More on B; walk mapping; dreamscape

Met Ray at the Alto Lounge on Saturday morning for a Barbara update. Shocked at what an expensive business dying is. Apparently coffins come in a range of possible materials including cardboard, though even cardboard apparently costs a few bob.

The WEA Southern region published a nice piece about B on their website last week. B had been a stalwart of the WEA - which sounds like an excellent organisation; Ray and I once did a modern art day school with them - for years.

Windy weather last Friday caused damage to the roofs of a couple of houses on Gosbrook Road. Luckily the worst that happened to us was the bins blowing over, together with next doors' bins. Neighbour at number 47 reckoned it was quite exciting.

Very excited to have discovered the MapMyWalk website and app (even though it's probably been around for a while). Switch on GPS, start walking and it tracks your route and how many miles you're doing. Or you can plot the route retrospectively when you get back. Fantastic. Has rekindled my enthusiasm for daily walking - which is frankly as well given that I am rapidly reaching a point where I'll no longer fit into 'fat day' clothing.

With the app in mind, took a walk with Ruth to our local branch of Decathlon on Saturday, where I looked at some walking shoes (as the trusty boots I've had for the last 10 years or so sprung a leak during the tramp down the Blorenge on New Year's Day). Tried on a couple of pairs in lurid colours, but then decided to make use of my trainers for the next month or so. Ruth bought a sports bra in case it makes her re-join the gym.

Tried out a takeaway from the Calcutta Brasserie in Stony Stratford last week, an upmarket Indian restaurant in a converted chapel. Had originally picked it for our team meal back in November, but Hoa had struck a cautionary note saying that he reckoned it was 'style over substance' (though in the event he didn't bleedin' turn up anyway). Anyway, the South Indian Garlic Chicken I ordered was absolutely delicious. Also ordered a stuffed paratha – which was enormous and would have comfortably served two. And there was a 30% discount on takeaways before 7pm.

Weird dream last night involving the late Lola. In the dream, we had lost her, but not via her death as in reality - just through actually losing her. At one point I think we were searching for her in an antique shop, and later along the side of a valley. What can this mean?

RIP Lola; final visit to Annedd Bach; assorted news items

Our bunny Lola, the lop with the adorably soft fluffy coat, is sadly no more. She was off her food for a couple of days last week before Ruth took her to the vets on Thursday and received various meds to dose her with. We took her back on Friday, where both the vet and Ruth noted that she seemed brighter. Ruth refused a blood sample or to have her admitted, on the grounds that both would cause her considerable stress for probably little gain, but we did agree to her being taken behind the scenes to have a small bag of fluids inserted just under her skin, apparently, so we were assured, a common enough procedure when an animal needs re-hydrating. After this, and after waiting some time for some additional antibiotic medication to be dispensed, we took her home, where she immediately seemed ill and floppy. Ruth phoned the vets, to be told that the fluid bag can have this effect, and indeed can also often slip out of position (thanks for warning us beforehand). Lola managed to hop into the living room and took up her favourite position under the coffee table; Ruth phoned Reading Rabbit Rescue to update them on boarding plans for the weekend, but Lola died during the phone call. Heart attack? Perhaps. I spoke myself to the lovely Sandra later that evening to finalise arrangements, and she observed that that was the first time she’d been present at a death ‘on air’. Ruth buried Lola in the garden, quite near the green cone. The sedum planted on top of Jake has done amazingly well, so perhaps a suitable plant will have to be chosen for the spot.

Drove down on Saturday for what will have been my final visit to Annedd Bach, my parents’ home since 1996, as contracts were exchanged this morning on the sale and on purchase of their new property in Abergavenny. We went for a poke around Abergavenny on the Sunday, including lunch at the Hen & Chickens on Flannel Street, which I rather like but the others seemed less than enthused by the admittedly somewhat discordant live music going on in the pub car park. True to tradition, we managed to have a final barbecue on Sunday night. Here’s Dad next to some smoke, and a shot of my parents in their porch. I did the interminably dull three-hour drive back to Milton Keynes on Monday morning, while Mum and Dad dropped Ruth at Newport station on their way to see Dave.

Have lived the dream this month with a couple of dinners at Wetherspoons, the first at The Back of Beyond in Reading with Claire, chosen partly because it sells real ale and partly because it’s the only town centre venue with a river terrace. It’s also marginally less frequented by seedy drunks than Reading’s other two branches of JDW, The Monks’ Retreat and The Hope Tap. We had in fact intended to have a drink or two and then repair across the road to the Warwick, which now does Thai, but after a couple of beers I get a shameful urge to slum it with chips, so we ended up staying at BoBs for the rest of the evening. Followed this up in MK last week with Curry Club at the large JDW on Midsummer Boulevard (doesn’t appear to have a name attached) with Matt, Rebecca, Guy and Susan from work. Wetherspoons was offset with a civilised posh dinner with Ruth at the London Street Brasserie on 17 August. I hadn’t been to LSB for quite a while but the food is still very nice and it’s evidently found its niche, quite possibly partly as a ‘somewhere to take your parents’ venue for students.

Recent local Reading news includes the news that the campaigners for restoration of the King’s Meadow Baths, a Victorian lido next to the Thames near Reading Bridge, have finally abandoned their fight. While I think it will be sad if the building is demolished, trying to get it restored as an outdoor swimming pool always seemed to be a hopeless endeavour – and I’ve seen comments in the paper from older residents of the town pointing out that dwindling use of the baths was part of what led to their closure in the first place (they’ve been closed since the mid-1970s). Evidently the council had given the King’s Meadow Campaign a set period of time to raise the (presumably considerable) funding necessary to preserve and restore the building, but it doesn’t look from the recent news article as though they managed to raise even a fraction of what this must have been. Having said that, RBC’s seemingly different treatment of the Central Club, raised by several commenters on the above article, does seem a bit unfair. Better use of the money IMHO would be to restore the (when I last used it, extremely dilapidated) 1970s Central Pool on Battle Street, an excellent indoor municipal swimming facility of a type unlikely to be built again. That’s pretty unlikely though, due to a) the fact that I think the land is earmarked for part of the Chatham Place project; b) current collective national hatred of anything built in the 1960s or 1970s – no way the poor Central is going to attract a campaign group. I quite like the Council’s plan for a footbridge over the river between the two bridges though, and the restoration of the poor little pavilion in Christchurch Meadows as a café, so hopefully those will go ahead.

Snipped this from the frequently telling ‘Most Popular’ section on the homepage of BBC News on 22 August – Bradley Manning’s decision to become Chelsea Manning occupies the top spot, but close behind it in second place was the news that Carlisle Castle has been recreated by a team of volunteers armed with custard creams. And it’s not as though this last week has been a slow news week. Misuse of terror laws and gross infringement of civil liberties, anyone?

A couple of amusing items recently from the OU noticeboard. Re the first: one hopes the poor chap did find his falsies, as I understand they aren’t cheap. Re the second: flippin’ nutcase.

Jury service continued; sick bunny

Non-stop excitement of being a juror continues. Following on from the last post: duly returned to court on Thursday, where we sat for two hours doing nothing before being sent home again. Returned for 10.30am on Friday, where the c. 20 of us were again led into the courtroom, and another 12 were chosen. Somewhat to my surprise – though the process is of course random – my name was called again. We went through the whole swearing-in malarkey again, followed again by judge’s talking to, before, most excitingly, things actually got going. The around 3 hours in total that we were in court on Friday were taken up with the prosecution lawyer giving us a quick crash course for dummies in the general topic of the trial, and then presenting a wad of evidence, which was a good deal more interesting than the general topic had led me to expect. I can, of course, say no more – but it’s probably safe to say that getting away with criminal activity must have been made a good deal more difficult with the advent of mobile phones, cell site technology and automatic number plate recognition.

We were asked to return for 1.45pm on Monday, which 11 out of the 12 of us did – most annoyingly, one juror failed to turn up or to respond to the court’s calls, with the result that the rest of us sat in the jurors’ lounge for two hours before being sent home. She did show up on Tuesday morning – I think the rest of us were hoping that she’d been given a good talking-to, which she may have been, though she appeared not noticeably chastened – though I can’t say I’ve actually heard her utter a word as yet so perhaps she’s taking refuge in silence. I probably shouldn’t mention her name, but her first name is Amber. Probably says it all – amazed she could even find the court building.

After Monday’s time-wasting we had a full (well, four and a half hour) day in the courtroom yesterday listening to five witnesses give their evidence and then be questioned by the defence. Really quite exciting, almost like on the telly – though none of the lawyers has yet leapt up and shouted ‘Objection!’. Also sat through the reading out of 50 pages of interview between the police and one of the defendants. Returned to court this morning where we watched some more CCTV footage and listened to a long statement from HMRC. Back tomorrow morning to hear another witness, I believe.

We've now been warned that the case could continue until some time during the week 4-8 March, so somewhat over the standard two weeks. The OU will only pay me for the first two weeks so now have to find out how to claim the loss of earnings allowance from the courts service.

Managing to use some of my spare time this last couple of weeks to crack on with typing up Mum's letters to Gran from Indonesia from 1978 to 1980. Current one opens with 'You must have been quite worried to hear of the volcano erupting'.

When I came out of the court on Friday afternoon there was a woman outside in the street having a good old eff and blind - a be-wigged and gowned barrister (her defence, presumably) was pleading with her to stop ranting in case a juror came out and heard her. Subsequently realised on perusing last week’s free rag that she was the wife in this case. Certainly she looked a hard-bitten piece of goods. The case sounds pretty tawdry but I was faintly amused at her choice of weaponry – a guitar and a tub of cocoa butter not perhaps being the most obvious things to assault your husband with. There were press outside the court all day on Friday so maybe she was shouting at them.

Had dinner at the Thai Corner on Saturday night to celebrate Claire’s birthday. I had a red curry with beef, which was enjoyable though on seeing the griddled seafood platter Ali had I wished I’d ordered that.

Breakfasted with Ray this morning at Julia’s Meadow. The lovely Mr Julia’s Meadow has a new, larger coffee cup in his repertoire. The coffee continues excellent.

It appears, sadly, that Lola may be ill. Ruth has been concerned for a couple of months about her slight weight loss and a seeming shift in the dominance relations ‘twixt the two bunnies – up until recently Lola has always been dominant (as is apparently the norm among rabbits) but lately this seems to have slipped a bit as she has been seen grooming Harley (previously hardly ever happened) and allowing him access to her cardboard box in the living room which is generally strictly her domain. Lola has also been pulling out the fur on her leg and stomach, and as she has now developed quite a bald patch we took her to the vet again on Friday. The vet didn’t seem to have any definite ideas but did take some blood, which we then had tested at some expense. It appears that her lymphocyte levels are high, which is likely to indicate cancer. We’ve been offered an ultrasound, which would confirm the diagnosis, but as that costs £200 we’re not sure whether we’ll go ahead with this, as the prognosis is unlikely to be good whatever action is taken. Have decided to monitor for the moment – currently she is still eating and seems reasonably alert and not withdrawn, but if that changes then more decisive action may be in order.

Harley does not appear to be responding with much compassion and has taken to aggressively chasing and mounting Lola. Have threatened to pair him with a Jack Russell if anything happens to Lola, but even that thought doesn’t appear to be subduing him. He has also put on quite a bit of weight, in direct contrast to Lola's weight loss. Here he is skulking in the bedroom today looking like a little fat squirrel.

Christmas; Pomeranians; Twilight musings

Have made the disquieting discovery that the nosey neighbour we have been referring to as Norman for the last four years may in fact be called Kevin Price. The Thames Water contractor who called round a couple of weeks ago noted that the inspection had been prompted by the resident of number 43, one Kevin Price, reporting damp problems at his property. The man we know as Norman lives at number 43, so either we’ve been getting his name wrong, or he has a live-in male housemate. The latter seems improbable so I assume it’s the former. Racking my brains now to try and remember why we thought his name was Norman in the first place.

The Information Office Christmas lunch was held again this year at The Carrington Arms at Moulsoe, a village to the east of Milton Keynes. Information Office Christmas lunches are a sedate affair, with much fizzy pop and going back to work again after a couple of hours, unlike our Progress South Central Christmas lunches where Fay would allow us to get through several bottles of wine and then blow off the afternoon to go shopping. The perks of a small team, perhaps. Ruth’s team at HCT appeared to have the right idea, going out mid-afternoon for a Christmas pizza and descending later into karaoke. She texted me the following morning to say that she hadn’t made it into work and that one member of the group appeared to have gone completely AWOL.

Took Lola to the vets first thing on 22 December, as she appears to have lost some weight over the past couple of months, though seems otherwise well. The vet couldn’t come up with much by way of possible explanation, though did flirt with the idea that being a rescue animal, Lola might have been older than we thought at the time we adopted her, and consequently could now be making it into the older bunny territory and getting a bit sore and arthritic – Steve at Reading Rabbit Rescue seemed sceptical about this idea when we put it to him later in the day. The vet did identify evidence of an over-groomed patch on one of Lola’s legs and suggested that she might have had a sore knee (or whatever the bunny equivalent of a knee is). Lola has been duly dosed with an anti-inflammatory for the past week, but we’ll have to see if it makes any difference. Ruth has also got her some alternative food, at Steve’s suggestion, which she appears to be enjoying.

Met Claire on the evening of the 22nd for a drink in the ex-Hobgoblin (now The Alehouse), where I met a bearded friend of hers whose name I’ve forgotten, but who appeared to have amassed an impressive number of degrees, most recently an LLB with the OU. We talked briefly about the impressiveness of people who do OU degrees while working at actual jobs. Claire appeared to have fallen out with Prezzo, her usual preferred dinner spot, so we ended up having a pleasant dinner at Strada instead.

Left Reading early on Sunday 23rd and managed, unbelievably, to arrive at Mrs Millard’s house in Cheddar in good time, thanks to there being much less traffic than I expected. No evidence of the village being flooded, though apparently Mrs M had been woken a month or so earlier in the middle of the night by the police, telling villagers that they should prepare to evacuate as a nearby river was threatening to burst its banks. In company with her neighbours she decided not to evacuate, and evidently nothing much happened.

Proceeded from Cheddar to Newport to have lunch at Dave and Hazel’s house, in company with Mum, Dad and Hannah, and Hazel’s sister Paula. Had a delicious lunch consisting of a chicken dish prepared by Dave, followed by choice of damson crumble prepared by Mum or some excellently chewy chocolate brownies prepared by Hannah, so a real family effort. Ruth, Hannah and I went into Hay on the morning of Christmas Eve to pick up some outstanding bits and pieces and to have a mooch around in rather damp weather. On the way back we met Mum and Dad for a drink at the newly revamped Bridge Inn in Michaelchurch – the pub has had a chequered history over the past 10 years or so but seems to have been recently taken over by some people who are doing their best to make a go of it.

On Christmas Day we ate a pleasantly moist turkey and in the evening watched the Hammer film The Reptile, not one I'd seen before but part of a Hammer mega-box set Mum and Dad had got for Christmas. It wasn't bad, as these things go, and nice that the 'wife' character (Jennifer Daniel) has a bit of backbone. On Boxing Day Mum, Ruth and I went for an extremely wet walk from Llanfoist along the Monmouthshire and Brecon Canal, before returning to Michaelchurch for another drink at The Bridge. On the way back to Reading on the 27th we stopped off at Mrs Spence's house in Lambourn for a ham and bubble and squeak lunch. Mrs S's dog Bertie appears to have gained some weight, but apparently he's recently been neutered.

Ruth went creative with Christmas gift tags this year, including this one for me of a Pomeranian, following my outbreak of hysteria over the winner of the Toy Group at Crufts 2012. Pomeranian Belliver Unexpected Dream (‘Dreamer’) has his moments in the spotlight from about the 31 sec point onwards in this YouTube video. On the Pom’s final walkabout, the male commentator abandons dignified commentary and descends into: “It is a ball of fluff, isn’t it? I mean, they’re just so cute”. The judging is at about 42 secs. Look at it go after its win is announced. (The Pom in the gift tag picture, Carripom Zachariah, apparently won Pomeranian of the year 2012 in Scotland.)

Among my Christmas presents this year was this book on the architectural practice Aldington, Craig and Collinge, part of the ‘Twentieth Century Architects’ series. ACC designed some interesting houses and public buildings in the 1960s, 1970s and 1980s, including the Anderton House in Devon which is one of the buildings now available for upmarket holiday rentals via the Landmark Trust.  For some reason I’d been thinking that ACC also designed the housing development at Old Groveway that I’m currently renting in, but I had remembered this wrongly as this was, according to this entry in Iqbal Aalam’s excellent Flickr photostream, designed by the firm of Phippen, Randall & Parkes. Iqbal has a set on these architects here. Parkes’ obituary from 2008 is of interest and notes that he was responsible for Britain’s first sheltered housing scheme. PRP evidently still exists as a firm and is celebrating its 50th anniversary in 2013.

Aldington, Craig and Collinge did do some work in Milton Keynes though, the attractive development near the canal at Woolstone pictured here.

Called in at Ray's on New Year's Eve to deliver him a couple of presents, this bottle of whisky from Dave and a book about canals from Mum, both of which were well received. He is off to Tenerife tomorrow for ten days in the sun.

Some disparaging comments about the Twilight series made at our ex-Progress South Central lunch a week or so ago reminded me of this excellent article a year or so ago in Times Higher Education, in the context of the low status afforded to books and films that are perceived to have a largely female fan base. Though I would hazard a guess that neither of the commentators at our recent lunch had actually read the book (am always amazed at how this doesn’t deter some people from expressing strongly-voiced opinions), my all-female book group, ranging in age from 30 to 60, read Twilight a year or so ago as our monthly book, and almost all enjoyed it (from what I recall the only dissenting voice was Helen’s, who was annoyed not on account of its ‘trivial’ femaleness but on account of the perceived licence taken with traditional vampire canon, evidently a topic of some importance to her).

It’s interesting, though the THE article does not discuss this, that a book’s being aimed at children does not per se afford it a low status, provided that the target audience includes boys. The Harry Potter books are the best current example – adults can fawn over these without embarrassment, but as an adult it’s not really possible to admit to liking the Twilight series without some qualification and/or justifying yourself in some way. Less embarrassing to be caught reading a children’s book, provided a boy might like it too, than to be caught reading a book solely aimed at girls and women. A point to reflect on.

On the subject of Harry Potter: I read Philosopher’s Stone, and quite enjoyed it, but have never felt drawn to read any of the subsequent books. Have seen the first two films, but none beyond that, though Ray assures me they improve – certainly in the first one, of the core trio only Rupert Grint does anything resembling acting. So far I’ve only read the first in the Twilight series, but I may well read the others. Steering clear of the films though after having seen the first one – Stewart is quite good but R-Pattz doesn’t do it for me as Edward, but possibly I’m the wrong age. Perhaps when reading the book, one has more licence to imagine someone really not far from your own age …

Glasses; skeleton cows; toasted sandwiches

After a certain amount of (but not an excessive amount of) revision for my Java programming module, finally took the exam on the afternoon of 11th October. All went essentially smoothly, the main hitch being that finding the venue (the DoubleTree by Hilton at Stadium MK) proved more difficult than I’d thought, as the stadium site appears to be still essentially a building site. After asking directions from at least three workmen, managed to arrive at the hotel and spent a reasonably pleasant three hours more or less answering all the questions, before heading into CMK to meet Ruth at Chiquito’s for a pre-arranged post-exam dinner. It’s some years since I’d been to a branch of Chiquito’s and although I had remembered them reasonably favourably, what I ordered was nicely presented but distinctly uninteresting, so may give them a miss in future. Additionally, we were more or less the only diners, so got the full brunt of some overly energetic service from a young waiter, whose routine appeared to involve running up to our table and skidding to a halt with a few dance moves, before launching into some enthusiastic patter. Plus, am probably being a grumpy old woman but object to being addressed as ‘guys’ by a 20-something.

Early the following day we made the circa 3-hour drive from Milton Keynes via the M40, M42, M5 and M50 to my parents’ house, where we enjoyed a relaxing couple of days. Went out on the Saturday for what was intended to be a walk from Ewyas Harold, a large village a few miles from my parents’ house, across Ewyas Harold Common to Abbey Dore with the intention of looking around the craft fair being held in Dore Abbey. In the event the common was extremely muddy and somewhat difficult to navigate, so that even my hardened father suggested giving up and just walking to Abbey Dore along the road. We had a quick breeze around the craft fair which was rather more upper crust than Mum had anticipated, made use of the portaloos before setting off back to Ewyas Harold where we had lunch in The Dog, a locals’ pub that, despite advertising itself as serving food, appeared surprised at us actually ordering some. Quite a few of the menus offerings appeared to be off so I think most of us ended up with ham sandwiches.

A high point of the weekend was Hannah producing the ancient pack of snap cards that we used to play with as children, which I had assumed were long lost. We had a few games of Snap, before being reminded that for adults the game has its limitations.

Drove back to Reading on the Sunday and collected the rabbits from Reading Rabbit Rescue, where the lovely Sandra told us that she thinks Lola’s a wee bit underweight. Hope our affectionate nickname for her of “Mrs Chunkybun” hasn’t set her on the path to anorexia.

A matter for rejoicing, killing of fatted calves, sacrificing of firstborn child etc is the fact that bedroom 3 has finally been ‘made good’ by Paul the Handyman, who has installed roof insulation and replaced the ceiling, filled in the holes in the floor where the two chimneys were so that the open shaft is now sealed off from curious rabbity view and generally made good the holes, empty bits with breezeblocks. Mark the plasterer has subsequently been to look at it, but we gather that plastering it could be an expensive job as really the old plaster should apparently come off, plus there’s a damp patch under the window that needs investigating first, plus Paul’s going to have to come back in and even off one of the walls (we did suspect that he’d skimped on this). Plastering is evidently an élite occupation which doesn’t include evening out the surface to be plastered. Sigh. I await the quote with some trepidation.

Perversely, since the room has been sealed, Harley has shown very little inclination to go into it. Evidently if there’s no danger of death, things hold little appeal.

Ruth and I made a planned visit to Kew Gardens on the 20th, though set out later than we intended and then realised too late that we’d chosen the most awkward day imaginable to go to Kew, as relevant portions of the Circle and District lines were both closed. I think the journey time in total, from home, took about 3 hours. The most direct way from Reading is to take the Waterloo line to Richmond and then walk to the gardens, but Ruth’s season ticket isn’t valid on the Waterloo route and, perhaps understandably, she’s keen to get the most out of the thousands of pounds of outlay. Saw a number of the charred wood sculptures that are part of the David Nash exhibition that runs until next April. Apparently Nash's main tools are fire and a chainsaw. Must have been a nightmare of a teenager if that was what he used for his A-level Art.

Also went for a second time up the Treetop Walkway, which I hadn’t planned on doing but Ruth was keen to go up. Really don’t see why it’s necessary for these things to wobble.

Had dinner at Bella Italia on our return to Reading, where we were served by the lovely Maria.

Amusing saga in the last few issues of the Milton Keynes Citizen following the replica concrete cows at Bancroft being re-surfaced with a skeleton paint job. The guy who did it, the son of the chap who made the replicas in the first place (though he has asked to be known only as ‘piewaste’) claims he did it in honour of his father and to save public art in MK. The MK Parks Trust initially condemned the new paint job as vandalism, before changing their tune when Liz Leyh, the artist responsible for the originals, piped up to say she quite likes the new look. It now looks as though they might stay as they are for a while. Another cute strand in the story is a miniature ‘skeleton cow’ that has been made as part of Mark Cain’s range of miniature concrete cows at www.mkcows.com.

Have finally joined the ranks of glasses-wearers, at least for reading. Have been in denial over the last year or so at increasingly having to hold small print away from me in order to read it, but have finally succumbed and collected my two pairs of specs from Boots Opticians yesterday. My brother and sister have both worn glasses from childhood so I suppose I should consider myself lucky to have escaped thus far. I struggled to find two of the Boots own range that I particularly liked, but that may just have been the unfamiliarity of seeing myself in glasses. My main pair are a dark-rimmed pair a bit a la Nana Mouskouri, though I’m not sure my image in the mirror quite resembles the “thinking (wo)man’s crumpet” look I was aiming for.

After doing a few bits in town on Saturday morning Ruth and I had an urge for a plain and simple toasted sandwich-style lunch and ended up in Platters on Cross Street, one of the few old-fashioned caffs left in Reading town centre. Not that either Ruth or I go to much effort to seek such places out, but we were in the mood for processed ham and cheese on white sliced, and in the modern world of mozzarella, sun-dried tomato bread etc such things can be hard to come by. To give Platters its due it was doing a roaring trade, but the three or four young staff weren’t coping well and the girl who took Ruth’s order evidently had a poor grasp of English, as she took the order for English Breakfast tea to mean an actual English Breakfast, with the result that on finishing our ham and cheese toasties we were presented with a full fry-up. I managed to explain and we got some money off what had previously seemed quite a steep £12 bill. They also committed the cardinal sin of serving people out of order, with the result that loud huffing noises and eventually a “There’s People Starving Here” emanated from the two elderly ladies behind us, who looked like traditional Platters customers. As we left, waiting staff were wandering up and down with unclaimed sandwiches, looking confused. We may give it a miss in future, but it evidently still draws in a faithful clientele – the kitchen just needs a Mutha Bacon-style overseer. Above is a picture of Platters from 192.com - I'm sure they won't mind.

Following our Platters experience, we were seized with a desire for traditional toasties made from a toasted sandwich maker and decided to impulse-buy our own. I've never owned one though Mum and Dad did have one at their house at one point, though it might have belonged to my sister. Although I enjoy the product I've always resisted buying one of my own, partly because they're hard to clean and partly because I tend to think I should restrict my intake of gooey melted cheese and plastic white bread. However, in spite of that, we've bought one. From Argos, so we didn't expend a lot of money. And I'm sure we won't use it that often.

Jasmine; dentists; education events

Charmed that the jasmine growing around the front door has produced lots of attractively scented flowers recently. After the winter it was looking brown and crisp and Ruth was speculating, rather more hopefully than I thought kind, that it might be dead. But no. Look how pretty.

Graduation ceremonies took place last week so the campus was awash with young (surely, younger than they used to be?) students with, in some cases, elaborately overdressed family members. I think I managed to appear in a number of family photos while making my way along the cloisters on the way back from lunch.

Intrigued by the report of the appearance of Jesus on a drainpipe in Coventry, though I have to say it looks a slight stretch of the imagination to me. If this degree of imagination is required, I reckon a pair of discarded pants on the bedroom floor this morning was a dead ringer for the Virgin Mary.

Went for the usual thrice-yearly scrape and polish with hygienist last Thursday. I took the perhaps unprincipled decision to abandon NHS dentists about three years ago after being registered as an NHS patient in three different dental surgeries in Reading within the space of a few years: one decided to stop accepting NHS patients; the next was a shabby little hole containing an abrasive Greek bint whom I never remember cracking a smile, followed by a surgery in Caversham with a semi- abandoned air and a Vicky Pollard-like receptionist, where the dentist probably had an adequate grasp of English but preferred not to use any of it during the consultation, except for an "Ah! You need filling!" towards the end. At that point I decided I needed communication skills in addition to a second opinion (my previous, only, filling had been around 20 years earlier and I was a bit sceptical) so registered at a private dental practice. I'm sure their technical competence is no greater than NHS dentists (my new dentist confirmed that I did, indeed, need the filling) but their customer service and communication is infinitely better. Even the hygienist is a softened version of the ferocious Nazi witch prototype that I remember NHS hygienists fitting when I was younger. After the hygienist’s appointment, my dentist, a pleasant jolly woman who was undoubtedly head girl of her private school in a former life, told me, as usual, that my teeth were wholly uninteresting and threw in a jovial parting comment about flossing, before charging me £35 for the 5-minute consultation. This is the life. Next stop BUPA.

Spent last Friday at the National Strategic Skills Audit South East Regional Roadshow, which involved taking the train to Gatwick Airport and then getting a taxi to the Copthorne Hotel Effingham Gatwick which, despite the name, is only a short car drive involving a motorway journey from Gatwick Airport. No wonder the fare was £16. The hotel is a bizarre faux-Mediterranean affair with its own golf course, which was awash with elderly golfers – in fact my cab driver nearly took out one particularly doddery looking specimen on the way up the drive. The event itself was well organised though did involve the compere pleading with people during the welcome address not to bugger off after lunch what with the lure of it being Friday/sunny/Andy Murray playing at Wimbledon. Didn’t entirely work, given that each table sat 10 people and mine was down to 4 after the lunch break.

Ruth and I wandered briefly into Reading’s new branch of The Range on Saturday. According to their hyperbolic website, The Range’s wares range “from everything you’ve ever dreamt of to anything you could ever imagine”. In practice, it’s a bit like Hobbycraft combined with Matalan combined with Homebase. It does sell rabbit food, which could be useful. I spent 59p on a ‘Harvest Munch’ snack for the bunnies, which they have so far spurned. Here it is placed temptingly on the floor, plus Lola’s bottom as she hops past it.

Went to another event on Sunday, as I had volunteered a while ago to attend a day of the first-ever Sunday Times Festival of Education at Wellington College in Crowthorne. By the time the event came around, both the universities minister David Willetts and film mogul/founder of Skillset David Puttnam had pulled out, making it distinctly less relevant to Lifelong Learning Networks than it could have been. Bits of the day were interesting, though, and Kenneth Baker was good value. Spent a predictable portion of the day envying people who go to school in such surroundings. Here's one of the school buildings and a rather nice woody glade where I ate my lunch.
Managed to follow the wrong crowd of people on the way in to the College grounds and initially found myself in a gymnasium about to register for a chess tournament. Realised just in time. Phew.

Demise of goddess; Colleys Supper Rooms; Herbert

The goddess figure I made at Samhain has been partly violated thanks to Ruth accidentally sucking her head¹ up in the vacuum cleaner. In fairness her ‘head’ had been represented by a length of braid wound around the top of the twig and it had evidently slipped off. Have been pondering what to do with her and may end up having a ritual burning sometime around Christmas/New Year. May include some old bank statements and perhaps a rabbit.

On Tuesday, had our team Christmas lunch at Colleys Supper Rooms, a place that I'm sure I should find thoroughly charming but somehow it fails to float my boat. Their gimmicks are a supposedly traditional Victorian look and the fact that they bring round examples of the main course and dessert and thrust them under your nose so that you can make your choice that way. In fairness the food was nice, and better than I remembered it from the one occasion that I've been there previously, around 15 years ago. This picture (left) of my colleague Godfrey pouring wine shows off their décor reasonably - note the wallpaper, and the swathes of curtain fabric seen in the mirror behind him. I seem to be trying to convey intense excitement in the picture of me, while my colleague Paul, behind me, seems to be entranced by his napkin.

My previous visit to Colleys was in the company of a work colleague of Ray's and his wife, a Yorkshire couple we tried hard with but I think eventually realised we had nothing in common. I never cared for either of them particularly but did go out a few times with the female half, in deference to the fact that Ray and her husband worked together. I remember one evening, when Wife and I rejoined our men after going out nightclubbing together, Husband commenting that his wife was being (I quote) "led astray by a liberated woman". I remember looking around the room briefly before realising that he meant me. Quite what I had done to deserve this epithet I'll never know, but I can't say our friendship lasted all that long.

Unsure whether Lola has become interested in Buddhism, but recently found her sitting in frankly reverential fashion (right) before the stone Buddha head that Ruth and I acquired earlier this year from Sebastiano Barbagallo in Notting Hill, a fascinating emporium so stuffed full of Eastern plunder one doubts that all or even most of it is strictly legit. I had wanted to enquire as to the origins of our chosen head, but somehow didn’t like to in case this was interpreted as suspicion as to how the owner had come by it. The head has ended up being referred to as ‘Herbert’, which is obviously not intended to imply any lack of respect whatsoever for its Eastern origins.

¹ i.e. the goddess' head

Neo-pagan dabblings; Cerridwen; twigs

On Saturday, I participated in a day of neo-pagan revivalism by attending a Goddess Workshop at The Crystal Dragon in Caversham (annoyingly amateurish website – get that background), a local business comprising a New Age shop selling crystals, tarot cards etc and a number of rooms out back that are used for a variety of alternative therapies including Crystal Light Bed Healing. Saturday’s workshop was titled ‘Dark Lady: Journey to Meet Cerridwen of the Cauldron’ and was timed to coincide with the festival of Samhain.

The workshop was led by Vicky, an apparently full-time ‘Priestess of Avalon’ who trained at the Isle of Avalon Foundation near Glastonbury (Vicky’s website is here). I was quite impressed with Vicky and at least two out of the four other women attending seemed quite normal. The day started with welcoming Cerridwen into the circle and went on to include making our own goddesses out of twigs bound together and scraps of material, and a dabble with scrying, which apparently involves staring intently at an object of your choice (crystal ball, bowl of water e.g.) and seeing what words/images emerge from your subconscious mind. I must have been doing something wrong as I didn’t find that anything much emerged, but the other women seemed to manage to find things to say although I cynically suspected that they might have been making it up. My goddess [pictured] turned out to be a somewhat abstract figure with a certain amount of difficulty in standing upright.

The only downside of the day was that it involved sitting on a thin cushion on a laminate floor for several hours. I could barely walk on Sunday.

After the workshop, Ruth and I had a nice dinner on Saturday evening with Claire and Helen - my autumnal pear tart was a reasonable success despite an initial pastry crisis. I had attempted, as I usually do, to make a bit of a seasonal display with autumn leaves and a pumpkin - as happened last year, I had barely arranged the leaves in the fireplace before cunning rabbity ears detected them and the munching began. Here's Lola really getting stuck in to the display. Disrespectful mare. Briefly considered sacrificing her to Cerridwen but then relented.

Marina; rural crafts; gym

The bunnies appear to be settling in well, and appear more or less house-trained, which is nice. In an effort to find out more about my new housemates, I have been flicking through Dykes’ and Flack’s ‘Living With A Houserabbit’ for tips on rabbit habits and care. Their crepuscular nature (new word learned, courtesy of D and F) would seem to make them quite well suited to folk who work during the day, as they seem happy to be quiet during the day – see daytime shot of Lola under the coffee table – and then run round like mad things in the early morning and evening.

Last Saturday I went with Ray for a first visit to the Thames and Kennet Marina, where he will be mooring his new narrowboat. The narrowboats are housed in their own marina, while cruisers are moored in another marina next to it. Was favourably impressed – seems a pleasant spot and the facilities look pretty good from what I can judge. We found Ray’s berth and then went for a drink at the Waterfront Bar and Bistro on site.

Drink at the marina

In the afternoon we went for a visit to the University’s Museum of English Rural Life (see my 11 March entry for photo). This used to be housed in prefabs on the Whiteknights campus but moved to a new permanent home in 2005, in the former St Andrew’s Hall (there’s a history of St Andrew’s Hall here - it was designed by Alfred Waterhouse and was apparently originally known as 'East Thorpe'). In fact the bulk of the exhibits are housed in a new extension – I’m not sure what the old hall itself is being used for but I think there are lecture and reading rooms there. It’s very nicely laid out with lots of interactive exhibits, although as I have only limited interest in rural crafts and agricultural machinery, it’s not somewhere I could while away a large amount of time. Ray found it interesting though and interacted with several of the exhibits, including trying on some traditional smocks and watching a video about hurdle making.

Following last week’s fitness assessment, I returned to the gym this week to get an induction to the machines and a personalised fitness programme. Zita, the fitness instructor, led me around a bewildering array of machines and has done me a workout programme that should supposedly last about an hour – starts with a ten-minute warm-up on the exercise bike, then a few sets on about half a dozen other machines (some of which seem useful, some less so) then some mat exercises/stretches. Personally I think it’s a bit OTT for a beginner. Can see myself doing the ten-minute bike warm-up, then going for a swim…