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Tim Brooke Taylor died from covid-19 today. Such a funny man; such a shame. From watching him in the Goodies in Oz to listening to him on I’m Sorry I haven’t a Clue, he always retained the naughty scamp appeal of a natural comic. He’ll definitely be missed.
I noticed lots of people on Twitter remembering things about Tim today. My only connection (apart from adoring fan) was back when I was working at Telewest. I had a bit of an email exchange with his son. I can’t remember why but it was something to do with work.
His double barrel surname, I told him, was quite memorable. He told me Tim was his dad. I told him how much I loved the Goodies. He then assumed I was Australian because the show was only ever shown once in the UK.
That was it, really.
Today Mirinda spent most of her time in the garden. (I proclaimed it was my day off and I’d only be cooking. Obviously.) I watched her weeding prodigiously in the Wildflower Patch as I sat in my office, door and windows open to the garden and one blue tit who decided to pop in, have a bit of a read then pop out again.
Mind you, the sight that greeted me early on left me a tad dismayed.
There had been a mass beheading of daffodils.
Rather more attractive were the two pale lilac tulips in the raised bed. They looked lovely in the sun. All bright and cheerful.
Being Easter Sunday we did, naturally, forgo the no carbs rule for a celebratory Easter egg. Actually, I’d bought two Easter eggs. I rather fancied a coconut one and knew that Mirinda would like salted caramel and buttermilk. I couldn’t resist buying both. So I did. It WAS essential.
All was well until I tried to get into the coconut egg. The video at the end of the post explains everything.
The rest of the day was spent in the garden and eventually we took the girls up to the park for a walk where we saw many other people doing the same thing.
It did make me wonder why it’s okay to walk around the park with lots of other people but it’s not okay to go to, say, Hankley and walk where there’s no-one else.
The police appear to have taken their coronavirus control orders a little bit too literal and not very logically. Though, interestingly, they are also supposed to stop people visiting their second homes (for the Easter break) but have not arrested either the Prime Minister (helicopter to Chequers) or his father Stanley (gone to second home in Somerset).
Add to the above the story about the Lear jet full of upper class chaps and their ‘nieces’ who decided they were rich enough to fly to France only to be turned away from landing at Marseilles airport by the authorities, and you wonder what kind of privilege protects one from the ravages of plague.
I don’t really care what people do or what they believe is the right way to face the virus however I do think the Prime Minister of the country should really practice what he preaches. Telling the country to not travel to a second home and then doing just that smacks of wealth and privilege. Just like his father and the royals.
I guess I could go to our second home but it would involve train and tube which doesn’t really appeal to me at the moment. Mind you, none of that really bothers us. We just do what we do and live how we live. We have our garden, we have our girls and the weather has been magnificent. Crisis? What crisis?
Anyway, moving right on along…I cooked Persian roast chicken tonight with cauli broc cheese which went down a treat. We ate on the terrace, which in the slowly dissipating heat of the day, was wonderful.
Because of lockdown, we’ve decided to extend hygge this year but we have started eating outside and the only candles burning are citronella ones. The dining table is still full of the hygge detritus and the flashing lights are still on the back windows.
Strange days indeed. Though possibly not as strange as this:
The reason it was so hard was because there was a thick lump of chocolate at the bottom.
