Stirring it up

Weighing ingredients, preparing baking tins and getting everything ready for making the Christmas cakes this year, I thought of my Nan.  Doing this was a huge event in her household, involving quite a few days of getting things together and I remember her feeling very pleased with herself when she'd got all the tins prepared and everything ready to go.

I don't give the gathering of all the good things a second thought and simply take a list down to Waitrose and put bags of dried fruit, almonds, boxes of eggs, butter, citrus fruits, the tin of black treacle and bottle of brandy in the trolley along with the normal weekly shop.  But these things must have been so precious to a housewife such as her, managing on a meagre weekly budget. 

No room for any risk of failure, every precaution must be taken to get all steps right to ensure the best possible outcome.

Not only that, it must have been such tiring work.  Creaming the butter and sugar is hard work even with electrical help, and folding in of the flour and the fruit which had soaked overnight left me with an aching arm and huge admiration for women like my Nan who did it all without a thought.

I wonder what she wished for?

Ninety years

A couple of years ago, when the BBC focused their Remembrance coverage on the groups of young men who signed up during WW1, such as the "Hull Pals", I did a bit of research to find out if my Grandad was one of them.  Quite a surprise to find he enlisted in the East Lancashire Fusiliers, then, on the wrong side of the Pennines!

I don't know much about his war story except that he was in France and was invalided out; as a result of shrapnel wounds to his left arm, I think.  Certainly, he wore his silver war badge with pride long after it was all over.

This morning, on the 90th anniversary of the Armistice, I was in a meeting.  At 11 o'clock precisely, we stopped for two minutes along with so many others.  Outside, the sun was shining over the lovely Oxfordshire countryside and the bell in the church next door tolled.

As I drove home later this afternoon, I stopped to pick up a bit of shopping in a farm shop.  I watched as the sun went down behind the Union Jack, thinking that it seemed a rather appropriate image to take home with me tonight.

Enough

I suppose the name of my blog gives a clue to my philosophy of life - if I could be grand enough to have such a thing.   I think the ability to recognise "enough" is greatly under rated and think back to a poster on the wall of the library in the first school I worked.  It was a cartoon of a small rowing boat with two or three hippos squashed in; another one was about to leap onboard and the caption said it all:

More is not always better.

So yesterday, dawdling in the bathroom as often happens on a Sunday morning, I found myself nodding along with Clive James as he spent five minutes voicing a few thoughts on matters of taste, ostentation, yachts, wealth and the US election.  I didn't realise we felt similarly about so many things.

The script of his programme can be read here and there's a listen again link alongside.

Russian Oligarchs may find some parts of the programme upsetting.

Issues of security

Finding ourselves with a day free of commitments and one or two errands to run, we headed for Bristol on Tuesday.  First stop, the new Cabot Circus shopping centre - very smart.

(in creating that link to the Wikipedia entry for the centre, I discovered a discussion taking place about it - have not come across such discussions before but found it an interesting read)

We loved the sweeping curves of the glass roof structure, and the inside/outside feel - wouldn't want to be that window cleaner though.

We were surprised to see wildlife grazing

and this Hundertwasser-ish wall was fun, too

But taking this photograph, I felt a tap on my shoulder.  No photographs allowed.

"Security".

Whose?

But I couldn't be bothered to argue, so camera went back in my bag and after giving the chap a Hard Stare, we went and had lunch in Carluccios.  Very good it was too.  In the afternoon, we did an IKEA run (not a good idea, half term holidays!) and nipped into Get Knitted.

Yesterday I was reminded of another measure taken for my safety but this one doesn't make me cross, but instead I have a small giggle to myself.

Why?

Well, it's in a place almost exclusively used by sensible, grown up women and is sited some fifteen yards or so away from the potential danger spot.

Fast running water?  Deep and treacherous lake?

No, a shallow, ten foot diameter garden pond with an ornamental edge and a fountain in the middle.

But it's good to know it's there, just in case I fell in.

The thing is, who would throw it to me?

Sign of the times?

Seen stapled to a telegraph pole in the village this morning.