Monday, December 11, 2017

Chance meetings

Meeting new people, however briefly, is one of the pleasures of life.
You may never see them again, but in a short time you are transported to another life, new thoughts, other modes of existence, ideas foreign to your own and so on. Sometimes a longer friendship is formed from a chance meeting or encounter, and they are often the strongest.
It is generally at parties that these meetings take place, but often by absolute chance, on the street, in a queue, at an accident, a waiting room, or just with a congenial-looking stranger.
One such meeting has happened recently.
At a smart auction house’s private view we paused at one of those typical Elizabeth Frink bronze heads, near to a man who was staring at it and smiling.
This person did not seem to be quite the normal posh purchaser of expensive art. So we talked.
He came from the West Country and, as a rugby football enthusiast, had found this sculpted head to be not unlike that of a fellow member in his club’s scrum. He, too, reminded me a bit of a front row scummager.
In asking him about his life he said that he was in London to sell a Churchill. This was information that hardly registered with us in the course of our conversation. 
Anyhow, we got on splendidly. I gave him my card in case he would like a 6 o’clock drink when next he visited the big city. We thought of it no more.
Then an email arrived from our rugby-following acquaintance to say that it was so nice to talk with us at the private view and that he would, one day, take us up on our offer. He had spent several hours reading my blogs and, as he was a countryman, especially enjoyed one when I had, in an open car, been showered with cow’s urine when passing a cattle truck on the road.
A short time afterwards I read a short piece in our newspaper saying that a Sir Winston Churchill painting, with an estimate of eighty thousand pounds had been sold at auction for over three hundred and fifty thousand pounds.
Could our newly-made friend have been the very seller of the last painting done by Sir Winston Churchill, which, before the great man’s death, been given to his personal bodyguard of many years?
We looked at the surname on his email. And, sure enough, he was in all probability the seller of the painting given to his father by Sir Winston.

Yes, meeting new people, however briefly, is one of the pleasures of life.

Friday, November 24, 2017

Mumbo Jumbo?

Other people’s ill health is of great interest to them, but in offering sympathy one is inwardly only too glad not to be suffering the same ailment. And too much detail proffered can become a bore.
So, I am about to bore you with my own case – but with a very good reason. I will be as brief as possible.
I get bronchitis every winter. In 2017 it came early, in late autumn, and was exceptionally bad, with a lot of coughing accompanied by noisy and involuntary gasps – not to mention a profusion of expectoration – horrible.
I awoke early one morning at about 3.30 o’clock unable to either breathe or speak. Margreet woke to find me unable to communicate and thought I had gone mad. I really thought it was my end. When it cleared, after quite a few seconds that felt like minutes, we rushed to A&E to discover the position and the chance of further blockage re-appearing. I was told to take an anti-biotic and sent home.
The same thing happened three more times over the next few days, the last after I had eaten some halva.
Nights were miserable and sleepless. I walked wrote, read, drew – all to keep as clear as possible from the expectoration that was non-stop when lying down.
Now, Margreet is a qualified reflexologist among other attributes. She had given me this foot massage in the past and afterwards it produced a lovely feeling of floating on air when I walked. She suggested that she give me treatment directed at lungs and throat.
I regret to say that however nice the treatment had been in the past, I had rather thought it to be a bit mumbo jumbo. But I welcomed a try.
After the first evening session I was able to sleep a bit. After the next I could sleep more. After the third I could sleep through the full night. And the expectoration was greatly reduced.
If I was sceptical before about the benefits of reflexology, I am no longer. That’s what I wanted to say. 

As for the related blockages – well, that, as I wrote initially, is someone else’s boring health problem.

Friday, November 03, 2017


In a magazine section of a current newspaper there is a piece about people and the cars they have owned. And although I have taken a rough interest in the mechanics of the cars that I have owned, it is the happenings connected with those cars that are of more interest.
After the war, in the late 1940s, my brother, an engineer, was working in a town where a mechanic was assembling cars from more or less whatever automotive parts that came to hand. I asked if he could make a sort of sports car for me. Which he did, and I bought it.
This car was constructed mainly from Austin 7 parts – triangular chassis, engine, steering and brakes. It could seat two, had a rudimentary canvas roof, and an outside exhaust that ducted the gasses close to the ear of my passenger. Girls would climb in at the peril of being burnt. The car represented freedom, fun, sometimes envy, and often incredulity. I added a sign on the radiator “Austin of England” and replaced the radiator-filling cap with an antique temperature gauge, visible from the driver’s seat. It went like a bomb (or rather felt like it) but was the very devil to stop – so a bit dangerous. Brakes were not too good in those days, and in an Austin 7 particularly so.
I had been invited to stay in Norfolk, and was passing an open truck where cows had been packed athwartships, when one of them decided to relieve herself. I was soaked in herbivore urine. It was not an ideal way for a guest to arrive for the weekend.
Still owning the same car, I had entertained fellow ushers at a London wedding, and was leading them on the road to the evening’s festivities, when a lamp post jumped out in front of me. I left the car where it stood and now cannot remember how it was returned to me. The car was never the same again, becoming unstable at speed.
I then belonged to the 750 Formula Motor Club and, at a meeting of enthusiasts, asked Colin Chapman, of Lotus, if he could diagnose the trouble. But he was unable to do so.
I sold the car to someone in the City, being rather fearful that there would be recriminations. The buyer contacted me on a small matter, so I asked him how he was getting along with the car and how fast he had taken it. “I don’t go over 30 miles an hour”, he replied.  
My next car was a very early MG, given to me by a cousin. It was a real sports car, but unreliable. I was rather proud of myself in substituting a tin disk instead of an open universal joint, to stop oil from leaking from an overhead camshaft into its magneto. This was an effective cure, but made rather an oily mess inside the bonnet. I got tired of having to stop and tinker with it with girls aboard, and gave it away in the spirit with which I had received it. The car went to a Norfolk family and disappeared.
I was working on painting scenery for theatrical touring shows, The Royal Opera House, television (in black and white then), children’s theatre and repertory, which gave me a chance in between jobs to create an all-purpose vehicle to take on a grand tour of Europe.
The basis for this rather unique vehicle was a well-used Ford 8, builder’s flat-back van. On it I attached a moulded covering of ply and, on the roof above the most comfortably designed of two seats, I attached ships’ ventilation air scoops made of copper. They faced forward to duct in air (if uncorked) and backward when it rained.
The car, unused to the post-war rough roads of Europe, needed fairly regular mechanical help from local peasantry – countrymen who exhibited a wonderful range of basic skills. Which was a fine way of meeting people.
After France and Spain, I was driving across northern Italy on a hot day, when a bee was scooped up by an overhead air duct and ended up in my shorts. A quick look in the rear-view mirror revealed several distressed cyclists.
The car was fitted out with sleeping and cooking facilities, food, wine and all the rest. But, after a while, starting the engine was a problem. This meant that nights had to be endured at an angle on steep slopes – to get the car moving in order to start the engine in the morning.
An emergency pot of money, left with a friend in Paris, went with her on holiday. So I had to sell things to be able to re-cross the Channel on my way home.
I had been painting scenery for a pantomime in York and was in a rush to get back to London. Now it so happened that I painted in an all-covering garment that I had cut from theatre canvas and stuck together with rubber adhesive. It was my paint-spattered, scenery-painting costume, and had the air of religion about it. Also, when painting scenery I used colour from old china chamber pots, as they were designed not to spill. Dressed in this painting kit and with pots of liquid paint aboard, I set off for home directly after work on a cold and snowy day. A moronic lorry driver decided to turn his truck around on a main road and right in front of me. Jamming on the brakes on an icy surface hardly slowed me down. So there was a bang, and paint shot everywhere from those pots, including over me. I imagine that the sight surprised the helpful witnesses.
The car took the fancy of a Scottish laird, who bought it for his estate.
A Citroën 2CV came next as it coped beautifully with the rough and overgrown lane leading to my studio house in the Berkshire Downs (and it whistled to the south of France and back, loving its own native country).
Then later, as I was working toward an exhibition of large sculptures in elm wood, a Citroën Ami 8 was able to do the same as the 2CV but with much more room for works of art. So I swapped it for its sister car, a station wagon type that had all the imaginative, idiosyncratic and innovative ideas of its predecessor, but without the centrifugal clutch. This did me well until a lorry driver, entering my main road from a side road, failed to see me behind his rear-view mirror. He was most apologetic and took full responsibility for the accident. But it left me with a broken wrist, which was the jumping-off point for a change of career. I then wrote articles and books for the next 25 years.
My last car was a splendid VW cabriolet that somehow retained the pleasant scent of its previous owner. The car’s only fault was its dislike of dealing with deep puddles – when the engine became flooded and cut out. It impressed a Russian eye specialist with its speed on our smooth roads. And when viewing the thatched houses of the rich from its open top, thought that the owners of these abodes must be peasants who could only afford to cover their houses with straw.
In London, some 30 years ago, in a street of perhaps a battered Ford or two, the VW’s soft-top was susceptible to vandalism. So, with excellent public transport nearby, and with Margreet’s Embassy number-plates on her own car, I gave the VW to my elder son. Of its demise I heard nothing.
Since Margreet’s retirement we also did away with the RAV4 after many years of smooth driving. 

Cars have their stories. 

Wednesday, October 25, 2017

Residual sugar in wine

On the advice of a merchant I bought (for me) a fairly expensive red wine, made in Australia’s Barossa Valley.
Looking at the back label, with its customary descriptive blurb of “berry fruits”, “plum”, “blackberries”, “chocolate”, “vanilla” and all the rest that someone thought up, I saw that the alcohol content was a stonking 14.5%.
In my view that is too high, with the alcohol overpowering those “berry fruits”. It was dry on the palate.
I took its residual sugar content. This was 8%, which should have made it a normally balanced wine. It was the tannin content that made it taste like a dry red wine.
Unaware of the tannin content, I had bought a wine that was happier to be more of a laying-down wine than one for present-day drinking. They might have mentioned this with the “berry” fruits business. Its tannins would have softened in time and brought the wine into balance, making it a fine wine.
It must have been very hot in the Barossa Valley that vintage year, with the grapes producing a lot of sugar. Even if the winemakers had stopped the fermentation earlier to reduce alcohol content, the resultant wine would have been too sweet on the palate. So 14.5% it was.
In Europe, we seldom get the very hot weather that produces too much sugar in the grapes. Here it is often the opposite, demanding added sugar to produce enough alcohol for pleasurable drinking and preservation.
I usually add sugar to my own vintages in London, aiming for around 22% before vinification (Port is about 20%), and fermenting the wine out to contain about 6% residual sugar.
I could stop fermentation of the sweetened must for the wine to contain more sweetness and less alcohol by adding sulphur, or even fine filtering (to get rid of the yeast) if I had the equipment. But I rather like to leave the whole process to nature.
As for the adding of sugar at fermentation time, French authorities, when I wrote professionally on wine anyway, designated that those winemakers below a certain latitude, were not allowed to add it. At that time, a pied noir, kicked out of Algeria, bought a vineyard in Bas Médoc, well south of the designated latitude, and  wondered why his wines were not as good as those made by his neighbours. That was, until he was woken at night by sugar tankers passing by to help improve those neighbour’s wines. He then started to make good wine.
Wine is often blended at source. I do as well, as my own red gets down to around 6% sugar. That is a bit too dry for it, so I have no compunction about mixing it in a decanter with a sweeter red – to the benefit of both.
Commercial winemaking is just another business where the weather is a major element and fortunes can be made or lost. So a certain amount of manipulation by the professional and the amateur when making wine is commonplace.
Dry whites and rosé wines usually have around 7% residual sugar content, reds anything between 6% to 9% - the successful results depending on body, tannin, sweetness and acidity. As for the wine’s acidity, this can also be added to wine, especially in hot climates, in order to produce a successful product.

Out of all this, it seems extraordinary to me that, combined with other factors, the differences between dryness and sweetness in table wines should depend upon such small differences (about 6%) in the wines’ residual sugar content.V

Thursday, October 12, 2017

Fear in War

It was when applying for another war medal (one that was never sent to me, and not one for gallantry) that I was asked if I had ever been frightened during my wartime service in the RAF.
My first encounter with the enemy was when, after joining up and waiting for flying training, I took a job as a farm labourer. Food was in short supply. I was helping the war effort and experiencing farm life.
When hoeing weeds in the middle of a field, a German JU88 bomber flew over me at just above treetop level and banked on its way to bomb Reading railway station (it actually missed the station and destroyed a school and killed many children). I could see the pilot and rear cockpit gunner quite clearly. The gunner must equally have seen me. But they were trying to navigate in foreign territory at low level so had little time to waste by shooting up a simple farm labourer. It all happened so quickly. Was I frightened? It was far too sudden and unexpected an incident to generate fear.
Then, going on leave to London, and near to the capital, the train I was in came to a halt in an air raid. Searchlights scanned the night sky to look for the enemy  bombers. Anti-aircraft guns were in action. But no bombs fell nearby. Was I frightened? I wrote about it to a friend in America saying that I would not have missed it for anything. So I certainly could not have been frightened then.
Waiting at RAF Hornchurch, on the fringes of London in Essex, while waiting for a posting to Flying Training School in America, I volunteered to mend roofs in the much-bombed East End, London district of Plumstead. I was on a slate roof mending it when one of the first German rockets landed in the vicinity. It was just a loud bang. The rocket, being supersonic, the swooshing noise of its arrival came after the rocket’s ground explosion. Was I frightened? I didn’t even know then that the explosion was caused by a rocket.
On leave in London, buzzbombs detonated around with some regularity.
These flying bombs were powered by a pulse jet engine and made a loud, pulsating, growling sound.
If one was still making its noise when overhead, all was well. It would land elsewhere. But if the engine cut out just before arriving, you took shelter – in our case, when living in a flat in Victoria, under a strong table. In a bath one just hoped to hear the bomb fly over. Was I afraid? Sometimes apprehensive for sure.
Crashing a PT19 training aircraft in Oklahoma, USA, was a time when I could have expected to be frightened. But I imagine that trying to work out how to get down in one piece gave me little time for fear. I landed in one piece, the aeroplane in several.
Flying in Coastal Command from RAF Davidstow Moor, Cornwall, in twin-engined Vickers Warwick aircraft, and blessed with wonderful eyesight, I spotted a German Fokke-Wulf aeroplane as a dot in the far distance. Alerting those on board through the intercom, we dived to just above sea level and headed for home. They can’t have seen us. With our 303 machineguns we were virtually defenceless and no match whatsoever for such a fast and powerful enemy aircraft bristling with substantial cannons. Was I afraid? It was simply part of a job that I loved doing, and it did break up the monotony of long operational flights in a very noisy and cumbersome machine. I don’t think that any of us on board experienced fear. And after each sortie we were guaranteed a fried egg in the mess on our return.
On RAF airfields, latrines were in huts dotted around the place (some for men, some for women). One day, at Davidstow Moor, I was going about my business and had need of a lavatory. There was one nearby, which turned out to be the cleanest that I had so far encountered on the station. After sitting down I heard a woman cough in a nearby cubicle. Now, being caught in a women’s lavatory was a court martial offence. It could have been the end of my RAF career if I was discovered. I dressed, crept to the door, exited, and walked away as nonchalantly as possible. No one saw me.

So yes. I really did experience fear in wartime – in a ladies lavatory.

Mistletoe update

You might recall my blog on mistletoe. It told how, without success, I tried over the years to “plant” the soft berries of this parasite into junctures of spurs growing from our small apple tree in a pot.
I then, two months after Christmas, found some dried berries clinging to mistletoe twigs in a builder’s skip, and planted them – again without success. So I reluctantly gave up the struggle.
Then, two years later, a small mistletoe shoot sprang out through the tree’s bark an inch or two below where I had planted seed toward the top of the tree.
It was a great day – a celebration day. I had succeeded after many years of failure. But there were no berries attached to the branch.
Twelve months later another bunch of mistletoe appeared below the first one. And after yet another year a third lot appeared low down near to the earth in the pot. But there were still no berries.
Fast-forward another three years – until this 2017 spring. And there, at last, on the lowest and most recent branch, lovely little flowers were opening where new growth usually takes place.
Mistletoe clearly has a mind of its own, and likes to surprise – even hiding its sex for a while.
Anyhow, it looks as if one of those dried berries was a female one. Roll on 

Saturday, September 16, 2017

Art, to Birds, to Moths, to Soup

My art goes in tangents. A theme comes to me and I create pictures on the subject until I have squeezed out all the imaginative and often rather abstract ideas that I have about it. Immediately I begin to tire of the theme I stop. Then I wait until another theme presents itself.
The last series was tremendous fun – enjoyment being essential. It was called “Events”.
It started when Margreet and I witnessed a fight on the street between a carrion crow and a wood pigeon. It was an extraordinary event, with the pigeon giving as good as it got. We think that the crow was trying to rob the pigeon’s nest of eggs or young. We were unable to stay for the result.
Then I made a mobile of brightly delineated fish for Margreet’s niece’s baby. The variously-designed, almost pantomime fish, were suspended on strings from a corrugated cardboard rectangle. They dived and climbed as the cardboard was twisted. On top were painted clouds and an aeroplane with its wings being formed from an old stuck-on address label. To distract the baby with swimming fish at changing time represented an event. 
Then I made another of flying birds for another baby.
With these two mobiles being the core of the series. I added silhouettes of both of us, and of a television friend and myself playing with a Stirling engine. Interesting compositions of multiple events were beginning to appear.
A series of glasses were broken at home. A chessboard was knocked over with the pieces all over the place. So on it went with combined events, starting from that pigeon fight and ending with a remembrance of a friend and neighbour who loved catching salmon in her lifetime. This last work has a “real” salmon, as opposed to my stylised fish, much in evidence. Being of greater importance than the “mobile” fish, it crashes into the picture dispersing fish and birds, chessboard and pieces.
Good art should involve the imagination of the artist and that of the viewer. Now I have just given away rather too many of my thoughts on this particular tangent.
So here I am, with a theme ended, and putting pen to paper before another tangential theme comes to mind to be interpreted in I hope an imaginative way, bright in colour, and pleasing in design.


Each year a pair of great tits nest in a box that I made, painted as brickwork, and attached to the wall on the Eastern side of our London house. So it was most upsetting this year when our regular pair started their nesting rituals and then deserted. Perhaps one, or both, were killed by cats.
With the box unused, I cleared out what little grassy stuff had been used, on the assumption that if another pair would fancy using the box in late spring, the female partner might not want to share the same bedding as the previous incumbent. And lo and behold, when almost summer, and with other nestlings beginning to take wing, a new pair of great tits took over the abode. Perhaps their earlier nest of eggs or young had been robbed by bird or beast. Anyhow, once more we had a couple to share our home with us. And we are very pleased about it.


Followers of these blogs will recall my contest with clothes moths.
Early last year, having seen only one or two moths flying around, I distributed pheromone-impregnated sticky pad traps around the house, and caught 158 moths all together from March to March. But the count from only March to May this year has already totalled 131. This would imply that springtime is the most active time (mating presumably) for clothes moths to be on the wing, and that by catching so many this year already, they are still in control. And I thought that by catching a good quantity of males, females or both last year I was getting near to solving the problem. Yet despite there being so many moths around the place, only a very few holes, eaten by their maggots, have been found among our clothes. What’s happening?
The success of the pads would seem to depend upon where they are positioned in a room, with one being more successful than the others.


Our soups are much enjoyed by all who partake of them.
They are made and eaten throughout the winter and much of the rest of the year. So they are generally on the hob.
These delicious brews almost always start with chopped onion or leek, braised in plenty of butter. This is done in a large pressure cooker. The leek, or onion, or both, is followed by finely cubed potatoes, stock or crumbled stock cubes, pepper and salt and water. I give it 20 minutes under pressure. That's it. A friend of years ago (Bernard Venables, the fisherman) ate this soup every day of his life, but with mace added.
That is the basic soup, and excellent it is. But it is the additions that make it exceptional. These consist of about every dish that has not been finished – like the remains of sauces, gravy, water used for boiling other things, the washing out of Marmite and Bovril pots, vegetables, leftovers from stews and casseroles, pan juices, mayonnaise, pasta, rice, peanut butter, and all possible remainders that might add flavour or consistency.
When meat or roughage food is to be added, I put it through the soup Mouli first. This allows juices to be squeezed out of fibrous matter (it might need chopping up first with kitchen scissors). The fibre, being almost flavourless, is discarded – or composted if not derivative of meat (which could attract vermin).
To thicken soup I sometimes use a Mouli or liquidiser on some or all of its volume. Or, if it is a white soup, I make and add some white sauce.
If you are making a mushroom soup, and cooking chopped onion and chopped mushrooms with some chopped potato with stock before boiling it, make a white sauce and whisk this in when the initial soup has been cooked.
And should you have tomato soup in mind, use chopped tomatoes from a can and tomato purée with stock cubes or stock, possibly adding white sauce to make it a creamy one. But remember to add a little sugar when using tomato purée.
Should flour or cereal (like pearl barley) be part of your soup, stir it regularly when heating it up to stop it from catching. And the soup must be brought to the boil each day to prevent fermentation. Should you forget to do this daily chore, and wild yeasts have started their work, bring the soup to the rolling boil, and, as Mrs.Beeton wrote: ”Scum it clear as anything rises”.
Many of our soups end as a sort of Mulligatawny by adding curry powder to it.

Stock is important. I might add several cubes, both beef and chicken. But my favourite stock and start to a soup is to buy pigs’ trotters and pressure cook them in water with flavourings for about an hour and a half. In this case, when the liquid is cool, strain off the solids from the liquid stock and separate the gelatinous flesh from bones. Put this meat into a bread tin with chopped onion, capers, sliced cornichons, and pepper and salt. Reduce some soup liquid by adding a little vinegar, boiling and evaporating it, and pouring the result over the trotter meat. Eat this cold and solid with a little olive oil and chopped fresh coriander. Or put it into sandwiches. This rustic dish is not to everyone’s taste. Margreet dares hardly to even look at it. But she agrees that the stock made in this way is wonderful. 

Friday, August 25, 2017


It is extraordinary how the little and often unusual things of life define a day.
I go to Lord’s Cricket Ground each summer for three days of watching Test cricket.
I talk to my neighbour spectators who want to talk (and they are sometimes very interesting), but are just as happy to have non-talkers next to me.
When we made room for another cricket-lover in our row to pass by, my neighbour saw that this man had a fly button undone. We questioned if we should tell the undressed person of his condition. But the unknowing spectator had already passed by. And we could not decide what we should or should not have done anyway.
As a boy, should any of our number of males have a fly button undone, someone would introduce the words “Olga Polosky” into the conversation. Then we males would lower our eyes to see who might be the unfortunate.
Then, on the very next day, I sat down in the Underground train on my way to cricket, only to discover that three of my own fly buttons were not done up.
Fortunately I had a newspaper to cover my undress and surreptitiously managed to do up one button before other passengers might see what I was doing and think that I was an exposeur (if there is such a word).
At the station of my destination, Victoria, I did manage to do up the rest behind the newspaper as I walked along the platform.
Nowadays this would probably not happen as the trousers that I found to wear that day were probably made before the advent of reliable zip fasteners.
I had made the same journey to Lord’s for many years – Stamford Brook to Victoria by Underground, then 82 bus to Lord’s Ground.
Where I normally boarded the 82 bus is a stop where several busses stop at the same time. So it is wise to stand around the middle of them to be able to rush either way to catch the 82. This time, busses came and went, but an 82 was not to be seen. I waited for probably 15 minutes, then took an alternative bus that involved a longer walk to reach Lord’s at the other end. I asked the driver what might be holding up the 82. “It’s been discontinued, mate. The number 13 has taken its place.” So I took the 13 next day and all was well – and I hope will be in the future.

It is an accumulation of small things like these that are unexpected and define a day.

Sunday, July 30, 2017

Paintings' History

I was lying in bed this morning thinking about the painting that I was working on and the history of paintings – their provenance, the history being a very important part of them.
The story about one of my own, I thought, qualified for the re-telling. 
I had come out of the war as a pilot with TB, started medicine study, TB took hold once more (there was no cure in those days), then gone to art school (The Central under artist Bernard Meninsky) and after that The Old Vic School to learn about theatre design. In the meantime I had settled in two very small Council rooms above the railway lines at Victoria Station (steam trains, then).
Cramped, and polluted by smoke, steam and smuts from the railway engines below, coupled with the dense fogs that they engendered, I gathered together bits of money and bought a wartime bombed-out house next to The Chelsea Football Ground on the Fulham Road. A developer was repairing it with the aid of a grant. He had got as far as putting a roof over the first floor.
I made the place habitable. The RAF Benevolent Association kindly paid for the carpet for stairs and landing.
Between designing jobs in the theatre and painting scenery at The Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, I taught myself a little more about art by painting landscapes, using a large, home-made easel and paints that I ground myself.
Being right next to the football ground offered landscape possibilities.
So, in 1954, I set up my kit on a gravel mound (where the Christie’s box now stands – or stood), and painted two 2’ x  4’ (61 cm x 122 cm) paintings of a match between Chelsea and Wolves.
One of these paintings was of Peter Sillet scoring a penalty for Chelsea at the western end of the ground. The other included what was known as “The Shed”. It portrayed a bit of the pitch, the crowd, the Shed and buildings in the background outside the ground.
The “penalty” painting I sold right away for £5 (when I had added the “ref”, who I had forgotten to include) to the electrician, then helping me repair the house.
The other painting, entitled “Neighbours on Saturdays” (football was then played only on Saturdays) I exhibited with “The Daily Express Exhibition of Young Artists”, and later in a one-man exhibition at The Gallerie de Seine in West Halkin Street, Belgravia, London. It did not sell.
Over the years that painting either travelled with me to homes around England or was put into store when I was abroad.
When moving from the country to London in 1989 it was hung on the wall of the spare bedroom/studio at the top of my Hammersmith house.
Learning that Mr Abramovich, who owned Chelsea Football Club, was keen on paintings, I sent an image of mine with a letter to his secretary, offering it at £1,000. There was no reply.
My wife Margreet’s niece was about to be married and, although her husband- to-be be was an Arsenal fan, we thought that they might like the painting as a wedding present. The wedding did not take place. So the painting remained on the wall until, in 2006, a Christie’s man saw it and asked if we might like to sell it at his auction house. Yes, we would. Off it went with a reserve of £1,000 - £1,500.
A man soon contacted me to say that he was prepared to go to (I think) £3,000 at auction so would be sure to obtain it. He would then have coloured reproductions made and would pay me for my signature on them – or some such deal.
This was good news. Now I knew that it would sell.
I then heard from Christie’s that the painting might even reach £5,000. This was even better news.
So along I go to the auction.
“Lot number 122,” said the auctioneer. “There is interest in this painting by James Page-Roberts. I can start the bidding at £2,000.”
From £2,000 it rose quickly to £5,000, when some bidders opted out. At £10,000 most had given up, except for two bidders. One was a lady, who we learned later had a Chelsea fan as a husband and wanted to give it to him as a Christmas present. The other bidder was probably Mr Abramovich’s agent.
The bidding went on, with the lady keeping her hand up until it was hers – for £28,000. Christie’s quote the price, with commission added, as £33,600. It was what is known in gallery jargon as “the top lot”.
So what happened to the painting’s pair?
I still had the electrician’s home address. So I decided to track him down.
And if I did locate the man and painting, what was I going to do? Should I tell him all? Should I offer a small or large amount for it so that I could hang it on my wall, with its fun provenance? Should I buy and then sell it, giving him ….? I didn’t really know what I would or should do. I would simply have to play it by ear if I did find it. 
So off I go to his address south of the river to a substantial house in Battersea somewhere. I rang the doorbell.
Two gay men appeared, who had lived there for more than 20 years. They had never heard of my man. Perhaps he had been bombed out of the East End of London  in the war and had been given temporary accommodation in this house and moved on.
That was the start and end of my quest for the second painting, except that I put a piece in the Chelsea Club’s Fanzine, hoping for a response. There was none.

Those are two paintings with provenance.

Wednesday, July 12, 2017

Air Currents at work

Cirrus clouds are very high clouds made up of ice crystals. And when they form to look like horses’ tails, their frozen droplets are being driven by the jet stream (high, strong currents of air that have an effect on the weather beneath). So this is moving air that you are actually able to see, because of the ice crystals. Looking at the passage of clouds tells you much the same as they are moved by wind.
When leaving Granada, in Spain, by air, we had to skirt around the lower parts of forming cumulonimbus clouds. These particular clouds are made by violent up-currents of air, blowing moisture high up (generally from a wet surface below, like a lake) with such power that cloud moisture forms into raindrops. Heavy rainstorms may result.
As these raindrops rise in the up-currents they may freeze in the cold of altitude and form into hailstones. These fall under their own weight, either as small hailstones or get sent aloft again by the up-currents of air to gather more moisture and freeze once more, making larger hailstones – and so on.
In learning meteorology as a trainee pilot in the war, the instructor told us that these cumulonimbus clouds were most interesting clouds. They must be, he said, as airmen had flown into them and never come out again.
Ice forming on aeroplanes’ wings can be deadly, but is now dealt with efficiently by the heated leading edges of aeroplanes’ wings. But it was splashed water from the ground that once froze to ice under the wing of my aeroplane that caused it (and me) to crash – rather violently.
So the pilot from Granada was wise as he flew around those dangerous clouds when leaving southern Spain. And the view of them from the aeroplane’s windows was magnificent.
We are unable to see the upward-rising air currents in these clouds, but we can see the outside movement at work as they billow aloft. This was such an occasion.
Even on a very still day of no wind or breeze you may see a leaf on the ground or in a bush suddenly move, telling that there are nearly always air currents around, sometimes minute ones, even on the stillest of days.
One of the best ways to “see” air currents is when they are combined with smoke.
Aircraft land against the wind. This slows down the landing speed, making it safer.

When flying training years ago, you always wanted to know wind direction when in the air – just in case of engine failure and a forced landing necessary. To look at the direction of chimney smoke or bonfire smoke was always a good indication of it. But nowadays there is not much smoke to be seen and, thankfully, aviation in all its aspects has advanced enormously.

Friday, June 30, 2017


Margreet and I flew from London City Airport to Granada, in southern Spain, for a family wedding in the summer of 2017.
I like small airports. Probably the last time that I flew from one was from Lydd to Le Touquet with my car in a Bristol Freighter during the early 1950s. Three cars were driven aboard through the gaping front of the Bristol Hercules-engined aircraft. The loading doors were closed. Then the drivers and passengers climbed aboard to sit with the pilot. The two propellers churned up the air as we bumped across the grass and lifted off to cross the Channel, flying close to the water. From the field at Le Touquet we cleared the perfunctory Customs affairs and drove away through France.
So I rather expected that London City Airport, being small, and we heard friendly, would have much the same feeling about it as flying in those days of yore. Not so. Small and friendly it may be, but present-day security has put paid to simple and pleasant air travel.
But we flew in a comfortable Embraer 190 and arrived in Granada’s airport. Ours was the only aircraft around. And we passengers were the only ones to be seen. So exiting, though done with Spanish speed, did have a bit of the old feel about it. (Leaving after a week’s stay was quite another matter when, in the general chaos, with one hand holding up beltless trousers, my portable, long time companion corkscrew was confiscated as an offensive weapon.)
We were prepared for the daytime temperature to be around the 40 degree mark – and it was, with the difference in temperature between sun and shade being considerable. The sun heated up the ground and buildings so much that even the evening temperatures were very hot with radiant heat being given off from pavement below and walls all around. Shade was generally available from orange and other trees, and in the lea of buildings in narrow streets. And because it was possible to find shade, sun creams and even sun hats were not essential, though sunglasses helped to dim the glare from the mainly white buildings. Ice creams were popular to cool the palate, fans were in general use by women (we did see one man using one), and in some bars and eating places a fine mist of cold water was distributed from above, looking like the vapour from dry ice. Margreet bought a fan, which came apart on one spine. I bought glue to mend it, only to discover, almost too late, that it was superglue, which gushed out from a rather free-flowing dispenser. So I prized my fingers apart just in time to allow the glue to dry on each finger and eventually to peel off the skin. But the fan had been fixed.
Of course liquid refreshment in quantity was essential. The excellent local beer and wine provided it, though the wine, usually being the choice of good local white and either Rioja or Ribera (del Duero) red, came in large glasses holding only a small measure. The red varied in temperature from cold, to chilled (excellent) to rather too warm. To see a whole bottle of wine on a table was a rarity. Thus it was difficult to find a stopper for a partly-drunk bottle in our room. We only managed to find some in a souvenir shop with “Granada” printed on their sides.
With these liquids, tapas were usually provided gratis. So, with heat precluding large meals, a constant supply of tapas supplied most of one’s needs for food. Our favourite lunchtime venue was the covered fish market, where not only the freshest of fish was on offer, but olive oil, ham, cheese, garlic and much else. Here we would sit at a tall, small table to be served possibly beer, Manzanilla or white wine, with our choice of a delicious tapas with each drink. So, of course, an afternoon siesta later during the excessive heat was an essential element of life. During this time the city simply closed down. And rightly so.
Some might like to judge a country by the kind of loo paper on offer. Generally this was absorbent and thin, and sometimes in a café non-existent. Once it was not to be put down the lavatory after use and binned. In the fish market conveniences, Margreet found that before entering a cubicle it was necessary to select the anticipated quantity of loo paper beforehand.
A City Tour was provided by a sort of land train of an engine truck drawing two open carriages. So good a method of getting a feeling for Granada was this train that we took it several times, sometimes to simply see the city and sometimes to reach a recommended destination. With ancient and often very uneven cobbled road surfaces, it was a bone-shaking experience, but tremendous fun as it wound its way up, down and around the most varied of urban landscapes.
The road and pavement surfaces were of great interest. Sometimes they were of marble, sometimes tile, often cobbles in straight or of imaginative design, and also as mosaic in small defined areas of white pebbles and what looked like chips of slate on end. One could so easily imagine the Conquistadors treading the very same surfaces all those years ago.
The red bricks in use were longer and thinner than those used in England. And the mortar between them much thicker and coarser. Was this something to do with the country’s Roman heritage?
Because the streets were often quite narrow, pedestrians on the pavements of varying width were protected from traffic by rows of low, cast bronze bollards with a simple design representing pomegranates.
Above eye level in rooms, the close-together, glowing and impressive wood beams held the weight of heavy floor tiles above. To look upwards outside, the blue sky was crowded with swifts, acrobatically screaming their way around the tall, ancient, and mostly, impressive religious buildings. If only some of those magical birds would carry on in their migration from Africa to inhabit the London skies where so few exist, we would be very happy. Chattering starlings crowded into the tall trees to roost in one of the few verdant squares. Sparrows flew low beneath tables to find scraps of food for their young.
There were many dogs in Granada, yet we seldom saw a mess or anyone clearing one up.
We had (not by design) arrived in Granada at fiesta time. Twice we witnessed solemn religious processions crawling through the streets. In the march were drummers, trumpeters, choirs, effigies both large and small, and many of the religious populous in sombre dress and sometimes mantillas. Many carried banners, rods and long, lighted candles.  The music was uplifting for us and, no doubt, much more so for the participants.    
Enough of Granada impressions. The famous sights would last until a cooler season. We were there for a family wedding.
Three busloads of guests were picked up in the noonday heat to travel to the wedding venue high up in the Sierra Nevada. The road was a tortuous one, with barely a fence between the tarmac and the chasms to the side of it. The arid, cactus-strewn landscape of rocks and scrub occasionally held a smallholding of olive trees. There was no sign of bird or four-footed animal.
The venue was a long low building outside of which were tables laid for a feast under shaded awnings. Below that was another sitting area of covered straw bales, laid out for the wedding ceremony with a drinks bar at the side. Below that again was a mountain stream, cascading over rocks to deposit its ice-cold water into a dammed pool for those wanting to swim and cool off. It made a lovely setting for nuptials.
The self-devised wedding ceremony, with the bride wearing a red dress and white mantilla, and the several bridesmaids in pure white, was conducted with speeches, though we were too far away to hear them. Then, after the exchange of rings, the bride and groom divested themselves of most of their clothing, the groom lifted up the bride, and together they plunged into the ice-cold water. Drinks (excellent Rioja) flowed as we wished them well.
The dinner feast was of prawns served to each person in half a scooped-out pineapple, steak so generous and tender that it could have come straight from the bullring, and a lovely cheesecake with crushed fruit. Copious amounts of wine were readily available. Then there was Flamenco dancing and singing, and dancing into the night.
It had been a glorious occasion, a unique one, and a very memorable one.

So we left Granada, Spain and a happy, handsome, and most generous couple with lovely memories and, as is the case nowadays – photographs galore.

Tuesday, May 16, 2017

Moths and Robins


From March 2016 to March 2017 we caught 158 clothes moths on sticky pheromone pads when we had thought to have almost eliminated them.
Moths, being nocturnal, we had not realised that they were so numerous.
There were not many “catches” during the winter months, but with the onset of spring, carcasses began to adorn new sticky pads.
I feel that if we persevere, then both male and female numbers will be much reduced or eliminated. Our woollen clothes will then no longer be tasty food for their maggots.


We like a tame robin in the garden. And we like it to join us in the shed (a small summerhouse) to eat grated Cheddar cheese from our home-designed feeder and perhaps to stand on my knee.
But robins die off or are eaten by cats, and new ones have to be trained.
Our friendly bird of last year disappeared in the autumn, and its place was taken by a very wild one, probably a blow-in from Scandinavia.
The chances of training this new arrival before we closed the shed for the winter were slim. But just before the cold weather set in we managed it. We had made friends. Then the shed was closed until the spring. Would it remember its training?
All was well. It continued to fly in for cheese. Our new robin turned out to be female by making a nest nearby and sitting on eggs. And even her rather scruffy mate has come in for a bite. 


Monday, April 17, 2017

Pernod Pears

From a market stall I bought a bowl of pears for £1. In it were 14 of that fruit, and in perfect condition. What a bargain it was. As time past, the last few to be eaten were on the decline. So I peeled them, cut them up, and added Pernod. In a day the spirit had been absorbed, and the result, with a dollop of Cornish cream, was – well, delicious.


You will need;
Pernod or another aniseed spirit

Peel and cut up the pears, discarding only the stems and pips.
Place the pieces in a bowl, add a little Pernod, and turn it around. Refrigerate the fruit until wanted.


Saucisson Sec Skin

Dry sausages that are generally made in France and Belgium, when cut in thin slices, make an ideal accompaniment for drinks (especially when served with small gherkins (cornichons). But there is a snag – the sausage skin.
To peel the skin from some sausages is easy – especially when they are not too dry. But when they are hard and at their best, the problem is considerable. When being consumed, the skin from these hard slices remains in the mouth and has to be disposed of or swallowed.
We are given a delicious example of this type of sausage from Belgium, with instructions to allow it to dry out in the refrigerator until quite hard. To skin it then is almost impossible – even after the slices have been cut.
One night, I was giving some thought to this problem and came up with an idea.
My plan was to slice the sausage, then, with every slice on a board, cut them across in the middle. It should then be easy to peel each half slice.
So I tried it the next day and my plan worked beautifully – but was a little time-consuming.
Half slices may not look as nice as whole ones, but the pleasure of eating  saucisson sec without the skin adds tremendously to its charm.

Saturday, March 25, 2017

Two Lost Francis Bacon Paintings

I wake early in the morning – well, as late as 6.30 or so in the winter but 5 o’clock or earlier in the summer.
This gives me solo time to spend in the studio room at the top of our house to think, paint, draw, or write. The air is clean and clear, as is the light. London lies below almost silent. There is little to disturb me. It is a wonderful time of day.
At times I wake even earlier and lie in bed thinking of the past, present and future – future of whatever painting or writing that I happen to be interested in at the time.
It was during one of these latter periods of thought (this morning to be exact) that I recalled a period in my life when I had vegetated in a country studio that I had built, and realised that I must leave my self-indulgent rural life for a move back to vibrant London.
Funnily enough, the artistic work that I found then to be transitory is much sought-after today.
Somehow I saved quite a few of those struggles when freeing myself from a year’s drawing around the world to return to using paint. I managed it, strangely enough, mainly through the medium of coloured paper collages.
Anyhow, I approached an estate agent who said he’d never be able to sell a one-bedroom house, and that I should advertise it myself.
Francis Bacon answered my advertisement in, of all strange papers for him to be reading, the Daily Telegraph.
He came, saw, and bought the house immediately. I enquired, as part of the financial negotiation, if a Bacon painting might be part of the deal. The Marlborough Gallery, who presumably paid for the house, declined my proposal.
What did Francis see in my rather simple and stark studio house? It was quite the opposite of his chaotic and messy studio in Reece Mews, South Kensington, London.
Perhaps it was its undecorated, original, pink-plastered walls and simple lines – lines much like the “cages” that appear so often in his work. 
Anyhow, he and I got on well and I visited him to explain such items of my construction, like the separate chimney running next to the real one. This fake chimney was connected to the outside air at ground level and conducted heat-exchanged warm air up to the only bedroom.
We discussed mainly the value of chance in painting. And on homosexuality he opined that “people think we live in a twilight world. We certainly do not”.
The only neighbours were a lovely cottager couple, Mr and Mrs Rampling (Mrs Ramp). She kept an eye on the house when I was not there, as she did for Francis. Her lovely garden, nourished by human waste, was like those depicted on Victorian biscuit tins.
George Dyer was in residence with Francis when I went to the house. He would curl up, greasy black hair, almost cowering in a corner of the sitting room – and silent. He joined us for salad, raw kippers and Champagne.
In the newspapers one day I saw a photograph of a Bacon painting of George, sitting in that very same corner, just as he had when I was there.
Move on now from 1964 to 2016. I was watching cricket at Lord’s when a man sat next to me. He was a well-known barrister, art critic, and authority on post-WW1 English 20th century art.
This writer was most interested in my account of meetings with Francis Bacon, especially of those at my old studio house in the country. This was because in all the records of Bacon’s life there is hardly a mention of the Chieveley studio house that I had built and he had bought.
When the barrister came to see me to learn more and to see the letters that Francis had sent to me, he brought with him the Bacon Catalogue Raisonné to find the painting of George that I had seen in the newspaper. I could recall it clearly. But it was not included. So where could it be? Lost? In a bank vault? Anyhow, it may be one lost Bacon.
When I visited Francis Bacon in that country studio house, I always looked in on my old friend and ex-neighbour, Mrs Rampling. She wanted to give me a present. I think that her choice was between a painting (probably given to her by Francis Bacon) of Mount Ventoux, or a much more prized possession which was her well-used gardening book, “The English Flower Garden”, 1901, printed by John Murray, in which it was recorded that gardeners in London should grow cannabis. There is a piece in it on Eremurus Robustus, written by my grandfather (the Reverend F. Page-Roberts, the great rosarian), with a splendid engraving of him standing next to Eremurus Robustus plants that tower above him. She chose to give me the book.
Now, that Mount Ventoux painting? Did Francis paint it? Although it hardly looked like his work. Or was it someone else’s effort? The canvas was in pristine condition, not having been recovered from a rubbish heap or anything like that. I can see it now – bright, impasto, oil paint almost as if squeezed straight from the tube, and direct – like a clever child had painted it, and impressive in its way.
Where is that painting now?

That’s two lost Francis Bacon paintings with which I have somehow been connected.

Sunday, March 12, 2017

Freezer Contents

We have a small freezer, or rather, a three-drawer section of a normal refrigerator. So there is no space for large quantities of anything, as when, in the country, I might buy the side of a pig in Smithfield market at 4 a.m., butcher it, and bag it up for a chest-type freezer.
So what I freeze now is minimal, but the items have a regular turnover. What do I freeze?
Ice is one item – for drinks, especially Champagne cocktails (using any fizz) and for our own grape juice, put through a straining bag and drunk with vodka.
I knead bread and make six loaves at a time. These take up space, but are well worth it, making bought bread seem like eating polystyrene (with making toasted breadcrumbs from bought white being an exception).
Basic meat sauce (minced beef and tomato purée), made in quantity over a few hours and bagged up for future dishes (like chilli-con-carne, spaghetti sauce, shepherds pie and such) is a freezer winner.
I have just made and frozen moules farcie. I steam mussels open, place each on a half shell and coat it with soft butter, pressed garlic, salt and chopped parsley. They have to be frozen separately on a tray before being put into one bag to be extracted as wanted for the grill. They are then eaten like hot oysters, with bread to sop up the delicious juices. 
Another constant turnaround item is chicken. I buy two roasters at a time from a Halal butcher and cut off limbs and breasts-on-the-bone to freeze in bags. These items are used for roasting, curries and stews. The bones are pressure-cooked for stock and soup liquid.
A kind neighbour has just given us a load of windfall apples. In one saucepan I have put the flesh and in another the pips, cores and skins. To both I have added sugar and a very little water. The pips and skins have been boiled down and sieved, the resultant pinkish pulp being then added to the white purée made from the fleshy part. This all takes up room in the freezer, so I intend to use it quickly, giving some away, making pies, and having the pulp with raw oats and cream for breakfast.
A few other items are also put into the freezer, like ice cream and chopped scallops surrounded by mashed potato in the shell. As we buy finely-ground coffee from a shop some distance away, part of our purchase is frozen. When the packet is unfrozen and undone, the coffee is as fresh as when bought.

But the main items are those mentioned above. They go to make our quick-turnaround, town-oriented freezer well worth while.

Sunday, February 19, 2017

Beef and Fennel Stew

The weather was getting warmer, but the days for body-warming stews were not yet over. So I wanted a light, springlike beef stew. Why not, I thought, use fennel bulb as the vegetable ingredient? And there was a little ouzo left in a bottle to add to the aniseed flavours. Moreover, fennel bulbs were plentiful and cheap in the market.


You will need:
Fennel bulbs
Stewing beef
Pepper and salt
Star aniseed
Ouzo, Pernod, or other aniseed drink
Beef stock cube
Herb or herbs tied with string (optional)

In a saucepan or casserole, fry a chopped onion in oil until the pieces become transparent. Sprinkle over some plain flour. Stir.
Add chopped stewing beef, 2 star aniseeds, a crumbled beef stock cube, pepper and salt, some ouzo or other aniseed drink (be careful that it doesn’t flare up), lots of chopped fennel, and water to cover.
I first added some prunings of sage, rosemary and thyme tied with string. This adds flavour but is not necessary.
Boil the stew slowly for some 3 hours more or less, depending on the quality of the beef.
Should you have added herbs to the top of the dish, extract and discard them before serving.
The end result is light and delicious, so much so that it would be wise to make enough to serve the following day.


Chicken Stew with Multiple Goodies

This dish has many variations and each one is a winner. The first of my versions started with onions and garlic, flour, black olives, chicken, white wine, pepper and salt. Since then I have varied the ingredients as I thought appropriate for the time. It is a wonderful dish, cooked with your own choice of spices and vegetables. It is so easy to do – and inexpensive as well. 

You will need:
Onions and garlic
Herbs, spice or spices
Black or green olives
Citrus and/or vegetables
Pepper and salt
Stock and/or white wine

Cook chopped onions in oil until transparent in a saucepan that will hold your chicken or chicken pieces pretty snugly.
Add a little flour, spice, spices or herbs of your choice, like ginger, thyme, turmeric, saffron, sage, paprika, five spices, cumin, etc., but only one or two. Don’t overdo it.
Now add potato chunks, lemon or lime chunks, green or black olives (without stones). Or you could add any other fruit or vegetable from prunes to swedes should you feel like it.
Salt and pepper your mix.
Just cover the ingredients with chicken stock, white wine, tea or other stock (made from stock cubes). Bring to the boil and cook the chicken very slowly until the meat is done, say around 25 to 30 minutes, or a little more for a large bird and more solid vegetables.
Serve and eat it right away, or better still, leave the dish until it becomes cold. Then extract the chicken to skin and bone it, returning the carved meat to the lovely juices. Heat through when wanted.
Being a main course that can be made well before other preparations for the meal, there are huge advantages to be had – especially for those at the table who dislike dealing with skin and bones.


Friday, February 10, 2017

Complications of Life

An imaginative journalist writes in our Sunday newspaper.
He has just written on the advantages of divesting ourselves of gadgets large and small.
We are rather in advance of his recommendations.
He suggests that we do without a second car. We no longer even have a first one. But we are blessed with an excellent public transport system, almost at our door.
He says, and must know, that coffee machines are complicated, need much attention, and contribute to considerable waste pollution.
We can tell him that to make the best real coffee you do not need a machine. Just get a supplier of roasted coffee beans to grind your favourite kind on the Turkish ground setting. Then it is a simple matter to put a teaspoon or so of this into cup or mug and over it pour boiling water. Stir once to settle the grounds and add whatever is to your taste. There will be residual grounds at the bottom of the cup or mug, but that is a minor inconvenience en route to obtaining the best coffee simply and at a reasonable price.
Most machinery in the house can cause trouble, expense and wasted time. I am the dishwasher that works, and can do it quickly with the minimum of hot water and with no extra fossil fuel power - only using my own manpower. But I do need the help of nature by soaking crocks, etc. in a sink of detergenty water overnight, thus loosening and softening any adhering food. The resultant clean crockery, cutlery and pans, are then stacked in a draining basket and rinsed with hot water before drying naturally. Cutlery is then stored within sight in a divided container as used in restaurants.
(Margreet uses a clothes washer and dryer.) 

As for those myriad electronic internet gadgets, that seem to try everyone’s patience, Margreet suffers like the rest. And here is where I cheat a bit. I write on a Windows 95 and transfer my words to her Apple via a 3 ½” floppy disk. She is pleased to transfer my words to the ether as she, like most people now, are cleverly hooked.
Our approach to the television is that everything is missable. But for our New Year’s picnic feast in bed, we did find an annually viewed short film from the internet. This brief comedy, featuring Freddie Frinton some years ago, is much loved on the continent and called “Dinner for One”. So stored items on the computer did come to our aid for the celebration.
Of course, in reality, to give up electronic communication in this day and age would, for those on the net, make life both tedious and slow. There’s no going backwards, leaving those of us who believe that simplicity is the key to a happy life to struggle a bit, such as payments via the net being sometimes obligatory. But to call for transport by car, which usually takes less than 4 minutes, and not having to tip the driver, is, to me, a real bonus.
Back to objects around us. Which ones do I treasure and that are failure-free? A hand-operated soup Mouli is a wonderful way of turning mixed ingredients into delicious soup, leaving behind unwanted fibres. A blender for such, chews up everything, often producing a sludge or slime of liquid. But I do use my blender to make breadcrumbs from oven-baked slices of bought white bread. And in it I powder porridge and bran to mix with melted kidney fat for my half coconuts that provide wild birds with winter sustenance.
An electric coffee grinder is used not for coffee but for dry spices with which to make curries. Lately I have used it as the French do for foie gras, by grinding green peppercorns and sea salt to make a condiment. This mixture is also excellent as a dip  for hard boiled eggs, such as quails’ eggs.
Our slow cooker does just that at a mark of 1 ½. Ingredients are put into it and forgotten for hours – depending on the contents. It also cooks slices of aubergine at its maximum heat, on the grill pan part, for a first course, when oil, salt and oregano are then added.
Our toaster doubles up as a heater for Arab bread when each half slice is opened up and devilled eggs added. (Devilled eggs just being scrambled eggs with Dijon mustard.)
An electric kettle, made of toughened glass has been a huge success, showing just how much hot water is wanted and when it is coming to the boil. What scale and impurities form inside are quite visible and can be emptied out.

So I really have moved with the times in some respects, but still maintain that we can rid ourselves of unnecessary encumbrancies, and that simplicity leads to a happier life.