Days out under the new normal

Pub grub new normal style

Our first break away post-lockdown saw us heading for Norfolk. Unsure what we'd find, we stopped for lunch at a suitable looking pub just before Fakenham, The Crown, that boasted "meals served now" on the board outside. No lights were on and the front door was locked, but they had set out tables at the rear with marquee covers, and a mobile canteen was set up in the carpark serving nachos and burgers, with orders taken at the table. The waitress, who was also the owner, was doing everything on her own. She took the orders, cooked and served the food, and went into the backdoor of the pub to get the drinks. I guess the rest of her staff were still on furlough, but the whole thing seemed to work very well.

We came to Sherrington without high expectations, and were not disappointed. The town is typical small British seaside, with few redeeming features. In its favour, they are managing the new separation rules well, with clear arrows dictating one-way flow for pedestrian traffic on either pavement, and clearly marked queuing areas for the shops that people seemed to follow fairly well. But those same pavements were crowded, the pubs were bursting, the beach busy. High groins of stone blocks break up the beach so it is difficult to stroll along it, with only occasional steep steps down for access, and we were glad to get away again. Instead, we drove round the coast towards Yarmouth, stopping at a wonderful pub near Hickling Broad for lunch.

The pub itself was not taking diners, but the gardens were quintessentially English, with deep-set varieties of flowers and shrubs round the borders and nooks and alcoves set with hidden tables. It was a hot day, but I'd done another silly - leaving the dog leads in the house after my morning walk with them, so we couldn't bring them into the garden. All we could do was leave the car windows open while having a quick drink and a plate of chips, while drooling over the most tempting menu.

We made up for it in Yarmouth where we headed for our favourite ice-cream van for soft creamy Italian ices. He is there everyday, including the worst winter days, parked on a verge outside the town near the docks. Most day-trippers might not know he was there, yet there was a long queue which moved quickly, and the women behind me told me they drove miles just for this ice-cream, as we did.

Today we visited the shrine at Walsingham. That too is very different. A nun at the door was regulating admissions to one person/couple at a time. Candles cannot be lit there, but the nun offered to light them on our behalf.

Coming out of Covid lockdown

Four times did the new neighbour promise to replace our damaged party fence, and four times he failed to deliver, though I had offered to pay half, or even all for the materials. So today, we have a professional replacing the four panels, with concrete posts and a neat top trellis to finish. James was recommended by several people responding to a note from Ann in the local FaceBook pages, and he was brilliant. In when he said, bringing the materials round early this morning, and starting the job by nine. He got four panels and the concrete posts in by midday, and for a very reasonable price. Having lost the old trees and their wild life of birds and bats, we will grow new trees and shrubs to blot out the unsightly work rooms he is constructing that now dominate our garden.

This afternoon, Ann managed to get back to the dentist for a checkup. This meant she could make her friend Sylvia, who lives in Romford, jealous as her dentist is still only seeing emergencies. We even got to our old pub in Halstead for a drink as we always used to after visiting the dentist, though in the beer garden and served at the table rather than inside to queue at the bar. This is more like the continental way of doing things in bars and cafes, much more civilised, and I'm all for it.

After all these months and three lost trips away (including going to Center Parcs with Lucy and the children; to Lucy's reunion party; and to Thailand where we should have been this week) we met by chance one of Edwin's old teachers from the short time he attended Hundon primary school, over 20 years ago. We talked for a long time. Like Edwin, her son - who now wants to be a journalist - read English Literature at Anglia Ruskin. She and her husband own a holiday let, and gave us a sheet with the details, so we have finally booked a few days away by the coast, to a cottage where we can take the dogs. I therefore cancelled the papers when I walked the dogs in Clare this morning.

The assistant in the paper shop had clearly had her hair done, in a great bouffant style, tinged subtly with a purple dye. I am PC enough to know to be careful with complements these days, but I did risk saying I'd noticed her hair, and how smart it looked. The other assistant too had her hair piled in waves, though untinted, so I ventured to say "I see you've had your hair done too!"

"No," she said. "I haven't managed to go to the hairdressers yet. I go next week." Oops. I tried to revive my blunder by adding, "well, you certainly do a good job yourself," but it didn't sound very convincing. She has always been a little cold to me, but now she will be permanently frosty.

How to fit a dishwasher

We had Edwin and Andre to stay overnight on Friday. They had much to discuss and stayed up until nearly 2 a.m. chatting to Ann, long after I'd gone to bed.

On Saturday morning, the plumber arrived to fit the dishwasher. He had been due in the afternoon, but was suddenly banging on the door at 8 a.m. following cancellation of another job. Everyone else was in bed, but he started and they were soon up. But we could not get into the kitchen - he had blocked access to the cupboards for the plates, the spoons, the bread bin, and all the essentials for breakfast, so Ann's intention to provide a good breakfast for everyone to start the day were thrown to the wolves. Meanwhile, the plumber struggled to push the dishwasher back into the hole the old one had emerged from. He ended up lying on his back, kicking and pushing the front to try and lever it in, though at the end it still protruded a little on one side. He had told us that he'd never fitted a dishwasher before; now he was demonstrating this.

The boys left early to go shopping, and sight-seeing in Lavenham, ending up with a good lunch at the Swan to compensate for their hunger. Finally the plumber finished, and switched the machine on. The lights lit up, so he said the job was done and left. We put some utensils in to try it, but despite the lights, it made no noises and didn't seem to be progressing. We struggled for nearly two hours, reading the manual, trying different combinations of buttons, and despairing that we might need to inform the manufacturers that their new machine didn't work. Then I discovered that he had neglected to turn back on the main water feed at the back of the cupboard.

After that, the machine clearly made good water-entering sounds, and began to churn round to clean the pots. Suddenly it stopped in midcycle. I pulled the door open, and there was a puddle of water at the bottom, with an error symbol flashing. Back to the instruction book - the code said that there was a blockage, which seemed obvious. But it was now late in the day, and I could do no more. I went to bed, overslept, and even missed the evening quiz. 

Next morning, I had to pull the machine back out into the middle of the kitchen. I quickly found why he had had so much trouble getting it back, and why the machine didn't empty: he had looped the drain hose up behind the machine instead of feeding it out through the bottom, and it had folded double and was completely kinked. The fitting instructions even contained a big picture of the hose with a cross through to warn against the practice, and a warning not to kink the tube! I dared to squeeze it back into an approximation of a circle, hoping it had not developed a split, and fed it through the correct way. The machine now slid easily and perfectly back to where it should have been. I replaced the kicking board but now the door wouldn't open properly - he had fitted the door cover too low, leaving a gap at the top, but too low to clear the kicking board at the bottom. I now had to remove the door, redrill the screw holes, and fit it proberly. Finally all worked. All that is left is to await the bill for his work - surely a sarcastic account of what he'll claim he's done.

Country pursuits

Streaking fox

Training on the long reins

From my window in the early light, with a low mist still on the fields, was a fox attempting to cross the horse's field. This was no urban fox, fearlessly feeding from dustbins, but shy and wary as any traditional country fox. It kept creeping forward, attracting the attention of the horse which each time began to move towards it, at which point the fox ran back to the hedge. Not that the horse was aggressive, but more curious. Finally, after several forays, it had courage enough to streak past the horse and under the fence. The owner of the fields is a specialised trainer who takes in other people's horses to break them in or teach them good techniques. He has built a series of jumps and circuits, and they can often be seen doing circuits on a single rein. I saw something new this week, though, when they came up the road on long reins - a special technique for teaching them to respond to commands on the reins before they take a saddle and rider. Unfortunately I had a dog on the lead in each hand and they trotted past too quickly for me to photograph, so I've cheated and pulled this one off the web.

I have returned to my oil painting of Colin. Bob Ross, on his program The Joy of Painting, likes to beat his brushes to get the cleaner out, saying, "You have to beat the devil out of it". After I had primed the canvas and applied a background of colour, I followed his advice and started to beat the devil out of my brush, a large flat 1½" brush. The metal ferrule holding the bristles flew off into the dustbin and I was left holding just a bright yellow handle. Bob's advice is not always good, so now I clean my brushes by wiping them carefully with tissues. Oil is a slow medium: the oil-based paints stay moist for a long time and blend easily, but also streak if one tries too many layers. It is slowly taking shape, but it is easy to overwork it and take away a good effect that one likes.

Weird omens

Swan and cygnets in Clare park

It has been a strange day, triggered by the dishwasher failing last night, and this morning, the model stork by the pond suddenly seeming to leap into the water head first just as we turned to look at it, as though on suicidal intent. I had to call into the accountants in Sudbury this morning, and passed two cars that had collided on the empty roads - surely as great an omen as any in Shakespeare, and forcing me to drive with extra care on my own journey, aware that today the world stands askance. In the park, a solitary swan rears her head guarding her cygnets with wild threat, and when I walked in some woods at Sudbury, I became disorientated and lost my way as though it were some great forest.

Now it grows dark, a time when we used to welcome the bats swooping round the garden. I loved to see them, symbols of wild nature hunting insects in seemingly random flickers, but since our neighbour cut down all our trees, there are no bats. I am sure that it is illegal to damage their habitat, for they are a protected species, but this vandal cares not a fig about conservation or nature, as Ann wrote in her poem (in eco-vandalism). He continues to cover his garden in concrete, today bringing in a concrete mixer that has been churning all day, and he still has not replaced the fencing panel he removed behind the saloon, despite his promises to do so.

Another portrait for the portfolio

Grandson Luke

On Saturday, Edwin and his partner came round for a meal to celebrate their release from quarantine after getting back from Luxembourg, and us being able to meet another group. It was Luke's turn to organise the quiz, and that was really well organised, and he chose some great questions for us. The boys went upstairs and used Granny Annie's computer, while we used mine downstairs. I think we came last! We then had very late desert after the quiz was finished, and they didn't leave until 11pm.

I've finally finished Luke's portrait. I believe the original looks a bit better than my photo and it's reproduction, but the learning process is slow. These portraits have all been in acrylic, which is a good medium with a wide range of colours and good mixing and spreading potential, but one has to work quite fast to blend shading as the paints dry so quickly. I intend to return to my first oil picture tomorrow. This process is much slower, but the first layers have dried now so I can continue to build it up and add elements. I must say, oils are a very satisfying medium, but completely different from the water-based acrylics, and one has to take time to complete the picture.

I am continuing to work 'half time' - mostly just mornings. So far it has been quiet - just a couple of telecon meetings each week. I believe their office in London remains closed, so they're all working from home too - I don't want to travel into London yet, as I am one of the "high risk" people, so I am definitely trying to avoid any contact with people outside the family. I take the dogs for a walk each day, but it is generally round the fields, and if I see anyone coming the other way then one or the other of us moves off the path until we have passed each other.

For today's rant, I need look no further than the actress Florence Pugh having to apologise for cultural appropriation after admitting wearing cornrows as a teenager. It used to be that imitation was considered a sincere form of complementing and flattery, but no longer. For a woman to style her hair in cornrows is hardly a way of insulting someone of another race - it is a statement of admiration for how they do things. If this carries on, we should condemn Meghan Markle for wearing her hair straight and setting it in a bun or ponytail - that surely is appropriating British culture, the very thing she has turned her back on. Add to this the sudden pressure to remove stained glass windows and white statues of Jesus and Mary from our churches, and there will soon be nothing left of Western culture. In Africa and many other equatorial countries, Christ and the Madonna are portrayed as black, but why not? No one claims these figures are more realistic than white figures, for surely we know not what the true face of Christ looked like.

Time for the fight for justice to move on

The paving slabs outside our kitchen had grown black with grime, so today I went at them with a power hose to blast them clean. I had nearly finished when, under the kitchen window, I suddenly felt the rain coming down again. I was already quite wet from the water splashing up round my feet, so didn't worry too much, and determined to finish the job. When finally I went back in to clean up, Ann was laughing by the open window. "I was throwing water over you," she said, "and you didn't even notice!" I told her I had noticed, but took no notice of it. That's so typical of Ann - she has a wicked sense of humour, but it's usually directed against me, probably because there's no one else around.

Having said that, MA came this morning with the girls, and this afternoon the boys came to celebrate their release from quarantine following their visit to Luxembourg. Ann prepared one of her wonderful meals, a casserole with all the veg trimmings, and a good selection of puds including a classic sherry trifle. Delicious.

There has been much fuss recently about "Black Lives Matter". This is true, they do matter, as do Asian and white lives. What does not seem fair however is the wanton destruction of our British heritage with so little protest in its defence. We are not even allowed to state "White Lives Matter" without the catch-all condemnation of "that's racist!" No, it's not racist. Our lives matter too, and our history matters. We all acknowledge that slavery was wrong, but slavery was abolished in this country in 1807, over 200 years ago. It is time to move on. White people in the UK make up 86% of the population; people of Black ethnicity make up less than 4%. So small a percentage deserves respect and equality, but not total dominance of the airwaves, and certainly not the right to dictate our history by ripping down statues willy-nilly. Black people make up 5% of managers and directors, which is a fair number; and they make up 16% of people in professional jobs. This does not sound like prejudice to me, for on these figures black people are succeeding and doing well. No, the real thrust of the modern anti-slavery movement should not be against the past, which is gone, or against statues of long-dead people with whom this tiny minority disagree; they should turn their sights to where they might actually make a difference to people's lives: to modern slavery in Africa, or to the sex slave trade across Europe, or to support people like Malala, fighting for the rights of women abroad. Perhaps then they might achieve something worthwhile, rather than celebrating as victory the toppling of dead bronze.