Fat Lava; Richmond skinless sausages; clematis

Ruth and I went for a stroll on Saturday morning up the Oxford Road, a major West Reading thoroughfare that’s known for its ‘local colour’ (prostitution and frequent drug busts). It’s an intriguing mix of halal supermarkets, Caribbean grocers, charity outlets and licensed sex shops. We walked up as far as Mid20C, an interesting little shop that claims, no doubt correctly, that it’s “Reading's first and only retro shop selling furniture, homewares and collectables from the 50's 60's 70's and 80's”. On this occasion we found that the whole shop had been temporarily given over to the ‘Fat Lava II’ exhibition, an exhibition of West German studio pottery of the ‘50s, ‘60s and ‘70s. See here to know more about the pottery. The shop was packed, though I discovered later that we had inadvertently turned up on the launch day – evidently it runs until 21 June.

None of the stuff really grabbed me though Ruth bought a small vase from among the pieces for sale. I’m sure it’s not a comment on pottery enthusiasts in general, but the clique gathered around the central counter had a vague look of a Star Trek convention about them: they were mainly male, several heavily overweight, and one with long unwashed hair and wearing a flannel shirt and a fleece, even though it was a baking hot day. One of the aforesaid gaggle waylaid Ruth after her purchase trying to explain who had painted her vase and how it was done etc and offering her a detailed tour of the rest of the exhibits, which she declined.

On Sunday we wandered up to the Oakley Road allotments to have tea and biscuits with Ray and commiserate over the white rot that has afflicted the onions and garlic he planted last winter. The RHS has this to say, not very encouragingly, about onion white rot.

As it’s been an uneventful week I’ll report that I got away with serving Richmond skinless sausages for dinner last night. I get occasional cravings for these little beauties, which are perfectly even, straight, stiff, pink little sticks of sausagey goodness. Here’s a sculpture I made out of some a while ago. Waitrose, perhaps unsurprisingly, don’t stock them, so I had to go to the Friar Street branch of Sainsburys, which I don’t normally venture into, to obtain them. (Sainsburys is a perfectly fine supermarket; it’s just that Reading’s Friar Street branch is full of mad people. On this occasion, I was held up at the checkout by the customer in front of me, a 60-something woman with a long grey ponytail who was swaying violently from side to side as she searched fruitlessly through her handbag for God knows what – she’d already paid.)

Finally: the clematis has produced three flowers so far! A record! Evidently it quite likes its new spot.

Failed voice recognition; Isle of Sheppey; Aldi

Took advantage of having the house to myself for the first part of the long weekend - Ruth having been seized with a desire to go riding and taken herself off to her aunt's house - to have a Saturday night in with Chardonnay, DVDs and some waxing strips, but don't think I'll be trying the waxing again in a hurry.

Met Ray on Sunday for a leisurely lunch at Francesco’s in Maidenhead, a laid-back town centre eaterie that’s been there for some years – since the cinema complex was built it’s now surrounded by the likes of Pizza Hut and the Ivory Lounge, but I was pleased to discover it’s survived thus far. After lunch and a brief wander around the town, I telephoned National Rail Enquiries to find out the time of the next train back to Reading. Evidently I haven’t used the service for quite some time, as it's turned into an automated service since I last used it. The conversation ran roughly along these lines:

“Without pressing any buttons, please state the name of the station you are travelling from.”

“Maidenhead.”

“Thank you. I think you said ‘Sheerness-on-Sea’?”

“Um, no, I didn’t.”

Ray then had a go and managed to get a shade geographically closer by saying “MAI-DEN-HEAD” very slowly and clearly, which the machine interpreted as ‘Yateley’. Gave up after that and opted to speak to a customer service adviser.

At Sheerness

Part of my frustration with the audio recognition was doubtless the thought of being accidentally routed to Sheerness-on-Sea. Ray and I visited Sheerness briefly in 1998 (pictures of the weekend here). At the time of our visit, the only road link from mainland Kent to the Isle of Sheppey was via the imposingly concrete and rather Eastern Bloc-like Kingsferry Bridge, which I recall added to a bleak sense of impending doom as we drove onto the island (a newer Sheppey Crossing was opened in 2006). We drove to Sheerness, parked, had a quick walk down to the front past an enormous amusement arcade, stood around a bit looking at views of power stations, before concluding that there wasn’t much doing and leaving. The picture is of me sitting on the front having a bit of a ponder - probably as to what I was doing there.

Our visit to the Isle of Sheppey was as part of a weekend spent exploring Rochester and Chatham, including a visit to the Historic Dockyard at Chatham. Ray has never forgiven me for showing insufficient interest in the Historic Dockyard, particularly in the Ropery, dedicated to demonstrating the importance of rope to the Royal Navy and how it was made. Obviously I’m as interested in rope as the next gal, but I remember deciding to call it a day at this point and going off to get a strawberry ice cream, while Ray rather huffily went into the exhibition by himself.

On Monday, on a whim, Ruth and I went along to our local branch of Aldi. I had never set foot in Aldi before, but following rumours in the press that Aldi and its ilk are the new trendy places to go for middle-class shoppers feeling conscious of the credit crunch, and also following Aldi’s recent TV advertising campaign which seems to be trying to persuade shoppers that they can actually get nice food there (“Look, we sell pesto too”), I fancied paying it a visit. Some credit to them for focusing on the latter I guess – unlike Iceland, which doesn’t even attempt a pretence that its food is nice, but just focuses on how cheap it is – their ads make me want to push Kerry Katona’s face into a chicken tikka lasagne (don’t want to think about who actually buys these - the Independent had this to say earlier in the year about Iceland's notion of fusion cuisine). So I went along half-expecting to discover a hidden gem and come out thinking “actually, Aldi’s quite nice”. In reality, our consensus of opinion was “no, actually, it is shit”. I bought a box of peppermint tea bags, brand unknown, and Ruth bought a bunch of bananas. We called in at Waitrose on the way home to buy the things we hadn’t been able to find in Aldi, and to bask in the comforting air of civilised quality.

Also, why is it that discount shops always sell enormous jars of pickles? Aldi does it, as does Lidl, as does the 99p store. Is the idea that poor people will be cheered up by lots of really big pickles?

Cat-sitting; trash TV

Spent a fair portion of this last week house-sitting for my parents while they took a week’s holiday in Rome. In return for the use of their facilities we were tasked with some light chores including watering Dad’s plants (scarcely necessary as in the event there was barely a break in the rain the entire time we were there) and feeding/caring for their two cats, Lydia, a young female, and Emrys, a male of around 11.

Lydia has reached such a degree of rotundity under Mum’s tutelage that she has recently been put on a diet on the vet’s instruction. Emrys also appeared more than usually keen to be fed, although his demands were more targeted – he largely spurned the tinned cat food I put down for him (Lydia ate this, as well as her own) but I did catch him seemingly trying to drag a bag of Iams out of the kitchen cupboard. I’m ashamed to say I rewarded this performance by giving him some.

The atrocious weather dictated that we spent most of the time lounging around indoors, which was not without its pleasant side. Our recent changeover from Sky to Virgin Media’s basic package has deprived us of a number of cr*ppy but appealing TV channels, including Zone Romantica, offerer of some truly dreadful but entertaining fare such as Falcon Crest and both Lace mini-series, all of which we sampled during our stay. Also the absurd 80s television series Beauty and the Beast – I have no memory of ever watching this but Ruth would appear to have fond memories of it judging by the amount of time the TV has been tuned into it since she moved in. The episode we watched at my parents’ place involved the magnificent Beast overseeing a young boy’s piano playing in a subterranean cavern. I missed the inner meaning, although admittedly I was busy skimming Mum’s stack of Woman & Home magazines at the time.

After our return from Herefordshire on Sunday morning, we went for brunch at the newly-opened Alto Lounge in Caversham, part of the ‘Loungers’ chain. Coffee was a bit feeble (though that may just reflect my particular palate aka addiction), but food was lovely – thoroughly recommend the eggy bread stack with bacon and maple syrup. Ruth had a regular full English though spurned the idea of a sausage pattie. I tried telling her they’ve been doing them in McDonald’s for years, but (un)surprisingly that didn’t help.

Rabbit rescue; Legends of Kung-Fu; sat nav debut

I write this while in the damp countryside, house-sitting for my parents. It's wet and misty. There are hills hereabouts, but I can't see them at the moment.

To backtrack over the past week ... In the immediate aftermath of Jake’s death last winter, I rashly said that I’d be quite happy to have another rabbit to live at the house, so on Thursday evening Ruth dragged me along to ‘Reading Rabbit Rescue', a local animal sanctuary that takes in rabbits on behalf of the RSPCA, returns them to health if necessary and then finds them good homes if they’re suitable for adoption. It made intriguing viewing as the devoted owners have given over most of their property to the rabbits and their care - a good portion of the large garden was taken up by rabbits in runs. We were given a tour of all the rabbits who are currently up for adoption. Ruth fell for Harley, a lively young male – although as he was due for neutering two days after we saw him, I’ve suggested a return visit just to assess how lively he is in his reduced state of manhood. RRR only rehome bunnies in pairs so we’ll be getting two if we adopt from them.

In anticipation of rabbit-related high jinx at the house, here’s a picture of the late Jake chewing my Muji flip-flops. They’re still just about wearable. He developed a cute habit of picking them up and throwing them along the hallway.

Had an evening of theatrical kung fu on Monday night when we went to the Hexagon to see Shaolin Warriors: Legends of Kung-Fu. A couple of hours of seeing impressively fit chaps (and two small boys) strut their stuff. The show is a nice mixture of graceful stuff with nice lighting effects, and macho feats such as cracking metal bars on foreheads. Reading Arts’ website tells audiences to be prepared for “flesh against flesh, flesh against steel, body over spirit and mind over matter”. The show included some audience participation, which I wasn’t prepared for, but quickly realised that only boys and men were being chosen - perhaps women would have rendered the whole thing unclean.

Ray kindly agreed to lend me his sat nav for the few days' trip away this week, so I had my first ever experience of driving with it yesterday. Had expected to find it an irritating distraction and to switch it off after half an hour, but am actually somewhat converted. Initially drove from Reading to Cheddar to visit Ruth's grandmother, and was guided through the centre of Bristol and down into Somerset without incident (although we did also consult a road atlas and the passing signposts). There were a couple of occasions close to Cheddar village where the disembodied female voice failed to give directions when I could have done with them - but we theorised this might have been a reaction to Ruth's having spoken harshly to her a few minutes before. On balance, I may even get one for myself at some point.

Wednesday 6 May 2009

Ruth and I made the most of the weather for the first part of the Bank Holiday weekend by going to stay at her aunt’s house, which is in a lovely setting near the Ridgeway and the White Horse of Uffington. Went for a pleasant walk on the Saturday afternoon, enlivened by meeting some chaps parked up on a footpath in white vans, whom Ruth theorised might have been planning a rave. Not sure what they were up to, personally, although they did invite us back later for an orgy, an offer we politely declined.

On the way back we stopped off at the Rose & Crown in Ashbury for a much-needed soft drink (also a pint of cider and in my case some Arkell's Kingsdown Special Ale). The car park was full of bikers on a stop-off - Ruth took a photo of this impressive number. The chaps were more than amenable to her request to photograph it, and in fact tried to persuade her to pose sitting on it, at which she became coy and we scuttled off.

The weekend included a brief visit to Lambourn, hub of all things horsey, where I’ve driven through a number of times but never actually stopped off before. We had a quick wander around the churchyard at the Church of St Michael and All Angels – not a particularly attractive church but I did take a photo of this jolly gargoyle. We then took a look around E J Wicks, ‘Saddlers to Champions’ – an amazing emporium stacked with all manner of riding clothing and equipment. Also a charming rack of postcards depicting countryside scenes and traditions (dogs with dead pheasants in their mouths, etc). Had to have it explained to me what a girth was, but feel better informed now.

Spent a rewarding chunk of today at the Royal Berkshire Hospital undergoing various gynaecological examinations to ascertain the presence of a polyp in my uterus – the culmination of which seemed to be “Yep, it’s a polyp” (which I thought we knew anyway). Apparently it’s Royal Berks’ policy to remove such things under general rather than local anaesthetic – something to do with the type of instruments they have (vaguely worrying – perhaps they are enormous Victorian cast-iron things. A friend of mine at university did her BA dissertation on ancient Roman gynaecological instruments – we’re unfortunately no longer in touch or I’d ask her for a copy and quote pertinent passages.) Have been helpfully supplied with a leaflet outlining what to expect during a hysteroscopy, although it’s of limited use as it keeps referring one to other leaflets that one should also evidently have picked up before leaving the hospital: along the lines of “This procedure will be carried out under a general anaesthetic. For what to expect when having an operation under general anaesthetic, please refer to leaflet 592.2.1, What to expect when having an operation under general anaesthetic.”

While trying to distract myself while undergoing a lengthy scan, I was charmed to note a poster on the wall entitled ‘Malformations of the Female Genital Tract’. The sort of thing that quite interests me, actually, but I suspect some women would prefer a print of Sunflowers or similar.

Sundry irritants

As it’s been an uneventful week in terms of constructive activity, thought I would just detail various irritants, for the sole purpose of getting them off my chest:

Last Friday
Waited in at home for British Gas engineer to come and look at our ageing combi boiler, which has started dispensing hot water intermittently, as and when it feels like it. Very polite young man who did his best to be helpful, but concluded that the problem was likely to be mainly due to limescale, both of the bath taps (easily replaceable) and of the boiler’s internal heat exchanger (probably RIP boiler). He assessed the age of the boiler as ’20 years plus’ – the amusing latest in a whole series of estimates by previous engineers. When we first signed up to British Gas’s Homecare agreement, its age was assessed at around 15 years. In August 2008, a couple of years later, it had evidently undergone a bit of a rejuvenation and was estimated to be around 10 years old. In the eight months since then, things evidently haven’t gone well for it.

Sunday
Was feeling at a bit of a loose end so persuaded Ruth to come out for a bit of air. Something led me to suggest going over to Newbury to visit the Kennet & Avon Canal Trust shop which, according to the website is open on Sunday. It wasn’t, but I’ll get to that in a minute. When we arrived at Reading station to get the train, we discovered that due to engineering works, trains to Newbury were departing from Reading West station, a dilapidated haven-for-muggers a mile or so outside the town centre. We waited half an hour for a bus to take us on a 5-minute bus ride to Reading West, then waited for about another 20 minutes for the train to Newbury to depart. On arrival at Newbury, we made our way over to the Wharf to the Canal Trust shop. My vague purpose for the visit had been to buy Ray a small teapot or similar knick-knack, decorated in the classic roses and castles design. Luckily for him, though somewhat annoyingly for us, there was a typewritten notice pinned up outside the shop telling us that it was closed. To console ourselves, we spent around £100 between us on new tops from White Stuff. We also wandered up to my old school to see if we could see any evidence of the rumoured demolition of the Luker site, but everything looked much as I remembered it. Eventually made our way back to Reading around 6pm and decided to take our minds off various stresses by having a nice (and well lubricated) dinner in The Griffin.

Tuesday
Took day off work to wait in for Virgin Media men to come and install new cable TV and broadband setup. They arrived without the USB adapter that I had been reliably informed over the phone a week earlier that they would be bringing with them. Then spent quite some time detailing the complex amount of cabling that would be necessary to route the broadband line into the second bedroom, at which point I queried the necessity of so much cable for a wireless setup, to which they responded “oh yeah well if you’re having wireless you don’t need the cable”. (D’oh! Don’t they prime these people beforehand?). They eventually left and, after a few further hitches involving tedious calls to overseas call centres, I seem to be finally set up (I think). Hardly the flawless procedure that Virgin’s advertising blurb reckons it is though.

Never had wireless before and the whole set up is a bit novel. Particularly the stage just before you sign on to your own wireless network, where you get to see a list of all your neighbours’ networks as well. Reminded me of the occasion while I was living in Essex a few years ago where having the Pause button down on my portable cassette player appeared to allow me to hear my elderly neighbour on his CB radio.

Wednesday 22 April 2009

Forgot to mention in the last post my trials in attempting to obtain a bedside table (not that they’re particularly interesting). In an attempt to economise I ordered one from the online company Furniture Today, given that they seemed to have an extensive range of bedside tables at reasonable prices. It was delivered on the Tuesday after Easter and I unpacked it only to discover that one of its little legs had been snapped off (see photographic evidence, sent to the company). Phoned FT in miffed state and declined their offer to send out a repair crew. Upshot was that I spent the best part of an hour re-packing it in the original packaging (difficult) and the courier came back to collect it. I have been promised a replacement, but who knows when. FT seem to be one of those annoying companies that will contact you late in the day to say your item is being delivered tomorrow, and by the way will you be in between 8 and 6? The reply “no, I’m not unemployed, and neither are my neighbours” always seems to be met with bemusement.

Went with Ray to Homebase (after another slap-up Palmieri’s breakfast) on Saturday morning to give second opinion on several kitchens under consideration for the narrowboat. I had been assuming that the boat would require a bespoke kitchen, but am told that this is not necessarily the case. We spent some time mulling over important details such as the question of a matt vs. gloss finish, but the jury is still out as regards a final decision.

Have been downgraded by my dental surgery to only seeing the dentist on a yearly basis as apparently there’s “really nothing going on” with my teeth. Feel vaguely as though I have been put down into Set B for maths. Am to continue with regular appointments with the hygienist, though. Have hatched a personal theory that I am required to see the hygienist mainly because I have so little dental work done that the surgery simply doesn’t make money out of me otherwise. Ruth, who has had three root canals in the last five years, is never asked to see the hygienist. Theorise that she is A-list dental patient, whereas I am C-list.

Had my first brush with Pilates on Tuesday evening as Ruth and I have signed up for a six-week beginners course. Rather more complicated than I was expecting, but I will stick with it in the hope that it’ll get easier and will do something appropriately miraculous for my posture/core muscles. Must work on breathing and balancing a tennis ball on back while on all fours. Only six of us in the class, which was nice – the instructor was able to come round each of us moulding/forcing us into position where necessary.

Our monthly Book Group meeting tonight was held in the garden of the Back of Beyond pub in town – an interesting spot for a discussion of Eve Ensler’s The Vagina Monologues. We all found ourselves putting our copies of the book face down on the table, and then chiding ourselves for our prudishness. My own feelings about the VM are mixed but it certainly provoked a variety of opinions and some interesting discussion.

Slightly off topic, but I can highly recommend the King of the Hill episode Square Peg as an example of one woman’s amusing journey to become more comfortable with this word.