The House Husband

Yesterday, when commenting on her blip, Dawn posted a link to an article about supermarket shopping and how it was killing off the High Street. Ok, this is an old argument but still one I agree with. And it was while arguing with my wife about this very thing, that I suddenly realised what a hypocrite I’d become. Through laziness (I can honestly say it’s for no other reason) I rarely shop anywhere but Waitrose.

This sudden realisation of the depths to which I had sunk, pulled me up short, gasping for breath as I saw the light above me vanishing into inky blackness. I knew I could still save myself from my own failings as a High Street saviour. I decided to start today.

Farnham has everything but a baker and a fishmonger so I knew I could manage just about everything I need, particularly now that a new deli has opened. My problem (if problem it be) is that way I shop. During the week, when it’s just for me, I shop every day, deciding what to eat when I get there. I would feel a bit self concious going into the greengrocer and buying one carrot (etc) so I decided to plan.

Planning food has become a bit of alien concept with me. I know we used to do it when we shopped on Saturday mornings but the skill (if skill it be) seems to have vanished along with my values. So, as I walked into town, I struggled with what to buy. What meals would I need? What do I fancy? Or, rather, what WILL I fancy? All very tricky.

My first stop (after Starbucks, something which I am NOT giving up, no matter how many stores they have around the world) was the butcher. I figured I’d have sausages tonight, a baked potato tomorrow and a casserole on Wednesday. So…lamb and mint sausages, six rashers of bacon and some chuck steak. A bargain price for some lovely looking meat and I have to say, the sausages were DELICIOUS!

While the meat looked lovely and the price was competitive, I have to say the best thing was the service. A lovely chap served me who clearly knew what he was doing when it came to meat. In other words, he was an actual butcher. He was very cheery and made the whole thing very pleasant. I hadn’t realised I’d missed this.

I could say the same about the greengrocer. The shop is called G. Hone and Sons and given the age of the chap who served me, I am assuming he is Mr Hone. Unless Mr Hone is about 85. Anyway, Mr Hone, junior or senior) was again very pleasant and cheery, letting me pick my own veg (note that, dad) which he happily weighed and handed to me. That’s the other thing – very little packaging! That made me very happy indeed.

A lovely old family business

The grand total of my three meals worth of veg was just over £2. For three meals! I reckon that’s a complete bargain. And, like the sausages, the carrots, broccoli and potatoes were lovely tonight.

Now came the test…the new deli. I wasn’t sure if they sold bread and, given I have some variety of sliced meat on a roll every day for lunch, this would make a big difference. I’ve been spoiled by Waitrose as they bake throughout the day and make the loveliest mini baguettes. Still, I was determined to make it work. And I quickly spotted that they did, in fact, sell fresh bread.

Their choice of sliced meat was excellent. A few different types of wild boar salami (I bought some venison and wild boar) and some lovely ham. Lots of cheeses, as you’d expect, of which I bought one blue variety I’d never heard of. Sadly, they do not sell rolls. I decided I’d try the bread anyway and bought a nice round loaf.

I was feeling pretty good as I left the shop, my bag comfortably weighty and full of fresh goodness when a sudden explosion interrupted me. I quickly looked around (as did everyone else in the Borough at the time) to see a big army truck, towing a bigger army grader turning from Castle Street. It pulled up outside the bank and two big, burly army guys leapt out of the cabin, looking somewhat confused.

Of course, he could have just wanted to use the ATM

People were hanging out of office windows (it’s nice to see workers actually being able to hang out of office windows) trying to work out what was trying to destroy our town. Pedestrians were scratching their heads. The army guys just look querulous.

On the corner of Castle Street there is a big, bell-like object which is solid iron. It sits on the corner looking completely out of place as if dumped there by someone who had no idea what to do with it. It looks like it weighs over a ton and it’s been there for as long as I can remember seeing it. And this was the culprit.

The truck had taken the corner too close, not allowing sufficient room for the trailer to make the corner and it went over the bell-thing. That’s not what made the noise, however. It was the wheels exploding when they fell back onto the road. If you look closely at the photograph, you can see how flat the two rear tyres are.

It was all very exciting and drew a very big crowd of interested bystanders. It also caused a bit of traffic mayhem on the Borough when another couple of army trucks following close behind, also turned the corner.

Apart from the fun and photo opportunity, I did wonder why they thought it a good idea to come through the centre of Farnham rather than go around it, avoiding us completely. Still, had they done that, life would have been just a little but duller around dinner tables tonight.

And one further bit of excitement today…I saw a biplane on the way home!

The Bloody Red Baron

If computing ever feels in need of a patron saint, my money would be on Ada Lovelace. This remarkable woman only lived to the age of 36 but achieved so much. I’ve posted about her before so I won’t bore you with nowt but a picture:

Ada Lovelace

I was alerted by someone on Twitter today that was Ada Lovelace Day, however, searching back through my posts, I find that I last celebrated it on March 25, 2010. According to an entry on Wikipedia, it changed in 2011 to October 7. No reason was given.

The weather has turned decidedly cold. After last Saturday being the hottest October day on record (most of which I spent at Frimley Park hospital) this week things have returned to normal for the time of year. So, at night, it’s cold. I put the heaters on because Mirinda came home tonight.

Today, on my trip into Farnham, two people noticed my arm and asked about it. They were both women. Given the guys didn’t say anything yesterday, I think they’re all reverting to (stereo)type.

I chatted to my friend at Waitrose but she hasn’t yet heard about the job she applied for which, she reckons, is a good thing. You could tell she was excited though because she doesn’t normally smile.

After her initial comforting suffering due to my wrist and my normal glass-half-full way of deflecting it, she almost forgot about my pain with the eager anticipation of her possible new employment prospect. I’m glad because I really hate a fuss being made. It cheered me no end that she was actually happy when she’s usually as miserable as sin.

After a (tiny) bit of digging, I have discovered why Ada Lovelace Day has moved to October. If interested, you can read why here.

A while ago, Mirinda remarked that it would be a very nice touch if, perhaps, some day, she came home to find I’d bought some flowers and put them, in a vase, in the house somewhere. Maybe. This was a while ago. Then, yesterday, as I left the house to go shopping, it occurred to me to actually buy some. Of course, I forgot. And so Mirinda came home and, again, there were no flowers.

This morning, in Waitrose, the flowers suddenly yelled out to me. They are in a very obvious place and in a very big display. I nodded to them in thanks and collected a bunch of yellow roses. I love yellow roses. I decided to blip them, they were so lovely. One comment (from Dawn) was “I wish someone would buy me some yellow roses.”1 Here they are, looking like floral sunshine by the front door.

Lovely yellow roses

Most of the day was spent with Mirinda studying/writing an essay and me online working on the family tree. But then, in the late afternoon, we decided to drive over to Hankley for a walk. The day had been sunny with a few scattered clouds and warm. We thought it would be a lovely walk. The closer we drove to Hankley the weirder the weather became. It then rained. We stayed in the car, the dogs both looking out the back window as we passed the spot we usually park in.

We ended up back at the house. After parking the car, we took the girls for a walk up to the castle and back. Here they are trying to catch up with Mirinda who is clearly sprinting for home.

Carmen & Day-z struggle to catch up with Mirinda

We are going out for dinner tonight to celebrate…actually I don’t think we’re celebrating anything. Maybe that’s what we’re celebrating. Whatever…we wanted to go to Cote (Mirinda’s new favourite Farnham restaurant) but it is very popular (just like Clifton Cote) and we couldn’t get a table! Instead, we are off to Cafe Rouge, Mirinda’s other favourite Farnham restaurant.

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Overheard in Waitrose:
Old guy: Yep. I’m 97 today. Feelin’ pretty spry.
Woman checkout operator: Wow! 97. Happy birthday.
Old guy’s son: No you’re not, dad.
Old guy: I’m NOT 97?
Old guy’s son: Not yet, dad.
Old guy: It’s not my birthday either?
Old guy’s son: Not today, dad. Tomorrow is your birthday and you’ll be 96.
Old guy: (back to the woman checkout operator) See? It’s my birthday and I’m 97.

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1 Just in case he’s reading, this is a hint for Nicktor.

I was leaving Waitrose this morning, hands full of shopping, and an older lady (well, older than me anyway) smiled and asked me where my dogs were. I had no idea who she was (I still don’t) and said that, hopefully, they were at home. I figured that was it but I was mistaken.

She walked beside me, matching my pace which I slowed a bit so she could get her breath. She then told me how lovely they were and she’d told her friend as much. I smiled uncertain. This was a seriously weird conversation. She wasn’t from FATN (I do sometimes run into people from FATN who I recognise but have to hide myself behind something bigger than me, because I can’t remember their name), of this I’m certain. She sounded vaguely German…or Austrian.

“Every time I see you in the park with them, it makes me very happy. They are so lovely,” She said.

I still didn’t recognise her but at least knew where she knew me from. I told her that sometimes they’re lovely, other times not quite so much. She tutted at this comment and told me, as if by way of explanation, that she had seen them on Crufts and knew.

I was about to tell her that Carmen & Day-z had as much chance of appearing at Crufts as I would at London fashion week but then realised she meant poodles in general. I said something about how smart poodles are but she’d gone. I turned back and spotted her rifling through the newspapers on the free standing display. I shrugged and kept going. I guess I’ll have to be a little more observant when walking in the park.

Also in Waitrose, Julie told me about her horrid day yesterday. She fell over (a regular reader may remember that she fell over on the way to the bank ages ago) in the middle of the shop. Like a sack of potatoes, she said. They wanted to rush her to hospital but she sat for a bit and felt a lot better. She didn’t want to take the day off because she’d had a day off a fortnight ago and didn’t want someone having a ‘chat’ with her about attendance. This made me think that Waitrose must be like some sort of hellish place to work.

Anyway, she is off for a CAT scan next week and, hopefully, all will be well. Though she admits to some lack of balance and a rotten headache, she reckons she’s a tough old bird and will be all right. I realised that if she stopped going into work, I’d never know what happened.

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And, yes mum, I do speak dog.

Carmen looking at me, Day-z in the rear

As I said to mum on Tuesday (and which agreed with wholeheartedly) I like the fact that I know where everything is in Waitrose. All the usuals, anyway. It means I can get in, go round and get out as quick as possible. In fact, I usually spend more time chatting at the checkout than actually shopping. This is, after all, the more agreeable part of supermarket shopping. Not so this joyful fact today!

I was at the Talking Newspaper this afternoon and, because Nicktor insisted I cook burgers and chips tonight, I had to go shopping on the way home. Normally I would have just popped into Waitrose and been out in next to no time but, sadly, Nicktor has a bit of an addiction to Wagon Wheels. He keeps buying them for Nicktor Nights and, somehow, they just vanish. Because they tend to vanish in our fridge, I feel it only right to replace them when they do.

On previous sortee’s to Waitrose for these chocolate and marshmallow horrors, I discovered they do not stock them. Clearly they are a taste acquired somewhat below the rarefied status of Waitrose shoppers. Because of this, after the Talking Newpaper, I went via Sainsbury’s to acquire some.

Well, you’ll never guess. Sainsbury’s do not stock them either! At least, not our Sainsbury’s. I searched and searched and searched and…gave up searching. It was crazy. So, not only was I unsuccessful in the second great Wagon Wheel Hunt, I also shopped in an alien store unnecessarily! Never again.

But it wasn’t just the Wagon Wheels that left me flummoxed. They do not seem to stock breadcrumbs either. Well, I’m sure they do but I couldn’t find them. Eventually I decided I’d just make my own. Stupid shop.

Just to cheer me up…here’s a photo of Carmen this morning looking healthy and happy. Day-z is somewhere in the bushes behind her. The bench is glistening with defrosted frost in the dazzling sun. We had a very heavy frost last night!

Carmen takes a breather while Day-z is off finding squirrels

As I sat in Starbucks this morning, merrily reading The Uses of Literacy by Hoggart (a book recommended by Prof Frank Webster, which looks at the sociological aspects of the working class of Britain in the early 1950s), an idea struck me regarding the success of religion.

In a simplistic sense, the rich need the poor to survive on very little in order for them to maintain their wealth. What better way to keep up the status quo than to assure them that they will have a better life after they die if they suffer a lot beforehand. To cement this, the wealthy (or those in power, who, generally speaking, are always the wealthiest) put in place rules such as “workers MUST attend church on Sunday!” after working the rest of the week. They must be devout. They must pray and be absolved any sins. And so on and so forth. In this way, earthly suffering will be rewarded with eternal pleasures. A bilblical instance is the fact that it is harder for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than it is for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. Why does being wealthy exclude you? You may still be a good person. Just another way of subjugating the worker class. They can cock their snooks at the rich! Yay!

And then we have the wonderful situation where the wealthy had to pay the church in order to assure their places in heaven! An excellent way to maintain the livelihood of the priesthood while still controlling the others. Classic.

Further, and more fundamentally, Jesus said that the meek shall inherit the earth and this merely solidifies this. Naturally the powerful will push this one. Stay meek, stay religious, keep your belief in a hereafter and everything will be wonderful when you die. What a great motivation to maintain a worker class. It’s the donkey and carrot on a stick analogy and it works. Like Pavlov’s dogs, the majority of humans just want to relax and know everything is being taken care of. Which gives veracity to my theory of how religion started.

As we left behind our nomadic life and built great settlements which became towns and then city states, the results of our labours were stored in bigger and bigger amounts. You can imagine a small settlement going out each day to forage and hunt, returning to their huts to find they’d been robbed by some leftover group of nomads or animals or flood or fire or…well, any number of things. The brightest spark in the village declares that someone should be left behind to keep watch. He (or she) could be smart AND lazy or, perhaps doesn’t hunt or gather very well. Next time the settlement is left, this person remains behind, ostensibly to guard the wealth.

Clearly not an onerous job, the guardian kicks back and invents new ways to get out of work. It’s not a long way to imagine stories growing from such an idle profession. Eventually these stories turn to supernatural things which he (or she) has saved the settlement from. This is not a long way from the high priest, demanding food and wealth from his followers in order to guarantee their safety. The idea of a heaven came later and, I believe, was a natural extension when the priest realised he couldn’t actually control the weather.

On Saturday, Professor Fagan introduced me to the Guatemalan pyramid at Tikal. Here was a structure from which the high priest would emerge and proclaim that he (for it was always a he) was the sole representative of the gods on earth (sort of like the pope). It was he alone who could ask the gods to be lenient, to bring good weather for the crops.

However, looking carefully at the pyramid reveals that four deep channels along each side collected rainwater, passing it along to the irrigation systems (they collected rainwater in the same way that our gutters do today). This was clearly a technological and scientific invention which had nothing to do with gods or priests and was made specifically for this purpose. And this is made quite clear by the fact that when the droughts came and the people were starving, they would kill the priest and install someone new because the old one was clearly out of favour. Not a great career move in this instance. Surely if the powerful truly believed in their gods, they wouldn’t have bothered with the channels and irrigation systems, knowing that their gods would provide.

Heaven, of course, creates a great escape clause for the priests (as well as that wonderful old saw that God works in mysterious ways), putting an end to, basically, putting an end to the priests!

Anyway, lecture over.

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The woman in Waitrose was much happier today. When I asked her why she was so miserable yesterday, she told me about a horrendous fall she took outside the bank. Her long list of injuries, combined with the fact that she had to contnue working more than adequately explained her misery.

So, after a few weeks of rain, mud and poodle prints, today the sun shone gloriously. The temperature climbed to a staggering 10°, freshened by a light breeze. Although, according to the weather station, at 1pm, the temperature was a frightening 22°! This is because the sun shines directly on it as it floats above the hedge. When I erect the Stevenson screen, this will be sorted out.

The park was beautiful when we strolled through it, all the dog walkers smiling and happy. All but for the guy who yelled “C’mon, you rotten sodding dog!” who was clearly NOT happy.

Talking of clearly not happy…the lady who generally serves me in Waitrose and who chats to me was clearly miserable today. I tried to cheer her up. We chatted about the conference. I told her of my adventure staying at the flat. I smiled. I laughed. None of it did any good. Today she was going to be miserable and, by God, nothing or no-one was going to change her mind! Well, I didn’t. Clearly.

Someone who clearly WAS happy was our neighbour across the road and down a bit. She accosted me in the street, standing oddly close to me, which wasn’t just uncomfortable but also difficult as she’s so short it meant tipping my head forward a long way. Anyway, she excitedly informed me that one of her ‘girls’ who lives in Sydney is getting married to an Australian and she’s off to visit. I think next week. They live in Fairlight. They have just bought a house for an undisclosed but very large sum, that has a tin roof and termites in the wooden walls. Fortunately our neighbour’s son can get rid of termites and he has been there since January working at it.

He (the son) plays a fiddle and has joined a Sydney Morris side. I cannot believe that there is a Morris dancing group in Sydney! They’d have to drink lager for a start and that’s just not allowed. I’m pretty sure it states in the official Morris Men code that ale is the only drink they can drink when suitably attired and prepared to dance.

He went aboard the tall ship that regularly sails around the harbour with a friend of his and played his fiddle to the delight of the passengers. All very jolly. As was she. She was so excited I thought she was going to explode. Right in front of me. It was slightly scary. She looks a bit like Kath Day-Knight but shorter. Her husband does not look like Kel. I’ve never met the daughter. Or the son.

“Well, she crossed her legs so there can’t be too much wrong” – two old ladies talking in Waitrose in the dairy aisle. I assume they were talking about someone’s plastic hip. Actually I found out the other day that Waitrose was named after two grocer-type chaps who joined together in 1908; a Mr Waite and a Mr Rose. Actually, there was also a Mr Taylor, but he left in 1906. It was then called Waite, Rose and Taylor, which doesn’t have quite the same ring to it. Had Mr Rose left, it may now be called Waitaylor. Or if Mr Waite had slipped off, it could be Rosetaylor, which is almost Rose Tyler, and we know what happened to her. I can’t imagine having to dimension hop for my groceries.

Having a rest from my presentation preparation this afternoon, I had a dig around the old family tree for about half an hour. I have been a tad remiss in keeping up with the ancestors, I must admit. I did find something interesting about the Buttericks. For some reason (a reason I may find out one day) three of the Butterick children were baptised on the same day at St Augustine’s church in Kilburn. This may not sound particularly odd, but bear in mind they weren’t the only children and one of them not baptised was, I think, a twin of one who was. Bloody confusing!

The rest of the afternoon was spent on my presentation, prettying it up, basically, and making sure my jokes are evenly spaced. Mirinda was doing a bit of work, so we both beavered away in adjacent rooms while the puppies occasionally wandered from one room to the other. There is also the occasional movement of documents between email accounts as Mirinda finishes drafts of things for me to proof read and give an opinion on.

We did take a break to wander up to the castle and back. Though, I should admit, we didn’t quite make it to the castle because of the deep mud we’d have had to plough through. The park, like our back garden, is not particularly pleasant this time of year. I think February in England – I think rain and mud. Naturally, while the sun has shone for large extents of the day, it drizzled with rain the whole way around, soaking the dogs.

Which reminds me, the odd hail storm we had last night and the fact that the temperature took a while to creep into positive figures this morning, made the path into town quite slippery this morning and I was fortunate that my muscles remembered the various flexing techniques learnt from a year spent ice skating in Homebush, or I would have found myself with a wet butt on a number of occasions.

This is an experiment. I have uploaded a video of the poodles to YouTube. You should be able to see it below. Please let me know if you can’t.

The snow is all but gone! This morning we woke to grey clouds and rain, turning the snow to mere pools of it’s former glory. Sadly, Mirinda really missed out on the beauty. Last night we walked home via Borelli Walk but even here the snow was vanishing quicker than a ice cube in a microwave. Everything is now looking a bit sad and forlorn. Even my snowman is merely a puddle. I observe, however, that Snowy next door, though clearly dead, is still fairly recognisable as a snowman.

As a side note to this entry, I have just read (completely unauthenticated I should add) that Farnham is one of the most haunted towns in England. There’s apparently several at the Bush hotel and a particularly active ghost in Borelli Yard. Both the Borelli Walk and Borelli Yard are named after Charles Ernest Borelli (1873-1950). He was a local politician who, along with architect Harold Falkner, were largely responsible for conserving Farnham as a Georgian town. We have them to thank for how perfect the town centre can look and the preservation of the ‘yards’ etc.

I’m pretty sure we could draw a line directly from these two guys to the later decisions not to allow too many chain stores and fast food places into Farnham, ensuring it would not become another boring clone town. And here it is, apparently a ghost town instead. Not that I’ve seen any, of course. Or heard any for that matter. Perhaps Bob and/or Claire can comment on the ghosts in the Bush Hotel.

Walking into Farnham this morning was a very slushy experience. Life, it seems, has returned to normal. Traffic once more crowding Castle Street, mobs crowding the footpath in the Borough, shopping trolleys crowding the aisles in Waitrose. The only crowd free place was, thankfully, Starbucks. (Today Alex the Schumanian was wearing an odd glittery Alice band on her head. It looked odd. When I asked her why, she shrugged and said “It looked happy.” I can’t really argue with that.) So, for possibly the first time in two weeks, I could enjoy a relatively noise and people free coffee.

As I entered Starbucks, standing outside all orderly and well behaved, were two Dalmatians. No leads, just sitting, patiently waiting for their owner who was inside buying a coffee. Amazing, I thought. Our two wouldn’t do that. As soon as the door opened, they’d be in. But I walked past the Dalmatians, patting their heads as I did, opened the door and walked in and they didn’t move.

But, continuing on about crowds…for some reason, every time I tried to go down an aisle in Waitrose this morning, it was blocked by two trolleys, the drivers of which were chatting or just generally dithering over product selection. I always use a basket rather than try and manoeuvre anything large around the store but even that was a pain today. I’m sure people do it just to annoy me. They all hide in the aisles until I approach, then, on some supersonic wavelength, a signal is given and they all bunch up, blocking my way. I’m fairly sure they all have a jolly good laugh about it afterwards. It reminds me of flash crowds.

It’s amazing the number of great photo opportunities I miss. This morning, for instance, returning from Farnham and heading up Long Garden Walk, ahead of me I spotted a woman holding an umbrella, standing behind a pram. Nothing odd in that, naturally, but to her right was an upturned umbrella resting on the ground, gloriously open to the elements. I fumbled with my phone, trying to get the camera working as I moved closer. I was ready to take the picture when someone walked by from in front of her and blocked the shot. I tried again but I was too late. From in front of the pram (and out of my sight) was, I assume, the father of the child. He stood up, grabbed the umbrella and they walked off.

“Bugger“, I thought, putting my phone back in my pocket, “There goes the picture for today’s blog entry.”

We walked the poodles up to the castle and back in the late afternoon. All the lovely snow has been replaced by slimy, muddy splodgy, grass. At least that’s how most of it felt beneath our feet.