Quintessence of un-chic

A neighbour sent me THIS VIDEO saying it reminded him of VR and me. I'm not at all flattered by this association (haven't asked VR) but it does have a certain gruesome appeal.

The best thing is it's short. The action will mystify you and I'm afraid this is intentional. It's just possible it may be intended to make you laugh, in which case it fails.

Those with a keen ear will notice it's in French. Yes, I'd noticed that too.

But such French! The actors are probably of that nation but they're worried someone might think they were Romanian or born on the wrong side of Donald Trump's blanket. A bit like the Cockneys who appeared in that dreadful British TV series Allo! Allo! Keener to suggest they came from East London than the Rhone Valley.

Make what you can of it. Never forgetting: it's short.

NOTE: This the first video I've ever embedded. At 1 min 16 sec switch it off. Otherwise unwanted junk will follow.

Gone!

Other than Solitaire and Freecell VR isn't given to computer-related entertainment. But elder daughter, Professional Phlebotomist, is presently staying with us and she inveigled VR into something  which may or not be called Rock Craze, an obscure if far less energetic variant of Geo-Caching.

The rock (actually more of a pebble), artistically decorated and labelled, was placed fairly prominently on a shelf close to the entrance of Hereford Cathedral, after which the pair of them sauntered inside for pious cups of coffee. When they re-emerged the rock was gone.

The consequences of this simple task are of no interest to me. But I am surprised that VR was willing to be photographed "playing the game" as it were. Positively un-English I'd say. To get the full effect you'll need to click on the montage above.

Eine kleine Puzzle resolved

In what country would you expect to find this turreted structure? Get that right and the next question is: in what sub-section of that country? And overlooking which natural feature? Answers below.

 

BOTH MikeM and Sabine are of course right, if for different reasons. We stayed the night there to celebrate the sort of thing that crops up in families. The skyline is Snowdonia, the small ship in the Menai Strait is a dredger. Our bedroom had a projecting turret reminiscent of the punishment The Man In The Iron Mask was subjected to. But larger.

The CH radiators resembled goat skeletons and were fed by tubing 5 in. wide. Thus most of the heat helped warm the hotel's stone structure. Spent £22 on two rounds of Janneau armagnac, discussing Brexit with two other guests.

EN ROUTE to Anglesey I picked up snacks at a filling station and fell into a time warp (see small pic). The last time I drank dandelion and burdock I was wearing short pants. Wiki says it dates back to the Middle Ages when it was brewed from fermented dandelions and the root of burdock, a weed said to cure cancer, diabetes and inflammation. But an expert cautiously adds: "results have not been universally agreed upon."

It is said D&B is closest in taste to sarsparilla, one of the few US drinks I never cared for. The present version is fizzy and probably harmless. As I tilted the can I realised this would be the first time I'd drunk D&B chilled. The past came swimming back: both my knees were grazed, my hankie should have been washed three months ago, and I was worrying about the imminence of my death. I bought two cans but VR wasn't keen. Next time I'll be more exact and less Proustian.

Could it be indigestion?

Is a 2254-word story too long for you? (See Compost, if you like, posted earlier today) How about a shortie on Valentines?

Hardly out of the egg I wrote a four-liner.

Hope springs eternal in the human breast,
This saying applies to mine,
All other cares from my heart you will wrest,
If you'll be my Valentine.

Very anatomical. When did you last use "wrest"? (means forcibly pull). Probably never. Chances are you aren't old enough. I didn't send it to anyone, hadn't got a stamp. Let's move on.

Aged 15 I sent Pam Bayley one and she thanked me for it, while we were both waiting at the bus-stop. Formally, as if I'd lent her a garden implement. Shiny dark hair and a cheerful, assured manner, that was Pam. Hope she's not dead.

Aged 28, married to VR, I sent her just one Valentine. "Hi," I said, "just passed my driving test." You think that's a bit too English, too remote? A day later I had to tell her I'd just been made redundant from the magazine I worked on.

Since then, zilch.

Way out west

HEREFORD MINUTIAE

Horticulture. Planted 100 daff and 20 snowdrop bulbs at the weekend. Just for once my reality meshed with the fantasies of Gardeners World.  Soft fibrous ersatz earth (in tubs) instead of an inch of dirt over a fathom of builder's rubble. Index finger worked well as a dibber. Not much to see at moment.

Kindness of Strangers. Yesterday VR had a hospital appointment. In order to escape the tsunami created by our cleaning ladies we made a bolt for Waitrose (the swanky supermarket) in Abergavenny and the appointment got overlooked. VR, a former state registered nurse, gets angry with herself and (by extension) me. Rings the hospital this morning to apologise, giving it the full culpa mea. Greets me all smiles, the direct result of the hospital's comforting response.

Two Sorts Of Mobility. Our estate is bisected by the Withy Brook where I noted four supermarket trolleys. I wumphed, middle-class fashion. Then I reflected. Many of Tesco's patrons  are elderly, seemingly poverty-stricken, frequently overweight ladies with hip problems who not only collect their groceries into the trolleys but use them as mobile Zimmer frames. Leaning painfully over the handlebars. No I don't think the two phenomena are linked. My reflections don't always connect.

I Wish I Had a Brass Neck. Am paying the osteopath visits (£55/30 min) hoping he can get my neck turning again. For long periods nothing much happens; prone on his couch I watch the blades of his east-of-Suez fan rotate, drop into a doze, and wake when I start to snore. Occasionally he kneads my shoulder muscles with powerful fingers and I speculate on which sport such fingers could best be employed. Archery perhaps. I suggest this, he laughs, and I write out another cheque. Arriving at T-junctions in the car continues to worry me.

Better the year, better the deed

AS A LABOUR of love I'm transferring the contents of VR's "books read" notebooks into a database. Not a negligible matter. At five entries per book (Author, title, date read, rating - out of 10, comments) over eight years (approx 220 books/year) that's 1760 book lines. In three days I've done 100 lines. The comments make it worthwhile, bearing in mind these judgments are often rushed off before catching a bus or leaving for local library. So for instance:

Just could not like this; found both style and plot annoying. Bookshop in late 19thC with Japanese and half French/half English son as proprietors, chase goblet supposed to represent missing link. Rating: 3

Dalziel, back from sick leave, asked by old friend to look into case of policeman missing seven years, whose wife he is going to marry. Evil black property developer with MP son is killed. Rating: 5

Better books are also read:

Heartbreaking story of very young woman widowed after one year of marriage in isolated village. 50s? Estranged in-laws but caring 14-year-old brother-in-law. Rating: 7
.
I SWITCH on CBBC channel for Zach, asking him what programme he has in mind. Horrible Henry, he says. When's that? I ask. He picks up Radio Times, turns to the correct page, runs a finger down the listings, and says: "Nine thirty-five." Zach is six. He's rotten at charades, though. Adopted a mole-like posture for all three of his words.

TWO women, one dead from heart attack, one frozen to death, discuss how they arrived in Hell. "Heard my husband was with his lover; rushed all over house trying to find her but failed," said one. "Pity you didn't look in the fridge first," said the other, "we might both have survived."

A Christmassy salade

I'VE BEEN misinforming people but, then, what's new? VR and younger daughter, OS, will not take the TGV (train de grande vitesse) to visit Christmarket markets on the Continent tomorrow, they are going by car. Thus they will pack in two favourites: Lille and Aachen. Normally restricted to plane cabin luggage VR asks me what bulkier thing would I like as a prezzie. Not wine, of course, I can do better through The Wine Society, a marvellous British institution. A hundredweight of sausage, perhaps?

STILL ON BOOZE. Were I limitlessly wealthy I would breakfast on vintage champagne each morning. Alas... In my time I have tried and discarded the cheaper fizzy alternatives (prosecco, sekt (Uggh!), Freixenet, cava) but have recently found a genuine contender, France's Cremant de Jura, £7 from despisedly down-market Aldi. One disadvantage: the flask-shaped bottle is ridiculously wide and will not fit my wine racks. I can live with that.



TIME FOR a funny from Hymns Ancient and Modern:
How Judah's lion burst its chains.
And crushed the serpent's head,
And brought with him, from death's domains,
The long imprisoned dead.
Would someone better educated than me (ie, virtually everyone out there reading this), or more marinaded in CofE ethos, tell me what's going on here? On the other hand, perhaps not. Bound to be an anti-climax.

FOR CHRISTMAS I ordered D, granddaughter Bella's boyfriend, a witty, intellectually stimulating... Oh cripes. Can't tell you. Despite the huge generation gap, he still reads TD. Sent me a comment the day before yesterday. Post-Christmas then.