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Post-op attitudes

October 20, 2013, 4:14 pm
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It will surprise nobody if I say that most - not all, but certainly most - of the people regularly in my social life are trans - and trans women at that. They fall into three groups.

First, the Clare Project crowd in Brighton, whom I see every Tuesday when I'm home in Sussex. These are primarily people starting their transition, or not very far into it, all pre-op.

Second, there are the people whom I meet up with for meals and drinks away from the CP, but still in and around Brighton. These have mostly finished their transition, and are post-op.

And then third, there are my co-bloggers past and present, the ones I have met at least once, who number fifteen so far. Some are starting their transition, some have finished. Some are pre-op, some post-op.

As you can see, although most of my social circle are trans women, they are at various stages between caterpillar and butterfly. So naturally they say different things about themselves and their lives, and what their attitudes and priorities are. It's very interesting to note how these change with time and development.

For instance, take attitudes to the genital surgery. Five years ago, when contemplating my own impending transition, this type of surgery was the huge glittering prize, eclipsing all other considerations. But its significance shrank. It remained an essential step towards full transition, but once the hospital arrangements were made it became simply a planned event that approached, arrived, was experienced, and then receded into the distance, rather like a much-anticipated holiday. And like such a holiday, all I have left of it now are memories and some photos. The surgery settled down long ago, the scars have healed and have mostly become unnoticeable, and the form and function of my new parts are assured. I am very aware of my female physicality, and the effect this has had on my outlook and behaviour, but the surgery itself has lost its novelty. It feels as if I have always been like this. And to be frank, I have forgotten how it once felt to have anything different.

Even the word 'surgery' has taken on a fresh meaning. Nowadays it means to me the normal cosmetic stuff that any woman might want, such as breast enhancement or face lifts. And in time it will refer to life-saving operations, as cancer and other dread things come into my life. But never again specifically and exclusively genital surgery.

I've noticed the same post-op attitude change with other members of my social circle. The merits of various cosmetic procedures might very well get talked about, including their cost, and whatever pet justifications there might be for the expense. But the genital operation, once over and done with, is not mentioned much, and maybe never will be again. That may be because it was not an operation that a natal woman would have needed, and therefore it's uncomfortable to refer to it. But I think it's mostly the effect of post-op living - you are able to get into the female role totally, and the enabling surgery simply becomes something that happened in the past. Something that you might remember clearly, but never need to discuss, like passing your driving test. People can see that you own a car, and so presumably you passed your test at some point, perhaps long ago. They won't be quizzing you about the test itself. Nor will you ever be mentioning it.

I can think immediately of at least one post-op person who bucks the trend here, who will be celebrating their 'real birthday' for as long as they live. And indeed why not? But among my Brighton friends this is not how it is.

And it seems that for post-ops the notion of 'transition' also becomes less and less significant. The same friends who have dropped genital surgery as a hot topic and want to talk instead about their jobs, relationships, dogs, and leisure activities, seem also to have stopped mentioning their transition. In other words, to the world they have always been 'like this', and so there is no need to discuss what was 'before', and the things that got them from 'then' to 'now'. I understand that - I tend to do the same. Life is definitely easier without a change process constantly in mind. I'm sure that a certain amount of beneficial self-deception is occurring here: if you can imagine (to the extent of effectively believing) that you have always been what you have now become, then every response you make is more natural, and everything you do and say is done and said with more conviction.

Where does this all lead to? What does one think when ten or twenty years post-op?

I'm guessing that there comes a point when all the events in transition are but very distant memories, like the events in a former marriage, long after the divorce. They do not touch present life, and are never mentioned, and might as well be forgotten. What, forget even the surgery? This must seem impossible to those beginning transition and struggling to start basic hormone treatment. But I feel sure that this is indeed how things do pan out in the long run. And it makes sense. If post-op life is to be a success, if assimilation into the world of women is to be fully achieved, with complete self-belief, one cannot keep dwelling on past events.
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Chrome is still a good choice for me - but will I stay with Android?

October 21, 2013, 4:11 am
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That's nice. I've just discovered that, using Chrome, I can now insert photos when composing a post on my tablet, which runs Android. That's significant and very welcome, because the default browsers on my Sony tablet and my Samsung phone, both Android-fired, wouldn't allow anything but text - enhancing posts with photos was a feature only available when using Windows on the PC at home.

Now I can do proper posts when on holiday, either (1) direct from the tablet using wi-fi, or (2) by publishing them over the 3G mobile network provided by Vodafone. Assuming the local signal is strong enough for a data connection: that might be a very optimistic assumption for the out-of-the-way places I tend to go to! But in principle, at least, expect an illustrated write-up of my adventures as they happen, and not a report some time afterwards when it may all have become a bit 'last month' and somewhat ho-hum.

I know that Chrome is a bit plain and simplistic, but it does the job, and I haven't experienced much in the way of glitches, nor found that it was impossible to accomplish something that I badly wanted to do. Once or twice, but not lately, Chrome published post-comments of mine in duplicate - some problem it had with Wordpress. And some of its standard features, things I don't want, are non-removable, or non-modifiable. Given Google's slow rate of development for its apps, that won't change soon. But it isn't a deal-breaker, and if really thwarted, I can always fall back on the default browser, or indeed F-Secure's own mobile browser, which is installed on both my tablet and my phone.

I like Chrome's 'clean' look, and its tabbed interface works very well, as good as Firefox's used to. I make extensive use of bookmarking for web sites or particular web pages, and Chrome handles that well too, at any rate once you discover where to find the bookmark manager. As ever, it's a question of familiarisation. Once you know your way around, and how to do things, it all becomes straightforward and easy.

Naturally Google want to hook you in with Chrome and all the rest of their apps. I continue to like Gmail very much, but I don't care for everything in their stable, and have for instance stayed clear of Google+.

They want Android to become the dominant OS. I think they are succeeding, so far as mobile devices are concerned. One can't help feeling that Apple has now lost its crown, and will become Number Two henceforth. And that the only other system with a chance of doing really well, Windows, arrived in touchscreen form far too late, and will forever trail the Top Two.

The perception of the buying public matters: the best products will be launched where demand is most intense. Manufacturers' ads on TV, and authoritative reviews on influential websites such as TechRadar, can of course affect public perception by suggesting what is a cool lifestyle choice, but it really comes down to bog-standard cost, usability and reliabilty. Just like buying a car. For some time there has been a perception that Apple make perfectly designed devices but take too much profit, and that Android devices are better value. Personally, I am impressed every time I see an Apple device doing its stuff. They always work smoothly and well. But the best of the Android crowd, and that probably means Samsung and HTC, with Sony and LG not far behind, offer products that in a world without Apple would be considered beyond reproach.

Where is this going? Well, in August 2014 my current two-year phone contract with Vodafone expires, and I'll be going back to buying a phone, supported by just a SIM-only contract. And in 2015 I may very well want to replace my current tablet (not because it's wearing out, but because by then I'll need a lot more internal memory). Do embrace Apple, or stay with Android? The wise spending of hundreds of pounds is at stake here.

There is no chance that I will recede from owning at least two mobile devices. They must be compatible with each other. They must also be compatible with what is on my desk at home. By 2015, at the latest, I shall want to upgrade my Dell PC to the latest Windows OS. But I might decide to jump horses and go the whole hog with Apple - home desktop (I mean a big laptop), tablet and mobile phone all at once. You can take it for granted that any such change will be based on cool and critical specification comparisons, and much other careful research, and not merely by handling the lovely goods in a high-pressure Apple shop - which is a sure-fire way of being seduced into a big purchasing mistake. All the time I shall be thinking how this product or that will improve my ability to process and display photos, and write a good blog post, whether at home or away. Nothing else is so important.

Just now I feel that I'll most likely stay with an Android/Windows combo, but who knows what will be on offer within a year or two?
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300,000 and counting

October 21, 2013, 9:57 am
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Of course I can't resist popping champagne corks and setting off fireworks - the pageview total has now exceeded 300,000. 160,000 of that in the last twelve months. Yippee!

It's small beer compared to the millions of hits some websites get every week (or even every day), but not bad for a strictly amateur personal blog, written by an obscure trans woman who is not even young and beautiful. So a big thank you to all who have been visiting my little corner of the Internet since February 2009!

I tend to regard the pageview total as the proper measure of how much interest a blog really attracts. As opposed to other measures, such as the number of followers, or the number of comments. The ups and downs of the pageview total constitute the best feedback I can get. It's still very hard to decide exactly what the general public actually wants to read, or what trans readers in particular want to see. Posts on something (or someone) in the news, or something very controversial, are clearly going to attract attention. I oblige, but it's much too easy. It's a lazy person's style of blogging. I don't want to turn myself into a mere news pundit. No, as the blurb by my picture says, this is basically my autobiography, written as I go along - Lucy's Life and Adventures, if you like - and I try to keep mainly to that. The strange thing is, this personal stuff is often very popular, and I can't quite see why. Not that I'm complaining, but I'd prefer to know what the precise appeal is, in case I ever want to carve a late career as a columnist in some magazine, online or otherwise.

Meanwhile, I feel encouraged to continue, aiming now at 400,000 and then 500,000.

One last thought. If I ever post less frequently, then the pageviews fall off. There is clearly a link between frequency of posting and how many readers will regularly take a look at your words. So, if you want to race ahead on your own pageviews, get writing!
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I've got a lisp

October 22, 2013, 2:29 am
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It was the night that I was over at V---'s, when K--- and I (with the help of V--- and her son B---, and a lively little dog called Co-Co who was eager to rest on my lap) had a practice run at making an audio podcast. The position there, by the way, is that K--- is editing the idiotic stuff we came up with to produce a smooth and sophisticated version, complete with sound manipulations and - who knows - a menacing gangsta rap beat and monologue going on in the background, to give it an edge.

Anyway, at one point, V--- exclaimed to me, 'Lucy, cherie, you have a lisp!' (She is French) A lisp? Me? I denied it, but in the days since I have been listening to myself carefully and, my goodness, I think she is right.

What I'm talking about here is a slight speech defect, where your sibilants - your S sounds - become indistinct, slurred or disappear entirely through incorrect articulation. The possible causes are many, and include physical impairment and of course being drunk. Looking at the Wikipedia article (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lisp) I think I have developed a mild form of dentalised lisping, where for some reason my tongue is slightly touching my teeth as I articulate S. And tho, jutht a little, it theemth ath if I am thpeaking like thith. I'd say that the very definite (and admittedly rather hissy) S sounds I've deliberately cultivated in order to feminise my speech have now slipped into lisping. It'll have to be corrected. I can do it.

On the other hand, should I? I may have acquired a positive speech asset here. I mean, no man ever speaks with a girly lisp does he? So my way of speaking as Lucy, already pretty good I'd say, may now have developed a little extra female authenticity.

That said, I don't want it to go further. It wouldn't do to sound like a winsome child. Nor do I want my speech to become hard to understand. It's there to get me through any possible situation. My voice is a communication tool as well as my best female badge. It's got to be clear and effective, and any affectation or imperfection that spoils that aim must be controlled, and if necessary ruthlessly discarded.

After all, I'm constantly up on my hobbyhorse about the top importance of a good speaking voice. In fact, I would say that clear, correct articulation is the key to finding a credible female voice that will get taken seriously and listened to attentively. I'm all for Professor Henry Higgins in Pygmalion (or the film musical My Fair Lady) insisting that former Cockney flower seller Eliza Doolittle practices the following until she can't go on:

The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain

In Hertford, Hereford and Hampshire hurricanes hardly happen

How nice of you to let me come

Or indeed more traditional phrases and tongue-twisters that require perfect articulation to succeed:

How now, brown cow

She sells sea shells on the sea shore

If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, where's the peck of pickled peppers that Peter Piper picked?

But then, by Jove, Eliza gets it! And can be passed off at Ascot as a duchess. And so can you be, if you really try hard. Of course, you'll have to brush up on your grammar and deportment skills...

I'm not saying forget your pitch-raising exercises, but I do say open your mouth, stop murmuring and mumbling, as men do, and make those consonants crisp and distinct, and your vowels full and round. This kind of control automatically helps to maintain pitch and eliminate croak. It also makes it easier to say the same thing with heat or coolness, with a different tone, or with a subtler nuance, so the same words can be a desperately urgent order, a coy remark, a gentle question, or a lover's whisper. It'll slow your speech down at first, and might make it seem staccato, until you get the knack. Then you can start to speed up again, adding elisions, so that your words flow into each other naturally.

Well, this is what I've been doing for a long time, and my extensive testing in the field, all over Britain, suggests that I'm onto something. But all the time I take my hat off to Christella Antoni, the London Speech Therapist who did so much for me. A few lucky people have voices that need no special tuition. But for most of us, sadly, a really good voice needs professional help, and it costs. You also have to dedicate your life to voice practice, not just an hour or two each week, but right through your waking hours, 24/7 if you can, and with as much conversation with natal women as you can contrive. If your job or personal situation makes that difficult, then watch chat shows for women on television, and pretend you are taking part, or doing a voiceover for the rest of the audience. Butt in on the studio chat. Don't be shy. Don't be put off if they seem to ignore you! Study how they use body posture, their eyes, and their hands, when they speak, when they exclaim and laugh. Learn how to giggle, wail, boo, snarl, sneeze, cough and cry as these girls do.  

But don't go too far - and learn to lisp. Bad.
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New glasses

October 23, 2013, 12:31 pm
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It's done. I went to Specsavers in Brighton this morning and first had my overdue sight test, then chose new frames for the new lenses I now need. They will be ready for wearing next week.

The comprehensive sight test revealed that my eyes were healthy, but (as I suspected) my near vision needs correction, as both eyes have become more long-sighted since my last test in May 2011. I can now look forward to seeing crisper print in books and on my much-used tablet. Away from leisure use, the new specs will let me read the often tiny print on food packets without resorting to a magnifying-glass!

The set-up at a big shop like Specsavers in Brighton allows various members of staff to deal with some aspect of your appointment in turn. First, the initial reception, including (for the first time in my experience) an NHS form to claim that I am now over 60 and entitled to a free sight test. No bagatelle that - it's £21. Not having to pay is most welcome. Second, the test itself, with plenty of opportunity to discuss the results, and ask about what kind of new specs would best suit the prescription, and why. Third, the actual selection of new frames. I'd had an exhaustive look at Specsavers' website, where you can upload a face photo of yourself and 'try on' whatever frame takes your fancy. I'd saved a series of images, and transferred this 'shortlist' of five frames that I'd liked to my tablet, so that I could show these pictures to the two ladies who were helping me with the section. I think one of them was being trained up, but it was nice to have two persons' opinions as I tried the frames on for real, and considered how they sat on the three-dimensional Melford face.

There was a snag for me when looking in the mirror, in that the display frames only had dummy plastic lenses, and I couldn't clearly see what I looked like wearing them. They were all quite similar. No problem: the girl leading the selection process took photos of me wearing each of the specs in turn, with an iPad, and I was then able to study the pictures with my present glasses on.

In my shortlist were the specs that I wear just now (which have the style-name of 'Krissy', if you want to find them on Specsavers' website - look in the £45 range). They have gold metal frames, oval, with no decoration. I'd been wearing them since February 2010, and (quite understandably) I now wanted something slightly different. I would stay with practical gold metal frames, but I wanted a more rounded look. And I wasn't averse to some discreet decoration as well - the Krissy frames were perfectly good-looking and functional, but except for being oval not especially feminine. I felt I needed the odd twirly bit to tone down the functionality.

Eventually my choice rested on the 'Alice' frames - same price - which seemed to boost my facial allure in the way I was after, and were comfortable to wear. The total cost was £234, of which £189 related to the varifocal lenses being fitted.

Of course, some hours later, I am now wobbling a bit over having different frames. Despite the wish to have a more feminine look, I'm asking myself whether I won't miss the clean uncluttered lines of my old specs! Perhaps these new ones will look odd, even though they seemed a brilliant choice at the shop, both ladies also thinking them the nicest.

Sigh. It's inevitable post-purchase regret. It's how it is with all important purchases. I had it with my camera. I had it with Fiona. I had it with my tablet. I had it with my cooker. Now I'm having it with a metal-and-glass device that will sit on the front of my fat face. It'll be all right. I shall go through a natural process of getting used to the new glasses, and quickly come to love them. After all, the 'new look' won't be radically different. It will be really good. It will still be practical. It won't clash with any part of my wardrobe. Nor will it make a strident statement of any kind (as those 'designer' frames tend to do). It'll be all right. Indeed, these new glasses will make me seem a fraction prettier - now that'll be a most welcome bonus!

I do have pictures, but I won't show them yet. But expect a photo-fest in early November. Especially if I buy something fashionable for the winter during the week ahead, in Nottingham or Peterborough perhaps, because I'm off again shortly on a short late-autumn break.

Most likely, however, I'll spend my holiday cash on eating out, and at markets. I particularly fancy a traditional pie from Melton Mowbray, from the very best shop I can find there, one big enough to fill the fridge on the caravan! Wicked but yummy.
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The girls that made my old world wobble

October 24, 2013, 3:08 am
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I always speak of my 'eureka moment' when, having in July 2008 reached a crisis, I made a commitment to get therapy, but also to carry out intensive Internet research in order to equip myself for the sessions ahead. Initially I thought I should concentrate on whether I might be gay. Then I saw it was Something Else. That was the eureka moment, when a whole lot suddenly made sense and could be explained, an instant of total conviction. I just knew that I'd found the answer to some lifelong nagging questions:

Why do I know that I'm a different person from the one people see? 

Why, even after all these years, and all the encouragements and praise and adoration, does my life feel wrong and misdirected? 

Why do I still push against my given role and the behaviour that comes with it? 

Who am I really?

But there had been earlier moments, when I was confronted with a passing situation that got me off-balance, that got me thinking for a while even if self-understanding did not follow. This post is about a few of those incidents. They were caught on photos, and I'll mostly let the pictures do the talking. If I searched, I dare say I could come up with more such photos from my vast archive. But these will do. And - I hardly need to say it - there were also many, many other incidents not captured on camera.

So. It's July 2001, twelve years back, and M--- and I are in Portsmouth on a sunny afternoon. It's Guildhall Square. We are admiring the very imposing Guildhall.


But from somewhere is coming a rhythmical crashing noise. In one corner of the vast Square is the University, and that's where the noise seems to be coming from. We wander over.


Yes, there's a small crowd of students, and some of them are banging away on drums of various kinds, not quite together. It seems to be: have a go, make a Big Sound! Perhaps it's the Last Day of the academic year. The atmosphere is good. Other ordinary members of the public are watching too. We both take a shot or two from a slight distance. This is one of mine:


When I come to edit my pictures at home later on, I notice something. One of the girls is looking straight at me.


This unexpected and unsettling, and I nearly discard the picture. It makes me feel like I've intruded, as a voyeur would. Remember, it's a general shot of the students, not of this girl in particular, and yet here she is, looking directly at me with a challenge on her face. She seems to be saying, Who are you looking at? How dare you? What's your game? Although I see no connection between myself (thirty-one years into a career, and getting stale) and these young students (about to start their adult life), her accusing look and expression - and therefore the photo - seem worth preserving. It says something to me. I don't know quite what, but it's important. There's a message: that my life needs a fresh start. A fresh start as what?

I keep the photo and then look at it from time to time. What was that girl saying to me?

Let's jump forward to June 2006. Two years before my eureka moment. M--- and I are on the beach at Bude, with sunset coming on. There's a breeze, and a storm is brewing somewhere, but the light is really golden and there are interesting rocks to examine and photograph.


A group of three girls pass us on the beach, heading for the waves. They are not dressed for the sea, and only two of them are wearing the sort of waterproof jackets that the location and the weather demand. One has an incongruous hat on, and is carrying a handbag. She seems dressed up for an evening  in town, and not for a windy walk across wet sand to whatever is going on at the shoreline.


I see that some boys are in the surf. These are the girlfriends then. They've come to watch. Or just to meet up and walk back with their boyfriends. And indeed, the girls end up standing in a group, while the guys splash shorewards as far as the shallows, but not yet onto dry sand. They are pretending they haven't noticed the girls, who wait patiently some way off in the very stiff breeze that's developed. It's a case of treat 'em mean and keep 'em keen, apparently.


Such dedication to love! I think there are two guys and three girls. Which one then, is the spare girl? Is it the one with the hat and handbag? Is she a visitor from an inland city, down for the week? Why am I so fascinated? Why do I remember the incident and keep the pictures?

Then, in August 2007, two more incidents, and this time I'm not merely curious, I'm shaken, and need a while to absorb the impact. First, two children at the shoreline at Birling Gap.


Brother and sister. Same age. Ying and yang. It screams to me: two aspects of the same person: myself. Look at their attitudes. The boy, watching the waves, relaxed and self-contained. The girl, eyes closed, face turned up, body stretched, not at all relaxed, leaning into the wind, fiercely alive. I feel lucky to have caught this on camera. It's one year ahead of my eureka moment. Of course I don't know that; I am still struggling with the old life; and it seems that I shall have to find a way of coping with it, for all of the long years that lie ahead. I do not want to see scenes like this, to remind me of what might have been.

And five days later, in sunny Horsham. A lively brass band is attracting an audience in the Carfax. M--- and I just happen to be there. I take a shot, framed on the left side by a woman who is watching the scene too.


There's something about her. I can't see her face, and never do because having taken the picture, I rejoin M---, and we wander off to a bookshop. Back at home editing, I look more closely.


Need I catalogue what I see? Nice hair, nice tan, off-the-shoulder top, bra strap showing, the waist, the hips, the big bottom, the bag, the way she's holding it, the stance. Not a teenager this time, she's thirtyish, a grown woman. This is hard to take. I imagine the Impossible. Then I file the picture away.

And now, in 2013, there's no need to imagine. I don't look anything at all like the persons shown above, but the old life has vanished, and the new one has more than a passing affinity with what these pictures contain. It does strike me as very strange that I managed to capture these pre-2008 moments, and preserved them, even though they represented a fantasy dream that at the time was completely unreal and quite beyond my reach.

I'm very glad I did though.
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Shelters

October 26, 2013, 1:35 am
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I'm now up in the East Midlands, not far from Stamford, on a Caravan Club site in Fineshade Woods. Rain fell heavily yesterday evening, and it was very windy. The rain drummed against roof and windows, and the wind hurled itself against my home on wheels, very fiercely sometimes, but I was snug and warm and secure, and I didn't care. In my spotlight-lit and electrically-heated retreat all was cosy comfort. The site has wi-fi, and after cooking and washing-up, I lazily surfed the Internet. Just like home.


Of course it would have been very different if camping in a tent. In the face of what nature can do, tents are flimsy, insubstantial things. Thery are not up off the cold wet ground on wheels, not absolutely watertight, not insulated, and can be invaded by ants. Modern tents are no doubt easier to erect than the sort my Dad used for our family holidays for years on end from the mid-1960s to the early 1970s. His was made of orange wind-catching canvas draped over an elaborate framework of metal poles, and stretched tight using dozens of pegs that all had to be hammered in. There were unlit inner tents for 'bedrooms' in which one got sleep of a sort on inflatable li-los. A total faff to set up. A total faff to pack away. Very basic cooking on a fold-away Camping Gaz hob. No mains electricity for light and heat. Uncomfortable folding chairs to sit on. Unless willing to use the normally unheated on-site toilet and washbasin facilities - no showers - we all made do with a plastic bowl to wash in, and a potty at night to pee in. I couldn't face all that now, not for any inducement. Holidays must be comfortable experiences, or else I'm not going!

And yet there are basic shelters about that have a certain appeal. Beach huts for example, the sort that line the British coastline, whether painted in council-regulation green or blue, or gaily in any colour or style that the owner likes, complete with a whimsical name like 'Idlehours' or 'Sundream'. Although you can't usually sleep in them, these are genuinely weatherproof little cabins fit for any sort of day, whether gloriously hot and sunny, or cold and stormy. You go there to escape, to drink tea or coffee, eat sandwiches, heat up hot soup, read a good book, and watch the waves through a doorway, out of the wind; or if the weather is suitable, sit outside on sun-loungers, and smile at passers-by. Or just close your eyes and relax. Beach huts are very undemanding: you don't have to tow them about, nor do you have to set them up. Just stroll there with a basket of fresh milk and something tasty to eat, unlock the door, sit down, and dream on.

Yesterday, after arriving in the caravan, there was time before sunset to explore the nearby woods, which are in the care of the Forestry Commission. I came across a 'Youth Base Camp'. Curious, I had a closer look. It was in a clearing. There was a central place to build a big fire, with logs around it to sit on. Set back from this, but still close enough to get some light and heat from the fire, were three very well-built shelters, with a Scandinavian look to them. Each was a low rectangular pinewood cave, open towards the fire, offering a clean and dry place for a few kids to sit around on their sleeping bags, right out of the wind and any rain. The three shelters were all raised off the ground, and had thick, overhanging roofs that were grassed over. Given a big, cheerful fire, you could easily imagine being warm and perfectly sheltered on a frosty night. Or even in light snow.


Was I tempted? Did the spirit of outdoor adventure stir within? Well, no; but I do wish the obligatory and dreadful New Forest Camp for second-formers that I'd had to endure in 1965 - a Durance Vile in every way - had used these rather appealing pinewood shelters, and not the smelly bell-tents we had to inhabit like pigs in a hovel. (There are stories connected with that New Forest Camp, illustrating how I violently asserted myself and won respect, and how I scorned the chance of tempting home comforts on Parents' Visiting Day, that will feature in another post)
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Pork pies and stinking bishops

October 29, 2013, 2:10 am
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It's the last day of my East Midlands holiday today, and it's bright and sunny and rather cold. Perfect for market-going. I'm hunting for pies and cheeses today.

This part of England has a reputation - well-deserved, so far as I can judge - for foody excellence, and when I'm home again I'll take you through my two visits to The George Hotel at Stamford, where I had a succulent lunch and a georgeous evening meal. These were high-quality experiences, but came with a price tag to match. In fact the evening meal was by far the most expensive meal-for-one I'd ever paid for in my whole life! It was however my deferred Birthday Meal, because I'd intended to go to The George way back in early July, but an electrical problem on the caravan had hastened me home without the planned posh nosh taking place. I was now simply putting that right. Completely just and proper, as I feel certain you'll agree, and not in the slightest bit self-indulgent. Of course not.

I've packed in quite a lot while here, the mostly-fine daytime weather being a boon. I arrived on Friday, and the forest walk was covered in my last post. Saturday was Stamford for lunch, shops, and dinner, and Peterborough for the cathedral. Sunday was Burghley House. Yesterday, Monday, was a visit to A---, aka the Eclectic Chicken, whom I'd not seen for over two years, and, on her recommendation, a visit to Crowland to view the abbey and the famous three-way bridge in the middle of the town. I also took Fiona into the network of dead straight but very bumpy fenland roads to the south-east of Crowland - my goodness, what lonely and windswept countryside! All these things will get a post written about them once I get home tomorrow, except my visit to A---, to preserve her privacy. I had visions of churning out posts while actually here, complete with photos, but although posts-with-photos are theoretically possible with Google Chrome, I was thwarted by the slow speed of wi-fi when away from home. Uploading shots to Blogger was taking much too long. So the holiday will end up getting reported (as usual) after the event.

Back to cheeses and pies. There's a cheese shop in Stamford, my first stop today, that seems to specialise in selling whole cheeses. One, called Stinking Bishop, caught my attention.


I think it's a type of locally-made Stilton, but I shall enquire, although if they are asking too much the Cheese Project will have to be abandoned - or else I'll just get a few samples of various cheeses for immediate eating at the market I have my eye on. The Pie Project will be no less vulnerable to cost limitations. I am going to Melton Mowbray. The market there is held every Tuesday. I'm in search of a whole freshly-made classic Melton Mowbray pork pie. Surely some local baker or chef will have a stall there. Failing that, there is a well-known proper pie shop, Dickinson & Morris, and another I've heard of that rejoices in the name of Ye Olde Pork Pie Shoppe - or are they one and the same? It sounds like a place for the tourists to me, but nevertheless the shops (or shop) clearly warrant a personal visit.

Given that Melton Mowbray must be heaving with wares that Simple Simon would take a keen interest in, I thought my quest would be clear and straightforward. But when I discussed this with A--- yesterday, she put a spanner in the works by suggesting I check out Nelsons in Stamford first. Apparently Nelsons make pies that kill you with ecstacy, and have to be tasted to be believed. Her daughter emphatically agreed. Well, I listen to such things. So maybe I'll end up with a whole collection of pies, from both Stamford and Melton Mowbray, and will have to hold a jolly Pork Pie Tasting Contest when home again! Plus another: Who Dares To Smell The Stinking Bishop?

Time to get going before they sell out.
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Mission accomplished

October 29, 2013, 12:50 pm
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Today's shopping plans have been fulfilled.

I went first into Stamford, and although I found the cheese shop out of Stinking Bishop, Nelsons did have shop-made pork pies cooked to the proper 'Melton Mowbray' recipe - apparently only ten or so butchers/bakers in the Midlands have the required accreditation as makers of the genuine product. I bought three. I also bought a long length of Black Pudding. Believe me, you can't have too much of that.


I could have been lazy and left it there. Not me. I gave Fiona the scent, and we careered off to Melton Mowbray at breakneck speed. Arriving still fresh and unwinded at Oakham, a pleasant town halfway, I decided to tether Fiona and instead take the train into Melton Mowbray, reasoning that if it was market day there, the traffic on the way in could be very slow, and it also might be difficult to park. The traffic was almost gridlocked, as it turned out.

The train was packed. I've been travelling on trains quite a bit this year, and I've noticed that whether its Sussex, or Devon, or Leicestershire, trains seem to be carrying a lot more people than they did a few years back, no matter what time you travel. But I got a seat, and it was a very comfortable journey. The ticket man was very nice, but he somehow got the impression that I lived only to eat. It was my talk of pies and cheese, I suppose. Thank goodness I didn't mention the Black Pudding.

Melton Mowbray's market was still in full swing. I was single-minded, and looked first for Ye Olde Pork Pie Shoppe. It was amusing to see that this is so famous that the official council signposts had a metal finger pointing the way to it!


But it was a proper shop, not a tourist trap, and I bought three more 'genuine' pies, the shop owners, Dickinson & Morris, being another of those 'accredited' makers. So I now had three pies from one shop, and three from another, and all was ready for myself, K--- and V--- to conduct a Pie-Judging Contest once I was home again in Sussex. I also bought six slices of succulent Cumbrian ham, for personal consumption over the next day or so, in case malnutrition set in on the journey home. One mustn't risk getting skeletal.

I still wanted some Stinking Bishop, so I asked where Melton Mowbray's specialist cheese shop might be found. After all, that nice ticket man on the train had drawn my attention to an official Network Rail sign at the station which said 'Welcome to MELTON MOWBRAY - Rural Capital of Food - Home of Stilton Cheese - Melton Mowbray Pork Pies'.


Well, my hunch that the place was a good spot for tasty edibles obviously wasn't wrong. I felt there must surely be a good cheese shop tucked away. So there was, called The Melton Cheeseboard, up a sidestreet.


And they had half a Stinking Bishop cheese. And it was so expensive that, at £34 per kilo, that half-cheese would have cost me nearly £30! Way too much. But I bought £15 worth. Perfect for a meal for three, to include soup, pies, salad, bread, cheese, and of course red, red wine.

Chatting away in the cheese shop, I found I'd cut it too fine to catch the 2.34pm train back to Oakham, and so, to kill the hour before the next train, I went into the town Museum. This had recently been revamped to display not only Melton Mowbray's market town past, and its fashionable status in the 19th Century as the country's Foxhunting Capital, but to suggest to today's visitors that it was now a wonderful place to live. Well, they had a point, even if I still thought that Stamford was nicer, especially as it had a Waitrose. But actually, whatever their attractions, all these Midland places had - for me - a fatal drawback: they were not close to the sea. I couldn't live happily without easy access to the sea.

I did manage to catch the 3.34pm train back to Oakham. I made sure that I arrived at the station ten minutes before the train was due. Consequently, I was reminded of some things that I don't like about public transport. You do have to wait around. You do have to spin out the waiting time sitting in a very cold breeze. And there is no guarantee of a seat when the train comes. Driving everywhere in Fiona avoids all these things. In fact however the train was bang on time, and although once again it was almost full, I got a seat next to a pleasant young woman. We got talking, once I'd first apologised for the somewhat ripe smell of the cheese. It was a really good conversation starter. It's so new and fresh and original to say winningly: 'Oh, I'm so sorry for my niffy Bishop!' Or one could try: 'Can you guess why I always carry six Melton Mowbray pork pies around with me?' Or even, though riskier, 'Would you like to see my amazing Black Pudding?' Perhaps not.
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Lucy takes on one of the Big Six

October 31, 2013, 9:15 am
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If you thought I was going to do a horrific/creepy/scary/gory Hallowe'en post, then tough titties.

No, I want to celebrate a victory (of sorts) over one of the 'Big Six' power companies, all of whom are very much in the news at the moment for eye-watering electricity and gas price rises. And I wasn't going to be immune. It was a depressing prospect, paying yet more for the same.

The electricity bill was not the problem. It was the gas bill: I use gas for heating and cooking. It's the really big bill.

As it happens, my annual fuel consumption has stabilised at 2,000 units (that's 2,000 kWh) of electricity, and 2,200 units (say about 24,200 kWh) of gas. These figures are not going to change unless I do something radical like improving my existing loft insulation, or having my cavity walls filled. But then that would make my loft unusable for storage; and I've heard of damp problems associated with cavity insulation. For now, I'd prefer to have an attic I can use. As for solar panels, the roofs of my house aren't ideally orientated, and in any case I can't afford to fit them - any more than I can find the cash for a more efficient gas-fired boiler. But being the sole occupant of my house, I can if need be ration my power usage without affecting anybody else. Or turn it up in a what-the-hell, carpe diem spirit. Hot water-bottles I don't mind. I actually quite like 'em. But I refuse to wear mittens in indoors. Nor ghastly thermal underwear. Nor a sleeping-cap in bed.

Southern Electric (part of SSE) supply both my electricity and gas. I suspected that they might now be trying it on a bit with their charges - as company policy, in fact - so that their loyal shareholders could enjoy a Warm, Happy and Festive Christmas, while the rest of us - the loyal customers - turn our thermostats down, and send our children out to beg for alms or forage for firewood.

That said, they have hitherto been pretty reasonable. And I have done several things to chip away at my bills. I have opted for paperless billing, monthly payment by direct debit, and have committed myself to a fixed-rate tariff that doesn't expire until next year. I have also given my date of birth in the online profile - it just might make a difference if they positively know that I'm a vulnerable Old Age Pensioner (over sixty anyway), presumably living alone (they know it's 'Miss'), presumably in fragile health, and entirely at their mercy unless they choose to be kind.

Well, an email yesterday told me that my latest bills (in pdf form) were ready to view (I download and keep them). Did I get a shock?

I had suspected that I'd been paying too much each month for electricity, and lo and behold, the bill showed that they now owed me £108! But the hounds did not offer a refund. They were simply going to carry it forward. They were also going to leave my monthly payment unchanged, when a small reduction would be in order. It was absolutely certain that the £108 would never get used up against future bills, and the credit balance would simply grow. So I wanted that repaid immediately - or offset against my gas bill. Grrrrr.

As for the gas bill, I knew that I'd been paying slightly less than I should each month, and it was no surprise when the bill said I owed them £49. However, they wanted to increase my monthly payments by a staggering £30!

Right. I phoned them up at 8.00am sharp this morning, just as their call centre started up for the day, and got through at once. Hmm, that was unexpected - a good omen! A very nice girl spoke to me. I said I accepted their figures and projections - no problem with those - but could we look at three things: (a) offsetting that £108 overpaid on the electricity account against the gas account; (b) recalculating the gas bill; and (c) renegotiating the monthly direct debits for both fuels. The last item might of course be the tricky one!

But I was wrong. The girl made the offset, and did some figurings. How about (she said) amending your present £31 a month for electricity to £27? A £4 saving each month. In other words, a 13% reduction in my monthly electricity costs. Yes, please!

Now the gas. How about amending the £110 a month proposed on the bill to just £94 a month - a £16 saving on what had been asked for? In other words, a 14% reduction in my forthcoming gas costs. Yes, please!

At the end of the day, I would still of course have to pay more each month than I do now - £121 for both fuels, compared with the £111 I'd been getting away with. That's a 9% increase. But if I'd shrugged my shoulders and hadn't made a fuss, the combined cost would have been £141 per month - plus they'd have kept the £108 owed to me. So this is why I feel that I've got a very good result, just by picking up the phone and talking to that nice person.

I made a point of thanking her for what she'd been able to do for me.

Of course, any of the small suppliers might be able to offer me a distinctly better deal altogether. I'll be looking into that, when my fixed-price deal with Southern Electric comes to an end in a few months' time. (Although there surely must be a snag, such as terms and conditions that lock you in, or transfer problems if the small supplier happens to fold)
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I can see clearly now

November 1, 2013, 5:02 am
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This refers not to the title of Johnny Nash's 1972 hit, but to the fact that I now have new glasses. The old ones had lenses that were four years old, and as both eyes had become a little more long-sighted, it was getting hard to read small print. Now I can, with ease!

I picked them up yesterday morning. Not only do they fix my eyesight, they are very comfortable to wear. Well done, Specsavers! They are rounder than the previous specs, and have a little decoration on the nose bridge and the side arms near the hinge. It isn't much, but I think it softens the utilitarian look that the old frames had, and - to my way of thinking, anyway - these new frames seem to be a little more flattering to my face overall. You may agree or you may not; but unless I fork out more cash, I am stuck with them for a couple of years, and must make the best of it. I suppose it must be like selecting an expensive new wig, which, for better or worse, you have to live with for a long time ahead. You simply must learn to love it, and regard it as a great improvement in your presentation!

To remind you of what the previous specs looked like, here are shots of me standing in the middle of a street at Stamford, and seated in Fiona at Burghley House, both pix taken within the last week:


And here is an unashamedly über-narcissistic gallery of shots at home, in my lounge and study, with the new specs on:


Every mood captured! In a variety of lighting conditions too, as the sun came and went, and I moved from room to room. And here I am wearing the FCUK 'designer' frames I bought in May 2009, which I abandoned in February 2010 because I was convinced they didn't suit me:


They were sort of half-trendy, but I think I was dead right to switch to the oval frames seen in the top two shots. I think these designer frames are way too severe. And, to be honest, uncomfortable. You can easily see I don't like wearing them. Unfortunately the photos I took for my current passport and driving licence, both dating from January 2010, show me with these awful glasses on.

The new frames aren't all that much different from the old, and I am very sure that I'll soon be taking them for granted.

They don't seem to have detracted from my femininity. After leaving Specsavers, I toddled along to The Lanes and into the Sussex Arms for a coffee and a bowl of chips for lunch. While at the pub, I went to the loo, and got into conversation in there with another lady about the insane way the cubicle doors opened inwards, so that to get out, you had to retreat back against the loo seat, or even straddle it with your legs. We agreed that large ladies (meaning fat ladies - and she assured me I wasn't fat, bless her) would be seriously challenged by the lack of floor space. In fact they would hardly be able to get in or out. She said to me, with her eyes flashing, designed by a man. I agreed with her absolutely. We were united. Men just don't understand the needs of female persons.

I could add that men don't understand that every female cubicle needs hooks to hang bags and coats on, to keep them off the floor. And they don't understand where the toilet tissue dispenser needs to be, so that while still seated - before one gets up off the loo seat, and begins to drip pee onto it - a woman can grab a pad of tissues to dab herself with. Men can be so smug and arrogant, thinking they know it all. But they don't.
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Second thoughts already!

November 2, 2013, 12:42 pm
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After all that positive stuff in yesterday's post about my new glasses, would you believe it? I'm now having second thoughts.

I've worn the new specs for two days without a break, except when washing and sleeping of course. It's been easy and pleasant - they are certainly a good fit, and very comfortable to wear. And I have loved the new lenses. The difference in vision has been subtle, but I can definitely see more clearly.

But - and it's a big but - somehow they look wrong. My eyes now look different, somehow sunk away behind glass. It has something to do with the rounder frames, and the fact that the metal is very, very slightly thicker, or just more prominent. When I glance in a mirror, I am chiefly seeing the frames, and not my eyes. This is not what I wanted at all. My old frames didn't do this.

And there's another thing. The roundness of the frames, which is rather egg-shaped, is - I now see - slightly at odds with the squareness of my face. I'd previously thought these frames flattering, but I've now decided that I was deceiving myself. The more rectangular ovals of my old frames were a much better match for the face that was actually there.

Damn.

Well, I'm not slow in admitting my mistakes once I recognise them. Nor will I dither about putting this right.

Today's Saturday. I have two nights to sleep on the matter. On Monday morning, if I still feel that I've made an error, I'll go into Brighton and see what Specsavers can do to help. They must have customers now and then who can't get on with their new specs, and return (maybe in tears) to order another pair in a different style. They might just give me something off another pair. They certainly would if I were spending enough - I have a voucher entitling me to a 50% discount on a second pair of glasses, if the frames cost at least £69. I will be spending only £45, but I will try to get them to stretch a point.

If need be, I'll cough up another £234, and have new lenses in my old frames. Well, not literally the same frames I've been wearing for the best part of four years (those are almost worn out, with dodgy screws holding the arms on), but exactly the same style (which is the one named 'Krissy'). I know I'll be happy with them.

I hate making mistakes where money is concerned. This will be such a waste. I will now end up with two pairs of brand-new glasses, one of which will simply be an unused spare - handy to keep in Fiona, 'just in case', but probably never to be worn at all.

£234 is the price of a new tyre for Fiona. It would almost cover my house insurance for a year, or my caravan insurance for a year, or my mobile phone contract for a year. It's what my five-night caravan break in the East Midlands cost me: pies, cheese, posh meal, site fees and travelling around all included. It's a significant sum of money that ought to be better spent. But being happy about my personal appearance is vitally important. I was thinking of having another week away in early December, but I've now scrubbed that from my diary. That's how I will find the £234.

Who is to blame? Myself, of course. Entirely.

More than one friend, when I spoke of having a sight test and getting new glasses, urged me to try another style. Nothing wrong with that idea, perfectly reasonable, but I shouldn't have listened. Deep down I was very happy with what I already had. The old glasses were simple gold metal ovals, plain and functional and easy on my face. They were unobtrusive. Not once did they ever look anything but good in photos. They didn't look in any way special, but they went with all my clothes and with every occasion. I should have listened to the inner voice that told me the glasses you wear look fine, and have plain and simple styling, the sort you like - stay with them! It's my fault if I didn't pay attention.
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Stamford - and Lunch and Dinner at The George Hotel

November 3, 2013, 8:00 am
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This was quite an experience. I'm no stranger to posh hotels and restaurants, or at least places that promote themselves as posh, but this hotel seemed genuinely upmarket. And I'll make it plain, right up front, that you shouldn't do what I did unless you are prepared to pay decidedly upmarket prices! It was the opinion of A--- (when I saw her six days ago) that there is Serious Money in Stamford. The existence of The George, and this hotel's ability to charge what it does, makes me feel she was dead right. She has actually been there herself. So we have both admired the 'Botticelli' murals in the ladies loo - or should I say Ladies' Boudoir? I'll show you pictures of those. But first, some stuff to set the scene.

The phrase 'East Midlands' conjures up a vision of big cities such as Leicester and Nottingham and Peterborough, sprawling places with not a lot of obvious holiday appeal. But in fact it's an area of small towns in wide-open countryside, which is rolling and rather attractive everywhere except the flat bit where Peterborough lies. Although there are no high hills, it all looks green and well-tilled, the soil obviously rich and fruitful. Here and there is attractive mellow woodland, and the spires of rural churches soar skywards all around.

Remember that Leicestershire used to be the classic fox-hunting shire. And that towns like Melton Mowbray built their reputations on the production of foods of great excellence, as well as hosting, in season, the rich and fashionable in search of country sport. Places like Stamford were kept unsullied by industry because of powerful local noblemen (in this case, the Cecil family, a succession of Lord Burghleys). Since the 1970s, the large blue expanse of Rutland Water has been added:


In the past there has indeed been some iron-working, quarrying and coal mining. But nearly all of that has vanished, or has been greened-up so that you can't see it. So what is left of the Tata steelworks at Corby is hidden behind the clean façade of a reinvented town. The tall Hanson cement works at Ketton remains, the only prominent industrial landmark in the Stamford area; but Ketton itself, which must once have been a much more nondescript place, has become a charming village for the well-heeled:


If that honey-coloured stone reminds you of the Cotswolds, then you'd be spot on. This part of the East Midlands is an extension of the Cotswolds, and in most respects resembles what you'll find in Gloucestershire. By the way, this is all a secret - don't go blabbing about it, or the area will get 'discovered'. But perhaps you can see now why I chose the East Midlands for my late-autumn holiday.

Back to Stamford. That too is built of honey-coloured stone, and fancies itself as 'the most perfect stone town in England', although no doubt some other towns would contest that:


It's full of specialist shops, and stuffed with nice places to eat, and obviously makes a a great destination for a weekend break at any time of the year. I'd love to be there in the festive run-up to Christmas. I can just imagine how wonderful the atmosphere would be. It's not a city, just a small town, and it has a very intimate feel, quite unlike large places like York and Oxford and Bath. And it has a Waitrose. I have to say, here and now, that if I were ever obliged to uproot myself from Sussex and live in the East Midlands, Stamford would be my Number One choice. If, that is, I could afford to buy a place there.

As you come into town on the south side, before you reach the old bridge over the River Welland, you see a wooden arch over the road:


That's where The George Hotel is. It's very old, the main block dating from 1597. Well, just over a week ago, on Saturday, late in the morning, I walked in to see whether I could book dinner there that evening. It might not be possible at such short notice, of course. It was reassuring to see that there were two dining rooms, but even so... It was all dark oak panelling, very traditional. All the staff looked smart, either in uniform or smart outfits. A man in a well-cut suit asked me ('Madam') how he could help. The booking system wasn't ancient and oak-panelled, it was computerised. We consulted the screen. Hmmm...he could fit me in if I were willing to come and go by nine o'clock. I could. We agreed on a table for one at seven o'clock, in the main dining room. I didn't want to be the only diner at that time, though. No, other diners were eating early too, and would arrive at intervals while I was there. Attire could be smart or formal. That suited me! Just in case, I'd brought my green dress, and would wear the new Tigi jacket over it, with black tights and flats on my legs and feet. I do like eating properly clad for the occasion!

I had a look around. As I said, there were two posh-looking Dining Rooms. There was also an oak-panelled bar called the York Bar for drop-in lunches and evening drinks. An ancient staircase led upstairs to the ladies loo, of which more shortly. At the rear was a smart open-air but covered space filled with shrubbery, which looked just right for coffee al fresco:



I could see that the hotel was quite extensive. It went on and on. From the outside coffee space (presumably the old coachyard in coaching days) you went under an arch to an outer area that must once have been the place for stables and servants:


Back inside, I went upstairs and found the ladies loo - and inspected the wall paintings, which A--- told me had been executed by a female artist. She'd made a good job at adapting Botticelli's paintings Spring (1482) and TheBirth of Venus (1486), to the needs of a modern hotel - see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Primavera_(painting) and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Birth_of_Venus_(Botticelli) for some background.


You don't get a lady scattering fragrant pot-pourri over the Three Graces in the original masterpiece: clearly an improvement!


Astonishing that Botticelli omitted the hair-drier in his version. Glad to see it restored. But shouldn't Venus be coyly standing in a shell? Wish my hair was like that. Sigh. At this time of the day, I was not dressed in ethereal Renaissance costume, nor in wrap-around Rapunzel hair, but in something more suitable for the late October breeze:


It was time for lunch. Why not the York Bar at the Hotel? Why not indeed. A team of uniformed staff greeted me from behind the bar. I ordered a gin-and-tonic (not Gordon's - a local gin that tasted wonderful), and, feeling extravagant - that hey-ho, I'm on holiday, why spoil the ship for a ha'p'orth of tar frame of mind had enveloped me - I also ordered a plate of smoked salmon. Here it is. Scottish smoked salmon, plenty of it, with bread, capers, and a lemon slice to squeeze, that was wrapped up in a linen bag so that one's dainty fingers wouldn't get wet - a nice touch, to be sure:


A snip at £19 for the food and drink! I hardly noticed. Honest. The rest of the daytime was spent in Peterborough, then I got ready in the caravan and returned to The George in posh garb, arriving at the stroke of seven o'clock, like rich eccentric Phileas Fogg, who, you may recall, made precision and punctuality his defining characteristic. And indeed in Jules Verne's story Around The World In Eighty Days, the plot relies totally on his precise timekeeping and willingness to spend whatever it takes. I rather like Phileas Fogg's attitude, which is explained fully at http://www.mssresearch.org/?q=Around_the_World_in_80_Days. I just wish I could live up to it all the time!

One of the Dining Room Managers, Katie, introduced herself to me, and presented the three waiter/waitresses who would be meeting my needs, one of whom was a very nice young girl called Gaby. I saw much of all four. You do not get neglected here. They put me in one of two corner tables. One table was tucked in somewhat behind a door. I got the other, that had a wide view of the whole scene, by now filled with flowers and lit up with candles, the polished cutlery, serving plates and table tops reflecting the light. (I apologise for the yellowish tinge to the photos - it was indoor lighting, not natural daylight)


I was the very first there, and for half an hour had to begin in solitary state; but then other diners started to arrive. I didn't mind. For a while I had all the attention of the waiting staff.

I had already decided on a fish main, Dover Sole no less, so I chose half a bottle of French white wine to drink (a Sancerre), plus of course a carafe of still water. First off, canapés - olives, with a savoury on a biscuit, and a little glass of soup:


Then my starter. I'd decided on chicken liver pâté within a border of clarified butter, a strawberry on top, edible leaves, and a strawberry jus. Plus a generous amount of toast. I didn't manage to consume all the pâté. To do so would have been the reckless act of a piggy porker.


Next up, the main. Dover Sole. The girl serving me asked whether I'd like her to fillet it for me. I knew how, but let her do it. I could see that a little performance would take place. I was right. She wheeled up a small table, and (very skilfully) took the bones out, leaving the fish presented neatly in four sections on my plate, complete with a lemon slice in a linen bag and a tasty sauce. Then a young male waiter brought a selection of vegetables to choose from. I deliberated over this - it was clearly part of the game - but ended up having a bit of everything on a side-plate.


Having eaten all this, and I did eat it all this time, I felt a bit stuffed, and asked Gaby for a ten minute rest before diving into a dessert from the Sweet Trolley, which seemed to be her special province. This is what a bursting-at-the-seams Miss Piggy looks like. Flushed, or what?


While recovering, I took in the scene, which was now rather more populated. Next to me were a young couple in their late twenties. I thought they might be celebrating an anniversary, or were recently engaged. But in any event, they were certainly both in good jobs, because they'd be facing a bill for at least £150. She was obviously used to posh dining, he less so perhaps, but I could overhear a lot of what they said to the waiters, and they clearly both knew the ropes. They were not startled by the Rack of Lamb Carving Theatre that I witnessed. The waitress who had filleted my Dover Sole brought the small table up again, with a carving block on it. From under a silver cover, a very neatly trimmed rack of lamb emerged, the bones beautifully shaped and tapered. It was for the girl. She had been asked to choose her vegetables before any lamb went on, which seemed the 'wrong' way around. Now I saw why. The waitress delicately separated each lamb rib with a sharp knife, and arranged the ribs in a kind of stack over the vegetables. It looked like a tall crown. How artistic!

I also noticed an older couple sitting across the room, in lively conversation. He looked very much like the famous author Sir Salman Rushdie. Impossible, surely, but who knows? She looked like Dame Judi Dench, the famous actress. Not so impossible, but rather unlikely. At any rate, they were getting a lot of respectful attention from the serving staff. Perhaps they were the Hotel Owners, or someone just as important. I asked Gaby, but she didn't think so. Just very regular customers then. (They must be loaded!)

I noticed other things. Down the Room was a trolley with a huge domed silver cover on it. I asked Gaby. This was the famous Roast Beef Trolley. One of the things The George was renowned for. I'd seen someone on TripAdvisor remark that a few hunks of prime roast beef carved off the joint of beef under that dome would turn you to gluttony. I could believe it.

Before launching myself into a dessert, I thought I'd better finish my wine, so it was 'Gaby, could you pour my wine out for me, please?' and this gave me the chance to ask her about the goodies on the Sweet Trolley. They all looked fantastic. She took me through the lot. I settled on raspberries in an elderflower jelly, with a raspberry sauce and cream. I kept it simple, as Diogenes would have. Here's Gaby, pouring on the cream, and below, the plate I then tucked into.


Yum! Then it was coffee with white chocolate bon-bons, and time to settle up. Katie dealt with that. With a tip, I paid a cool £90. Hey ho. I staggered off to the loo again, to put my dishevelled appearance to rights.


That tummy looks even fatter!

An expensive, but memorable, meal. I would have liked to have enjoyed it later in the evening, but I'd been fortunate to secure a table at all at such short notice. Some company would also have been nice, but that's not without a problem - I only know a couple of other people who would have been completely nonchalant about paying £90. Most of my friends (sensible ladies) simply couldn't consider spending so much, or on principle wouldn't. What price an experience to remember, though? You only live once. Or did Nancy Sinatra have it right in her 1967 Bond song, You Only Live Twice?

You only live twice or so it seems
One life for yourself and one for your dreams

You drift through the years and life seems tame
Till one dream appears and love is it's name

And love is a stranger who'll beckon you on
Don't think of the danger or the stranger is gone

This dream is for you, so pay the price
Make one dream come true, you only live twice

And love is a stranger who'll beckon you on
Don't think of the danger or the stranger is gone

This dream is for you, so pay the price
Make one dream come true, you only live twice
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Big relief, and treats all round

November 4, 2013, 10:44 am
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My very good friend Angie - she with aspirations, who nearly fell into a credit-rating trap, but deftly and nimbly escaped - said this concerning my proposed attempt to suck up to Specsavers over not liking my new specs any more:

I predict that you will have a pleasant surprise when you return to Specsavers. They are very good at helping customers who are disappointed with their purchases.

It was a ray of hope! After all, I didn't really want to pay another £234 to them, just so that I could have a pair of glasses that would look right on the Melford visage. I decided that if they knocked £45 off the cost of another pair - the cost of the frames - it would be perfectly fair.

But in fact I did much better than that. Without fuss, they undertook to supply another new pair of glasses, with an alternative frame of my choice, entirely free of charge! You could have knocked me down with a feather. I wasn't expecting that at all. It wasn't quite a matter for tears of joy (although I can imagine some highly-strung emotional types sobbing hysterically with relief at such news), but I could hardly believe it. What an enlightened policy on 'after-sales regret'!

There was a caution however: I could do thisonly once, and would have to be quite sure about the alternative frames. But that was not an issue. I'd simply go for the 'Krissy' frames that I'd been wearing with the old lenses since 2010, which (I now clearly saw) suited my face so much better. It was settled; and I will pick up the frames that I really wanted all the time, fitted with the latest prescription lenses, one week from now.

I left the shop feeling £234 richer. And that wasn't fantasy. I'd cancelled a week away in the caravan in December, and I knew from plenty of experience that it would have cost me £250 or so. So I now had that in hand, to save or spend. I'm only human, and within the hour I had secured three tops costing a total of £76 from Debenhams and Fat Face. A treat for myself. I don't often get let off the hook where cash is concerned.

And then I drove over to the Volvo dealer, and booked Fiona in to have two new front tyres. Her current front tyres were still legal, but getting a bit too well-worn for winter work - and, who knows, snow might be on us at any moment. It's happened before in late November. Besides, those big wide tyres (Continental Gross Contact, 235/60 R18), fitted in April 2012, had done 21,000 miles - pretty good for a two-ton car that hauls a one-ton caravan. I'd had my money's-worth out of them. But I had been wondering how exactly to fund replacements before January. Now, with £158 available to sweeten the bitter pill (that's £234 less £76) - nearly half the cost covered - I could blithely go ahead. So Fiona will get a pre-Christmas treat too! Lucky lady.

I told Scott at Volvo's about Specsaver's brilliant attitude where a customer discovered they'd made a mistake. 'It's like hating your haircut, once your hair's on the floor', he said. 'Ah, but hair will grow back for nothing,' I replied, 'And besides, you couldn't do the same thing with buying a car, if a customer had regrets.' 'Oh,' he said mysteriously, 'I wouldn't say that. Sometimes we can manage something...' Now I wonder what he meant? The customer hates the position of the digital radio button, perhaps? Or now wants different alloys? Or the more powerful engine option? Or the paintwork in a different colour? Or really wanted an Audi or BMW or Mercedes all the time, and has simply changed their mind entirely? I'm beginning to wonder what you can get away with, if you push hard enough.

One thing is for sure. If Specsavers can provide two bespoke spectacles for the price of one, as they have in my case, it suggests that the ordinary mark-up on the manufacturing cost is huge.

I wonder what will happen to my unwanted specs? (I handed them back) Do they scrap the lenses (useless for anyone else) and reuse the frames?

Surely they're not just junked? Will they be shipped to some Third-World country, to be sold off to a poor person who can't afford to be fussy? Someone who will be perfectly content if my cast-offs help them see a bit better? Maybe, in fact, they will become the 'family specs', that everyone puts on as required, and passes around when there is some reading to be done. Assuming they can read. Or are allowed to.
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Only 365 days to go, but I'd better cross my fingers

November 6, 2013, 7:00 am
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Exactly one year from now, on 6 November 2014, my State Pension will begin. 365 days left to go, and I'm counting in earnest.

At the moment I stand to receive the fabulous sum of £6,066 a year. To be realistic, you have to knock off 20% basic rate tax, which drags the figure down to £4,852. It'll be paid every four weeks, so that's £373 per month until April 2015, when presumably it will increase slightly to reflect the march of inflation.

An extra £373 each month probably doesn't sound much to people with good jobs and high salaries, but to me it's a most welcome addition to funds. It will let me put a bulletproofemergency fund in place within two years, because I intend to greatly increase my savings. I'm afraid I can't go on a spending spree: prudence must prevail. I can manage ordinary costs on my current income, but at some point my central heating boiler will expire from old age, and that won't be covered on the house insurance. I need money put by, to meet all the unexpected but inevitable things that will crop up, that boiler being just one.

In fact, while I was away recently, the 'great storm' brought down two old garden fence panels, the post supporting them snapping in the wind. It wasn't a boundary fence, but one that Dad had had erected to protect the greenhouse from chance footballs flying in from the open land at the back. I will repair it, but it isn't critically important to do it before next spring. That said, if I were already getting my State Pension, I'd see to it at once! The pension will let me fix things like this promptly.

Once that emergency fund is there, I can think of more meals out, better holidays, and more cultural events to attend. But not before.

Of course, £6,066 is no fortune. I was talking with Andrew, my mower man, the other day. He's in his fifties, but being outdoors all the time has given him a ruddy weatherbeaten complexion, and although I must be older than he is, I always think of him as much the senior in years! Anyway, his State Pension starting date is still years off, and he was surprised that the amount of my Pension, which I get at age 62 and three months, was so small. 'You can't live on six thousand a year,' he said. Well, I have known a couple of people in the past who most certainly could. But it takes a particular type of person, someone who can live a quiet life, never going anywhere, who doesn't buy new clothes, who eats frugally, and perhaps even grows some of their own food. They will be canny with supermarket offers, and look out for every kind of bargain. They will turn their heating down, and put up with a cold house. Almost certainly they won't own a car, and won't be able to afford holidays. Yes, you can live on very little. But who really wants to? Unfortunately, too many people of all ages have no choice about having to do it.

Clearly the State Pension is nowadays regarded as a mere supplement to one's Main Pension. But in recent years the Main Pension has become a shadow of its former self, and to compensate the State Pension now needs to be of decent size. But it too has been kept small.

Do you remember when the 'Pension Crisis' first hit the headlines in early 2006? I said something about it towards the end of my post The Pension on 24 February 2010. It was the beginning of the end for decent pension arrangements. The government panicked, or pretended to. The pensions industry panicked, or pretended to. I think we all perceived that the notion of an 'expanding pensioner population' was a convenient excuse for smaller pensions. Government White Papers solemnly put an abrupt end to The Early Retirement Culture. State and Private pension provision was cut back as ruthlessly as possible. Meanwhile contributions rose to unprecedented levels. Opt-outs became difficult. The notion of 'retiring at 65' was scrapped. It must have spoiled many dreams of carefree leisure in a well-earned retirement. Now you'd work till you were 70 or 75, or until you dropped. One heard of people in horrible jobs sobbing at the prospect.

And of course there is worse to come. Not only have pensions been reduced across the board, but the date of payment is being put back all the time. I will be very relieved if, 365 days from now, I am still entitled to my State Pension. It's a priority just to get it into payment. Once it's there, I don't think they'll ever snatch it away, but they are quite capable of a dirty trick or two in the meantime. And I don't think they'll worry about losing a few Grey Votes, if a pet project needs more cash - whether it's HS2, or more money for the Armed Forces.

This is all a bit dispiriting, and I didn't intend that. So let me end on a much lighter note! Tonight is the Great Melton Mowbray Pie and Cheese Tasting, over at K---'s. I've inspected the said pies and cheese, which have lain undisturbed in my fridge for days. They seem to have lasted well. If I can just get them down to Brighton in one piece, there will be a tale to tell!
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The Great Pie and Cheese Tasting

November 7, 2013, 9:13 am
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Last night, K---, V--- and myself got down to it: the formal tasting and assessment of the pies and cheese I brought back from my holiday in the East Midlands.

To recap, the collection consisted of six medium-sized Melton Mowbray pork pies, made in accordance with the traditional recipe, bought on the same day from two different shops, both butchers with baking facilities. One was Nelson's in Stamford. Nelson's pies are all made on the premises, and are displayed unpackaged until sold, when the person serving will wrap each pie up individually. I bought three of those, which together cost me £10.50, or £3.50 each. The other source was Dickinson & Morris's in Melton Mowbray, who offer their wares in Ye Olde Pork Pie Shoppe, which is next door to their Sausage Shop. D&M's pies are sold already wrapped up. There are two types of wrapping: red means this is a pie made to the genuine recipe, but mass-produced in a factory; white means 'hand-made on the premises'. I bought three white-wrapped pies, to permit an exact comparison with the three pies from Nelson's. Together they cost me £14.25, or £4.75 each. Both businesses have websites, on which anyone can place an order for next-day delivery - see http://www.nelsonsbutchers.co.uk/ and http://www.porkpie.co.uk/.

As for the Stinking Bishop cheese, I bought quarter of a whole one (just under half a kilo) from a shop in Melton Mowbray called The Melton Cheeseboard. This cost me £14.56 - the cheese was being sold at £34.00 per kilo. This is another shop that has its own website - see http://www.meltoncheeseboard.co.uk/. Stinking Bishop is reckoned to be the smelliest cheese made in the UK. See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stinking_Bishop_cheese, and perhaps http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/wordofmouth/2009/may/28/smelliest-cheese-world-stinking-bishop. Note the reference in the Wikipedia article to Wallace being recalled from death by a whiff of the Stinking Bishop cheese! Strong stuff then. Last night, K--- recoiled in alarm and horror as she unwrapped the festering wedge. Surely she was feigning.

Anyway, there we were: pies and cheese were unpacked, and revealed to be in perfect condition. K---'s was the venue. She had prepared soup; she had bought bread; and she had created a salad. She had also raided her wine cellar, and purchased yummy Belgian chocolates.

First, the soup. This was creamy onion soup, made according to an elaborate method stipulated by one of K---'s favourite chefs. It was lovely. If I ever really do get the chance to take part in Channel 4's Come Dine With Me, I shall borrow the recipe. K--- decorated it prettily with parsley:


Then K--- put two of the pies onto a blue serving plate, one from Nelson's (left in the picture below), and one from D&M (right):


Both weighed the same, but the pie from Nelson's had spread out more and so looked bigger. Traditional Melton Mowbray pies, by the way, are not put in a restraining mould, but allowed to bow out sideways as they bake. Clearly the precise pastry mix matters, as does anything brushed onto the pie to seal it. Nelson's pie had not only bowed out more, but the crust had turned out lighter in colour than D&M's. On the other hand, D&M's pie was more compact and symmetrical, looking more like pies do in general.

K--- then arranged her salad around the pies, and brought the plate to the table, where she cut each pie into three segments. The bread next. Then the candle was lit:


We all had the same stuff on our plates. Here was mine. This time D&M's pie was on the left and Nelson's on the right; with salad in front and hot asparagus behind:


You can see at once that Nelson's pie crust (right) was thicker, there was more jelly, and apparently less meat. But then it was the less expensive pie. What about the taste? Although both makers used the same meat recipe, there might still be a subtle difference between the two pies. There was. V--- and I both thought that the meat in the D&M pie was slightly more moist, and the meat in Nelson's pie drier and more 'solid'. There was as well a pleasant hint of pepper in the D&M pie not discernible in the pie made by Nelson's. K--- agreed to all this, but thought that Nelson's pie had the better taste overall. In truth they were both excellent pies, attractive and nicely made with fine ingredients. But, speaking simply for myself, while I would be happy to tuck into a Nelson's pie any time, if I had a choice I would go for D&M's, chiefly on texture and taste.

We had a break at this point, and listened to K---'s edited version of the audio podcast recording we did a little while back. K--- had done a skilful technical job, adding music and fading for instance. It still seemed funny and spontaneous. I thought however that my voice sounded terrible! Do I really sound like that? We'll definitely have to do some more though.

Next, the cheese. It looked pretty ripe.


Although it was niffy, the Stinking Bishop was much milder in the mouth. V---, being French, loved this cheese, and kept on cutting off slivers. I confined myself to just one helping. It spread beautifully on the roughly-broken bread and butter:


K--- suggested trying it with a pear. This worked very well, a good combination of flavours. Although the cheese rind looked formidable, it was in fact easy and pleasant to eat. I can see why cheese lovers go into ecstasy over something like this!

Finally, tea and Belgian chocolates. We realised that we had spent three hours over this tasting! And we'd consumed two and a half bottles of wine. V--- came away with two of the remaining pies, K--- and myself having one each. V--- and K--- split the cheese. I didn't want it back in my house - it was way too smelly!

The whole thing had been great fun. Bringing back local delicacies to share with friends is a much better idea in my view than buying them tatty souvenirs. But you do need a fridge.
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The Christmas List

November 8, 2013, 3:48 am
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This post is about my Christmas List - that list of friends and family to whom I will send Christmas cards this year. The last posting date for UK destinations is only six weeks away, and it's sooner than that of course for anything sent abroad. It's about now that a well-organised person begins to plan.

It's a list of cards only, and not presents. Niece and nephew will get a small cheque, slipped into their cards, but there will be no parcels. In my family, a 'no-present' culture was established years ago. We got sick of playing the annual commercial game of spend, spend, spend. And shopping for presents - assuming you could think of what to buy - was a chore that became too much for elderly Mum and Dad, or my aunt in Wales. Besides, we were all adults who could afford anything we wanted. What was the point? Young children are always an exception, but for a long time there were none. I expect to give gifts to little Matilda when she gets a bit older, but she's too young at this point.

Some find that, at any age, there is a thrill to be had from ripping (or carefully snipping) brightly-coloured paper and ribbons off a mysterious package on Christmas Day. I do see that. And in the past I have myself wrapped up a Special Gift for a Special Person in such a package, and have thoroughly enjoyed the golden experience of giving. But I am bad at receiving: I really don't want any presents for myself, and I certainly don't like to see cash and effort wasted on glittering packages that will contain nothing that I actually want. There are many other aspects of Christmas, frivolous or serious, that grown-ups can appreciate just as much. Things you do, not things you get. Things said, things sung, things eaten in company, the toasts proposed, little gestures of friendliness and sincerity, and of hope for the year to come.
  
This will be my sixth Christmas since coming out as trans. Yes, the sixth - 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, and now 2013. It's time to take stock, and decide who really merits a goodwill message that I will mean with my heart.

I want to get away from sending a card just because it's the conventional or expected thing to do at this time of year. Let's have sincerity. One or two people I will still send a card to have a shocking record of forgetting the date of my birthday, but I forgive them that, because I know they do not want to let go of me, nor I of them. Others, including some of my distant family, have without fail sent me cards at Christmas time when I know it's only because they feel they must. And the same on my side. It's time to put a stop to such exchanges.

This year I am going to be objective and unsentimental. There's another thing of course: with postage at 60p for a card sent first-class, or 50p second class (not much difference in the prices, is there?), a long Christmas List is an expensive proposition! But cost is only an annoying side-issue. I want to cut through social etiquette, and customary obligations and conventions, and get back to acknowledging only those relationships and friendships that really deserve it. These will be my simple rules. I will send a Christmas card if:

1. The recipient is someone I like, and I want to see them again in the future.
2. The recipient is (to the best of my belief) someone who likes me, and who wants to see me again in the future.

I am going to make no distinction between family, friends, neighbours or those professional persons in my life who have become friends. So (for instance) if a family member is a bit cold towards me, they won't get a card. And if the paid person who (say) comes to my house to clean it always has a warm-hearted and cheerful word for me, and shares their life with me, and seems interested in my life, then they jolly well will get a card.

I really think that the people who make an effort to be helpful and supportive and particularly pleasant should have a monopoly on all of the recognition going. I don't see why those who are simply there, but who stay away from me, who do not seek me out, should merit the same. I am therefore going to honour genuine goodwill, empathy and sheer personal effort.

It will of course be no coincidence that the persons getting a card will also be the ones who, despite knowing that I am trans, are comfortable in my company. I'm still an obvious trans woman, easily spotted as such by the general public. The people I'm talking about are prepared to cope with this fact. They have overcome initial suspicions that I might be living in a dream world of self-deception, or be frankly mad. They treat me as a normal person. I so much appreciate their wide vision and maturity, and willingness to accept difference. It should be acknowledged.

So this is the spirit in which I will draw up my Christmas List.

Of course, I will find myself forced to make exceptions. Somebody not on my list may get in touch with a warmth that can't be ignored. And I still have hopes that, out of the blue, one or two persons, whom I thought had totally abandoned me, will take this Christmas as the right moment to come back into my life - and then stick around. Would I be able to cope, if they did? Well, let it happen, and then we'll see how we get on. It would be the one sort of present I'd want. Give me people every time.
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Peterborough: a Cornishman, a Queen, choral singing and cake

November 9, 2013, 6:56 am
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On with the holiday report. In the afternoon of my first full day I went to Peterborough, a place I'd never visited before. I'd simply passed it by on the A1, or navigated through it on the A15 towards Lincoln and the Wolds. Hitherto it had seemed no more than a vastly enlarged regional commuter town set in flat countryside, no doubt with the usual shops and services, but of no interest whatever. Except that it had an ancient cathedral. I decided to take a closer look.

I had the usual trouble making my way to the town centre. All towns and cities that were originally small, but now have their old centres embedded in a vast surrounding encrustation of new housing and industrial estates, suffer from seeming very homogeneous. All parts look the same, especially from the interconnecting network of local dual carriageways which, to keep noise levels down, are sunk into cuttings or lined with dense trees and shrubbery. That may help the inhabitants sleep better, but it robs you, the traveller, of the horizon and glimpses of landmarks to head for. I didn't spot the massive bulk of Peterborough Cathedral until I'd actually parked.

The roundabouts and exit roads are confusing, and often show only local placenames, somewhat unnecessary for the residents who already know their way around, and very unhelpful for the visitor. If you have a specific address to get to, then SatNav will certainly get around this problem, but, if you have no definite objective, and simply want to find the centre and then decide where to go to, it isn't any good. I'm a dab hand at ordinary maps, but readily admit that endless lookalike road junctions will confuse me, especially of course when I have to drive while finding my way. Showing road numbers on inner-city signs would help, but often these are not repeated once you get well into the built-up area. Thank goodness Fiona can display the compass direction! Eventually I did see a 'town centre' sign, and older buildings that indicated I was getting near to where I wanted to be.

Once parked, I walked the short distance to the pedestrianised city centre. It was actually less soulless than I thought it would be. I expected and saw the usual decent shops, but there was a handsome Town Hall, and an impressively large and open Market Square further along, studded with fine buildings: a big church, and in front of it, an old Guildhall, from beneath which came the lively sound of a Caribbean oil drum band in concert.


The magnificent Cathedral was through a gateway.


I walked up one side of the Cathedral first. It was huge. Then inside, to be confronted with a massed choir occupying half the nave, with a conductor firmly in charge. Apparently three choirs had been brought together to sing for an event that was being held at 6.00pm, less than three hours away. This was the final rehearsal. It was pretty powerful stuff, the male and female voices combining to blast you with a wall of exalted sound. The sharp orders and exhortations of the conductor made you jump! Even when I was at the far end, near the altar, I was started by a sudden explosion of instructions from him. There were loudspeakers everywhere - none of the usual peace and quiet you can hope for in most cathedrals. I don't like loud noises, except thrilling natural ones like thunder or crashing waves. But I'll grant that the singing was highly accomplished.

The Cathedral's sheer size was impressive. But I noticed in particular the decorated ceilings and fan-vaulting, and the canopied altar:


There were also some much smaller things. One was the heating system, which used the Gurney Patented Stove:


There's a reason for the Scottish Royal Flag in the lower picture, which I'll come to shortly. Goldsworthy Gurney (1793-1875) was a nineteenth-century scientist and inventor, born in Cornwall. See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Goldsworthy_Gurney. I'd last come across him when in Bude. The Castle there (now the Council HQ, and the home of the local museum, art gallery, and a nice restaurant, but once Gurney's home) has on display one of his famous stoves, which are intended to heat large buildings while at the same time maintaining the proper humidity. The fins propagate heat much more effectively than a simple barrel stove would, and the whole apparatus stands in a circular trough of water, so that water vapour as well as heat circulates throughout the building. It was a great surprise to find a number of his stoves still in use at Peterborough Cathedral! Cornwall in Cambridgeshire, no less.

Now the flag. On one side of the altar is a spot where Mary Queen of Scots was buried, before her body was moved to Westminster Abbey. On the opposite side was another burial, this one still containing the body. It was Katharine of Aragon, Henry VIII's first wife, and Queen of England while she lived.


Those are my black boots in the bottom shot. Poor lady! So ruthlessly cast aside by a single-minded king who would not be thwarted, just so that he could get himself a male heir with a younger woman. What consequences hung on that! And here she was, beneath a simple slab in a provincial cathedral. I was astonished that her grave was so accessible, and that I could stand so near. She had adopted the pomegranate as her symbol, and members of the public had placed some there, along with a card and a bouquet. Somebody had tied a ribbon in Spanish colours - red and yellow - onto the iron work above. May she rest in peace, knowing at least that she is not forgotten, nor the contrived injustice done to her.

There was a side room. In it was the Cathedral's collection of silver flagons and plate. I like old silver, and enjoyed examining these pieces through the glass of the cabinets. There was another lady looking at them too. We kept dodging around each other. Speaking was inevitable. She was visiting Peterborough with friends. She was from Diss, a town south of Norwich in East Anglia. I said I'd been there myself, some years back. Her name was Maria. She was a little older than me, but that didn't seem to be so, as she had a lively personality. She had much to do with the local parish church at Diss. She had come with her friends to hear the choir sing later on. Was I there for the same reason? No, I was just having a quick look at Peterborough before heading back to Stamford, as I was booked in for a meal at 7.00pm. She clearly took to me, though, and when one of her friends came in to collect her for something else they were going to do, Maria introduced me to her with enthusiasm. The friend was called Sandra. After a little more chat, I left them to continue my exploration of the Cathedral.

Not long afterwards, I sat down next to one of the Cathedral's robed staff, an important-looking dog-collared lady with appraising eyes, to listen to the choir finishing off. We exchanged smiles. Then I felt in need of refreshment. I got to the café just in time. A pot of tea for one, please. Would I like some cake? It had to be eaten, and was only 50p for a big slice! Well, in that case...! And then, from a nearby table, 'It's Lucy! Lucy! Come and join us!' It was Maria, Sandra and another lady called Miriam. So that's how I spent the next twenty minutes, wolfing tea and cake and swapping conversation with three churchgoing ladies from Diss. We stayed till the café closed. By that time, I really had to leave anyway, if I were to get back to the caravan and get ready for my posh meal at The George Hotel in good time.

So despite the ragged start to my visit, losing my way on Peterborough's confusing road system, the afternoon turned out very pleasantly. I continue to be amazed that such a variety of ordinary people treat me normally and well, and enjoy my company, and don't just spit in my face.
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Flatlands and thunderstorms

November 12, 2013, 4:52 am
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No blogging for three days! I've been either out or busy. Let's press on with the holiday report, and get it nailed. I want to move on to new stuff.

After visiting A--- I went off to Crowland.

Imagine a north-south coastline, an ancient sea shore if you like, which is now far inland. Well, places like Peterborough are on the edge of that. This 'ancient shore' marks the very edge of the East Midlands. Eastwards used to be very low land that might get flooded by the sea, a region of water and land that was never quite dry. Crowland is there. In the Fens.

The Fens are Eastern England's equivalent of the Dutch lowlands that were progressively reclaimed from the sea and became very productive farmland - famously the Zuider Zee. As in Holland, rivers were straightened, lots of drainage dykes dug, and embankments were raised to keep the river water and the ever-threatening sea off the farmland, which in some spots is indeed below sea level. Pumps have always been necessary to get rid of the water. Once windmills did the job. Nowadays of course it's all-electric. It has taken centuries to create this very low, very flat landscape, which is largely given over to ploughed land and the intensive and efficient farming of single crops.

'Fenland' originally implied a distinctive soggy area, half water, half small islands that were difficult to get at except by boats or easily-defended causeways. It was a place very attractive to ecclesiastical communities, and cathedrals, abbeys and priories came into being here and there. In time, as the land became drained, villages grew into towns; but it's still not a well-populated area. The villages tend to be spaced out along straight roads, lacking an obvious centre. There are few towns really worth the name, and often you don't get near them because they have been by-passed. All you notice, as you drive along the straight roads, is the endless farmland, studded with isolated clumps of trees which indicate where people live. The trees are there to provide shelter from the constant wind. Without them, this landscape would be desolate indeed.

Above all, you notice the sky. It's immense. There is nothing to compare to an Eastern England sky.

I did not visit the fens before the 1990s. They were terra incognita. They exercised a peculiar fascination over me. Those straight roads on the map, with their inexplicable kinks and sudden corners. The odd placenames. Waterways everywhere. My closest acquaintance was the vision evoked in my imagination by Dorothy L Sayers' novel The Nine Tailors, about Lord Peter Wimsey's sleuthing in a traditional fenland village, which features a flood at the end.

The approach to Crowland from the west brings you first to a wide river, the Welland, the same river that flows gently through green meadows at Stamford, but is now forced to hurry its way to the Wash between high banks.


The river looks full to brimming in this super-flat, barely-above-sea-level tract of countryside. It doesn't look inviting as a recreational facility, but this is where Crowland Slipway is. I can't easily imagine getting a rowing boat or canoe out, and enjoying an hour or two here. You'd be frozen to death, for one thing, because it's so exposed. That water tower is Crowland's Number Three tourist attraction. Let's admire it:


Adjacent is a pub, and (can you believe it?) a caravan site for touring types like myself to use. Both below the level of the river. Would I stay there? No way! I will grant that when I was there the sun shone brightly, and that the sky was blue - indeed of radiant hue - but the wind was keen, the inside of Fiona was snug, and I didn't linger.

Over the river bridge, and Crowland comes into view. To be fair, one part of Crowland had already been in view for some time: its Abbey, which is so tall that you can see it a long way off. The rest was buried in trees. I left Fiona to shiver just off the town centre. First thing, Crowland's Number Two tourist attraction. This is the Trinity Bridge, a medieval bridge with three ways up onto it. Two rivers once met in the middle of town, and the bridge was made the way it was so that a single structure could connect the three bits of land at the same time. An economical idea, but it does involve a steep slope (or actual steps up) on each of its three approaches, and it's useless for wheeled traffic. For some time, the rivers have been diverted, and it now stands high and dry as a town centrepiece. The underneath has become a kind of shelter, albeit a draughty one. However, the thing is unique, and I'd say worth one visit. Although these shots might save you the trouble:


Sated? Let's now look at tourist attraction Number One. It's the Abbey. The old name for Crowland is Croyland, and the church authorities have retained the old name, so that it's called Croyland Abbey. It's certainly imposing, especially compared to the rest of what is on offer at Crowland:


After Crowland, I drove out into the farmland, ending up on a lonely minor road south of a place called Shepeau Stow. Sunset was coming on, and the sky was getting darker. I contemplated an anvil-shaped thunderstorm cloud. It looked very threatening:


I stayed there a little while. Just me and the wind, and that cloud. Someone would be getting a soaking. It was a very desolate spot. It was extraordinary how the theatrical, fast-moving sky was such a complete contrast to the dreary flatlands below.

Why would you ever choose to live here? I agree that marshlands and levels can have a magic of sorts, but these stark, manufactured wastes lack something essential. They are not the product of thousands of years of human habitation. They have a temporary feel. They do not make you feel safe and secure. And of course, they shouldn't be there. If the sluices malfunctioned and the pumps failed, or the sea surged too much, it would all be under water, just swamps and reeds. Just as it was when Hereward The Wake waged guerilla warfare against the Normans from the Isle of Ely, in the years after the 1066 Conquest. I was not sorry to turn Fiona onto the A16, get through Peterborough, and head westwards on the A47 into proper countryside. I left the storm cloud behind on the flatlands.
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Royal beds and painted gods

November 13, 2013, 11:43 am
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The very last in my holiday series. I'm dragging this series of posts out a bit because I've now resigned myself to not going away again until March. It's down to money as usual. Fiona got her new front tyres today, and although it cost me 'only' £366 for the pair, that's still a biggish hit on funds, and it comes hot on the heels of £234 for the new specs, and £250-odd for this East Midlands holiday that I'm still telling you about. Yet to come is Christmas (that'll have to be local and quiet), a service for the central heating boiler, and a visit to the dentist that I think will result in at least a filling, but possibly a renewed crown. Oh, Happy New Year.

But let us be as merry as we can! At least we do not have to please royalty.

When I went to Burghley House a couple of weeks ago, I saw the lavish State Rooms that had to be created just in case the monarch of the day should go on a tour of his or her realm, and needed overnight accommodation. They were inclined to do this rather a lot, and while it was a signal honour to be notified, sometimes at quite short notice, that Old King Cole wanted to kip down at one's establishment, their vast retinue of court ladies and gentlemen and servants and sundry hangers-on would also be staying the night - or the week - and the expense and disruption would be extraordinary. Naturally the King or Queen's favourite courtiers would get picked on most for bed and breakfast, especially if their country seats were conveniently situated. Lord Burghley's at Stamford, just off the Great North Road, was one such.

The monarch always had limited funds - a bit like me - but nevertheless some lucrative offices and appointments to bestow. Any of these would generate dues and fees and tolls and levies for their owners. Ambitious courtiers would therefore try to secure a collection of them for themselves, by sucking up to the monarch at court in London. Those who got the best ones were made men.

However, once they were coining the fruits of their prized positions, a good proportion of it had to be invested in a high-class country residence. Because the monarch would at some point come and visit. And he or she would expect to be right royally treated, and properly satisfied. If they were disappointed, the hapless courtier might fall from favour. It was a dog's life, to be sure.

I am certain that pouring money into one's house and grounds was not done simply to wow the Top Man or Lady. Courtiers, vying for prestige and eminence, wanted to engage the most fashionable architects, painters, sculptors, carvers, furniture makers, landscapers and so on, just to be able to boast about it to their peers and make them feel envious. Regardless of expense. It was a vast game of one-upmanship. Just as how today the private buyers of a Picasso or a Francis Bacon will spend obscene amounts of cash in a bidding contest, in order to gain possession of some coveted picture.

Thus it was that a succession of Lord Burghleys built and added to and embellished their family home. It became a very large country house, a little palace, stuffed with impressive items. So far as I can judge, these men did well for themselves, and could spend cash extravagantly. The party stopped only when twentieth-century Death Duties spoiled the fun. But Burghley House remains a private home, and although the public is admitted, you really get to see only the State Rooms and two small parts of the gardens. That said, I felt the visit was worth it, even though it cost me £11.50 - and that was claiming an old-age concession.

You enter via the servants and tradesmen's entrance. I have to say, the rooms in the servants' domain were less dingy than in some other grand houses I've seen, but they were still drab and utilitarian compared to the rest of the House. I noticed the many bells on the wall, any of which might be rung to summon a servant to do something menial. They went electric on this in the course of time, so that at some point a buzzer would have sounded instead of the old-fashioned bell, indicating that instant service was required somewhere in the House. One place, clearly equipped with a button to push, caught my eye:


A Secret Room! Known only to one hundred servants! I don't think many people noticed that. In the State Rooms, I got into conversation with a chap called Peter, one of the Room Guides, and he seemed impressed that I had noticed the existence of this Secret Room. But he didn't offer to show me it. It must be off limits to the public. Perhaps naughty things went on there.

A few shots will convey the opulence of the House and its contents:


The silver item in the bottom picture is a huge wine cooler. Peter told me that it would be half-filled with ice from the Ice House in the garden (a covered brick-lined pit filled with compacted winter snow) and then forty-odd bottles would be allowed to chill for a banquet. Even when empty, this wine cooler needed several footmen to lift it, and move it here and there. I've decided against getting one.

Each State Room had its massive bed. Here is Queen Elizabeth I's:


This next one was for a later monarch, I've forgotten who. A bit scary, isn't it?


Peter was a very pleasant man, immaculately dressed in a quiet grey suit and dark red tie. He'd come all the way from Grantham (a town some way off) to do his Sunday stint at Burghley House. We had quite a conversation. I think he sensed that I was genuinely interested in furniture and painting and fabrics, and he escorted me to and fro, pointing out this and that.

There are several State Rooms, and the seventeenth-century ones are decorated in a riotously Baroque style by the famous contemporary painter Antonio Verrio - see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antonio_Verrio. To be honest, Verrio's virtuoso walls and ceilings were for me the most appealing and memorable things at Burghley House. He spent years there painting dazzling scenes that showed gods and goddesses and celestial figures of all kinds flying and tumbling about. His ceilings are all motion, and a feast for the eye. The light on the day of my visit was difficult, and the reflections dire, but I did manage to get a few shots that will suggest what I mean:


In the room just above, Verrio has some of the gods and goddesses falling out of Heaven, like water cascading. It must all have been very distracting when dining. It's all so exuberant, and you sense that every one of these painted beings are having a jolly good time. Even Verrio's depiction of Hell has something of a party atmosphere, albeit one that has got a bit overheated:


All too soon, I was at the exit, but I could still visit the Garden of Surprises and the Sculpture Garden. The Garden of Surprises was a bit tame, I thought. The emphasis was on hidden fountains that might squirt water at you - diverting to children, but not to sophisticates. But I found some mirrors, and had great fun:


Hmm...perhaps one Lucy is more than enough! The Scupture Garden was a showcase for modern works. I thought it a bit sterile and emotionally uninvolving, but then I'd just come from Verrio's highly appealing masterpieces. Here are the works that most caught my attention:


That inflated yellow seed pod swung about in the breeze in a most diverting fashion. At least I trust it was a seed pod. It's vaguely suspect.

In a quiet corner of the garden was this grave:


Telemachus (1868-1876) was a prize bull with a brief but brilliant career. I suppose he died from being too fat, or just from servicing too many cows. His prize money totalled £652 - say about £70,000 nowadays. A nice little earner. But also a cherished estate animal who earned a proper grave. Was he butchered for his meat first? Probably not. I wonder what the hungry servants thought about that.
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