Tuesday 11th December

I love garlic in my cooking, especially in my latest specialty ‘Vegetable Jalfrezi’ which is quite hot.  But I have never liked raw garlic, although the eating of such is supposed by many to be effective in fighting colds and generally keeping them in good health.   I also refrain from taking any vitamins or additives or any medication at all – putting off the evil day until I am prescribed for it.  I do notice though that sales of all this stuff is on the increase, especially garlic capsules, which may be an easier way to take a daily dose of the stuff.  So, while not participating myself in the worship of garlic I am quite happy to let others do it if they feel better for it.  Until this morning, that is.

The air on the Underground is never exactly healthy and I sometimes wonder how many germs one is inhaling with every breath.  Once or twice I have inadvertently sat next to a ‘crusty’ person and have had to hold my breath and pretend to be exiting at the very next stop as the smell overwhelms me.  This morning though I was lucky to get a seat straightaway at Canary wharf, so I wasn’t going to surrender it lightly.  The very next stop the person immediately to my left got off and their place was immediately taken.  I was deep into my Trollope and listening to Benny Gallagher on my i-player at the same time and didn’t even notice them.  But slowly it dawned on me that they stunk of garlic.  Prejudice formed in my mind and I assumed it to be an Asian person; although a great fan of their cooking I have noticed that the odour does linger on them sometimes.  Imagine my surprise when it was the mildest looking white middle aged office worker sitting next to me reading his Metro totally oblivious of the reek of garlic emanating from his skin.  I looked around me and noticed one or two other noses twitching as the scent reached their nostrils.  But I was sitting next to him and had the full blast in my face.  I suffered in silence until Green Park, and relieved, made my exit.  I can truly now confirm the efficacy of garlic, it drives away not only colds and germs but ordinary mortals too, its power is truly wondrous to behold a and a delight to avoid.

Monday 10th December

I really don’t know why some stories affect one worse than others.  We can blithely hear of an earthquake in a far-off land and hardly register the number of the dead; we can see those all too familiar pictures of bloated-bellied children, flies crawling round the eyes of African babies and not be affected at all; we can see the lined up shroud-wrapped bodies of yet another civil war atrocity and not really notice if it is Syria or the Congo, and yet, and yet, just sometimes a story almost breaks your heart.

Unlike most of the population who were so excited at Kate being pregnant, I shrugged a sigh of boredom, amazed that such a mundane event should be top of the news.  When will the ‘Royals’ be treated like everyone else was my response, but grudgingly I accepted that for most people it was good news.  Then when the prank phone-call was revealed, at first I thought ‘How puerile’, and then when I heard the soundtrack of the call, at least to the first nurse who put the hoaxers through I couldn’t believe her naivety; they didn’t sound remotely like the Queen or Prince Charles.  Like everyone else I had almost forgotten it by the end of the day.

Then I just couldn’t believe on Friday when that poor nurse was found dead.  I was heartbroken to think that a life had been wasted because of a prank.  And I who love humour almost above everything hadn’t thought it was remotely funny In the first place.  What sort of people think that ringing up a complete stranger at work, when they may be under pressure and doing a really important job, and ‘pretending’ to be the Queen is okay in any way?  Had they learnt nothing from the Russell Brand and Jonathon Ross fiasco?  What gave them the right to broadcast an innocent public servant’s guileless and yes probably naïve response?  And what torment and shame must that hard-working and honest woman have gone through, what inner agony that made her take her own life to escape it all?  A so, so tragic story, and it really affected me, especially in the light of Leveson.  The press and the media just don’t get it, do they?  Nobody, not even so-called ‘Celebrities’ deserve to be served up for public derision.  Report the real news guys, and Comedians – think up your own jokes, don’t try and get your laughs from the gullibility of people who don’t even know they are the butt of your puerile lack of humour.

Sunday 9th December

Far be it for me to endorse a product; that was never what this blog was about.  For years I have wanted a decent coffee machine, and indeed I have bought a few along the way, from a pour-over filter, through Caffetieres and even a proper espresso machine, but none, especially the last were satisfactory.  Part of the problem is the coffee itself; if you buy beans you have to grind them (and I enjoy a good grind as well as the next man) and grinding then correctly is not easy.  Then there is all the paraphernalia, the filter papers, the tamping down of the coffee, the screwing it into the machine, the whamming the grounds out, and the worst of all – the milk frothing.  No machine I ever had could froth milk correctly. It is all in the bar or barometric pressure and most domestic machines just aren’t strong enough.  So I gave up, but kept eyeing new machines as they came on the market.

At last we gave in and decided to buy a DeLonghi Nespresso Latissimo, all of £230 worth, although you do get £40 worth of coffee pods free.  The pods cost about 30p each so it had  better  be worth it. Well I only have to say that the result is outstanding; beautifully frothed great tasting coffee, so easy to use – just drop the pod in and a one touch operation, easy to fill with water and milk, easy to clean and a very cool to look at.  But best of all it makes a perfect cup of coffee.

Nothing else to say really except every home should have one, so as we have two other homes we need to buy two more.  Cheap at the price.

Saturday 8th December

Unlike Haircut 100 is it not ‘down to the lake I fear’ but maybe down and down in a spiral of which one can see no end in sight.  And it is the same almost everywhere one looks; Europe is locked into the same spiral as we are – deficit increases, therefore cuts and austerity, therefore lower growth, therefore rising deficits, therefore more cuts ; the US which saved itself by pumping money into the economy is now facing a ‘fiscal cliff’ which the Republicans are doing their best to fall off.  And what is the answer?  Even Labour knows that if elected in 2015 they will face an even steeper cliff than they would have had they managed to hang on in 2010.  It is easy for them to say that they would not have cut so hard or so fast, but by the time they might get back in Government those cuts will be history, and it will be doubly difficult to reverse them.  And this is the clever trap that George Osborne is setting; he is far more a political Chancellor than a financial one, his main concern is to see the Tories retain power no matter what his policies may have reduced the country to.  And he will go to the electorate basically saying “Yes, we have cocked up badly, our policies are not really working, but at least we still have fairly cheap borrowing costs.  And bad as we have been – the other lot would be far far worse.”

So what is to be done?  Where do we go from here?  I am tempted to believe that armed insurrection may be the only solution – change the system, declare a new regime and cancel all old debt and start again.  But failing that, which does not look too imminent I would welcome some ideas.  Please send in your suggestions in a brown envelope marked “DAFT IDEA I KNOW BUT…..”

Friday 7th December

In ‘Catherines Story’ I had Catherine comment thtat the trouble with Christmas is that it comes around every year without fail, and that if we had a year without it occasionally then we might appreciate it more.  Of course these are actually my sentiments and it is true that partly because of its frequency we do not really appreciate it.  But when I was a child that year stretch from one Christmas to another seemed to last forever.  This was mainly because we were so unspoiled that it was only at Christmas and Birthdays that we had anything special at all, toys, new clothes or food included.

Toys, let’s start with toys.  Firstly there were hardly any shop-bought toys, I had a handful of dinky toy cars and that was it.   My dad had a pedal driven fret saw with which he conjured out of plywood a garage, a farmyard and a fort on successive Christmases, painted and enlivened by a few plastic accessories these were treasured possessions, not least because no-one else had them, they were unique.  One year I got a small tent for scout-camps, and another year a bike – second hand and repainted by my father, and another year a second-hand reel to reel tape recorder (the height of technology).  Favourite presents were a box of six pencils with my name in gold lettering and a tin of toffees that must have contained 10 toffees if you were lucky, but you were allowed to eat these yourself – a real treat as usually we had to share any sweets.  New clothes such as pyjamas and slippers and scarves and gloves (handknitted) were always amongst your Christmas presents too, though most kids would throw them back at you today I suspect.  Food, ah now we are talking a real difference.  Chicken was a luxury which we usually had only at Easter and Christmas, a turkey was even rarer.  Exotic fruits such as tangerines were a special treat, as were nuts and dates and we did actually roast chestnuts on the fire-grate every year.  Christmas cake and pudding had been baked by mum months ago, and matured on the top shelf of the pantry.  Their richness was unbelievable for us, full of candied peel and cherries and sultanas which were unheard of all year round.

Now you lucky people can buy any foodstuff at any time of the year; there are toys galore in every child’s bedroom with more and more electronic wonders including computers for babies, and we all have so many clothes we cannot even wear them all.  So no wonder there is no ‘magic’ of Christmas anymore.

Thursday 6th December

I was having a discussion with a true believer in the market and realised that it didn’t matter what arguments I raised, what scenarios I painted, he was happy with whatever happened as long as it was the result of market forces.   As a lifelong socialist I have always believed that the end which one was striving for was important, not the means of getting there, but I realise that free-marketeers simply believe in the free untrammeled market and nothing else.  Even if disaster results from the actions of the greedy, which is the state I think we are rapidly approaching, it doesn’t matter because the market is always right.  But what is the market, but the collective actions of a large group of people who believe they are acting in their own interests and don’t give a fuck about anyone else.  Okay, you could also have described the entire German nation in that way in the Nazi era, it means nothing.  There is no ideology here except ‘Get Rich Quick’, ‘Take the Money and Run’ and ‘Devil Take the Hindmost.’  So, if current austerity policies in Europe result in mass unemployment, starvation, people dying in the streets even – then that is okay as long as the dividends keep on rolling in.

By all consensus the West is in the poo, and faces years of slow if any growth, falling living standards and ensuing chaos.  Caused almost certainly by a blind belief in the market.  Of course the first thing to notice about all believers in the market is that they are all on the right side of the market; they are those with money to invest, opportunities to exploit; they can afford private health so if the NHS collapses they will be alright, they have their own homes, they have lots of money already.  And why on earth should any Government have the audacity to suggest how that money should be spent for the common good when they can use the market to enrich themselves further.  So thanks Mr. Free Marketeer – it sure was nice talking to you.

Wednesday 5th December

I asked a woman once why she wore make-up, and she described it as ‘putting on the war-paint.’  Is that really how women see the world, and their place in it?   I know that women are far more conscious of their appearance than men, who without women’s nagging would easily sink into early bachelordom.  Women are also conscious that they are being observed the whole time, whereas men are seldom aware of it; the only time men worry about how they look is in formal settings, where they generally want to blend in and be as inconspicuous as possible, whereas women, again in general, want to be noticed, to be admired even.  But who is it for, all this dressing up, this wearing of jewelry, this heavy dowsing with scent, this pancake make-up, who are they presenting this image to.  In certain settings it is probably men; if they are in a nightclub or on a date, or if indeed they are single or between men.  But most of the time I believe it is for other women.   Men can happily wear the same suit, or in my case jeans and jacket, for a whole week and not worry what anyone thinks of them – though a clean shirt each day is a requirement, but they could all be white for all anyone cares.  But woe-betide the woman who wears the same clothes to work every day, because you can be sure other women will notice.  And so it is with makeup, which on all but the most beautiful women does nothing to improve their looks at all.  But it does give them confidence, it is a mask they can hide behind, a projection of how they want to be seen, but mostly it is war-paint, a sign to other women that they are ready for the struggle, the daily cat-fight, and without it they are making a statement – that they do not care about their image, that they are not playing the game, that they don’t care about their appearance, that they have lost (or maybe actually won) the war.

Tuesday 4th December

I have had this mantra, which I constantly have to remind myself of, that all music is good music.  The corollary being that there is some I am simply less familiar with.  And of course it isn’t true, as any parent listening to their child attempting to knock out a tune on a recorder will agree with.  But the point I am trying to make is that the vey attempt to make music is good, almost regardless of the outcome, and almost without exception all recorded music is good music.  I am not a fan of the wilder regions of thrash metal, and do not understand much of hip-hop; dissonant choral pieces leave me cold, as does much ‘modern’ classical music, and I hate what used to be called MOR (middle of the road) and I particularly loathe supermarket and lift muzak.  But that is possibly because I haven’t really listened to it, not because it is bad in itself.

I subscribe to a music magazine called ‘Uncut’, and every month they issue a free CD; sometimes it is the latest Americana, or  new releases, but often goes off at weird tangents into the less usually heard realms of recorded music.  And the strange thing is that the more you listen to this unfamiliar music the more you begin to like it, or if not exactly like, appreciate and not loathe it.  So familiarity can breed not contempt but acceptance, and even enjoyment – I have ‘discovered’ quite a few artists I went on to love with these free CDs

I occasionally catch Desert Island Discs, and it has struck me that actually whatever 12 records you were shipwrecked with, you would come to love them eventually – because All Music Is Good Music in the end.  Except possibly Celine Dion – Hahaha

Monday 3rd December

Well it is now December, and one must I suppose try to feel Christmassy.  On Thursday I passed through the West End and all the Christmas Lights were up, but somehow they seem more and more like adverts than a celebration of Christmas – there was even a mention of Marmite, the least Christmassy food item I can think of.  And the Christmas decorations at Walton just look more and more tawdry each year, at least Mr. Bartall’s (the shop where you can literally  buy anything – one is rarely disappointed) had a fine display of Christmas lights he was selling.  I have done almost all of my Christmas shopping already, because it always seems that December is one of the busiest months; the restaurants are at last busy after a pretty quiet year, and most have their year-end coming up at the end of the month.  Then there is the distribution of the presents, which despite my not having a car, I seem to end up being largely responsible for organizing.  But none of this, or the writing of the Christmas cards, which I accomplished on Friday have seemed to make me feel remotely Christmassy.

On the drive home today we stopped, as usual for Diesel and Coffee and my partner couldn’t resist picking up a Christmas CD by Michael Buble.  He isn’t one of my favourites and I own no records of his, but he has, I must admit, a pleasant voice, and I have quite enjoyed his live TV shows.  So, at last a chance to start feeling Christmassy, and yes, looking on the cover were lots of well-known Christmas songs ‘Here come Santa Claus’, ‘Jingle Bells’, and ‘Silent Night’ to name but a few.  Slipping the CD in we sat back to enjoy….oh no, jazzy souped-up renditions of what we had hoped would be songs we could sing along to.  Why do they do it?  Firstly, why even bother in the first place – except a lazy way to make a lot of money (even Bob Dylan has disgraced himself with a Christmas Album), but even worse – why mess up the arrangements so much.  These are timeless classics, and timeless they should remain.  There was no way we could sing along, even to the choruses, and sat there, disappointed and even less Christmassy than before.

Sunday 2nd December

Yesterday (for you), (today for me) was cold.  No, it was bloody freezing actually.  Why is it that the first really cold spell of the winter feels so cold, so bone shatteringly icy.  Is it that we just aren’t used to it?  Is it that we are so molly-coddled in our double-glazed centrally heated homes that the first taste of winter hits us so hard?  Or are we just getting old, and feel it worse with every year that passes.  As a child I can remember the winters, especially 1963, when there was snow on the ground for months, but I remember it as a time of fun, of making huge slides in the playground, of snowball fights that went on for hours, of trying to play football in the snow, and not being able to see the ball, of building a huge snowman on the green outside our house.  The thing I don’t remember was the cold.

There was a sleety rain in the air too today that just made things worse.  I had walked the dogs on the beach at eight – there was no wind and a weak pinky red sun trying to rise and give us some heat – and I was wrapped up and walking briskly; I didn’t seem to mind the cold.  Then we went shopping, and I think that that trudging in and out of shops, in and out of warmth and cold, never really sure if you should unzip the layers or leave them done-up, that makes the cold feel so much worse, and my feet got steadily colder and colder.  We all seem to have a weak spot where cold is concerned.  I don’t mind my face getting cold, or my hands, I seldom resort to gloves, but once my feet start to get cold I feel truly miserable and as long as I have cold feet I can’t seem to shrug the mood, and I get more and more morose.

So, at last the long expected cold weather is upon us, and in a day or two it won’t seem so bad.  We will even be saying ‘I don’t think it’s as cold as yesterday, do you?’   I think that coldness is partly a state of mind, and the more you get used to it the less awful it seems.  How else can people live happily in Canada or Sweden or any of those freezing countries.  Mind you – it is lovely when you get home and out of the cold and sit with a nice cup of tea and look out the window at all the frost and snow.