National Trust fervour; HESA; Spam fritters

Slightly disturbed by Ruth’s and my now having been to National Trust properties two weekends in a row. As I don’t actually visit them that often am worried this is a sign of encroaching dotage, not to mention the joke in an episode of Miranda about the National Trust offering life memberships. Our friend Helen is a member (and not an L), but has the excuse of needing to take her quite elderly parents on days out.

The Saturday before last we went over to Cliveden for the afternoon, as Ruth hadn’t been before and fancied going, and for some reason it had come up in conversation a week or so earlier, I think in connection with the Profumo affair. Mum and I visited in 1990 after what must, judging by the half-dozen or so photos I have of the visit, have been a particularly dry summer as the grass looks completely parched. I have a feeling I’ve been once since then, but evidently didn’t take photos. On this occasion, it was vibrantly green and in flower after all the rain earlier in the summer, and the stunning parterre was looking its best. Photos here.

We had lunch in the Orangery, where we snaffled the last two lunch offerings in the form of a couple of fairly indifferent sandwiches; nice surroundings though. Then walked across the parterre sans shoes – a testament to the state of the lawns, as I am squeamish about such things – and then down to the river bank and a bit of a turn about the gardens. The signposting isn’t the best – we managed to completely miss the sequoia section, which you might think would be hard to miss, and also failed to find the tortoise fountain. We did stumble upon the lovely Long Garden shortly before leaving, which was a plus. Amazing that the distinctly contemporary-looking pair of granite baboons there are actually 2500 years old. The baboons were only returned to Cliveden in 2010, having been moved somewhere else in the 1960s by the Astors (doesn’t say where).

The present house is the third house on the site, the previous two having both been destroyed by fire. Once could be an accident; twice starts to seem careless.

This Saturday we drove up to Basildon Park, an attractive 18th-century Palladian mansion just north-west of Pangbourne. We didn’t bother going into the house other than into the ground floor tearoom for a cream tea in lieu of lunch, but instead took one of the signposted walks around the parkland. The return route did involve a direct path through a herd of cows, all of which started making their way directly towards us down the footpath - I took a detour to avoid them but Ruth insisted on going right up to them, insisting that they were “only curious”. That’s as maybe.

Basildon was built in the late 18th century and then sold on a few times before lying empty, apart from wartime requisitioning, between 1910 and 1952, during which time it was evidently stripped of most of its interior. It was purchased and restored in the 1950s by Lord and Lady Iliffe. The gardens are apparently currently being re-awakened, "with new shrubberies". Cute.

Still on the topic of gardens, my parents have recently returned from a weekend in the Cotswolds that included a visit to Abbey House Gardens in Malmesbury, apparently home of The Naked Gardeners. Intriguing. Mum's postcard noted that the owners weren't disporting themselves at the time of their visit. Wonder what the take-up on their 'Clothes Optional' days is?

Now fully into HESA period at work, with the result that a couple of my evenings this week have involved logging in to HESA's data collection system and clicking 'Refresh' repeatedly, while also trying to get down to some revision for the imminent exam for my OU module. Managed to submit something, albeit incomplete, for TMA04 - had  considered skipping it and relying on substitution, before giving an "I Am Not a Quitter" speech to self. Looking at past papers, half of the exam is in fact multiple choice, though unfortunately not the Noddy kind of multiple choice where half the answers are completely laughable - it may actually require some thought.

Amused by the latest barrel-scraping offering in terms of takeaway outlets to appear through our door in Caversham. The catchily-named 'Wok and Chips' offers an amazing fusion of (presumably) traditional English fare alongside standard Chinese takeaway options. It's possible, should you wish it, to give your Won Ton Soup an added sophistication by teaming it with a Spam Fritter and, intriguingly, a Baked Bean, the latter at a seemingly quite steep 80p.

Incredibly, I do remember actually quite liking the Spam fritters that were occasionally on offer at my primary school dinner time. Probably just a reflection on the rest of the food, which I still remember as quite unreasonably disgusting. All very well people bleating on about how children need a hot meal in the middle of the day, but I remember the relief when I was finally allowed to take a packed lunch, thus escaping mincemeat cobbler in favour of ham sandwiches and a Club biscuit. Never looked back.

Interesting exhibits; Habitat; neighbours

New academic year started by this notice, among other things, on the OU's Noticeboard. Not entirely sure what God's doing in my life, but no doubt he's having a good rootle.

Went up to London on Saturday to see the free 'Superhuman' exhibition at the Wellcome Collection. Lots of interesting stuff around human enhancement through the years. The funniest things on display were a couple of sex aids, one of which, according to the artwork it featured in, was supposed to be used hung from a tree. The other had a bicycle pump affair attached to the end in order to simulate something it would seem entirely unnecessary to simulate.

Who knew drug use in sport was such an issue in the early years of the 20th century? The exhibition contained fascinating stuff about several sportsmen (none of whom I’d heard of, though that doesn’t mean much), including Tom Hicks, the 1904 Olympic marathon winner who managed to win by either swigging or injecting (unsure which) strychnine in brandy during the race (apparently not against the rules at the time) and the cyclist Tom Simpson, who died during the 1967 Tour de France having taken alcohol and amphetamines before slogging up a mountain in the blazing heat. Hmmm. Also, get the Whizzinator. Other stuff included a section on the thalidomide tragedy and the various cumbersome-looking early enhancements that were produced for the affected children, though apparently many of them found them more trouble than they were worth to use. Also an interesting piece of performance art by the Guatemalan artist Regina José Galindo.

After 'Superhuman' we went upstairs and looked round the permanent ‘Medicine Man’ exhibition. Can’t say I know much (in fact anything) about Henry Wellcome, but he certainly amassed a collection of fascinating stuff. It includes a collection of paintings which included the horrible picture of a tooth drawer hiding the tooth key from a female patient that we saw at the Royal Berks Medical Museum a few years ago, and a particularly ludicrous painting of weird gnome-like humans giving birth to large eggs, with, completely inexplicably, a woman in the background boiling a donkey in a cauldron. Sadly the guides to the paintings were display copies only so I can’t remember the name of the picture.

Also: there seems to have been a big market in trinkets with erotic scenes secretly contained within, including this fruit. Not sure how these were used: did people pretend they were eating an apple and secretly pop the apple open and have a quick gander at the copulating couple inside?

Never been inside the Wellcome Collection’s building on Euston Road before but very impressed; lovely light airy space with everything beautifully laid out. The ground floor entrance area includes a nice cafe where we had lunch (and I had cake), a bookshop and a sculpture of a man hanging upside down from the ceiling which looked to us like a Gormley, but didn’t appear to be labelled.

After leaving the WC we wandered down Tottenham Court Road and around Habitat and Heal’s – I had thought Habitat had gone into administration but the Tottenham Court Road store is still there - reading this it looks like a deal was struck for three central London stores, including the branches on TCR and King’s Road, to be retained. Mum tells me the Cardiff branch has gone though. A bit sad.

Not doing badly with my thrice-weekly or so early morning bike rides, though we'll see if it continues now we're into autumn. On my way back into the estate this morning, passed Rottweiler Man (one of the many disreputable-looking residents; probably not his real name) who, as he often is, was sans rottweiler but holding an empty leash and shouting ineffectually for his dog. A tad concerning.

Waste disposal; birthday; middle-aged activities

We now have a new green cone in the garden, as a smaller and more discreet replacement for the composter. How it works is a bit of a mystery to me, but I may (possibly) make the effort to find out. Apparently it chomps all sorts of food waste, not just green stuff – don’t really get that.

Baked a couple of damned impressive cakes to take in to work to mark my birthday (one chocolate marble cake, one banana) and spent the day basking in a pleasantly smug glow of home baking. Received some nice gifts including a pedicure voucher and some lovely white roses from Ruth, a JL voucher and a bizarre but interesting facial product from the parents, a glass butterfly from Claire, a book from my aunt and a piece of gadgetry for my bicycle from Ray, which will apparently tell me how many miles I’ve cycled and at what speed.

Finally managed to get out on Ray’s boat for the weekend boat trip that we had had to postpone from early July due to the high water levels. Managed to actually get out of the marina and chug the 20 miles or so up the Kennet and Avon Canal to Newbury, finally arriving in Newbury on Monday morning after mooring up near Sulhamstead on Saturday night and just past Thatcham on Sunday. Pictures here.

Despite the comparatively short distance, there are an incredible 22 locks on the route (from Blake’s Lock, no. 1, to Newbury Lock at no.22, and not counting the de-gated Ufton. This Wikipedia page lists the whole lot and also the summit point of the canal near Wootton Rivers in Wiltshire, after which you start going downstream towards Bristol.). Who knew the terrain was so hilly? That and the half-dozen or so swing bridges, plus the lift bridge at Aldermaston, ensure that you’re not going anywhere quickly – but then that is I guess the point of narrowboating. Quite a feeling of responsibility operating swing bridges, and particularly Aldermaston Lift Bridge which carries the A340. About half of those on our route were manual ones only carrying footpaths, but the others carry roads and are operated by inserting a BWB key into the lock and following the onscreen instructions to close the road and either swing or lift the bridge. Proudly operated Woolhampton Swing Bridge all by myself, albeit watched by the entire garden of The Rowbarge.

Moored up in a lovely spot on Saturday night where we managed to have a barbecue, watched by cows, and Ruth hung our towels from a tree to dry, resulting in mutterings from Ray about looking like a pikey encampment. It didn’t help to dry them as they just ended up covered in morning dew. Moored on Sunday in a slightly less satisfactory spot just upstream from Thatcham, where we had some difficulty getting close enough to the bank. Ray gave Ruth a fishing lesson, which she took to with a surprising amount of enthusiasm.

Had an unexpected day off on the Tuesday (boss had originally vetoed my taking the Tuesday as leave due to a Wednesday deadline, hence Ray had arranged alternative crew for the Monday night in the shape of his brother Lee; boss then texted me on Monday to indicate that we’d done enough work for the deadline so I could take Tuesday if I wanted to – nice, though would have been more use if it had been in time for us to arrange an extra night on the boat). Instead, Ruth and I did a few useful jobs including going to the tip and to Halfords to buy a replacement headlamp bulb for my car, which, usefully, they also fitted for a reasonably paltry additional cost, certainly cheaper than booking it in to the garage and a lot less painful than trying to do it myself. Then drove over to the Englefield Estate to have a look around the gardens, which we followed with lunch at the Englefield Tea Rooms – nice staff and toasted sandwich; took a while but in fairness they were packed out. In response to the comment accompanying this Geograph photo, evidently the tea room has indeed survived the post office closure, and was doing a roaring trade when we were there - one of the staff was heard to tell someone that they’d already started taking bookings for Christmas lunch.

Englefield is, apparently, part of the Historic Houses Association. It’s only the gardens that are open to the public, though it sounds as though you might be able to view the house by appointment. We had originally considered going over to Highclere Castle, but luckily I checked the website first and was informed that maximum visitor bookings had already been taken for August. Doubtless the Downton Abbey effect.


Did finish Exclusive; apparently the President did do it though there’s a cunning Epilogue that (possibly) throws a note of ambiguity over the whole thing. Bit confused now. Upcoming book will have to be Mira Grant’s Feed, as it’s our next Book Group book. Also pondering whether I should read Fifty Shades of Grey, just to find out what all the fuss is about.

Went over to Lambourn on Sunday to have lunch with Ruth's aunt. In return for inviting ourselves and obliging Mrs Spence to shop for a large joint, we went over a bit early and Ruth prepared the vegetables, while I sat in the garden reading the paper. As per last time, we had the most amazing joint of beef that was cooked to perfection - had to fight the urge to secretly hack off a wodge and take it home in my handbag. Just hope that a lump of it didn't end up going to the dog.

Basic alcohol; trash; couscous

Was disturbed when shopping at MK’s nice new mega-Sainsburys the other week to note that the ‘Sainsbury's Basics’ range now includes wine. Although I never buy food or drink from this range, I had been dimly aware that the range did include some alcohol, but had assumed this was confined to plastic bottles of cider, meths etc. However, no – Sainsbury's Basics ‘White Table Wine’ is on offer, and damn good value, no doubt. Presumably the next step (Sainsbury's Even More Basic?) will be bottles simply labelled ‘Wine’, containing liquid of indeterminate colour.

Impressed at myself for having been for three early-morning bike rides this past week, inspired by Ray’s recently having taken up cycling in some sort of exercise pact made with his friend Dave. I gather the goal is to take part in a 100-mile cycle ride some time next year. Being a bloke, he has acquired various pieces of kit and gadgetry already, including, apparently, a pair of padded cycling shorts, which I hope never to see. I have also only recently learned the acronym MAMIL (Middle Aged Man In Lycra).

Spent the first weekend in August at my parents’ house, where we gamely attempted to have a barbecue on the Saturday evening, and Hannah even determinedly lay on some damp grass in an attempt to bring on summer. The rain did at least hold off, though set in again in force the following day leading to an irritable (on my part) drive back to Reading.

Spent Saturday evening at Ali's 60th birthday party, though a number of us had failed to realise in advance that it was actually her 60th. Ali had requested that I take along a bowl of the giant couscous and harissa dish I made the last time I hosted Book Group, which I obligingly did, though not 100% sure how it went down with the bulk of the guests. Met some nice new people.

Currently slumming it, in terms of reading matter, with another Sandra Brown novel, Exclusive. Have read four or so of Brown’s previous novels, also during phases of slumming it, though I forget now how I came across them originally. This one proves to be written to a similar formula to the others, containing plenty of melodrama, sex and lots of interactions between chiselled loner hero and the heroine, who in Brown’s novels is generally an outwardly spunky career woman but inwardly vulnerable and a bit messed up, and let’s face it, really in need of a bloke. It’s proving pretty enjoyable so far, though I wait to discover whether the President of the US really did murder the bastard newborn son of his unfaithful manic depressive wife, which would lend support to Senator Cletus Armbruster’s theory that the President also, eighteen years previously, disposed of the newborn babe of a piece of trailer trash who went berserk when he refused to marry her.

Vaguely amused at a tendency of Brown’s to stress that her leading characters are only attracted to members of the opposite sex. Of Barrie Travis, the heroine of Exclusive, Brown writes “Nor had she taken the other path. Her sexual appetite was whetted only by men.” It’s inoffensive enough on the surface, but I have the distinct feeling this is not the first of her books I’ve read something similar in. Oddly enough, I’m pretty sure that Stieg Larsson, the author of the Millennium Trilogy, whom one would imagine would be an open-minded, liberal kinda guy, also takes pains to assure his readers that Mikael Blomkvist is 100% hetero, though I don’t have a copy of the trilogy to hand in order to try and find the quote. I'm sure it's there somewhere though.

Catchy uppy

Edited highlights of the past month or so:

Went to a HESA seminar in London on 12th June, which was as informative and well-organised as their events generally are (no sarcasm – they genuinely are). As usual, had a couple of delegates from other institutions look at my delegate badge and say “Gosh, your HESA return must be huge”. Yes, indeed it is. I was amused – although I probably shouldn’t have been – to note one delegate’s affiliations given as ‘Shurgard HE’ and another, more cryptically, given as ‘Unit 4’.

Headed west after the seminar to spend a few days with the family on the Pembrokeshire coast to celebrate Dad’s 70th birthday. We stopped off overnight at my parents’ house on the way to pick up Hannah, who was exhausted after an unaccustomed cycle ride to the shop in Longtown to purchase cigarettes, and hear news of her recent US trip. Arrived at the very nice Treseissyllt Hafod in St Nicholas around midday the next day and had a lunch and present-opening session with assorted family members. Later that afternoon, a group of us including Mum’s cousin Jonathan, who was staying at a rather shambolic-sounding B&B housed in the farmhouse next door, walked down to Aberbach Bay where we were soaked in a particularly heavy downpour. The following day we walked to the neighbouring village of Mathry where we had lunch in The Farmers Arms, before Dad, Dave, Ruth and I had a windy but enjoyable walk back to the house along the coastal path. On the Friday we visited St David’s where we had a brief walk around and another pub lunch (in another Farmers Arms), before returning via Whitesands Bay, which was almost deserted due to the inclement weather but still had the cheek to be charging £4 to park in its car park.

Relieved that the hastily planned and even more hastily executed photobook I had arranged for Dad's birthday present arrived in time; can thoroughly recommend Yophoto for both quality and a quick turnaround. Was a bit gutted that I wasn't able to source a photo of Dad's business partner Steve in enough time, so here's a picture of them, just to publish one somewhere.

Received a flyer a month or so ago from the OU’s LGBT Network mailing list advertising a workshop entitled ‘Feeling at Home? Queering Home Research’, apparently part of a ‘Queer Home Economics’ event at the Hayward Gallery (currently, of course, housing the 'Invisible' exhibition - what that about?). Anyway, not meaning to be a traitor to my people, but PhD thesis titles such as ‘Queering Heteronormativity at Home’ risk making me spit wine out through my nose, as do communally crocheting rugs out of old clothes and workshops entitled ‘The Knitted Habitat’ and ‘A Conversation about Gay Squats’ (bring your lunch, apparently), not to mention Homo Entertaining. Link to the strangely-formatted agenda, for general amusement.

Hit the Whiteknights Studio Trail with Claire on 17 June and had a pleasant wander around a number of houses in the loosely-defined University area, on the pretext (at least from my point of view) of admiring people’s paintings, glassware etc but actually just having a snoop at their houses. One (from the front) unassuming-looking terraced house in Carnarvon Road had the most amazing glass-roofed extension/garden room area out the back, crammed with books, sofas, arty memorabilia etc. Snooped for as long as I decently could, wishing I could take a photograph, then left after buying a postcard version of a Dan Dunne painting for Ruth.

Had a day in London with Ray on 23rd June, starting (after a fortifying breakfast) with high-tailing it up to Highgate to visit Pond Square, which I have been vaguely intrigued to visit since learning from Secret London that it is rumoured to be haunted by the ghost of a frozen chicken. Apparently stems from a 17th-century attempt at freezing chicken using snow, but I preferred to think of the ghost as a modern cellophane-wrapped affair bouncing in sinister fashion around the square. We briefly considered buying a frozen chicken and mocking up some photographs involving terrified expressions, chicken placed in menacing attitudes etc but decided this would be going a bit far; added to which, there were other people around and it might have looked a bit silly. Anyway; the square is very nice and all, but no chicken sightings.

We then walked all the way back down through Camden and onto the Regent’s Canal towpath, where we walked as far as all the new development work going on at the back of King’s Cross and St Pancras. Wandered into Central Saint Martins’ new home in the Granary Building and posed by the fountains out front, before going to visit the nearby London Canal Museum. The downbeat man on the desk warned us on the way in that “it’s mostly canal stuff ... we’re a canal museum”. In fact it does also have a bit about the ice trade, as the museum is housed in a former ice warehouse – there’s an open ice well on display. Tried and failed to persuade Ray to buy some of the various roses-and-castles-emblazoned bits and pieces from the shop, before having a look around the small but quite interesting museum. Some old film of a journey along the Regent’s Canal, from wherever it starts from down to Limehouse (or possibly vice versa), plus lots of old pics and information about canals and canal boat life. Families of six crammed into a tiny boatman’s cabin, going to the toilet in a bucket, etc.

The first weekend in July had been scheduled for a two- or three-day boat trip along the Kennet & Avon Canal but, disappointingly, water levels were too high. Wandered down to the Caversham Festival to hear Claire's vocal harmony group The Secret Chords doing some singy stuff on the floating stage, and had a beer afterwards with Claire and her new beau Chris. Returned to MK on the Monday and went for a pleasant hour's bike ride, the effects of which on my right calf muscle have only just worn off. Should probably do it more often. When I related the injury to Victoria on my return to work she tactfully pointed out that neither of us is as young as we were. Indeed not.

Mum came to visit me in Milton Keynes over the weekend 21st-22nd July (pictures here). I had planned a pleasant evening walk to The Swan at Woughton for dinner on the 20th, but pouring rain put us off that idea so we stayed in with a Domino’s Pizza instead. On the Saturday we went on a quest to locate the Concrete Cows: parked near the site of Bancroft Roman Villa, which we had a quick look around before walking down through Bancroft Park towards Monks Way and (eventually) locating the cows, where photos were duly taken. The cows in the field near Bancroft are actually replicas, the originals having been moved to the shopping centre in Central Milton Keynes, presumably in a move to preserve them. Close-up, I was a bit disturbed by their staring eyes, as seen in particular on this calf. We then extended the walk briefly to take in the remains of Bradwell Abbey, but there wasn’t much to be seen there as the chapel is currently under scaffolding and the site was taken over by preparations for a music festival. Drove into CMK where we had lunch at the Slug & Lettuce, before returning to the flat for tea and cupcakes.

Went for a late afternoon walk around Ouzel Valley Park before spending the evening watching a selection of trash TV, starting with ‘Location, Location, Location (twice, I think) followed by ‘Supersize vs. Superskinny’ followed by ‘Embarrassing Bodies’. Class. On Sunday morning we visited Linford Manor Park and had a pleasant walk through the village and park down to the canal, before lunching at The Nags Head in Great Linford. Dropped Mum at the station before going home to complete my latest assignment for M255, I fear not as well as the previous one; confidence in newfound programming skills temporarily dented.

Wet weekend; completed wardrobe; chamomile

Kicked off the extra-long Bank Holiday weekend with a drive to my parents' place early on Saturday morning. Despite having left at 6.30am to supposedly avoid the crowds, the M5 was still slow by the time I reached it, with many caravans heading south, presumably towards the West Country. Not much of a weekend for caravanning.

It proved too damp a weekend to do much in the way of going out, but this gave me a chance to bake Herman. Not the most amazing cake I've ever tasted, but he certainly smelled better cooked than he did raw. Dad made a beef curry in the evening and Mum and I ended up watching the latter part of The Return of the King, my least favourite of the LOTR trilogy, partly because of its battle-heaviness and partly because Frodo and Sam's trek to Mount Doom is made so long-drawn-out and histrionic that one hates the pair of them by the time they finally get there. And don't get me started on Arwen. 

Sunday proved even wetter so after attempting to help Dad with some indexing software in the morning, I joined Mum in vegging out for most of the rest of the day. We watched most of the Thames Pageant, though this was dominated by Mum's worrying about what had happened to Huw Edwards, who had apparently been listed as among the event's presenters - though it appears from this Mail Online tirade that he was drafted in for the later Thanksgiving service. We went for a brief and extremely wet walk to Mum's favourite oak tree (pictured) before returning to the house for a roast pork dinner.

Returned to Reading on Monday and Ruth and I managed to correctly hang the sliding doors on the wardrobe, with only a minimum of panting and swearing. It's now housing quite a bit of our clothing - two temporary rails and several bags have been emptied; there's more to come but I will have to conduct an overhaul and prune of my clothes, which I intend to do just as soon as I've lost some weight.

Went to Ray's on Tuesday morning for brunch, followed by a trip to the Pudding Lane nursery at Arborfield to purchase some more plants to go around the water feature. Among other things, Ruth bought six chamomile plants - am now being transported by romantic visions of myself floating outside to gather chamomile, which I will then make into tisanes.

Back at work today, where I was rudely awakened this afternoon from post-Bank Holiday apathy by the plastic casing on one of the fluorescent strip lights in my office crashing to the floor. Could have been nasty if it had been the one over my desk. Someone from Estates turned up reasonably promptly to pick up the smashed pieces, generally exclaim a bit, etc. It will presumably get new casing at some point.

Festering batter; ballet; wardrobe assembly

My 'permanent' office mate Victoria has recently returned from nine months off on maternity leave, with the consequence that Young Claire has been shifted across the corridor to occupy Emily's desk while Emily is on maternity leave, and to share an office with Galina, who is about to go on maternity leave. Phew.

Victoria presented me about a week ago with a share of a 'Herman the German Friendship Cake', part of a whole 'chain cake' concept with which I was hitherto unfamiliar. Uncertain which of my friends would actually welcome being presented with a plastic tub of raw cake batter, so I may end up cooking the whole thing and then palming off slices onto assorted loved ones, which may work better. Luckily I am about to visit my parents for the weekend so may be able to slip a wodge into their chest freezer under the frozen redcurrants. The idea of the cake is that you leave it to bubble/fester on your kitchen worktop for nine days, adding small amounts of flour and milk and stirring regularly, until finally adding various other ingredients and baking it on day 10. Am slightly sceptical but will give it a go. Victoria ended up ruining hers by mistakenly adding two cups of oil instead of the stated two-thirds of a cup and rendering Herman into something resembling an oil slick.

Ruth and I kicked off a long weekend last week by going to the Newbury Corn Exchange to see the 1966 film of Kenneth MacMillan's production of Prokofiev's 'Romeo and Juliet', with Margot Fonteyn and Rudolf Nureyev. It's a ropey old film quality-wise but certainly worth seeing, though almost certainly worked better as a stage show than a film, if only because Fonteyn's age is unfortunately apparent in film close-ups (she was 46 dancing the teenage Juliet - still a pretty graceful mover though). Was struck by the elevation of the chap playing Benvolio (better than Nureyev's) and only realised at the closing credits that it was Anthony Dowell. The film was shown as part of the Newbury Spring Festival and the venue was awash with identikit blonde posh women in late middle age.

As I arrived in Newbury a bit early I had a brief wander around the new Parkway shopping development. Seems a bit OTT for Newbury but perhaps it's come on. The Kennet Centre, now named Kennet Shopping, has duly become even more depressing than I remember it and seems to have lost the café that originally formed a central feature. No doubt the new development will be criticised for taking business away from it, but in fact I remember it always being fairly low-brow, much like Reading's Broad Street Mall - in fact the two have a very similar range of shops (I still don't get the TK Maxx thing).

We spent Thursday waiting in at the house for delivery of the IKEA PAX wardrobe that we recently ordered - no great hardship given the spectacularly sunny weather that encouraged much lolling on the patio. After dithering for some time over which size to get, we seem to have ended up getting an enormous 230cm high by 250cm wide monster which risks rendering bedroom 2 into little more than a dressing room, but it should at least enable us to clear clothes off temporary rails. Am impressed with our progress so far: by the end of Sunday the frame was up and Ruth had put together one of the two sliding doors, all without calling a bloke.

Met at Claire's house in the evening for Book Group and a discussion of Rosamund Lupton's Sister, which is a diverting enough read but suffers from a ludicrously far-fetched plotline involving rogue gene therapy. As ever though, we ate and drank quite a lot to compensate.

Ruth and Helen's hairdresser Karin appears to have soared to new heights this week, not only by cancelling their hair appointment on Sunday (not unusual) but then by apparently turning up to the rearranged appointment yesterday evening having forgotten her scissors. So that went well then.

On Tuesday lunchtime Liz and I went to hear 'Open Voices', an alternative vocal group at the OU, do their first concert. Alternative in the sense of being alternative to the main OU Choir, who have auditions and sing requiems and stuff. 'Open Voices' apparently have no auditions, don't require you to read music and encourage everyone to go along and discover their inner singer. I can read music but have never considered myself much of a singer, but am considering going along as I fancy doing something musical. Am mightily tickled to learn from Ray that a female acquaintance at the marina is trying to persuade him to take up the dulcimer - already have amusing pictures forming in my head.