18/01/2009 by Brigid.

Despite the obvious linguistic challenges of teaching English to a class of children too young to read, early feedback seems positive. The introduction of “Head, shoulders, knees and toes” was something of a coup. I don’t know whether it is the simplicity of the song with its accompanying actions, or the sight of me doing them, that amuses the children so much. But, even though I get in a bit of a muddle as the music gets faster, touching my toes instead of my ears, and despite one or two of the children over-balancing and falling over, it gives us all a good workout, and guarantees their complete attention for at least 10 minutes.

Bizarrely, for me, I noticed a curious reticence at first, on the part of the parents, to engage in conversation with the “Prof”. True, I do dress more formally than usual for the class, and, following a tip from a friend, wear my specs rather than contact lenses – better for peering over and looking stern – but the reality is that my lack of experience means that I am very much acting the rôle. Even so, judging by the gushing thanks as they swept up their kids after the first couple of classes, I must be due an Oscar. We have all seen this sort of behaviour before when we, ourselves, were at school … that awkward meeting with the Principal, whenever our parents were summoned to explain some deficiency in our upbringing.

May be my disguise is wearing thin, but things seem to be easing a bit. Last week’s class started with Sophie’s mum explaining that, although Sophie appeared to have learned quite a few English words, she did not feel like repeating them today, thank you! Unfortunately, it transpired that the previous week Sophie had delighted in telling her astonished parents that she had been learning all about the fesse.  To her surprise and frustration, instead of congratulating her, both parents burst into laughter. As neither speak English, it took Sophie several minutes until they finally understood that she now knew the English names for parts of the face. It was only a slight mispronounciation, after all. In French, les fesses are buttocks …

In the same vein, a Welsh friend of ours was mystified as to why one of the local bar owners gave him an odd look whenever he said “merci beaucoup”.  It took a while before it became apparent that, instead of prounouncing beaucoup with a nice round oo sound (as in ‘cool’), he was emphasising the u (as in ‘queue’). This had the effect of turning beaucoup into beau cul, or “nice arse”!

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01/01/2009 by Brigid.

Phew! There goes Christmas for another year and here comes 2009. This year, for a change, we have resolved to lose weight, get fit, learn French, decorate the house, and generally be more social and out-going! All this, you understand, on a shrinking budget.

As I write, the BBC economics page lists the value of the Euro as £0.9563. Commentators have been predicting parity by the New Year for months, but it looks increasingly as if the Euro might actually overtake Sterling. Shocking. Especially for those of us living on pensions generated in the UK. Since we moved to France in July 2007, the value of the Pound Sterling against the Euro has dropped by nearly 30%, meaning a reduction of over 750€ per month in John’s pension in real terms.

Even so, things aren’t as dire as you might think. Our reduced income has just meant that our lifestyle isn’t quite as we envisaged when we first moved down. We are being forced to get creative. On the plus side, I am discovering economical recipes for things like beef shin stew and dusting off what I learned in the “make do and mend” class at school. Before you know it, I’ll be signing up for the local WI branch!

Another reason to be cheerful is that I have got myself a little part-time voluntary job teaching English to a small class of 3 to 5 year old children. I have no children of my own, but then I was never one to let lack of experience stand in my way. Luckily, English mother-tongue was the only essential qualification.

I’ll admit the first class was a bit scary, but subsequent sessions have been a joy. In our last, I got the children to make an English-style Christmas card for their parents. Christmas cards are not common in France, so there were a few bemused faces as I explained that we were going to colour in a snowman figure and dress him in a scarf, hat and gloves, then cut him out and stick him on a folded card with a greeting inside.

Only a couple of the kids felt confident enough to cut out the snowman and his clothes. Most, like Axel, finished colouring-in and brought their masterpiece to me to cut out and assemble. Unfortunately, I snipped off one his snowman’s arms. “Ooops”, I said mildly, suppressing the urge to swear. “Comment est-ce qu’on dit ‘Zut!’ en anglais?”, said Axel, as I hastily stuck it back on. Bless him.

Happy New Year to you all.

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05/12/2008 by Brigid.

After a feverish first week of planning and list writing, John, myself and the two cats set sail for Blighty once again to do the rounds before Christmas. And, like last year, we caught everyone on the hop. Gone are the days when John and I started our Christmas shopping on Christmas Eve, and I must admit to a certain perverse pleasure when people say “Your present is on order”, or “I haven’t wrapped it yet” or “I left it behind”. We still have some way to go to beat the arrival of my mum’s Christmas card (some of our friends got theirs during the second week of November), but we can still smugly sit back and enjoy having all but completed our Christmas list.

In fact, there is no need for anyone to worry. One good thing to have come out of the credit crunch is that a lot of people are cutting down on their spending at Christmas. Along with, I suspect, many other families, we have started to give only token presents to the adults, reserving a proportionately larger part of the budget for the younger members. And that’s, perhaps, how Christmas ought to be. No more headaches trying to think of imaginative or useful presents for brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles and cousins. Ours can now expect a local apéritif, bottled fruit, chocolates, or tinned pâté. A contribution to the Christmas feast. No ‘thank you letter’ required. And don’t worry that I am giving anything away. It is hard to disguise a bottle, tin or jar, even with the fanciest of wrapping paper and ribbon!

Having seen everyone we needed to, we spent a few days’ holiday in Ireland. The weather was cold and wet, but the air was clean and the welcome, as always, warm . As for our summer holiday, we rented Faha Cottage. It is not exactly the plushest of accommodation, and would never make the grade with the Bord Faílte (the Irish Tourist Board), but it doesn’t cost much and the owner welcomes us with an irresistible mixture of stale chocolate treats and a couple of tins of Whiskas for the cats, and you can’t say fairer than that. Besides, on a clear day, we can see the Cliffs of Moher on the Atlantic coast, about 10km away.

Following the demise of Speedferries’ Dover – Boulogne service, we booked our homeward passage direct from Ireland to France. Rather than crossing from Rosslare to Pembroke or Fishguard, and facing hours on the road followed by another ferry from Dover to Calais, we booked LD Lines’ Rosslare – le Havre ferry: a 20-hour crossing.

Poor Tig and Foggy were never cut out to be ‘ship’s cat’. We did what we could to get them some anti-seasick pills before we left, and hoped that the promised kennel on board would be more comfortable than the car. Some hope. Having charged us the exhorbitant sum of £73 to accommodate the two cats, we discovered that the ‘kennel’ was no more than a dog cage on the car deck. Arguably, they would have been better off in the car. However, knowing how unwell they get at sea, we couldn’t leave them couped up for 20 hours. There was only one thing for it. They would have to share our cabin.

Of course it is completely interdit to smuggle one’s pets into the cabins. However, I am not my mother’s daughter for nothing. I well remember her carrying our dachsund puppy in a shopping basket for the Swansea to Cork trip when I was a child. Overnight, he ate a hole in one of the ship’s blankets, to which my father infamously quipped, “Don’t worry, if anyone asks, I’ll tell them my wife had a fit”.

The brightly-coloured American pet carrier I use looks quite like an ordinary holdall, if one closes the canvas flaps over the mesh panels. So I completed the deception by draping the cats’ fleece blanket (lurid green) around my shoulders like a shawl, allowing it to fall over the carrier, partially concealing the wriggling contents. While the ferry was bright and clean, LD Lines are principally a freight operator. Consequently, it was a long walk from the car deck to the limited passenger accommodation. As I emerged from the seemingly endless passage from the stairwell to the reception area, the bag’s occupants suddenly started to stir violently. I looked down. Foggy had managed to undo the zipped opening. I had apparently walked practically the whole length of the ship with a little grey cat’s head poking out of the back of the bag. So much for subterfuge.

Thankfully, we avoided detection and, once safely in the cabin, the cats seemed to settle down remarkably well. Perched on the windowsill, they stared into the night sky. The only features visible against the dark sea where the white horses. Eventually, they curled up, one on each bunk, and went to sleep … Until about 4am, when we were woken by the unmistakable sound of a cat throwing up, as Tiggy deposited his dinner under our bed. A few minutes later Foggy did likewise.

Although they perked up briefly midway, the poor cats were sick for most of the voyage. But they did make an astonishingly quick recovery as soon as the ferry docked in le Havre, and are now, undoubtedly, as are we, very pleased to be back at home.

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27/10/2008 by Brigid.

How beautiful are the Pyrenees in October? The colours are arguably more vivid now than at any other time of year. The sun reflects through nearly naked beech trees, picking out the remaining yellow and bronze leaves that fall like confetti around the walkers using the forest tracks. It is half-term, the vacance de Toussaint, and many parents are taking advantage of the last of the warm weather to take their kids camping in the mountains. People are still sunbathing at the Lac de Bareilles. But, despite the blue sky, the shadows are lengthening and the first snow has fallen above about 1100m.

The snow will melt again, of course, between now and the beginning of December, when the ski stations open for business. But, like last year, as soon as the clocks went back, John and I started worrying about our fitness. “This year”, we said to each other, “we will get real value for our lift passes”. No wasting half the season trying to ski ourselves fit, suffering with creaking joints, aching muscles and uncooperative ski boots. “No sir. Not this year!”

It has to be said, fitness hasn’t exactly topped our agenda over the summer and autumn months. And why should it? After all, with all that mountain walking, energetic decoration and renovation work on the house, good food and stress-free lifestyle, we ought to be fit as fiddles. Errr …

Suffice to say, a couple of months back, John and I bought our first set of bathroom scales. They are extraordinarily inaccurate. Yet, even allowing for the readings varying wildly according to the level of the floor, the heat of the room, or where one stands, there was no denying we could both do with losing a few pounds before embarking on our fitness regime. No point in starting before the summer holidays then …

John is relying on press-ups and squats to strengthen his upper body and thigh muscles. I decided on a more scientific approach and dug out my copy of Royal Canadian Air Force exercises: The XBX Plan for Physical Fitness for Women, which I probably bought in the 80’s, and haven’t used since. Unfortunately, it promptly fell apart. An omen, I think.

The XBX Plan was, as far as I remember, really quite efficient. The various charts are divided up into levels, with increasing numbers of repetitions for each exercise, and a final fitness target determined by age-group. The effectiveness of the regime relies on one being able to complete all the exercises within 12 minutes. Though I am not sure whether one is allowed extra for reading or retrieving loose pages from the bathroom floor.

I cannot, with hand on heart, say we have actually noticed any startling difference yet – two days into our regime. My stomach muscles ache a bit, which should be a good sign. But I am not sure if that is due to the exercise or the effort of shifting a 6kg cat who decided to sit on my hair while I was doing sit-ups …

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18/10/2008 by Brigid.

Never really finished the holiday diaries, did I? Perhaps you thought I’d given up on this blog? Actually, no. We’ve just been busy.

Since the installation of double-glazing in April, work on the house had rather stalled.With the exception of last Christmas, guests have tended to arrive either singly or at very short notice, taking us as they found us, so to speak. Allowing us to get lazy. However, with the threat, or should I say ‘promise’ of our first American visitors at the beginning of October, we thought we had better smarten ourselves up a bit. If you had seen the hive of activity that preceded their arrival, you would have thought we were expecting the Royal family. Though, in reality, Karen and her son, Dave, have lived through several major construction and refurbishment projects and are no strangers to work in progress.

The original plan was simply to give the first floor ‘office’ a quick coat of paint to try to turn it from a bleak passageway into a cosy spare bedroom fit for Karen’s grand-daughter, Jessie. The problem friends had found with using a paint-roller to apply non-drip emulsion, was that the plaster was so fragile that huge chips tended to detach themselves and stick to the thick pile. Hoping, at least, for a uniform wall colour, they were left with something akin to vitiligo with acne scarring. A loaned paint gun, on the other hand, proved excellent for ‘glueing’ the damaged plaster in place and didn’t, at first, seem to create significantly more mess. In fact, I was so pleased with the results in the office, I rashly set about transforming the bathroom in the same manner.

You will have noticed the words “at first” in the last paragraph. 

At first, I was surprised how light and easy the paint gun was to handle. At first, I didn’t notice the dribbles of paint where I had accidentally lingered too long over one section of wall. At first, I didn’t mind the noise of the electric motor. And, at first, I didn’t notice the dust. Bloody dust!

When I finished painting, I came downstairs to find the kitchen table covered in a fine layer of white powder. Then I noticed it on the coffee-maker … the stairwell, the tiled floor, the carpet, the hi-fi unit, the bathroom fittings … The cats, who had been confined in our upstairs flat all day, took great delight in decorating hitherto clean items with pretty little white paw prints. John duly got out the vacuum cleaner. Bloody cats!

Apparently, what had happened was that a desicant used in quick-drying emulsion had caused some paint particles to leave the gun as dust, while the compressed air created a draught, effectively distributing it throughout the house. Bloody paint gun!

Anyway, we now had two, more or less clean, bright, and very white, rooms. A little colour was needed. The bathroom wasn’t so much of a problem, as colour is provided by the tiles and suite: busy blue and grey flowers on the walls and a blue rough-sea effect on the floor, neither of which quite go with the turquoise ceramics. The office, on the other hand, looked even bleaker than it had before we started.

I found a plaid fabric and ran up a pair of short unlined curtains for the office window. Unfortunately, due to M. Fuchs’ excellent efforts in measuring up our double-glazing for maximum light, there remains only an inch or so between the hinged windows and the top of the deep window recess. Hanging the curtains should have been a five-minute job. However, putting a proper curtain pole above the recess was not an option as a short curtain would allow in too much light, and longer curtains would get caught in the adjacent door. In the end, it took all afternoon and several trips to the droguerie before we found a dowl rod that was narrow enough to sit above the opening window, and strong enough to take the weight without sagging in the middle, and a pair of suitably small brackets to hold it all up. Bloody curtains!

So the room now contained a single bed made up to look like a sofa, a chest of drawers full of linen, a pair of cheerful plaid curtains and, somewhere under a pile of correspondence, till receipts and waste paper, John’s desk. We needed some shelves.

Actually, we had bought some earlier in the summer: a free-standing, scaffold-style unit, with which we planned to screen the staircase. The only problem was how to prevent the cats from using it as a climbing frame and tipping our books and ornaments on to the heads of unsuspecting folk as they came upstairs. Bloody cats!

We bought some plexiglass from the droguerie. It came off a roll marked largeur 0.8 and cost 11.50€ per metre. Perfect. John measured the required amount and M. Pujol expertly cut two lengths using a thing that looked like a giant guillotine. The idea was that we would use small brass screws and decorative matching cups to secure the plexiglass to the stair side of the shelves. It was only when we got home that we realised that the plexiglass was a) not 80cm wide, b) not cut straight and c) the screw cups that we had just bought did not fit any of the screws we had. Bloody plexiglass!

It wasn’t really a huge problem. It just took longer than expected. John bought some new screws and we re-cut and overlapped the two sheets of plexiglass. Not quite the crisp finish we were after, but it looked ok. Now to the desk end of the room to create a permanent home for the printer, scanner, telephone directories and computer software. We already had matching dark wood-effect shelves. We just needed brackets. So we called in at our local builders’ merchant for a heavy duty adjustable rail and bracket system to match the industrial-style scaffolding at the other end of the room.

This time we had installed the vertical rails before we noticed that we had bought the wrong brackets. Bloody shelves!

I confess, by this stage, I was beginning to lose interest. Illogically, perhaps, I became obsessed with the fact that the sofa’s bed base was still showing and, therefore, despite the addition of numerous tastefully-coordinated cushions, still looked like a bed rather than a sofa. “Bloody cushions!”, said John.

The ‘sofa’ is actually one of two, twin, beds. So, as I explained to John, I couldn’t simply make one valance. I “might as well” make two. “After all, it shouldn’t take long”, I said, hopefully. It probably wouldn’t have done, had I not lent my “Soft Furnishings for Dummies” book with John’s daughter in London. Still, after a couple of false starts, a couple of unpicked seams and a re-cut border, I worked it out in the end. The second valance was, as I had previously assured John, much quicker to put together. But then, as our Kiwi lodger, Grant, always used to say, the trick is to do the second one first. Bloody valances!

The bottom line was that the office was finished before Karen, Dave and Jessie arrived, and we were quite (in the American sense of the word) pleased with it. As it happened, 17-year old Jessie would have slept through the outbreak of WWIII, with or without curtains, if allowed to, and I am sure she wasn’t bothered if the bed base showed or whether it matched the rug.  But it was important to us, or rather, me. And that’s all that really mattered in the end. “Bloody women”, said John!

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11/09/2008 by Brigid.

If you are interested in our experience travelling with Tig and Foggy, click on the new “Travel with cats” page to the left.  It was written with the aim of helping others who might be thinking of taking their cats on holiday. The post is, however, extremely long, so if you aren’t into cats, I should give it a miss.

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05/09/2008 by Brigid.

Gerard Clancy has a remarkable memory. “How ‘re ye doing? It’s been a long time”, he said as he saw John enter the bar. It has, in fact, been almost nine years. The last time he saw us was when the whole family came over to scatter John’s father’s ashes at his childhood home on Mount Callan. John and his brother, Mike, had recently bought back the family farm and we spent more than one evening discussing our plans for rebuilding the ruined house over a pint or two of Guinness.

There have been changes since our last visit: the Euro, the smoking ban, Tesco superstores, metered parking … But the essentials remain constant. On Friday evening Clancy’s was packed after the market. There was standing room only when we got there at 9pm. Gradually people began to make their way home until, by around 10.30pm there were only about two dozen of us – enough to fill the narrow bar area.

John and I were struggling to maintain a conversation with Mick, a local chap whose nose appeared, at some point in the past, to have come into contact with an immovable object and who had clearly left his false teeth in the glass by the bed. “Who the feck are ye?”, he asked, stabbing John with his index finger. John started to explain …

At this point there was some sort of kafuffle behind us and someone started singing. The voice belonged to a largish man with unfortunate looks and a heavy silver necklace. The song was a baudy ode to a breakfast roll, full of double entendre and delivered in the style of a braying donkey. But then talent has never been a prerequisite for this type of public performance. The singer, we’ll call him Seamus O’Bling, lurched enthusiastically from one side of the bar to the other as his friends cheered him on. Undeterred, our elderly companion resumed, “Will ye fecking listen to me …”

It was now impossible to hear or understand a word Mick was saying, so we looked to the couple with him for a translation. “Do ye know who ye are talking to?”, said Eddie, “This is the great Mick Flynn. Have ye not heard of him?” “Was he a rugby international?”, asked John, looking at Mick’s flattened nose. “Not at all. He is one of Ireland’s most famous singers!”, said Irene, “Mick, is it not time for a song?”

Mick Flynn didn’t need much encouragement. He did, indeed, have a beautiful singing voice. His (surprisingly) clear and resonant rendition of the traditional ballad, Sean South, sent goosebumps down the spine and, in the not so distant past, would have brought a tear to the eye of every good Irish patriot in the house. Seamus, meanwhile, presumably awed to be in the presence of so great a singer, threw in a few words of support. But Mick, impervious to these interuptions, pressed on …

A Sheain a ghra …“Ah, Mick, you’ve a mighty voice” … you’re resting now … “Ye’re doin’ grand” … with the blood you gladly shed … “Good man Mick Flynn” … heaven take you to his kingly throne … “Ye’re a great man” … remember well Sean South of Garryowen … “C’mon now”

His performance finished, Mick recommenced his interrogation, “There are fecking hundreds of Rynnes around here. Who are ye again?” In desperation, John started to reel off the names of friends and family who Mick might know. “Did you know JJ Devitt?”, he asked, “JJ was a bit of a singer too.”

John struck gold. JJ was indeed a bit of a singer, just not a very good bit. His unique talent had been known to empty bar rooms and reduce small children to tears (of laughter). “Fecking JJ Devitt!”, exclaimed Mick. “Fecking JJ … How the feck do you know JJ Devitt?” Mick’s eyes sparkled as he recounted the story of how his encounter with a bloodied and toothless JJ outside a local bar had actually saved him his driving licence …

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08/08/2008 by Brigid.

It is hard to believe that this time last week we were on our way to Boulogne: me, John and two rather stressed-out cats. We weren’t sure how the cats would react to the all day car journey across France. Foggy beeped and miaowed for the first three hours, while Tiggy just panted and drooled. But, by and large, they took it in their stride. By the time we reached the ferry, they were happy to take a drink of freshly made chicken stock, eat a handful of dry kibble and use the litter tray … in the car. Nice. At least the drive from Dover to Coulsdon was mercifully quiet.

After a couple of uneventful days with Betty, we all piled back into the car for the trip to the Isle of Wight.

To set the scene a little, my mum’s home started out as a gatehouse to a largish mansion that has long since been demolished and replaced by a garage forecourt. The house itself is somewhat eccentric. Located on a corner, where the village one-way system descends a steep hill to the harbour, its ground floor extends over several levels as various extensions have been added over the years. The not-so-huge rooms are chocabloc with unsuitably-large pieces of creeky furniture which, themselves, are crammed with fragile ornaments, clocks, photographs, newspapers, magazines and important, “mustn’t lose”, correspondence. Take into account that my mother is nearly 80 and not as nippy on her pins as she used to be, and it doesn’t take Mystic Meg to predict the potential chaos that two sprightly year-old cats could bring to the mix.

To give them their due, the cats have adjusted to each new environment quickly. As long as they have their own little ‘house’, bedding, food, etc., and a window to look out of, they don’t seem to mind being shut up in our room … which is lucky, as that is exactly where they were imprisonned for most of yesterday.

In the event, it was an enormous dried flower arrangement that proved the biggest temptation for Tig and Foggy. Each summer for the last fifteen years or so, the arrangement has seen the addition of more and more hydrangeas and each winter Mum would augment the colour with a few new artificial flowers. Until yesterday, this impressive display resembled a small hedgerow, complete with tasty-looking autumn berries and wheat ears. The cats clearly hoped to find field mice and birds nesting in it. But after they twice managed to topple the vase from a small side table in the dining room, Mum found a new space for it, in front of the sitting room fireplace, conveniently blocking access to the chimney!

The problem for us all has been to remember to close doors that normally remain open. With no space in the cupboards to store their food, the cats waste no time raiding the kitchen, if allowed access. They are cunning too. They learned quickly that the sound of a container full of dry food hitting the floor could be heard all over the house and so changed tactics. Mum and I couldn’t help but laugh when we found Tig crouching very still beside the food container on the worksurface. The flip-up lid was open, and one nut of kibble lay next to it. Crafty beggars have worked out how to extract their food without upsetting the container!

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28/07/2008 by Brigid.

Preparation for the first of what we hope will be many summer holidays ‘ en famille’, i.e. with the cats, is becoming a bit like going back to boarding school. In fact, for retired folk like ourselves, I am beginning to wonder how much of a ‘holiday’ this trip will be.

The problem is ‘lists’.

John is currently sorting through a list of music on his MP3 player, in order to share some of our tracks with his daughter, who has just bought one of her own. Said daughter, meanwhile, has generated a, not insubstantial, list of DIY tasks for Dad and me. Though, bearing in mind Ree and her family have just moved back into her late mother’s home, and we will be spending the majority of our holiday there, it is reasonable to expect to earn our keep in some way. If the truth be known, as Ree’s new home is also the house John shared with his ex, we will be only too glad to help her put her mark on the place. Ooh err …

Thus, knowing what we were in for, John put together a list of tools to take back to the UK.

Speaking of staying in other people’s houses, the cats’ travel checklist currently comprises 26 essential bits and pieces to help them feel at home and, more importantly, to spare our hosts’ furniture and our nerves. Amongst the less obvious items we have included are Bach’s Rescue Remedy, Feliway diffusers, Soft Claws® claw covers, our own biological washing liquid (so at least our clothes smell the same), a bathroom bin and scented liners, and a dustpan and brush. At least Tiggy and The Fog seem to have taken to their Sturdishelter®.

Then there are shopping lists: one for things we want to take back to the UK and one for things we can’t buy in France. Due, mainly, to the large amount of luggage space we now have to allocate to our two furry princes and their trousseaux, we have cut back somewhat on the quantity of alcohol that we normally import for personal consumption. Conversely, the list of UK shopping has grown as we have gradually discovered things we miss or things we just can’t seem to find in France: digestive biscuits and Colman’s mustard spring to mind, along with the makings of traditional Christmas pudding and fruit cake.

We must not forget Ree’s shopping: Ikea storage jars, a wall clock and pretty lined linen basket, left behind when she flew back to the UK, as well as several items of Alex’s clothing and a red and pink spotted hippopotamus – also left behind.

With limited space remaining in the car for our own clothes, we made up another list. We will need decorating clothes, evening clothes for Cowes Week, clothes for sunny barbeques, and clothes for rainy days in Ireland.

There are also things that, individually, do not warrant a list of their own, but that don’t fit comfortably on any of the other lists: passports, mobile phones, travel cards, cameras, rechargable batteries, etc. So we created a list of those too – and cross-referenced it to the others, just to be on the safe side …

And then, of course, there is a final list of things not to forget to do before we leave: put the recylcing out, bring the bikes in, give our keys to the neighbours, and take the cats to the vet for their tapeworm and tick treatment. I’m already exhausted …

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12/07/2008 by Brigid.

My young cousin, Catriona, has been here for a few days this week. She has been working in Paris and has been, so far as we can ascertain, mostly hungry and broke (as Parisians neither eat nor pay very often). We therefore considered it a particular honour that Catriona used her hard-earned dosh for a return ticket on the sleeper train to visit us. So we have had three (hopefully) fun-filled days of ice-cream and sight-seeing.

We arrived back from Carcassonne on Tuesday to be surprised by Flick, bearing a large carrier bag full of yellow plums from her garden. A very large carrier bag. Over 2 Kg. With the best will in the world, rather a lot for John and me. We did eat a few on our picnic on Wednesday, but today there were still nearly 4lbs left in the carrier bag – taking up a whole shelf in our fridge. They were beautifully sweet. To waste them would have been a crime. So I made jam.

I haven’t made jam before, so I found myself dusting off an old Constance Spry cookery book that dates back to my time at Winkfield Place, the Cordon-Bleu school she founded with Rosemary Hume. What can you say about a book that states “it would seem to be the simple duty of any woman with a home to run, of those with any sort of civic conscience, to understand about food and cooking … but there is still a tendency to consider the subject suitable primarily either for girls who cannot make the grade for a university or for those who intend to become teachers …”

“I aspire to perfection”, was the school moto. Though, in my case, nothing could have been further from the truth.  “I aspire to produce anything that remotely resembles the photo in the book”, could have been mine, or “I aspire to adhere to the Time Plan”, as time and time again, the teachers lamented my “too big” profiteroles, my “too yellow” custards, my “too sweet” salad dressings, or my liberal interpretation of practically any recipe you care to name. I passed the course anyway, and still use this splendidly sexist and imperial cookbook whenever I need a traditional turkey stuffing, liver pâté, jam … or just a good laugh.

The first line of the recipe reads, “Stone plums. Break about half the stones, extract the kernels, and blanch.” Constance Spry, unlike Delia Smith, credits her reader with a little too much common-sense. I am sure Delia’s recipe would have included some idiot-proof method of breaking plum stones, but Constance Spry’s didn’t. I discovered quickly that a mis-hit with a rolling pin turned them into sticky little missiles, while a well-aimed smack reduced the whole to a mass of pulp and nut shards. I really, truly, hope they add some flavour to the finished jam.

When finished, I had filled eight little jars with a pleasantly amber-coloured concoction. As I came to label them, I was reminded of a story about an old family friend, jazz singer and art critic, George Melly. As a small boy he had been taken to tea with an elderly (and rather prim) aunt. As his mother and aunt exchanged polite conversation, George suddenly piped up, “Mummy, why do you always say that Auntie looks like a monkey?!” The aunt glowered, while George’s embarrassed mother searched for words to change the subject. “Lovely plums …”, she said, looking into the aunt’s fruit bowl.

Milk and then just as it comes dear,
I’m afraid the preserve’s full of stones,
Beg pardon, I’m soiling the doileys
With afternoon teacakes and scones
from “How to get on in Society”, by John Betjeman

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