Tower Bridge: A Celebration of 120 Years

A telephone call came through from the curator’s office at Guildhall Art Gallery.

            The curator, Julia Dudkiewitz, was forming an exhibition of pictorial depictions of Tower Bridge since its inception and had wanted to show my large 1954 painting of “Tower Bridge from Bermondsey Wall” that happens to be in the National Collection. She discovered that it hangs on a wall in some far-flung Embassy. Thus, it was unobtainable. So could she come around to see if I had anything else that might be suitable to show.

            Margreet and I rummaged around and found a large self-portrait, done in 1965, made up of dockland shapes – the funnel of the Dollar Bay tug, smoke and steam coming from it, wharves, quays, and a marker buoy. In the background, as the distant focal point, is a rather freely painted Tower Bridge.

            The curator looked at it and declared that she had seen many, many paintings in her life, but not one like this.

            There were also one or two later “Landscape Recalled” pastel depictions of the bridge that she liked. As well, records were held somewhere of other bridge paintings by me - ones sold at Christie’s and through Offer Waterman Gallery. These she would try to track down and borrow.

            The exhibition will be held at Guildhall Art Gallery throughout the month of June 2014, and I am to cut the opening ribbon.

That was the blog that I wrote before the exhibition opened.

For this major exhibition, I had rather rashly agreed to give an opening speech before cutting a ribbon. Now it so happens that I have managed throughout my life to avoid speaking in public. So, for my first, and I hope last effort, I decided to speak “off the cuff”, but with practice and without notes. Night and day I practised my piece, altering it, extending it on request, and getting more and more nervous. I longed for the speech to be over and done with. I could then sleep without the words running through my head.

            As for cutting the tape, I planned to hold on to one bit, snip a piece off, and keep it as a souvenir. Then I heard that the tape bit had to be abandoned, due to some “health and safety” aspect. Perhaps they did not trust me with a pair of sharp scissors.

            The evening of the 2^nd of June 2014 arrived. I was offered words of assurance by friends as we waited in the grand courtyard. Then inside, a drink, and an opening address given by an important and professionally practised dignatory. My turn came.

            If I got the first few words out, I thought that the rest might follow. And they did. I spoke about my rather vinous experiences of drawing in the 1950s and 1960s dockland, thanks to a wonderful pass given to me by The Port of London Authority. I was now on autopilot, and what I said seemed to make people listen and laugh. Then I stumbled, forgetting what I was to say next. I suppose it made me more human. No one seemed to be concerned – except me.

            Then it was over. And seldom have I enjoyed a drink more than the one thrust into my hand.

            The Exhibition in this splendid Guildhall Art Gallery has turned out to be a wonderful one – full of interest, from sepia photographs of the bridge under construction in 1894 to a work so new that its paint may well have not yet dried.

            My own contribution was well presented by the excellent curator, Julia Dudkiewicz. And it was particularly pleasing to me that those who had liked my painting and had bought directly from me, through Christie’s, or Offer Waterman Gallery, and kindly lent them to the show, were able to see their possessions on view to all.

            The magnificent catalogue, reproducing all the work in colour, is a work of art in itself, a fine memento, and a reference vehicle for those studying the history of one of London’s, and the world’s, iconic structures.

           

Three Words

Three words to do with food and drink popped up in our conversation. Margreet, being unfamiliar with any of them, wanted a dictionary definition. Even her smart computer’s dictionaries and my large Concise Collins dictionary were in the least bit helpful.

            Those words were punt, musseau and chabrot – one very English and the others French.

            Starting with punt. In conversation I was referring to the “thief”, “voleur” or indentation at the base of a wine bottle. It took a lot of roundabout questions to the computer before she found definitions. They were mainly of boats and gambling. Although “punt” was not in a dictionary, the definition was found.

There are various reasons for having a punt at the base of a wine bottle, the most common being that it is there for stability and when Champagne bottles need to be turned by hand.

The word musseau, again, did not appear. So I referred her to a recipe in the Oldie Cookbook that I wrote in 1993. There it was, and she had eaten it many times when it had been my turn to cook. It is a wonderful way of consuming leftover meat – especially when served as a main course with hot potatoes.

Slice the meat finely, cutting away any fat. Place the result in a serving dish and cover it with capers, cornichons (gherkins) chopped finely, chopped onion or shallot, pepper, salt, olive oil and vinegar (we make our own cider and wine vinegar in 5 litre jars). Turn the mixture around to marinate. Serve with some fresh herb as garnish.

My own speciality is to add pickled black peppercorns to the musseau’s dressing. Almost fill a jar (having a plastic lid) with black peppercorns. Cover with vinegar. It will take some time for the peppercorns to soften and become ideal for a musseau or other dishes (use sparingly). They will keep indefinitely, but may need a top-up of vinegar over time.

The last word was chabrot. To “faire chabrot” is a French peasant’s custom of pouring red wine into the dregs of his or her soup, swilling it around to blend, warm, and clean the plate, and then drinking the result from the plate’s rim. It may look as peasanty as it is, but delicious. I have found that poorer red wine makes a better chabrot than a good one.

Pigs

A boar, who slept on his back with his legs in the air, having been bought by a farmer for a great sum, had failed dismally at his job and was to be sold at a considerable loss to be turned into sausages. He had to escape if possible.

            On the other side of the Downs a sow, who slept with limbs outstretched like a dog, had also been bought for a lot of money. She had not provided the farmer with a single litter and was to go the slaughterhouse to be turned into legs of pork and chops. She, too, had to escape.

            Both sow and boar managed it. And they ran.

            The boar, on his escape route, saw a couple of male acrobats disporting themselves on Downland turf. He watched and thought to himself that he could learn from their antics and become fertile with his newly-found knowledge.

            The sow, also escaping on downland, saw a couple of lady acrobats cavorting on the sloping grass. She, also, thought that she might learn to become fertile by watching them.

            A nasty storm of black clouds, combined with heavy rain, covered the Downland hills.

            When the storm passed and visibility was clear once more, the pigs found themselves together.

            They fell in love and produced some fine piglets.

Dreams are sometimes quite charming..

GARDEN UPDATE. SPRING 2014

The slats in our garden bench have been sandpapered to a lovely yellow ochre colour (when dry) – set off by arms and legs oiled to a deep mahogany hue.

            The positions of potted winter plants of mahonia and camellia  have been usurped by pots of burgeoning lilies.

            Sweet peas, grown from seed, have taken the place of tomatoes, which are trouble to grow outside and not much better than those in season bought in the market.

            Of our trees, the damson that took the place of a silver leaf fungussed morello cherry, flourishes. But will I be able to espallier it?

            Pears may be few, like apples. But our planted mistletoe thrives on the potted apple tree. Somehow this parasite has become the rare star of our garden. Everyone is interested in it.

            Daffodils and narcissus lasted well, are dead-headed, and over. But our tulips, that look more like peonies, have lasted well, and light up the garden. We didn’t think we would enjoy tulips so much.

            We have planted the kind of busy lizzie that has survived the disease that killed off most varieties.

            Over-wintered rocket went to seed quickly and has been replanted with sown seed saved from last year. It sprouts almost instantly.

            Agapanthus and flox have risen from their outside winter hibernation, as has the Bolivian begonia that over-wintered on our kitchen windowsill.

            Two spears of asparagus appeared in our large asparagus pot and were eaten raw. But as the crop has declined in vigour over the years, five new plants were grown from seed and been planted as replacements. On their seed packet it declares that a crop of spears may be obtained from their first year’s growth. But I am sure that such salesmanship is vastly over optimistic.

            Our only vegetable this year is runner beans. They climb a bamboo frame and give a constant crop of beans – to be eaten at about 4” long. Some pods are left to grow to a foot long or more in length. These are for next year’s seed and wonderful hors d’oeuvres when boiled and served with garlic, salt, and olive oil.

            The grapevine, in its now reduced span, is coming into leaf – a bit late. Last year’s small vintage lies on its lees and will be bottled soon.

            Our much admired and quite wonderful Typhoon rose flourished as usual. A friend found it to be unobtainable. Just why one of the best roses ever produced should be thus, I have no idea. I will take cuttings of it later in the year.

            The peerless pieris continues to astound us with its changing coloured leaves, flowers and berries. What a wonderful small garden plant  (shrub?) it is.

            A carrion crow has just eaten all the young blackbirds from our resident couple’s first brood. They will start again for sure, as they usually have several families each summer.

Guildhall Art Gallery and Tower Bridge

A telephone call came through from the curator’s office at Guildhall Art Gallery.

            The curator was forming an exhibition of depictions of Tower Bridge since its inception and had wanted to show my large 1954 painting of “Tower Bridge from Bermondsey Wall” that happens to be in the National Collection. She discovered that it hangs on some embassy wall in a far-flung outpost of the British Empire. Thus, it was unobtainable. So could she come around to see if I had anything else that was suitable to show.

            I rummaged around and found a large self-portrait, done in 1965, and made up of dockland shapes – steam from a ship’s boiler, wharves, quays, and a marker buoy. And in the background is a rather freely painted Tower Bridge.

            The curator looked at it and declared that she had seen many paintings in her life, but not one like this.

            There were also one or two later Landscape Recalled pastel depictions of the bridge that she liked. As well, were records of some of my other bridge paintings that had been sold at Christie’s and through Offer Waterman Gallery. These she would try to track down.

            The exhibition will be held at Guildhall Art Gallery through the month of June 2014, and I am to cut the opening ribbon.

Runner Bean Seeds

Runner beans are a wonderful vegetable. You can grow them in almost any garden or allotment, or even in drained containers on a town balcony.

            In well-drained soil and up a bamboo frame they will produce an abundance of beans (best harvested about 4” long) to be topped and tailed and boiled for 5 minutes.

            Serve with melted butter and salt, perhaps adding just a spot of vinegar (enough not to notice it) and a pressed garlic clove or two.

            The plants have more to offer. Their scarlet flowers are a lovely adornment to a garden, and their seeds a gourmet’s delight. The flowers will attract bees, bumblebees and hover flies – thus helping to pollinate all round.

            Harvest the beans with regularity from mid summer to late autumn.

            Some of the beans will hide from view, grow too long, and become too large and stringy to enjoy. Leave these to mature on the vine with some that you will allow to grow to beyond edible size. These large beans (sometimes 1’ or so long) will fatten and dry in warm weather, their skins becoming brittle.

            (When I was a boy the beans were left to become large and stringy. The strings were cut off and the beans sliced diagonally. Then they were either eaten or salted down in jars for the winter.)

            As soon as there are signs of mould, harvest all the large beans and place them on wire racks indoors to dry. Spread them out or they will rot.

            When the skins are dry, pod the beans. Save some for next year’s seed and keep the rest handy for eating in the fingers with drinks.

            For this delight, boil the dried beans until soft enough to eat (the time taken will depend on the dryness of the beans, but test after about half an hour). When the beans are ready to eat, place them in a bowl with some salt (sea salt is good), a little olive oil and a pressed garlic clove. Turn them over well and eat from the hand – having table napkins or kitchen paper handy for oily fingers.

Olives and Wine

 

Olives go well with wine – for most people.

            For many years I have had a snap-down jar of black Kalamata olives steeping in a certain amount of olive oil. This oil has become darker and tastier over time and imparts extra flavour to the olives. The jar has to be topped up with olives and oil when necessary, and tipped up regularly to coat them with the fragrant and tasty liquid.

            These olives, eaten by our guests, have their stones dropped into a wooden receptacle when eaten inside during wintertime, and thrown with abandon into the garden in summertime.

            Stoned green olives are now available at a reasonable price in certain supermarkets. Being rather dull on their own, having been emasculated as it were, I have been experimenting with taste-enhancing methods.

            With my own ideas, and the advice of a guest who immediately telephoned her Greek/South African sister in Cape Town for advice, I am settling on the system of draining the olives of their brine, adding olive oil, pressed garlic, plenty of lemon juice, crushed coriander seeds and thyme. Marjoram was also good, but I think that thyme is the better.

            Regularly upending the jar over time helps to improve the flavour. The result has been a great success. But kitchen paper towels or table napkins are essential for oily fingers as the use of cocktail sticks, short or long, has turned out to be a bit mean and tedious – though I’m sure that the Health and Safety brigade would disapprove of guests grabbing them from their bowl by hand.

            I have written a lot on wine over the years. In that time I have come across much skulduggery and even more snobbism and pretentiousness.

            Good, drinkable wine can still be obtained at a reasonable price for everyday drinking. But you must look around for it and not be ashamed to offer and drink some of the cheapest. Most wines available are quite drinkable, even in the lower price range, but beware the most advertised.

            I rather favour decanting wine, having a two-bottle decanter in use for red wine, and a litre one, kept in a vacuum container in the door of a refrigerator, for white.

            For the white, I often mix the rather acidic sauvignon blanc with the softer chardonnay. It happens that both of these on my shelves at present are Chilean.

            For the reds, almost any two bottles will blend satisfactorily. When one wine has too high an alcohol content for its own good (14% and more), a softer, less alcoholic one, will complement and enhance it.

            French wines for these blends are no longer of enough interest, being either  too expensive or of poor quality. But wines from South Africa in particular, Australia, Chile and Argentina, are generally more than adequate, and ideal for blending. And it is surprising how well wines from different countries blend.

            Take the nonsense out of wine-speak. In all my writing on the subject I have never used it. Just enjoy the fun of wine – drinking good plonk for most of the time and occasionally something really special. This will make the best seem even better. And if you want to remember tastes and styles of wine, use your own, possibly exaggerated, words – but keep them to yourself.

 

Overpriced wine

I have just had lunch at a tapas restaurant where a bottle of very passable red wine from Piemonte and an equally passable white from Sicily cost £7.50 a bottle. At this price, the patron was still probably making a good profit. Wines from other well-known regions on his wine list were at the usual “restaurant” prices. The owner of the establishment, quite sensibly, realises that many of us want a good and reasonably priced house wine with our meals.

A restaurant where we used to eat now charges £35 for its cheapest red. We no longer eat there.

Restaurateurs are too greedy when it comes to pricing their wine. Over the years we have, like other people, become accustomed to this grasping practice of having to pay well over the odds for a civilised beverage that for many, nowadays, has become an essential part of a restaurant meal.

If I were young and computer-literate, I would start a web site where people could contribute to a list of restaurants around the country where the owners price a house wine without greed.

Should anyone start such a site I would divulge just where we enjoy perfectly good wines with our meal for £7.50 a bottle.

Would someone please set up such a source of vital information to those of us who eat out occasionally and don’t want to feel ripped off by unnecessary avarice.

 

Pheasant and Partridge in Cabbage

I remember well that this was a dish on the menu in a Paris restaurant where Mozart ate. So he probably ate the same. It was for partridge cooked in cabbage. When I returned to England I made a guess as to how it was made and have thrived on it ever since. Simply put: a cabbage is cut up finely and put into a casserole. On to it you add pepper and salt, some olive oil and white wine. This is worked with the hands until the cabbage is glistening. Then partridges or pheasants are nestled into it, potatoes added and the result cooked with the lid on in the oven for an hour at least – or two. Margreet’s version takes longer to prepare but shorter to cook. It is richer, and very good.

 

PHEASANT AND PARTRIDGE IN CABBAGE (Margreet’s recipe simplified a bit by Jim)

 

You will need:

Streaky bacon on the fat side (about 6 rashers)

Pheasant(s) or partridge(s)

Cabbage of your choice

Potatoes

A herb of your choice (fresh or dried)

Pepper and salt

White wine

 

Chop up and fry morsels of streaky bacon until crisp, pouring off the bacon fat into a casserole – or, if using the casserole, extract the bacon from the resultant fat. Keep the bacon bits until serving the dish.

In a large saucepan boil, in salted water, a cabbage, cut up finely, with several potatoes, cut to walnut size. Only add enough water to about the half way mark, allowing the cabbage/potato mix to boil and steam. Time it for 20 minutes, and well strain the contents, using the liquid as an addition to soup, or the start of one.

In the casserole with the bacon fat and your chosen herb (it could be thyme or rosemary), cook the pepper and salted bird(s), turning them as you do so, giving pheasant 10 minutes or 5 for partridge. Take them out.

Partridges may be halved beforehand with a heavy bladed and sharp knife by pressing its sharp edge down the side of a breastbone, using considerable force. It’s not easy to do. 

Now put the drained cabbage and potato mix into the casserole, adding a slosh of white wine for moisture. Give it a gentle stir. Then nestle the birds into it.

With the lid on the casserole, cook the dish in a pre-heated medium to hot  oven for about 3/4of an hour.

Place the partridge or carved pheasant meat on a plate and surround with the potato/cabbage mixture – which will remind you a bit of bubble and squeak. Sprinkle over the crispy bacon bits.

This is a dish that can be prepared well beforehand, then oven-heated and served at the table exactly when wanted.

 

 

Looking Backwards

 

In our conservation area of London, we had elegant and simple street lighting. A plain iron pole with an arched, “crane’s neck” top, distributed a mellow, yellowish light on to the street and pavement below.

            Then, one day, a notice appeared through the door asking for a considerable monetary contribution to pay for a change from these lights to fake gas lamps “converted” to electricity.

            Considering that these were in excessively bad taste (“taste” being very subjective) we declined – but to no avail.

            The pantomime set, “Victorian”, gas lamps are up and running, far taller than would meet with the approval of a lamp lighter – who would also have too high a cross piece on which to rest his ladder. They spread a harsh, cold light.

Ornamentation consists of moulded collars, slipped down the poles to be attached by screws. These are meant to represent the shapes of Victorian cast iron originals, in use when gas lighting was invented. I think that a royal personage would approve of the conversion.

Who instigated this rearward-looking move? Perhaps it was owners of houses in a nearby, late Georgian square who rent out their abodes to film-makers of period dramas. But even to an artistic director, these lampposts will still not look quite right.     Will the next monetary request be for plastic half timbering to nail on to our houses?

Change is inevitable and necessary. But surely change in buildings and street furniture should represent the period in which we live. Thank heavens the Georgians did not copy Stuart architecture, or architects in the early twentieth century the Victorians (well, some did).

What it has done is to make us much more aware of real, original, cast iron street furniture, which is viewed with renewed affection.

 

House and Garden Ideas

 

I am sure that most of us adapt a house, flat or garden to suit our way of living in it, making each abode unique in its way.

            I have loved the houses in which I have lived and, in adapting them, have created items of interest to buyers when I have had to leave - and in doing so made a good profit on each.

            So what ideas embellish where Margreet and I now live?

            Starting at the far end of our small garden, there are anti-cat and –fox defined boundaries. From where the animals might leap or land there is a coating of car grease mixed with hot chilli powder. Sometimes there are anti-pigeon spikes. It seems to work – if occasionally unsightly.

            By a short length of late Georgian wall at the end of the garden we keep a small pile of garden growbags. These are light in weight and will fit snugly across our inside front door in case of floods or flood warnings.

            A lidded compost bin (emptied annually) at the end of the garden is a breeding ground for mosquitoes and flies. So, in warm weather, before adding kitchen waste or a little sifted garden soil (excellent), I lift the lid momentarily, and spray in insect killer. In a minute or two all is silent inside. Then waste may be added.

            Every so often, compost in the bin is cut through with a coarse-toothed saw. Cut several times and in two directions, the compost is thus aerated and chopped. The result when the lower part is emptied into a holding bin or on to the garden in early springtime, is fine, crumbly, loamy compost – beautiful to smell and handle.

            A mirror on the back wall of our small, octagonal shed (summerhouse) reflects and multiplies one candle power of light from the mirror and five glazed sides in evenings when we eat, drink and relax with our season-changing garden in front of us. When it is raining, and the drops fall on to the roof in staccato fashion, there is cosiness and magic in the air.

            We peer out of our “shed” through a grapevine arbour which offers shade in summer and where bunches of wine grapes hang in autumn.

            This arbour of reinforcing rod and galvanised wire is seen in perspective from the house. Its nearby arches are more rounded than the flatter ones beyond. And they are positioned nearer together the farther they are away. This all goes to give a false perspective, making the arbour seem much larger than it really is. And from the shed end, this configuration of arches seems to magnify the garden – rather like looking through binoculars or a telescope.

            We like to burn incense (joss) sticks outside our shed to ward off insects and scent the evening air. Some lovely clove-scented examples were once on sale in a Hilversum market, in Holland, but no longer. So I took bland ones and coated them with my beeswax/white spirit painting medium (polish, too) and rolled them in powdered cloves. It worked, but, in reality, mostly in the imagination, as the original coating on the stick gave off the more dominant scent. This might be an idea to tinker with, but now we have found clove sticks on the Internet.

            A hand bell beneath the arbour summons birds in winter when I proffer food. This means that they can forage elsewhere and know that they will not miss getting their fair share of my offerings.

            A tall, earthenware strawberry pot failed for its initial purpose, and now has pelargoniums (geraniums) growing out of its orifices instead of strawberries. On top rests a large, rustically crude, Chinese (I think) dish that makes a fine bird bath and place for them to quench their thirst. When watering the pelargoniums after temporarily removing the bath dish, I found that water rushed out of the upper holes and left the lower plants unwatered. The remedy was to drill holes in a plastic flowerpot and sink this pot into the strawberry pot’s earth. Now, when the plastic pot is filled with water to overflowing, all pelargoniums with root systems at varying heights in the pot get a drink.

            Painted to match the London stock brickwork of the house are bird, bat and insect boxes that seem to be part of the house, and cater for creatures that may or may not want to share their lives with us. Made from discarded wood on rubbish skips, and painted with my own ground colour and beeswax medium, they are just as I made them some 15 years ago, with no visible signs of deterioration in either construction or colour.

            A kitchen window and glazed door to the garden have string pinned across them to tell birds that the reflection of blue sky in them is just reflection and not real sky. This was done after a pigeon crashed through window glass into the kitchen on a clear day.

            Once inside the 1830s house there seem to be fewer ideas as you pass by black olives maturing in dark olive oil and salty, stoned green olives, coated in a mixture of lemon juice, coriander seeds, pressed garlic, thyme and olive oil. These jars are upended as often as I remember to do it. 

Due mainly to lack of space, whoever is cooking in the kitchen has everything at hand within 1½ pace. Cooking is thus ergonomically arranged, but allows only one cook at a time to be at work (we take turns to cook every other week).

In the kitchen is a new leaf tea “bucket” for cups and mugs. This has now been re-designed with a copper wire loop so that fingers are not scalded when it is being extracted from a large teacup.

Also in the kitchen is a radio-controlled clock. They are on other walls as well as this modestly priced clock not only tells the time to the millisecond, but also alters time automatically when clocks have to be put forward or back. And each works for a year on a small battery.

            Wine, held in wooden bins on a wall, is sometimes blended before being served. If a good and powerful red wine is too high in alcohol for its own good (14% or more), it is mixed with a lighter, less alcoholic wine.

            Dishes and pots are soaked in sink water overnight, washed by hand, rinsed and left to dry in a rack. If well organised, this method of washing up actually saves time, energy, water and space.

            A home made wooden salt box needs only one hand to extract either cooking or sea salt.

            There are no drawers or cupboards. Almost all wants are stored visibly – including knives, forks and spoons that lie in open bins as in a restaurant.

            Wine and cider vinegar, made by mothers of vinegar in 5 litre earthenware pots, is emptied into bottles for home use and gifts, each leaving behind an active live mother after her old and dying companions have been extracted and discarded. The cider vinegar mother was obtained in Normandy from an hotelier who had many a request for female company, but never for a mother.

            A candelabra of 5 candles, suspended from the ceiling on a chain, can be raised or lowered with the use of butcher’s meat hooks.

            When Christmas arrives there is a connection between the warm house and cold garden. I decorate the part-glazed front door with many (rather vulgar) flashing coloured lights and tinsel. Now that I have managed to grow mistletoe on an apple tree in a pot, this will also be harvested to decorate the doorway – its magical properties (being pagan) adding balance to the season.

            Pictures, that almost cover the internal house walls, making re-decoration unnecessary, are changed, added to, or stored constantly, so they are noticed and seen anew.

            Handles on the stair well are positioned accurately so that climbing or descending is made easy for both the agile and infirm.

            Rainwater passing around an inward opening window at the top of the house (I’ve never managed to stop it) is channelled, and drips through a tube into a bucket, ensuring a dry wall beneath - and making a nice noise as it does so.

            On top of our standard mattress lies one of firm rubber, topped by a very soft thinner one. The result is not only a comfortable bed, but also one that has been raised to a convenient height.

            When on holiday I have noticed what a strain it can be to get out of a bath. A handle, screwed to the inside of a dormer window, makes getting in or out of our bath an easy matter and, like the handles on the stair well more helpful as one gets older.

            The base of a lightweight aluminium ladder lies above a trap door to the loft space. The ladder is taken down to provide access to the loft, where pictures are stored, and for a high cubby-hole where paint is kept and demijohns of wine are left to complete their full and malolactic fermentations before being bottled in the new year. It is also used in the garden for pruning vines and harvesting grapes for winemaking.

            Items and ideas such as those mentioned go to make the house and garden easier to run, and to fit in with our way of living. In time to come, I hope that others will appreciate them.

 

Paint and Polish

 

Time as an art student (for me very early 1950s) was a chance to experiment with artistic techniques. Of course, I would use oil paint. But with meagre resources, this was an expensive item to buy.

            So I bought empty tin/lead tubes (mostly large ones) and, to fill them, ground my own colours – either from powder colour or from more solid ingredients. (Working sometimes in the theatre, powder colour was easily obtainable, and cheap.)

The ground colour was mixed with linseed oil (probably the slower drying raw in preference to the quicker drying boiled) to help it set. I also added a little non-drying oil, like olive oil, to keep the paint moist in the tube.

These open-ended tubes were filled with my home-made paint, using a spatula. They were then folded over at the open end, crimped together, and Vaseline applied to the cap’s thread and around the top of the tube.

Over 65 years later I am still using that home-made, home-tubed paint, even after the tubes lay idle for 25 years when I turned to writing.

The key to success when using artist’s oil colour is the medium used to mix with it. So those researches at art school allowed me to assess the pros and cons of materials, and of paint and medium in particular.

I acquired a book (now missing) which told of almost every conceivable medium and how to make and use it.

The most successful of my experiments was a vastly superior and outright winner – emulsified beeswax. It formed a matt surface on canvas and primed paper.

This beeswax not only made a splendid medium for oil paint that I have used ever since discovering it, but it has had the added benefit of being wonderful furniture and wooden sculpture polish.

Briefly, lumps of beeswax are melted in a galvanised iron bucket of boiling water. When still hot, concentrated ammonia is added to emulsify it. The result is then allowed to cool. A yellow wax crust will form on the surface, which is penetrated to allow the ammonia laden water to be poured away from beneath it.

The crust is then warmed, before turpentine substitute or white spirit is added. Oil of spike lavender can also be added (though I have since found this to be unnecessary, except to add a pleasant smell). The wax is warmed again (for fluidity) and bottled, then to be used as medium for oil paint, or as polish.

Mixed with bought or home-made oil paint, the result forms a formidable and long-lasting coloured surface.

Bird boxes, exposed to the elements, painted as brickwork to match our London stock brick, east-facing house wall, has, in ten years, not deteriorated one iota. And a newly painted outside wooden sculpture should do the same.

Smooth surfaces painted with this oil paint/beeswax mixture may also be polished when hardened.

As for using any paint/medium mixture, constant use will enable the artist to forget the ingredients used, knowing its qualities and limitations, and enable him or her to concentrate on the content of the work of art in progress.

 

a London Garden (with mid-summer update)

This is about our small garden in London that only measures about 3 ½ paces across and 13 paces long. Then I add a 2013 mid-summer survey of it.

            The house wall stands at one end and a 1.5 metre wall surrounds the rest. So it is a little walled garden. It runs east-west, offering its four walls to exploit.

            Over some 25 years I have chosen or have been given plants for it. And a few gift ones I might well have chosen had I known how well they fitted in.

            The garden is all paved with flagstones, except for an east-west strip of soil running along the south-facing wall.

            Much of one end of the garden is taken up by a lovely cedar, octagonal, 5-side-glazed summerhouse, which we call our shed. This is a den/haven in which we can sit for much of the year – except in the cold of winter.

            Spanning almost a quarter of the garden from side wall to side wall, is a reinforcing rod and galvanised wire arched arbour. Over it grow Triomphe d’Alsace and Seyval Blanc grapes to give shade to a wooden bench beneath in hot weather, leaves for stuffing, and grapes for wine or juice in late summer.

            Hanging from its arches, above a marble garden table, is an odd arrangement of bird feeders. One of niger seeds to feed goldfinches, another is furnished with peanuts for blue and great tits, two hold sunflower seeds, also for tits, and the last for unwanted kitchen fat and fat balls (home made) during wintertime.

            There is another, much smaller (bamboo) arbour, the top of which springs from vine-training wires above a wall and protrudes over the garden, forming a narrow, shady tunnel beneath. Up and over this arbour grow runner beans and tomatoes alternately each year. Bees and bumblebees love the orange-coloured bean flowers, helping to provide bounteous crops which are grown from our own seed, saved each year.

            On the north-facing wall was a morello cherry tree, which, over several years,  succumbed to silverleaf fungus. It has been replaced by a damson (Merryweather), trained in espalier fashion – which I hope it won’t object to.

            Along this north-facing wall in pots, are a conference pear and an apple – into the latter of which I have “planted” mistletoe with success. We do not expect much fruit from these trees, being quite happy with about half a dozen from each every year.

            And standing just away from this wall is a 5’ high wood sculpture of lovers that was carved out of a lump of elm-diseased wood in the late 1970s. Always outside in the elements, the couple split and rotted away inside. The piece has now been hollowed out, restored and painted – a little garishly.

            Intruding from the south-facing wall, almost 3/4 of the distance toward the north-facing wall, is a peninsular of cascading, loose brickwork, on which perch pots of flowers.

            Some pots are changed over the seasons, and top ones being anchored with string in winter to prevent them from being blown over.

The pots contain pyracantha (yellow winter flowers, with birds loving the berries, spectacular and also loved by bees), phlox (purple and a surprisingly successful gift to us), pelargoniums (springing from the holes of a strawberry pot – with a bird bath resting on top), a Bolivian begonia (scarlet flowers with its corm saved in sand through the winter), a pieris (a plant that is for ever doing something or other of interest), two fuchsias (lovely flowers, loved by bumblebees), a buddleia (purple flowers for butterflies),  a malva (white as white can be with a limited season), petunias (never dead-headed, long-lasting and taking the place of impatiens, which seems to have succumbed to disease nationally), lavender (for its leaf colour as much as its fragrant flowers), a true geranium (a new gift), a solanum (given to us and told that its cunquat-like berries are tasteless), sorrel (excellent in green salads, purée and in an omelette, and the first edible green leaf to appear in springtime), thyme, rosemary, mint, coriander, rocket (which we grow from our own seed each year), asparagus (providing a few spears annually, which we eat raw), roses (Rev. P-R, and two Typhoon - the best rose ever), two bay trees (one domed and 35 years old and the other pointing to heaven as we were given it by a dying woman who had turned to Christianity), a trough of snowdrops and crocus (disappointing), a honeysuckle and, rather hidden away, a poor hydrangea and a hybiscus that doesn’t really fit in.

            Birds are our garden mobiles and friends – dunnocks, blackbirds, green and gold finches, blue and great tits, robin, wood pigeons and the passing wren. We treasure them, and give them food and water. Mice seem to have left the garden now that their home in the wooden sculpture has had their nest and the rotten wood extracted and thrown away with the rubbish.

            So what of our mid-summer (August) update for this 2013 year?

            During the winter I reduced our vine extent by almost a third. If it was that, or  the year was the cause, the grape bunches are larger and more prolific than usual. So we expect to make wine.

            All plants, trees and shrubs have done very well. The three buckets of early potatoes (Charlotte) provided us with tasty dishes. There has been no blight on the Gardeners’ Delight tomatoes, but they are late to ripen. Our bamboo canopy of runner beans has already provided us with a considerable crop (harvested and eaten when only about 3”to 4” long).

            I think of it as a man’s garden, compact and a bit austere, and somewhat changed since BBC2 made a Gardener’s World programme here, inasmuch as there are now extra plants and more colour.

            Guests love this garden sanctuary, seeing it as a cosy and colourful environment in which to drink wine, talk freely, and eat my home-made cheese pancakes. I offer Kalamata black olives that are stored in a snap-down jar with olive oil. This oil darkens with age and adds extra flavour to the olives. As the jar is topped up when necessary, some olives in it might be quite old and soft, while others are harder and more astringent.

            When guests eat these olives they are invited to throw the stones at the south-facing wall, where they fall to the earth below.  There is something about being able to do this that appeals to the child in most of us.

 

The Computer World

I am most fortunate, due to age, in having come late to the world of iPhones, computers, iPads and all the rest.

            I see young children who are far more savvy than I am when dealing with the internet, their computer games and the magic that appears on the screens of these marvels of electronics.

            And I also see the time-consuming worries, cost, and struggles that people have in keeping up with the times – being engulfed in the mighty forces of consumerism.

            I appreciate that the world now revolves around these modern masterpieces - gadgets that almost think for you, but often in their own language.

            After much cajoling, I managed to convince Margreet that with wonderful public transport at the door, to own a car was unnecessary.

            There have appeared a few inconveniences in being without one, all of them surmountable, and at little cost. The relief, the pleasure obtained, time saved, and trouble avoided, have all formed an enormous plus to our lives.

            But my rather flippant suggestion that she gives up her various electronic devices has been met with incredulous scorn. Yet hardly a day goes by without some hair-raising computer glitch intruding on our combined lives.

            Even home conversation has diminished since electronic Scrabble can now be played night and day (not by me) with friends and relatives near and far afield.

            I have always believed that simplicity is the key to a happy life.

            People may laugh at this now outdated dictum for happiness, which is derived from an approach to life where my ideas of happiness have been two-fold - not to be ambitious and to have no expectations.

            The result is a life of achievements and delightful surprises, with even the smallest success, seeming to be a wonderful bonus. They are ideas quite out of tune with those of this age.

            As for computers, I concede, partially, to their use in my life, as I write this blog on a floppy disk Windows 95 and hand it to Margreet, who has a gadget on her sophisticated machine that dispatches it into the ether.

            Perhaps I should stop asking her to be the medium between me and the world of mass communication. But what is the point in writing if no one is going to read it?

            Good or bad my words may be (and I don’t really care) but I dearly love to put words on paper.

            And computers, whatever ill I may think of them, do justify their place, and have clearly become quite indispensable to most people, despite a mounting degree of criminal intrusion.

            Hopefully, there is still a place for pen and ink. Isn’t it wonderful to receive a hand written letter nowadays? I write them.

            I would like to shout “Luddites rise up”.

            But we would have no chance of success.

            It’s far, far too late.

American Justice

I have been to America several times. The first was as a refugee in early wartime, returning by convoy across the Atlantic to join the RAF in 1942 when old enough to do so.

            Returning to the US almost right away in wartime, I was sent to Oklahoma to learn to become a pilot.

            I was back there again, post-war, to be married in front of the fireplace at my great friend’s house in New Haven. A Jewish gentleman who we found through the Yellow Pages conducted the ceremony. Then four of us went to New Hampshire on honeymoon.

            Back once more in America, this time with a baby, I was with my now ex-wife who was a Post-Graduate Fellow at Yale. I shudder to recall a cruel, hoax telephone call there, supposedly from the Police Station, to inform me that my wife had been shot and that she was in a critical condition. When I telephoned the Police Station to learn more, they knew nothing of it. Matters like that, and thus the sound of an American telephone bell with which the incident was connected, stay in one’s head for ever.

            Then came a visit once more, this time with my new wife.

            So, one way or another, quite a part of my life has been spent in the USA. And I have had close connections with it through almost weekly correspondence over some 60 years with my great friend, the recently deceased and much honoured historian, Edmund S. Morgan.

            Perhaps it was those first few years of Rob’s life in Connecticut that was

the magnet that drew my firstborn back to America. Or was it the lure that seems to catch the young of this world – a New World, glamour, riches, fame and all the rest (mostly as seen in the “movies”)?

            I have found most Americans to be extremely friendly, but the country, despite a common language, very “foreign”. I have never felt really at ease there. Perhaps it is the sheer size of the place, and the feeling of just being merely a  consumer.

            Be that as it may, this slightly wayward “American” son of mine, after London work as a bicycle dispatch rider (averaging 80 miles a day) to find the Company with whom he would like to work with his computer (and did), then decided to settle in Los Angeles, California.

            Being very imaginative, artistic, creative and resilient, he found sporadic work with his computer, designing record sleeves, book covers (including four of mine), work behind bars (as a barman who spun bottles and glasses around the place), running restaurants, making films, designing and making scenery for TV commercials and much else.

            Then he found his true métier – as a prop master, specialising in fake explosions (blowing up a Boeing 747 airliner being his largest) and general ordinance – canons, hand guns, and all the things that go flash and bang. He was in his element, and happy as a sand boy.

            He wrote that he had just landed a job as prop master for a major film, and that there was other film work in the offing. There was even interest in him writing his autobiography.

            We then heard from a great friend of his in London that he was in a Los Angeles jail.

            He managed to send me a letter as he was awaiting trial. It was folded into a small square, and pencil-written in capital letters on lined paper torn from an exercise book.

            His following words, with his permission to print them, speak for themselves:

           

Dated 14 of September 2012

IT WOULD SEEM THAT I AM IN THE HANDS OF THE AMERICAN GOVERNMENT, I WOULD SAY “JUSTICE SYSTEM” BUT I AM NOT WITNESSING MUCH OF THAT AT THE MINUTE. JUST WHEN I HAD IT ALL WORKED OUT AND FOUND MY WAY FORWARD IN LIFE. IT SEEMS THAT I MAY BE BACK TO SQUARE ONE. WELL, I SUPPOSE MY LIFE HAS BEEN ANYTHING BUT NORMAL SO FAR AND I SHOULDN’T BE SURPRISED BY THESE SUDDEN TURN AROUNDS.

IT ALL BEGAN THREE WEEKS AGO WHEN I WAS ENTERTAINING MY NEIGHBOUR AND A FRIEND. WE WERE HAVING A FEW GLASSES OF WINE AND I WAS TELLING THEM ALL ABOUT MY NEXT MOVIE PROJECT. AS THE AFTERNOON CONTINUED, I STARTED TO SHOW THEM THE PROPS I WAS GOING TO USE (MOSTLY PLASTIC GUNS, AMMO AND FAKE DYNAMITE STICKS). IN AMONGST ALL THIS WAS ONE WORKING SHOTGUN WHICH I ALSO USE AS A PROP ON TV SHOWS.

THE GUN APPEARED TO BE JAMMED SO I TOOK IT OUT TO THE BALCONY FOR A BETTER LOOK. WHEN I FINALLY MANAGED TO RELEASE THE PUMP ACTION IT WENT OFF AND SHOT INTO THE AIR. LUCKILLY NO ONE WAS HURT AND IT SHOT STRAIGHT UP. IT SHOCKED US A BIT AND I HAD NO IDEA THERE WAS A SHELL STUCK IN THERE. ANYWAY, WE THOUGHT NOTHING OF IT AND TOOK OUR DRINKS DOWN TO THE POOL AS IF NOTHING HAD HAPPENED (JUST ANOTHR GUN SHOT IN HOLLYWOOD).

WHAT HAPPENED NEXT WAS STRAIGHT OUT OF THE MOVIES. FROM THE POOL WE COULD SEE HELICOPTERS BUZZING ABOUT AND THOUGHT NOTHING OF IT. JUST ANOTHER NORMAL DAY. ANYWAY, A FEW MINUTES AFTER WE GOT BACKTO MY FLAT THE DOOR OPENED, FOLLOWED BY A FULL SWAT TEAM WITH ASSAULT RIFLES AND RIOT GEAR. WE WERE ALL CUFFED AND LED OUT INTO THE STREET WHERE THERE WAS QUITE A SCENE, ROADS CLOSED OFF, TENANTS EVACUATED, PRESS CAMERAS FLASHING AND THE ARRIVAL OF THE BOMB SQUAD. IT WAS CLEAR AT THIS POINT THAT THE CITY HAD SLIGHTLY OVER-REACTED TO THE WHOLE THING.

APPARENTLY, YOU ARE GUILTY UNTIL PROVEN INNOCENT OVER HERE. SO I WAS HAULED OFF TO JAIL WITH ACCUSATIONS OF SHOOTING AT CONSTRUCTION WORKERS, HELICOPTERS, AND BEING INVOLVED IN TERRIORISM… GREAT!

IT SEEMS THAT ONE PRESS HELICOPTER HAD TO MAKE AN EMERGENCY LANDING BECAUSE OF ENGINE FAILURE. BUT THAT’S REALLY NOTHING TO DO WITH ME. THEY SHOULDN’T HAVE BEEN SO NOSEY.

SO HERE I WAIT FOR AT LEAST ANOTHER MONTH WHILST THE LAWYERS STRIP AWAY ALL THE OVERDONE SENSATIONALISM AND SEE IT FOR WHAT IT ACTUALLY WAS, A NEGLIGENT ACCIDENT.

IN THE MEANTIME THEY MOVE ME AROUND THRU THE SYSTEM AND BECAUSE OF MY PRESENT SECURITY LEVEL I AM IN WITH GANG MEMBERS, MURDERERS AND ALL KINDS OF FUN PEOPLE. I CAN’T HELP THINKING THAT THIS ENGLISHMAN IS SLIGHTLY OUT OF PLACE HERE. MOST PEOPLE IN L.A. HAVE BEEN IN JAIL AT LEAST ONCE AND FOR CELEBRETIES IT’S REALLY QUITE FASHIONABLE. AND I HAVN’T BEEN IN ANY MAJOR RIOTS YET, WHICH IS GOOD…

I GUESS I HAVE TO LOOK AT THIS WHOLE THING AS A NEW BEGINNING WHICH IS JUST THE START OF ANOTHER CHAPTER IN MY SOMEWHAT COLOURFUL LIFE.

DUE TO THIS “ONE SECOND” INCIDENT I HAVE MISSED OUT ON A MAJOR FEATURE FILM IN CONNECTICUT AND AM GIVING UP MY LOVELY FLAT AND DISPERSING MY POSSESSIONS AMONGST MY FRIENDS.

THE CRAZY THING IS THAT I HAVE NO IDEA HOW LONG THIS WHOLE THING WILL TAKE, MAYBE A MONTH, MAYBE YEARS… I WILL KNOW MORE AFTER THE HEARING IN A FEW WEEKS. UNTIL THEN I WILL WRITE OF MY EXPERIENCES AND TRY TO STAY POSITIVE IN THIS HELL HOLE.

LUCKILLY, I HAVE SOME VERY GOOD FRIENDS WHO ARE TAKING CARE OF MY AFFAIRS AND DOING DAMAGE CONTROL ON MY REPUTATION (WHICH WAS RATHER GOOD BEFORE THIS). ANYWAY, I’M SORRY IF THIS HAS BROUGHT ANY EMBARASSMENT OR SHAME ON THE FAMILY. BUT THIS TIME IT REALLY ”WASN’T MY FAULT “.

LOVE TO EVERYONE AND I MISS YOU ALL VERY MUCH.

(DON’T WORRY, I’VE BEEN THRU WORSE THAN THIS…)

Almost two months from being arrested he was moved to a jail, away from murderers and gangsters to where he was able to “get some sunshine and walk around a bit”

Then, after three court postponements, two and a half months behind bars, and a considerable reduction in bail money from the initial $250,000 (yes, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars), he was out on bail pending a (hopefully) final court appearance. (Surely there’s grist to the mill in all this for a book, a play, or an autobiography.)

            It seems that he was having to pay for the gross misjudgement and expense incurred on the part of the LA Police Force, having mistaken him (a prop master) for a terrorist (his rooms were filled with props, including fake guns and make-believe explosives).

            Shortly after being released on bail, he telephoned to say that he was in the mountains, trying to re-adjust to life outside prison. There would be two more court hearings. But he sounded very up-beat about the future.

            We then heard that that he would be back in court at a date a month away – being four and a half months after his arrest. Then he would file a notice for dismissal, when they would make an offer (whatever that means). The court (or police, perhaps) retained his passport. With the court case looming it was difficult for him to get any work.

            In early December 2012 Rob telephoned to say that, despite being on bail, he had found a job and created an explosion (his speciality). He hoped that his case would be settled out of court before the trial date. And due to frightful murders of school children in Connecticut, he was no longer public enemy number one, and even somewhat of a hero when welcomed back by his friends after his feat of endurance in jail.

            At last the date of his trial arrived (8 January 2013 after 5 months and 4 postponements) – and went. We heard nothing. Was that good or bad news?

            Then an email arrived. It said:

Went to court in front of the beak yesterday, all is looking good. They are going to reduce the charges or possibly dismiss the whole thing, but the legal system takes forever here. I have to go back on the 31^st Jan to finish the whole thing.

Then I get my passport back just in time to fly to Costa Rica and host a new National Geographic show on a volcano.

Wow, talk about cutting it close…

(signed) The Hollywood Terrorist

The trial day came – and went.

            We waited for news, and waited, and waited, and waited.

            Four days later rumour reached us that all was well, but that he was now a person of no importance.

Again we waited – this time for confirmation that all really was well.

            Then, seven days after the trial, Rob telephoned, through a very low volume and bad line, to say that his passport had been returned but that he was still on bail.

            But the trials are not yet over. They will be two-pronged – a hearing with Immigration and one with the department that deals with the misuse of firearms, of which one will involve a fine and the other a short stay in a more comfortable jail. He added that the system from which he is trying to free himself is the second largest money-spinner in America after religion.

Then, on the 21^st of February 2013, a card arrives to say that he was off to Costa Rica to co-host a pilot adventure show for National Geographic, hiking through the jungle, through crocodile-infested streams, then up a volcano and back down to hunt a prehistoric fish in a volcanic lake.

Another card arrived in mid-March to say: “Filming went well. Greetings from Costa Rica. Still on Bail”.

We heard through a mutual friend that it was best not to communicate.

It was not until the end of June 2013 that we had a telephone call from him to say that he was staying with a friend in West Hollywood and that there were still court matters to deal with. But he was optimistic – as he always has been.

Almost immediately we received an email of his description of the horror and humour of Californian prison existence, saying that after his two months in jail he had been to court four times with no result except postponement.

The document continued to describe a truly frightening tale of injustice and extreme hardship, told with great humour. He had managed to record the happenings when he was moved from one jail to another.

His brilliant bit of writing should, hopefully, find a much wider audience. For my part, I am unable to blog a transatlantic parent’s version of events until he is clear of the courts, just in case, with such international eavesdropping at present, it could prejudice the outcome of the courts.

Then, toward the end of July, we get a telephone call from Rob to say that a penultimate court case would be held on the 12^th of July – a day before his birthday. But the news of it was bad. He would now have to face a jury in court, with all the expense that that would entail – to the benefit of lawyers and court. He would have to appear a week after this communication. And for such a resilient character, he sounded very depressed. He was being treated very badly by the law in a country that he loved, where he wanted to work, was happy, and where he was about to become a proud citizen before he inadvertently and harmlessly fired a gun. And this was in a country where people are lawfully armed, murders are rife, and crazy gunmen kill, seemingly for the pleasure of it.

On the 22^nd of July 2013, after almost 11 months after he was handcuffed and clapped in jail, a bargain was struck and he was a free man.

This bargain seems to be that he would admit to the negligent discharge of a BB device in the air, which would mean that he would no longer have to face a court and jury. He would be on probation for three years and have to pay for the services of his arrest.

After his dreadful ordeal he is at last free of the courts and the American legal system.

The conclusion is simple. You set foot in America at your peril, and if you are Rob, it seems – even more so.

Disuading town-savvy wood pigeons

The wood pigeon, besides being one of the handsomest birds around, is either very wary or very gullible.

            When I lived in the country, you were very lucky to get to within half a mile of any wood pigeon, unless you either set up decoys or waited beneath a tree where they would roost.

            For the roosting lot you might shoot a couple for the pot, but by making very simple decoys of folded and painted cardboard, held on a twist of fencing wire and pointing up-wind, you could be of great help to a farmer as a noisy scarecrow. Moreover, you could shoot so many of these tasty birds that one simply cut off the breast meat for stews and patés and buried the rest. This arrangement meant more grain to harvest for the farmer and more food to eat for the marksman.

            The wood pigeon in London, though, is quite a different beast.  It might land close to you and look you in the eye boldly before eating as much of other bird’s food that you might have on offer. And it is small garden birds that most of us want to help through a cold winter and encourage to nest and breed in the garden. They make such delightful and colourful mobiles.

            So how to prevent large and greedy wood pigeons from hogging bird food?

            Nuts in an anti-squirrel feeder are safe from their predatory beaks, but any feeder with a try beneath to catch husks and uneaten bird food makes a landing and claw-purchasing place for the agile villains – who then proceed to eat and then foul the garden flagstones.

            I have found that chicken wire as a deterrent in any configuration is not only unsightly but has little effect. A wood pigeon will simply land on it, compress it, and use it as a perch for dinner.

            An observer of a wood pigeon taking off from a site will notice that it has to raise its wings high above its body. So if you can prevent them from taking off you will stop them from landing. So, in that way, the problem will have been solved.

            A weatherproofed, hardboard disc, fitting around a tube of food, and wired in a position to prevent the raising of wings, is the answer when the feeding outlets are low down on the tube. But for a two-tier feeder (as for goldfinches’ niger seed) it is far more difficult. I tried the disc method, and was defeated. So I added to the disc my never-failing, anti-animal solution – that of spreading engine grease mixed with chilli powder where feet or claws might land. This worked, but made a nasty, greasy, seed-coated mess. So the idea was abandoned. The wood pigeons were winning.

            Margreet then came up with the idea of a bucket, slung beneath a bare feeder. So I made one, with a “handle” of copper wire threaded through the rim of a 6” black plastic flower-pot.

            The previous device of greasy disc was destroyed and feeding tube cleaned. A hook was then added to beneath the feeder, and the “bucket” suspended from it. To prevent husks and uneaten seeds falling through the pot’s drainage holes, and yet allow rainwater through, a circle of plastic was cut to almost fit the bottom of the pot.

            The pigeons are unable to hang on to the goldfinches’ perching places and uneaten seeds and husks are trapped in a bucket that they are unable to raid.

            We now have a cleaner garden and some frustrated wood pigeons.