jam today
The Nottingham correspondent and I (although I must confess it was mostly her, I was on brick related duties), picked the gooseberries and made jam yesterday. We ended up with more than a kilo and a half of gooseberries, consequently about 3 kg of jam. More jam than I can really cope with, I've been spooning it into pots and tubs and giving it away all over the place, if the postman didn't just throw my letters at the door these days, he might have had a pot pressed into his hand.
My Oullins Golden Gage tree is groaning with fruit, as I have previously described, this is only the second year it has borne fruit, last year it had two plums, this year, perhaps 20kg. I'm not at all convinced that I could cope with that much jam, perhaps it is just as well that they are such a good eating plum, as I don't think I'll have any trouble giving away delicious golden plums. The Victoria is also so heavily laden that its branches are already bending over, and it's at least a month before they'll be ripe. One bonus of the gage having taken so long to fruit is that the branches are quite strong, and able to bear the weight of all the fruit with very little distress.
ghosts of cable street
I've been working at Brick Lane Music Hall again today (regular readers will recall that this institution is no longer in Brick Lane, rather it is installed in a rather splendid redundant church in Silvertown, down by the Thames Barrier and London City Airport), the building is located down a road at whose end is a massive Tate and Lyle Sugar refinery fronting onto the river. Silvertown is at the unfashionable end of docklands, in 1917 much of the area was destroyed in a massive munitions explosion (the bang could be heard as far away as Norwich to the north and Southampton to the south), consequently even 90 or so years later it is a strangely featureless area. AKZO Nobel still have a huge chemical plant down by the river, although I suspect it makes paints as well as unpleasant smells.
The immediate neighbours to the music hall are a bonded warehouse on one side, and a cement transportation business on the other, the latter endeavour have become quite pally, they have two rottweilers which run free at night. Sadly they have developed a great liking for the staff at the music hall, who give them food and treats, and generally spoil them, this means that in the space of a year or so, two savage attack dogs have become rather fatter and cuddlier than is entirely appropriate or practical.
Today the geezer who runs the company joined us for lunch, a dyed in the wool essex man, he fascinated me, rather as any species on the verge of extinction does. He's leaving Chigwell, where he and his family have lived for many years, the reason he gave for moving to Kent was 'too many ethnics'. Just for a moment there I heard the ghost of Mosley and the blackshirts, I think he might have given me the glimmer of an understanding; it's not so much a specific hatred, whether it be of Jews, Moslems or anything else; it's a hatred of difference and change.
I don't have any helpful suggestions, but I feel a little more understanding, even if I can't condone any kind of ethnic hatred. I suppose my greatest loathing and contempt has to be for those who feed and propagate this feeling, from the Daily Mail with its long history of appeasement and tacit endorsement of fascism, to the microbial lifeforms that are known as the BNP.
health and safety?
I hadn't realised how irresponsible I was being when I introduced my giant inflatable freud sculpture to the Sneinton Arts trail. It's just as well there was little or no wind or it too might have taken flight and mauled innocent bystanders.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/wear/5208898.stmAs it was we only got away with it by the skin of our teeth, as the freuds were clearly insufficiently well anchored to their substrate. I can't see that one getting past the health and safety committee next year.
On a lighter note, the local summer music festival has kicked off again in the local park, and every evening you can hear the gentle sounds of indifferently performed jazz drifting through the shrieks of the circling swifts and parakeets. The jazz festival has been going for nigh on 20 years now, and, as with most things amateur in the borough is managed by a tight knit cabal with mates on the council. I once, out of curiosity more than anything else, asked for a copy of the tender document, and apart from certain areas being ring fenced and untouchable, it was obvious that the whole document was very carefully prepared to make certain that only one or perhaps two companies would be able to supply to specification.
This year, however, the council seems to have got a bit aereated about noise levels, and have a wee man with a sound pressure meter lurking about. I am informed that, as is commonly the case, he didn't fully understand his brief, and instead of measuring the sound levels outside the tent, on Saturday he measured the levels at the sound desk, and then insisted that they turned it all down to the level that would have been acceptable outside the venue. Oh well, these things are sent to try us. I gather that the band was less than amused.
When I worked at the Hackney Empire, we acquired a new neighbour, a lawyer no less, who immediately set about trying to have the theatre shut down, on the grounds that it disturbed his peace. There seems to be a lot of this unpleasant nimbyism going on at present, in his case I don't see how he could have failed to notice a very large theatre on his doorstep, a theatre that had been there for a hundred years more than he had, in law, apparently, this is not a reasonable defence.
coffee heaven
The Nottingham correspondent, on a working trip to Lincoln (which seems to be on her patch), bought me a lovely present from Imperial Teas of Lincoln (
http://www.imperialteas.co.uk/), this, as I don't drink tea, was a small wooden box containing cafetiere sized samples of twelve different coffees.
So far I have had Tanzanian Kibo Chagga, Papuan Bird of Paradise, Guatemalan Black Bull, Sumatran Jumpa Jaya, and Santa Domingo Golden Mountain, I still have coffees from India, Mexico and Haiti to look forward to, as well as the more usual coffee growing countries like Peru, and Salvador.
I thought I 'd have a little spoach around on their website, and was amazed to see that they stock Sumatran Kopi Luwak, a coffee so outre and fundamentally silly that I have only encountered a few references to it. At £480.00/kg you would need to be buying something pretty special, and I guess this is it. The website is a little bit coy, but basically the beans are recovered from Lemur shit. The coffee bean in its nascent state being contained in a fleshy red outer covering, irresistable to the Lemur, the bean as we know it passes through the digestive system of said Lemur and the excrement is then collected by local coffee madmen (or women), presumably the bean is then washed and roasted in the normal way. It is worth reading their description for the sheer political adroitness with which they avoid committing to the actual details, whilst at the same time leaving the basic facts obvious. It reminds me of the Monty Python 'crunchy frog' chocolate; only the finest dew-fresh baby frog, lightly killed, dipped in finest milk chocolate and garnished with larks vomit (from memory so forgive me if I haven't quite got the details right, my copy of the LP had a big scratch just after 'spring surprise' and I've never quite got the rest of the sketch). By the way, if you cooked the frog, it just wouldn't be crunchy, would it? sorry...
The question that springs immediately to mind is why did anybody think it was a good idea to make coffee out of Lemur droppings? I still can't quite square that circle, on the other hand, I also have a vision of whomsoever the current leader of the tory party is (I'm not being clever, I can't remember his name), at a very smart party in Notting Hill, sharing an after dinner cup of boiled marsupial doo doo with his oh so smug cronies, and it makes me smile.
Should you wish to join the smuggerati, according to their website they have a pound of it, and you can buy a 30g sample pack (with instructions) for a mere £15.00, enough for a cafetiere by the way. Go on, be the first, amaze your friends, and if you do, let me know, and I'll pop round. Otherwise, they have coffees agogo, plenty there to endanger your health, I now have a reason to visit Lincoln, even though they do mail order.
the moving sandal wrote?
Into everyones life a little mystery should come, to borrow a phrase from my favourite woman; yes, but...
When I got up this morning I could only find one of my sandals, these sandals have been on my feet for weeks, ever since the heatwave started. In fact, I also wore them when I was driving the truck down through France and Spain, and the temperature was over 38 degrees in the mountains. Suffice it to say, they are well worn in, and about the only comfortable thing to wear in this heat. Those who know me will know that I am very poor at achieving a standardised footwear placement, I scoff openly at the array of footwear racks in IKEA (whilst secretly being strangely attracted), and I do have too many shoes, however, I rarely kick off my shoes with such exuberance that I can't find one or other; I lose a pair or nothing.
So, against this background of tawdry distress, I searched for my lost sandal, after a spending a good deal of time looking, I had to abandon my efforts and get on with my life.
Imagine my surprise this evening, when I found my sandal lying in the flower bed in the front garden, somewhat chewed. Now, it may possibly have escaped your notice but it has been quite warm in these parts, and consequently I have had both the front and back doors open, on occasion I have had to evict curious cats, and later on in the evening, frogs, neither species I would have expected to have any interest in carrying off an item of footwear.
As a writer of detective fiction (of a sort), I am familiar with the concept of the crime scene, hence, in no order of probability, my list of possible suspects:
1) Cats, hmm, doubt it, Siamese cats commonly have a sock/wool fetish, but there are no Siamese cats. Upstairs cat would sooner swim the channel than touch anything of mine, even as an act of hate. Next doors cats do come into the flat, but don't touch anything, altogether too timid.
2) Dogs, there are no loose dogs round here, there just aren't.
3) Frogs, hmm, much persecuted (not by me), could this be a moment of frog anarchy, dragging a sandal outside and, oh, frogs don't have teeth, and aren't noted for co-operative ventures.
4) Slugs and Snails, now we're talking, real motive here, I really am out to get them, sadly concept fails for same reasons as 3).
5) Penguins, as I understand it hoards of mutant killer penguins roam the hinterlands of Hanwell and West Ealing, but so far haven't penetrated this far south into studentland, had there had been any serious sightings this would be the most likely option in my opinion.
6) Poltergeist, nah, don't be silly, this is a scientific investigation.
7) Foxes, now this might have something going for it; a) foxes were trotting with gusto all night, b) we keep finding chewed builders gloves(foxgloves?) in the garden, c) they do play and have depraved tastes.
I am forced to the conclusion that a fox actually walked into the flat and stole a sandal, while I was here (I don't leave the doors open when I'm out strangely enough), and in daylight. It must have been a vixen, or a cub, because I would have smelled it instantly otherwise, how mysterious. I hope the Ealing hunt don't get word, or they'll be wanting to ride quad bikes and packs of slavering and baying labradors* through my flat.
*apologies to labradors, if there was an Ealing hunt I'm sure in the interests of aesthetics they would all have dogs (not hounds) that looked right, their clothes would be fabulous, and they'd never catch anything worse than a cold (certainly not a street-wise fox, it would be much more likely to die of an MSG and cholesterol overdose, or an accidental collision with a four by four).
blue soup and bricks
Forget brick soup (See: The Tin Drum by Gunter Grass), I have been whiling away my waking hours today by combining a search for the brick that fills my neighbours dreams and constructing a soup of such surpassing vileness that I have startled even myself.
Now, which nonsense to explain first?
Bricks first I suppose; sometime ago in the dim and distant past, in the great storms of 2005 a part of our back garden wall blew down. This, not not surprisingly has been the cause of much woe, not to mention wailing and gnashing of teeth. However, after the interventions of many folk, including the country's finest retired legal brain, what had previously been an obstacle and a headache to all concerned, has now been downgraded to the lesser trauma of being a major pain in the bum.
In my capacity as clerk of works, or possibly ringmaster, I have spent several days now attempting to square a circle. Our very nice neighbours are graciously chipping in to the wall reconstruction fund, with but one caveat, that the bricks used to reconstruct said wall should be the same as those used to modify their house and to construct the summer house/romper room at the bottom of the garden. Forgive me for a moment while I get technical (tedious) about bricks; when these houses were built in 1846, the garden walls were constructed as simply and cheaply as possible, using whatever were the cheapest bricks available at the time. In our case, this is predominantly a red stock brick which was imported from Portugal as ballast, mixed with the more familiar London yellow stocks (which came up the thames on barges from Kent, don't say you never learn anything on this blog).
When our neighbours had their house extended, various conservatories and the summer house built, they (I use the term loosely) used a brick that was made in Luton, in the London Brick Co's brickfields, perfectly good brick and not too anachronistic. Unfortunately, mergers and downsizing occurred, and that brickworks closed in 1999. As far as I can tell, it is now a retail park, although it might be where Amazon.uk have their warehouse. This means that, to all intents and purposes, the bloody bricks no longer exist, our local builders merchant still stock them; like a ghost on the machine, but after three weeks of negotiations, when I actually tried to buy 10.000 of them, it was a case of; 'sorry guv, they don't seem to have any, sure you don't mean chailey bricks?'
The brick I want is called Challney, if, as I have done several times today, I write a letter or e-mail to a builders merchant or brick distributor and put in 16 point type at the top: NO I DON'T WANT BLOODY CHAILEY BRICKS, sooner or later, I guarantee, some donkey will offer me that choice. So, here I am, wanting to buy 10.000 bricks, and wanting to get the works under way in August as this is when the builder is available, our neighbour is sunning himself and famille in tuscany for another ten days, and nobody has heard of my brick.
Small wonder I was driven to make soup, I suppose the day after the hottest day on record is probably not the most sensible time to be constructing warming and nourishing food, but for some time in my quest for knowledge I have been wanting to experiment with cauliflower. To be more specific, I have wanted to use the purple headed variety. I have cooked it before as a vegetable, and been fascinated to note that, once steamed and left to go cold, it turns the most extraordinary Parker Quink blue colour. Now, I'm not sure, but there seems to be a natural human instinct that says; blue food = bad. So I thought, why not make the soup and see if psychologically this proves to be the case. So, in between brick searches, I have made my soup. Rather traumatically, it is currently a dirty lavender shade, which, whilst unattractive is not actively repellent, I'm hoping that if I let it cool down, and leave it for 24 hours it might actually turn blue. It actually tastes very nice, even if it looks like melted raspberry icecream.
I seem to recall from my various forays into the world of science, that it is possible to use cabbage water as an indicator for acidity/alkalinity (although the colour change is not as extreme as litmus), so maybe if I fiddle about with the pH of my soup I might get the true blue that I desire. I'll keep you posted.
arts trail
It suddenly occurred to me that I had made no further comment on the Sneinton Arts Trail, I suppose I've been a bit busy what with one thing and another.
In retrospect it might not have been the most sensible decision to do a fondue party for ten people on the night before, however, we did, and a good time was had by all. Next morning, however, our energy levels were a tad low, and much strong coffee had to be consumed before we could summon up enough energy to clear the place up.
There were four artists and me exhibiting, and it all had to be laid out in the Nottingham correspondents front room. Luckily the only artifact of any size was my 'nine freuds' installation, this proved to be quite an interractive exhibit, as the extreme heat melted the sticky velcro I had used to attach the freuds to their mounting board,and every now and again one would fall off and bounce morosely about the room.
We had about 90 visitors during the course of the day, and a bit of stuff was sold, mostly jewellery. Our chosen drink was the 'kir peche' chilled sparkling wine with a splash of peach liqueur, very refreshing, and a pleasing variation on the usual blackcurrant.
Leaving our team of attendants and tally takers, we were able to take in the other exhibits; lots of people had recommended the sculptures and paintings at one venue, I have to say that, whilst I applaud the artist for his breadth of skill and sheer volume, I absolutely hated his work. I don't need to see sculptures of busty negresses holding babies, this stuff is being churned out by the hundredweight in factories all over africa. Some of the other exhibitors were excellent, if a little impractical, it's very pleasing to see that the spirit of artistic endeavour is alive and well, and living unpretentiously in Nottingham.
playing with kites, again
I was back out in the Chilterns this weekend, and the Red Kites were certainly taking advantage of the thermals. I don't think I've ever seen more than five at a time, but you'll see a largish group and two minutes later there's another lot, so the reintroduction programme has clearly been a great success. You certainly don't see that many rabbits, although there are still some about.
My mission was to form part of the lighting crew for Sir H's 60th birthday party (Sir H being the landlord of the production company for whom I do a lot of work, are you keeping up at the back?). We converted what is normally the covered carpark (a farm equipment shed in a former life) into a party venue, blacking out the walls and ceiling with drapes, and building a stage and dance floor at one end. There were to be some 250 guests seated at tables, so it was trestle mania in there as well. We started this epic on the Friday morning, and worked all through the day on Saturday to get it finished. Sir H has three sons, and between them they can just about manage a whole chin, nice enough boys, but one senses that unless the operation is very carefully managed there won't be much of the Chiltern estate left in a few years time. Any way, come party time (did I mention it was themed around Top of the Pops?) the place was overrun with 'bright' young things dressed as pop stars, and even, for an unknown reason, a nun. There was, apparently, one of the princes, I'm afraid I wouldn't know which even if I'd been introduced. Certainly the waitressing staff were all a-quiver, and cameras were banned.
The catering was weird, they started with potted shrimps and smoked salmon, so far so good. This was followed with bangers and mash served with tomato ketchup and gravy, potentially very good, if a little strange. If it had been my party, however, I wouldn't have sanctioned Morrisons regular sausages (£1.19 a pack) and Bisto instant gravy mix, but that's just me I guess. On the other hand, good blotting paper for all the wine that they chucked down their necks. Pudding (and I think we are in pudding territory here) was a small tub of Ben and Jerry's icecream, in Vanilla, Strawberry or Chocolate flavour.
We had the best band in the Chilterns, apparently, and Sir H's son sung a few numbers with them. It has to be said, the assembled infants of the great and the good, partied with a will and with enthusiasm, and generally speaking were very polite and well behaved. When we started pulling it all down at about 3.00 am, there were still many of these young things milling about, searching for more booze mostly, and whilst they did get in the way, they did keep coming and telling us what a wonderful party they'd had. Around about 5.00 am, as the sun was starting to rise and the mists were burning off the fields and the lake, we were interrupted by a very dishevelled female of the species, party frock all rumpled, and hay in her hair, accompanied by two beaux, and still more than a little pissed, trying to persuade one of us to drive her (and beaux presumably) to her hotel. Ever so politely we directed her up the hill to the big house, and she tottered off, one assumes a servant of some sort looked after her, if not, the farm staff were out and about tending the livestock by then anyway.
We did have a proto 'get orf my land' moment, when number two son spotted two of the crew down by the lake (one of these gents is a six foot rastafarian with muscles, and ever so charming with it), as it happens, I think they volunteered to take the lights and run the 200m cable out so that they could have a crafty spliff. As it was I told the young gentleman that they were picking out one of the heifers to stick in the back of the truck next morning, for a couple of moments he did actually believe me.
All down and packed away by 11.00 am, and then we just had to drive to Kent to unload, and home to get some sleep, I managed 1 1/2 hours over the weekend, slept quite well once I was home though.
Hooray, it's panto time
Well, ok, I lied, it isn't.
Just because I'm pleased, and because these things really are decided this far in advance, I am delighted to announce that this year I will be the lighting designer for the Bury St Edmunds panto. I don't think if I am breaking any trade confidences if I reveal that it will be 'Alladin' and as the Theatre Royal is still closed for refurbishment, will be performed in a big top tent somewhere near to the location of last years show. Oh, and first night is the 7th December.
Other than that I know nothing, the director has vaguely mentioned lion dancers and spectacle, we will all have to wait and see. The good news, as far as I am concerned is that they are paying for me to stay up there for the production week, so I should get to visit the smallest pub in the world, and some of the other suffolk delights that I wasn't able to experience last year when I designed the exterior.
