Forked strawberries; Summer Exhibition; launch of the boat

Firstly, delighted to report that my CfBT geranium is flowering nicely and still seems to be flourishing. So pleased I rescued it from airless overheated office hell. This particular geranium was one of several given out at a team Away Day in 2006 - the day has pleasant associations and the geranium has a certain amount of sentimental value. (Ignore the state of the window in the picture. I do clean them occasionally. Well, OK, not very often.)

While on the subject of organic matter, while innocently getting my breakfast earlier in the week I came across this forked strawberry, placed cunningly, and not entirely accidentally, inside a mug. Foolishly, I have allowed Ruth to become aware of my long-standing fear of mutant and/or oversized fruits and vegetables. Historically, my sister Hannah would take great pleasure in chasing me around the kitchen armed with an enormous field mushroom or similar.

Last Thursday, courtesy of one of CfBT’s directors (a convoluted story), Ruth came by two free tickets to a private viewing of the Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy, organised by the Hay Group. We duly presented ourselves and were allowed in, and spent a couple of hours wandering around - there's certainly a lot to see, as it spreads over several rooms all crammed full of exhibits. Damien Hirst's nude silver man without skin occupies centre stage but there's plenty of other stuff. We were also plied with champagne and delicious canapes so well worth going to.

At 8:00 am on Friday morning Ray and I were standing ready at the Thames and Kennet Marina looking at his boat on the back of a lorry and awaiting its launch into the water – him eagerly, me with some trepidation, especially when Ray announced his intention of driving the boat himself from the launch area round into the marina. In the end, once actually on the boat, he sensibly abandoned this idea and phoned the marina office to get one of the chaps to come and do it. I had been recruited partly to act as official photographer, so took over 100 photographs of the entire exercise ending with one of the boat safely berthed.

Ray and I had one of our frequent breakfasts on Monday at the oddly-named but lovely Julia’s Meadow on King's Road. It’s very much an office workers' café (it doesn’t open at weekends) that mainly specialises in sandwich fillings and takeaway baguettes etc but also does breakfasts including, what is officially (according to a panel of one) the best coffee in Reading. I always have a black Americano (or two) and a bacon sandwich (white bread, no sauce). The perfectly lovely owner/manager now just says ‘The usual?’ whenever I go in, which is kinda nice.

Book Group met at the house last night to discuss Melanie McGrath’s Silvertown, an everyday tale of miserable, poverty-stricken East End folk. I found the historical and geographical detail more interesting than the fictional(ised) story. Mildly ashamed to realise that I had had no idea how many (over 20,000 Londoners) died in the Blitz. I suppose I had been imagining it was a mere handful of people caught outside a sweet shop. I had been hoping that the removal of teeth episode wasn’t a general custom, but Ali, one of our members, commented that two of her aunts had had all their teeth removed for precisely the same reason that Jenny does, i.e. to save their future husbands money on dental bills. Blimey. I’ve never visited the eponymous London suburb but must once have looked across the Thames at it when Ray and I visited the Thames Barrier and associated visitors’ centre some years ago. It looked to be - as it evidently was in Jenny's time - dominated by the huge Tate & Lyle refinery.

The bunnies behaved themselves tolerably and my friend Claire, a former veterinary nurse, appeared to have managed to soothe them into a calm, almost trance-like state by the end of the evening, something that unfortunately didn’t continue into the next day. As of today, Harley has officially mastered the staircase and has been trotting inquisitively around the first floor. Ruth’s theory that rabbits don’t climb stairs would appear to have been proven to be complete cobblers.

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…

UCCA and PCAS; gym; new house rabbits

A discussion in the office yesterday of the fees charged by UCAS for making applications to higher education led on to Jude and me (both being over 35) reminiscing about the former system of applying separately via UCCA to universities and via PCAS to polytechnics. My school had a policy of encouraging students to apply to the maximum number of universities and polytechnics, even if a particular student a) knew exactly which university they wished to go to and b) rightly or wrongly, had no intention of going to a polytechnic. Consequently I remember making several applications to polytechnics, including one to Brighton Polytechnic (now the University of Brighton) to do (I think) Librarianship. I didn’t turn up for the interview I was offered and feel that now might be an opportune moment for a formal public apology – I’ve no doubt it’s a fine institution. Perhaps not surprisingly, I think I received a formal rejection letter about a week after the interview date.

Have rejoined the health club that I resigned from last autumn on cost grounds as it has been suggested to me that the cost might be insignificant next to the health and other benefits (viz., less likelihood of being a grumpy cow). Previously I’ve only used the swimming pool (and fun add-ons such as the spa bath and steam room), but thought that to really get my money’s worth (and hopefully tone up a bit) I might give the gym a try. So went for a fitness assessment on Monday evening and spent about 40 minutes being put through my paces by a polite young stripling of a lad – included such things as the Sit and Reach test (a test of flexibility; I didn’t do very well) and a body fat measurement involving having little electrodes connected to your feet. Had gone in feeling reasonably OK about my fitness levels in certain areas, but came out feeling a little deflated having been marked only ‘Average’ on most things. Perhaps it’s a timely wake-up call to start upping the activity levels before the point of no return where old age lays me waste. Etc.

Bunnies

However, the big news this week is that as of this evening, our two new house rabbits, Harley and Lola, are in residence, thereby rounding off our wacky liberal version of the traditional nuclear family. Currently they're both sitting together in the cage they were delivered in, munching bits of hay and looking circumspect. The plan is for them to have the run of the ground floor once they're settled in (and house-trained). Have just taken the photo, with my phone so a bit grainy, and with flash turned off so as not to traumatise them. Am a bit concerned at the moment by Harley's persistent chasing of Lola around the cage in an attempt to mount her - hope this tails off soon once any residual testosterone has with any luck worked its way out of his body. Last thing she needs is to be sexually assaulted while trying to adjust to a new home. Anyway, as he's considerably smaller than her it looks rather absurd.

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.