason the link will not paste between panes of Internet Explorer. Maybe a wrinkle of council defensive software). Carefully screened with lots of brush wood, a plaque from the twenties with the name and what looks like a new-since-our-last-visit gate. Maybe the place is still alive and kicking. Are all the members from the twenties, a time I believe to be the heyday of such establishments?

Start off at Firestone Copse and head south into Havenstreet before doing an anticlockwise swing down to the foot of the central downs and back again. Firestone Copse notable for its groves of very tall pine trees, maybe two feet in diameter waist height. Havenstreet notable as being a stop on the steam railway and for being well supplied with senior and/or nursing facilities. Northbrook House, a large Victorian affair, clearly built as an institution, not on mental hospital scale and apparently without any kind of garden for people to sit in. Holmdale House, a somewhat smaller Victorian affair, possibly built as an institution. But Mr G., apart from confirming that they are indeed senior and/or nursing facilities tells me nothing about the buildings, a pity as they are both interesting. Perhaps Havenstreet was the geriatric ghetto for the Ryde area.

On the way we are reminded that the BH is rather better at fields full of frisky cows than I am. Stands firm and waits for them to push off whereas I lurk in the background. On the other hand I do eventually pluck up courage to extend arms and waggle them up and down a bit - one with stick - a wheeze which seems to encourage pushing off. BH says that her stronger nerves are all down to the quality time in her youth spent in the vicinity of cows on Exminster Marshes.

The Ashey Down sea mark visible for most of the walk. And a strange black banana on a pole visible for a good part of it. A banana made of some shiny black material, maybe 10 feet long and 2 feet wide at the widest point, erected end-up on the top of a flexi pole maybe 30 feet high. The thing sways about in the wind and is visible from miles around. After the walk we went to inspect the thing to find access barred by 'Private Keep Out' signs. A resident thought it might be a trial run for something in advertising, having been there now for a month or so. Did they get planning permission? Is it actually something in art? A rehearsal for the next Turner prize?

Most of the few people we met appeared, from their accents, to be retired from the Home Counties. Which might explain why we came across several large gardens in the middle of nowhere protected by neat, high and carefully clipped hedges. Maybe they want to be able to do a bit of Valerian in the privacy of their own homes.

The walk was, inter alia, the inaugural outing of the new-to-us Jarrolds 'Short Walks for the Isle of Wight'. Subtitled, suitable for seniors. A useful little book, full of all sorts of factlets to enliven one's walk. Nice little maps, taken from Ordnance Survey but slightly larger scale than Landranger. The only catch being that the walk was a bit tricky and one had to keep the book open and one's eye on the stiles if one was not to go off piste. Or, even worse, into a cow field.

Good that New Labour provided the funds for every library in the land, never mind how small, to provide more or less free access to the internet. But bad that in remoter parts of the land that the connection leaves a lot to be desired. Isle of Wight not up to the standards of metropolitan Epsom. The private sector operation in a Newport backstreet does much better - but then they charge.

Amused this morning to read that the Tories are thinking that maybe we cannot afford a new trident. I remember marching against the bomb more than 40 years ago, in company with various hard lefties, at a time when disarmament by the UK might have meant something. In those days we were still thought of as a great power, even if that was already an illusion. Nowadays, I think the symbolic value of our disarmament is much reduced. We are left with value for money. Ironic that it takes profligacy by the nearest we have to a party of the left, which was very keen on bombs, to prompt the party of the right to ban the bomb. I suppose it is another example of the political truth that a party suspected of being wet about something has to be very dry about it. Whereas a party trusted with the something can wash it down the plug hole.

Yesterday to the beach at Yaverland for the fourth time. Nice summer's day with plenty of sun and enough breeze to stop one overheating. Despite being the only person on the beach to make use of a parasol to keep the sun off me, I still managed glowing shoulders this morning, having forgotten how easy it is to catch the sun while swimming. Probably also the only person on the beach to own a Mount Gay umbrella. We spent part of the day wondering idly where it might of come from. Had some intrepid soul brought it all the way from Barbabos or had a less intrepid soul gathered it up on some well watered promotion in some London hotel? Marching down the beach with it later in the afternoon, noticed that a tear had started at the end of one of the ribs. Luckily, we found a small tangle of rope from which I was able to extract a few threads with which, together with the trusty Laguiole hunting knife, I was able to effect emergency repairs. It holds together but I think we will have to think about replacement on return to the big town. Maybe the next bank holiday car booter at Hook Road Arena will do our business.

Returned home to continue battle with Iris Murdoch, having acquired her first novel - 'Under the net' - from a tea hut at the southern end of Sandown beach and a much later novel - 'The message to the planet' - from a charity shop in East Cowes. I might say that the tea hut offered much better value. Now Iris Murdoch is someone of whom I am aware but whom I have made very little effort to read. I believe my mother did, although the evidence is wanting. Have now read most of the first book and a little of the second, and have decided that I neither like her style nor her subject matter. She is far too keen on dragging philosophy into the story and far too keen on writing about very odd people with very odd preoccupations. With complicated private lives and considerable taste for fags and booze. The chattering classes of her day. Give me the working classes any day.

I think she taught philosophy at Oxford, so she must have been some good at it. Good enough for any learned papers to survive? Or does her PhD moulder unread with all the thousands of others in the depths of the university library?

Closed with a few jars of 'Holy Joe', a rather thick local ale, in the 'Wheatsheaf'. Good pint enlivened by deep conversation about the merits of the various charity shops in the area. It was clearly a subject of some import.

Yesterday a veggie day with island new potatoes and broad beans for tea. Very nice they were too, the only catch being that the BH woke up to a rather pungent bean smell in the kitchen in the morning.

Compensated to some extent by the sight of a red squirrel scampering across the back lawn. Rather dark red and rather small. One can see why they get seen off by their grey cousins.

Set off to Newport bright and early, sufficiently bright and early that we worked out how to get at the sea mark on Ashey Down, something that we have seen in previous years and that we have seen several times this year but never got to.

It turns out to be an irregularly triangular, tapering masonry piller about 25 feet high and maybe 10 wide at the widest point. Sloping flat top. Bottom 8 feet painted black the rest white. Built in 1735 in the reign of good king George II, presumably as a sort of low maintenance lighthouse. From the base we could see nearly all the sea east of Wight, so presumably the ships on the see could see and navigate by the mark. Also some sea in other directions.

Considering that the thing was only 130 metres above sea level - maybe half the height of St Boniface Down - got a splendid, near 360 degree view. Removed a lump of flint as a souvenir.

Reminded to wonder how level the sea is. It is certainly not the same level all over but on earth how does one measure? Clearly a ponder for the pub.

in furthest Isle of Wight but now made it to the internet bureau in Brading Town Hall (more of which later).

Yesterday through Brading Marshes, part of which is owned by RSPB. Where there is a different take on nature preserve management to that at Epsom Common. Unlike Epsom, where the chain saw gang and the cow huggers are clearly in the ascendant, at Brading there is a stand-off between the chain saw gang and the tree huggers with the result that they have come to an agreement whereby the chain saw gang is allowed to chop down trees at one end of the preserve and the tree huggers are allowed to plant trees - including much hazel for their nuts - at the other end. Part of the mix here is the preservation of red squirrels.

There were also quite a few older hazels, but none of them were very big and most of which had stolls cluttered with feeble new growth. Perhaps the only way to get a big hazel is to manage the thing oneself; nature is not going to make it by herself.

Lots of birds, including buzzards, sky larks and sparrows, none of which pop up very often at Epsom. But irritatingly, lots of birds which I could not identify. By the time I could focus on them they had gone. Eye reflexes clearly slowing down, might be regarded as a species of senior moment.

Pushed onto Brading Windmill, a site of historical interest managed by the National Trust. With a bearded and knowledgeable volunteer in attendance to tell you all about it. A volunteer who could chatter about Brading windmill in particular and windmills in general for ever - but who also took cues about when to stop. Clearly a superior trusty. The windmill itself was interesting, particularly as a piece of machinery. The sort of mill where the top bit which holds the sails can rotate on the tower bit so that the sails face the wind; I forget the proper name for such a thing. Now this top bit is just sitting there: why does it not blow off on a windy day? The sails make for plenty of wind resistance, a lot more, for example, than a chimney. The sails were mounted on an iron shaft, while the shaft up the centre of the mill and which drove all the machinery was a trimmed tree trunk. Interesting to see how rotary force was transmitted between the shafts and the large wooden gears. Quite differant situation to a waggon wheel where one only has to carry weight. I learned that the mill wheels themselves come from France in an early form of flat pack. That is to say in pre-shaped lumps of a very special sort of rock which are stuck together on site with plaster of paris and tied together with an iron rim. The rather rough and ready booklet told me that the mill stones needed to be be sharpened about once a month - from which I inferred that plenty of mill stone must have got into the flour.

The whole thing had been heavily restored, which must have cost a packet. Lot of woodworm and I spotted one bit of elm.

Back to Brading via the Propellor Inn. Steak and kidney pudding, mushy peas and chips for tea, sitting next to the bull ring. Pudding was a substantial affair, said to weigh 0.75lb and coming in a sturdy white plastic pudding basin. First time I had come across this particular sort of pie. The bull ring was a large iron ring concreted into the ground. The idea was that when you wanted some beef you tied a bull by the nose to the iron ring and then baited it with dogs for a bit to bring the flavour of the meat on before slaughter. I don't think the RSPCA could have been invented at the time. Nearby was an ancient pub called the Bugle, which, so the blue sign informs us, is not a sort of trumpet, rather a sort of bull.

In fact the whole town very ancient, a genuine rotten borough. Once upon a time it was a reasonably important sea port, known to Canute and William the Conq. and people like that. So it boasts a town hall, a very old church (in foundation at least), several pubs and several very old buildings. Including the Brading Experience, now shut, the taste for this sort of display having, it seems, past.

Started off harmlessly enough at Epsom with a puzzle about a box. Maybe 750mm by 750mm by 250mm, stout cardboard affair saying Shimano all over it. The puzzle being, what exactly did the box contain. I only knew of Shimano as the manufacturer of bicycle transmission components and it was not appropriate to ask the owner of the box. Another cyclist thought that it might have been a folding bicycle but a visit to the Shimano website suggests that while they are noted manufacturers of bicycle and fishing equipment and they do sell more or less all the bits needed to make a bicycle (apart from the frame) they do not sell entire bicycles. With the exception of an e-bicycle which might be some sort of simulator. Quite a whizzy web site, but not one which makes it completely clear what it is they sell.

All three members of our household now appear to be eligible for the winter fuel payment, in consequence of which two of us separately received four pages (eight sides) of stuff from somewhere in Ashby de la Zouch (Wikipedia tells me that the Ashby bit is Danish and the Zouch bit is French), rather vaguely signed 'HM Government'.

Following our acquisition of a castle on May 3rd, sprog 1 has finally gotten around to test driving it. The test being to assemble it without any clues about what the thing looked like assembled, although I did help to the extent of tying the pieces for the four corner turrets into four bundles. He didn't do that well, needing several clues to get the hang of the tricky turrets and their connection with the rest of the castle. I did not remember until after we had had some sport about lack of castle assembly skills, that the chap who sold it to me deliberately sold the turrets in assembled form, thinking that working it out from scratch was going to be a bit to difficult for the average car-booter.

I record, for the record as it were, that on the second occasion of our trying this dish, I cooked the two legs of lamb, weighing just about 12lbs, for 2.5 hours at 180C. Oven door opened several times - which must have reduced the effective time - and rested for 0.5 hours at 80C. So a good deal less than last time, but still cooked. I think next time around I shall try an even shorter time at a higher temperature. Although I dare say the experiment will be confused by dropping back from two legs to one.

Regarding the library coup, been puzzled by the classification scheme. All three books carry both a white label at the base of the spine and just above it a yellow label. The white label carrying what I correctly guessed to be the Dewey classification. So 942.09 for some sort of history, which was fair enough. The yellow label carrying a three letter abbreviation - so MUS for the music book and GRE for the other two. MUS fairly straightforward, but what about GRE?

Following a tip from Tooting, tried a new-to-us way of cooking the Friday cod. Cover bottom of fish kettle with thinly sliced onion. Place trivet on top. Add 2 litres of blue top milk, a knob of butter and some freshly grated nutmeg. Add fish. Cover, bring to boil and simmer for a further five minutes or so. Remove fish to warm oven. Roux a little corn flour in butter and then stir in a portion of the milk fish liquor to make a thinnish white sauce. Serve fish with sauce, mashed potato and finely slivered & boiled white cabbage. Not bad at all, sauce good. But not sure whether the game was worth the candle - a lot more bother than our usual baking. Might of been different, of course, had I used the haddock specified rather than cod, but the fish man from Hastings does not carry haddock very often.

My not having talked to BT since early May (see Friday May 7) was clearly getting to the broadband set up. By way of a change, it had not broken down, but was exhibiting irritating behaviour. That is to say, that an outgoing call on the telephone broke any broadband session. The broadband session would put itself back together again, a process which might take a couple of minutes and might upset whatever internet service one was talking to. I thought, without having bothered to keep appropriate records, that this irritating behaviour started about the same time as we acquired the new telephone handset.

Something has either happened to my taste buds or to the blue cap whole milk from Mr. S.. Tea in bed tasted bad this morning. I accused the BH of having used soya milk instead of blue cap; horror of horrors. A crime which she denied. Then, this evening, I make my own tea with a newly thawed one pint plastic bottle of blue cap and it tastes just the same. I notice that this newly thawed bottle claims to be less than 4% fat - as if this was something to be proud of. Having taken on some cargo, I am not sure that the last bottle didn't say 5%. But then, why should it matter? Tea is made up of hot water plus chemicals dissolved out of tea bags. If I then add milk which is cold water plus some other chemicals, why should it matter what the concentration of those chemicals is? I can always add a bit more. OK, so the brew gets a bit colder, but that should only mean that one gets at the cuppa a bit faster than one might otherwise.