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a good garlic is always bigger than the wee ones you get in the supermarket.
one little clove should be enough to swamp any dish with cuddlesome flavour and remember the dish forever.

the little cloves you get now, sometimes trapped in a net with one or two others going cheap, i have to use a whole bulb to exact the same intensity
of strength.

i cant get enough of the stuff.  boil it, bake it, how you will, i know my breath stinks as the dogs fall over sideways when arriving at my knee due to fondness.

but, living alone has its advantages, or having a garlic loving friend, and my sense of smell isnt too good anyway, garlic is here to stay in my life, anyone who says it isnt, will be marched off the premises, toot sweet.

roasted garlic till it is tender, is a little parcel made in heaven.  aromatic and sweet, melt in the mouth what more could you ask for.  i could eat it on its own, lots of it

but it has to be big.   titchy garlic gets you nowhere.


i bought some wonderful bulbs some time back last summer and one bulb lasted me a few weeks.  value for money, under one little papery skin.

aroma and flavour.  enough to make your eyes water and the welkin ring.

if youve got any to spare, i joined the garlic appreciation society a long time ago, i live over this way.  now dont be mean, i know youve been eating some i can smell it from here, you rascal you. 

hand it over, im a desperate woman.

remember the ad for the chocolates, where the man sneaks into the room of his darling, after shinning up a drainpipe,  to leave a box.  well, nothing like that ever happens to me, but i still like chocolates. 

im a stickler for really nice chocolates if i can get them, but they are as rare as hens teeth these days.  now you may say that oh, yes, there are nice hand made ones about, but are they.  i have looked into this topic pretty carefully, and have been lured by the sight of prettily laid out ones, emitting little beacons to me across a crowded street, only to discover when i was trapped by gluttony in the shops dim interior, that they are mass produced.

i bought some years ago when they set up a shop in the towns street, and went every week just to buy two, they were expensive.  i  have very few what you might call vices but this is one.  i must have proper chocolates.

cadbury make some very nice chocolate, but although i buy it for comsumption off the premises in the privacy of my own home, it burns the back of my throat, with whatever they put in there.

and where oh where, can you buy a white pharoahs head, with the lightest softest mousse laced with champagne, and melting in the mouth at first touch.

i have tried many varieties, mostly recommendations, and some i have discovered myself, and found them disappointing.  not enough to go back for and buy to take home and gloat.

no, this is my dream, a proper chocolate.  nothing short of perfection will do.  i put up with enough shortages in my life, and it is a way of life, so when i have a longing, i like it to be real good.

i cant afford a lot, i just buy maybe two and make em last.

after all, if we go on the premise you get what you pay for, i pay a lot and get pure luxury. well, thats the theory.  there are a lot of chocolates posing under the name hand made out there and you have to learn to skilfully avoid disaster in melting form. 

and once you get on a computer, just by making an enquiry, you are there for life and get bombarded with unwanted literature.  it goes in the bin!

so.  i  make my own from time to time, but i dream of finding a shop somewhere, that confesses to be a real hand made emporium, with the real mccoy proper chocolates.

well, i can dream cant i, you gotta have a dream, if you dont have a dream, then how you gonna make your dreams come true.

chocolate heaven, aaahhhhhh.......

my mother was born into a family with its long roots in guildford.  when she arrived in 1920 there was no lido, my grandmother used a flat iron, and
the twenties were about to pick up speed and go roaring.

agatha christie had not yet done a disappearing act and my great uncle was still working his way towards being a.c.c., and the world had yet to wait for wall street to crash.  my grandmother being forty, was heavily victorian, herself being born in a distinctly other age.

my mother grew up into a world just beginning to start a technological age,  with home radios and electricity and domestic appliances.

my grandfather returned from world war one to settle and rear his already growing family of which my mother weighed in as the last of four.

she grew up and went to school and because my grandfather had a building business, got to know a great many folk, perhaps a few more than she might have done.

suffragettes went on the rampage when she was young, and women got the vote.

she grew up in a house still with gaslights, and went to bed each night bearing a lighted candle.

the temperance movement had its sway and both grandparents signed the pledge.

as time moved on,  she grew up and married, divorced and remarried after world war two. 

the world turned topsy turvy and a king abdicated, and another king died, and a queen ascended the throne.

impoverished, but sturdy and able, my mother set about making a home for her three children.

logie baird was hovering in the background quietly going on with his invention of the television and this drifted into our house, when i was ten years old.

wed had wonder of wonders, a telephone installed a few years earlier when we came to rest in old palace road, after myself being born in a little house on the banks of a railway line.  the london train had gone by every day, and when we stood there, the passengers all kindly waved to us waving our little hands at them.

but this new life, gave us a little step up in the world, and my mother redoubled her efforts to improve our little world. 

rock and roll hit the world when i was very young and my elder sister, eight years older than myself, parleyed with that scene very well.  large circular skirts, ankle socks, and pony tails, and eddie cochran and billy haley were the order  of the day.

our roberts radio purchased in the radio shop up north street, kept us entertained whilst we sat around as an elbow rubbing family, sniffing bisto like gooduns and pronging golden roasted potatoes on our forks.

pass the lemonade please, and my glass was filled again.  home made lemonade made that morning, left to cool on the pantry cold slab was delicious and washed down the roast beef beautifully.

we sat together shoulder to shoulder round our small kitchen table, packed tight in the small steamy kitchen, listening to round the horne, and laughing at the antics of the navy lark.

then it moved into world services and we listened to music being played for soldiers overseas at one war or other out in foreign hot places.  familiar phrases like bfpo 40 remained in my memory to this day.

i grew up and left home, and married and mere electric irons became steam irons, and we had washing machines, as opposed to my mothers, steaming copper and mangle for squeezing the water from the clothes., when she was newly married.

there was a plethora of electrical items on offer when i was a bride.  an electric toaster being one of them.

and as i got older and went to work, strange noises technologically speaking
came buzzing in and computer style machines eased their way into office life as i was moving out to have my children.

it went on improving and in the shops, lo and behold the first home machines appeared and then laptops.

i began to feel rather eccentric and antiquated with my manual typewriter
and in the course of time bought my own in  recent years, decades after they became the byword and every child could use one without even blinking.

my mother passed away and left me to this technological age of computers and microwaves, which would have been downright marvels when she was born, but which, now machines are with us as natural as breathing, we dont even think of it.

having a phone when i was young was rare, and even then was on a party line, which meant if your neighbour was using it, one had to wait till they had cleared the line.

now you can hardly walk down the street without a forest of them clanging away in different tunes  in hands as young as five. 

change indeed.  i grew up in a world post war, full of hope, looking forward to a sunny future.  we now have national debt more then we can pay back in a million years, and since the 80's when the demon credit card was introduced, a licence to spend money began and personal debt is in the trillions.  some change.

in my lifetime we had a change from town gas  with its coal gasometers, to north sea gas and a rather frightening legacy for our children, places like windscale. 

local rubbish was collected and burned by the dustbin men and the heat warmed the civic buildings and hospitals and public swimming baths.
food waste from schools was fed to the pigs.

now we have ever growing waste tips that smell miles away.

and in more recent years, large ugly contraptions to harness the wind have sprung up in indecent haste to spoil the landscapes in beautiful places well away from westminster.

i wonder sometimes where are we going with all this. 

there are good changes, people dont die unnecessarily of pneumonia and the flu now, and operations in hospitals have advanced amazingly well.

there are antibiotics now which keep people going whereas they might have fallen by the wayside. 

houses have become fashion plates instead of homes and rivalry which has always been there, youve heard of the age old saying 'keeping up with the joneses' has spiralled out of control with the latest newest thing on the market.

hygiene is paramount and no self respecting dog may enter the sanctum of a world filled with hygienic wipes.

but you know, im glad i was born of an age where elbow grease and a bar of green soap and some disinfectant was the byword and i dont think im going to change much.

guildford, the guildford i grew up in, is now a race track where i use to take a leisurely amble, and i live too far away to worry.

i have some splendid memories of pewley downs, shopping in the street market, catching the train for work via the passameter, and walking sundays with my family round the castle grounds.  a different world.

and my walks with my mother in the school holidays, miles we went over the guildford downs, along the roman way, and returning tired but happy
to the little house my mother made like a palace. 

i look over my shoulder at these changes like a scientist peering at some new form of bug and it perks my interest further.  i ponder at the changes since my mother and myself was born, and think of the changes since my grandmother arrived in 1880. 

we always marvel at some new invention which becomes the norm very quickly.  we do thirst after novelty as human beings. onward ever onward.
i wonder what time will bring in the next twenty years when i am 84.

curiouser and curiouser.

now there are folks who dont believe in heaven, but thats not the point, i was thinking, if you were , and all the believers too, of a good question.

when you get there, hypothetically speaking, what would you like heaven to be like. 

i would like it to be a place of trees, large landscapes, and water, and birds and animals all around not chasing each other.

i would meet all my friends and family and all my children i lost, and all my animals that have passed.

i would like for it to be sunny with just a light warm breeze and to be able to swim in the sea every day.   a large library and a small house on one level with open doors and windows, with no curtains.  a lovely garden and views all round. 

well, thats my wishes.  what are yours.

i was scouring around in my head for other uses of wink. i came up with winkles. forty winks, winker on a car, winkle something out of someone,
'in a wink' of an eye.

there are plenty it seems, but there is nothing like a good old fashioned satisfying wink at someone strange, to amuse and confuse.

when i was three years old i was taken to see my uncle and his first wife in london.  they were  living in the east end, and having their tea.  their tea?
a large mound of cooked winkles, wrapped in a crumpled daily newspaper with the vinegar close at hand on the table.

sat with little pins, picking at the delicacies, they invited me to have one.
my uncle carefully loaded my mouth with one, and i chewed.  slightly rubbery, but with the bread and butter and vinegar, the flavour was explosive.

i was a life long addict after that.  years later i went to andorra, a little country high in the mountains between france and spain.  it had been a very long and at times, frightening, drive to get there.  the edge of the road had no verge and the drop was precipitous and extremely scary. 

we arrived and pitched the tent.  the evening sun, cast long  shadows obscured  by the height of the surrounding mountains, which were for me, a little claustrophobic.  but the scenery and town of andorra la vella were beautiful, and the air crisp and clean like sparkling cold ice water.

we made our way to a restaurant.  entering we sat and the waiter took our order.  it arrived at the table.  a dish of escargot in a tomato sauce.

it wasnt really the season for snails and the little blighters were too small for the tongs supplied for raising them out of the red sea of tomato and onions and spices, a catalonian dish.

i sat perplexed and began handling them as best i could.  it was difficult and by the time i had finished, the spotless white table cloth was spattered as if i had cut my throat.  large red blotches everywhere.  i was totally embarassed and more so by the look of the waiter retrieving my plate. 

the round snail shells had slipped and slithered round and round in the tong cage and picking out the snails was a mystery but in the end all was done.

i will always remember that day and one further on in my life.

a friend came to see my ex husband, bearing gifts.  a large container of escargot in butter sauce.  i was excited and looked forward with great pleasure to our little feast, as he was staying with us at that time.

i made the usual arrangements laying the table and all the rest of the tea to come.  we sat at table and i lifted my fork, pulled out a large delectable looking snail slithering  and piping hot with dripping garlic butter, steam
floating round my dish.  that was when i made my big mistake.

i looked at it.

i looked at it and couldnt eat it.  one should never look at those curly wiggly little things plopping out of a shell on a pin or fork or whatever, unless you have a very strong stomach.  mine wasnt and isnt now.

my friend was so disappointed.  hed been to a lot of trouble to get them and protect them whilst travelling from france that morning.  and i couldnt eat them.  done specially for me, he was entitled to be cross.

but from that day on, my romance with the creature was over dead and gone.  its a pity because they are delicious.

just as an addendum.  on a journey through france once, with open orchards and fields, my ex and myself stopped for a break at the hot and dusty roadside, in very hot south of france. 

a notice caught my eye, and i went to investigate, more as a way to stretch my legs after such a long sticky journey, and it was cool under the trees.

the notice, 'do not pick the snails'.  i laughed. i thought it was going to say do not pick the fruit.  curious.  the snails must have been much more valuable to them than the fruit.  well, the french prize them highly, but i am still amused by that notice to this day. 

well, i end my story with a wink and a sigh.

ttfn. dont forget to wink now, theres plenty of fun to be had today.xx

we advanced slowly towards the figure with his back turned towards us, saying, whats the time mr. wolf.  he would turn round and if he saw you move, he would say aggressively, time to eat you, and you were out.

several disappointed groans, and some vile cheating later, the whole lot were caught except one, and he became the new 'wolf', ready to pounce on some unsuspecting prey.

this took up one portion of a newly tarmacked playground in which there were groups dotted and scattered about doing different things. 

some girls over in the far corner were playing statues.  closer at hand a hopscotch event was in play,  closer, much closer, so i could see over their united bunched shoulders, was a marble contest in full agonised heat.

you cheated, oooh, youve cracked my best blue, im telling miss, there, ive knocked yours over there, mines better than yours.  and definitely, they were on full display, the best of the talents and the marbles this bright sunny morning.  like a jewish prayer meeting, muttering together, they were happy in their little lot.  sharing, arguing and swapping, it went on for some time.

skipping seemed to be the thing today, someone produced a rope and
the girl in the middle was jumping up and down, until she caught her foot
and tripped, and she was 'out'.

singing and chanting went on with each turn and they played happily in the sun.

some children were standing alone with their backs to the wall, either shy or sent to coventry for some misdeed, faces glum and somewhat tearful.

girls were standing round with long pieces of wool making cats cradles, one child with its tongue hanging half out, trying to copy an older childs more complicated version of the game.

some children were sitting against the wall playing hand games, theres the church, theres the steeple, open the doors and theres all the people.

a few were playing, one potato, two three potato four. and as i passed on by,
the next little bunch were playing knots very noisily, a game which had been banned as too many children got hurt.  but they were oblivious to rules as they twisted and turned holding hands tightly and laughing and shouting.

i finally fetched up at a little crowd with intentions of playing 'he'.  come on, they said, we went into a wild game, dodging and evading until one was caught with wild cries of unfair, it wasnt me, and so on.

sunny interludes like this fill my memories including the day when i walked to school with my mother, with my best blue flowery dress, bearing paeonies
for school.  today, this bright sunny day, bathed in glorious warm may sunlight and blue sky bursting everywhere, we were having a very special day.

it was maypole day.  we had been practising for weeks and now it was to be.
we got to the school gates and went in, along with other children and the mothers who came in, instead of waving and walking home today.

the playground was set up with folding chairs as an audience for the dance.
starting with my class, as the youngest,  when all were seated, we assembled holding out our ribbon in a circle round the maypole.

the piano was positioned, the teacher, sat comfortably, the first note began and we were off, to a lovely tune, dancing round and round weaving in and out of our neighbour will we came to a full stop with a short piece of ribbon.
the music changed and we turned, and headed back the way we came, skilfully unweaving our ribbons till we came to an audience acclaimed finish.   we had welcomed spring in, in abundance with our dance. 

the clapping stopped  and we curtseyed or bowed, and went to sit with our respective mothers, allowing the next form up to do their dance with variations.

under the blue sky, surrounded by blooms from the onlookers gardens, with perfume moving all round us, with happiness in the air, it seemed like a little heaven to me that day.

it was soon over, but a fragment was kept by me, to treasure as a wonderful memory over the years, and also to look at as a piece of history that i took part in. 

these little things, not in tangible form, but a vast collection stored away in my 'files' come out to be wondered at and smiled upon.  they are the things that keep me upright and happy.

i might be poor in pocket, but rich in memories.  and perhaps i wouldnt have it any other way.

its here at last, valentines day, the day for old softies like me to sigh, and in my case remember.

you know despite my rabid cynicism with many things in the world brought about by coming up against the sharp bite of reality and hard nosed bureaucracy,  i still have a romantic heart.

i dont wear my heart on my sleeve, its just there ticking away most of the time, but when i see lovers, young or old, it so pleases me and my heart feels lighter.

in spite of the fact that romance gives way after marriage [in my day marriage], to washing socks and paying bills and.....so on, its still as perennial as the grass.  my father for instance, bought my mother, when he was 80, a single red rose, for his last valentines day when he was still able. they always walked hand in hand through the streets, and people looked at them for doing so.  there were many little arguments that went on between them in private but  the old black magic was still there, after all those years.

i myself have been serenaded when i was younger with music and poems, by two different men, and given lovely valentines cards by different men over the passage of my younger days.  i hold these things to be a treasure money cannot buy.

love is such a precious thing, not to be sneezed at, but kept privately and taken out and looked at in ones advancing years with pride and pleasure and a few little pulls at ones heart strings.

since i came to live in this village, i have had four offers of marriage which i wouldnt take up for one reason and another, but the very fact that someone wanted to marry me, i feel very privileged to have had in my life.

when a man unbends himself to the act of asking it is a serious business and not to be taken lightly, and he must nerve himself a lot to do that, and for me that is a precious thing. 

i love romantic music and i have in my possession, in the days when i owned a tape recorder, a little tape with many love songs on it, taped by me.

it must be a theme in my life!  valentine himself must have poked me with his little finger when i was born, and said, there, you have a romantic heart.

i love all the nice things life can still produce and love is still one of them.
life is harsh, but love still brings a candle to the darkness and lights up the day, with the power of the sun.

so, yes, i shall open my card this morning and feel pleased that at 63 i can still merit a valentines card.  in spite of the wrinkles, and my waddling gait, in spite of everything, theres still the card that arrives on my doorstep.

so, i wish all of you a very happy and romantic valentines day, dont forget hell be watching you closely, so make a big effort!  and make it a good one.
its worth it! and so are you.

there comes a time in every parents lives when sunday school is more than useful.  sunday afternoons were left free after their dear ones have trundled off to sing and listen, when mum and dad can have some quality time.

however much they might have loved us, our absence gave them some respite from continual ongoing sibling rivalry.  she said...look what she did...
indignant outbursts, and mending little crimes against one another, like all children do, can get a little too sweet at times.

so, when sunday school was mooted somewhere, somehow, it seemd a good idea at the time. more especially to them.

off we trundled, it was only round the corner and up a bit.  wearing our best brown trilby hats, camel coats, and highly polished brown lace up shoes, bearing our bibles, and very clean, well pressed handkerchiefs, we sauntered off.  little white ankle socks, smart sunday go to meeting dresses, and teeth polished and hands washed, we sat in much the same condition as most of the others. except for the boys of course, they had ties that seemed too tight, and short grey trousers showing their scabby playground knees.  these they continually picked at during the whole of the afternoon, one or the other.

mrs bullen, our sunday school teacher, came in and sat at the piano and we heyhoed it off with a good rousing song, glad that i live am i, and followed that with jesus makes us shine with a pure clear light.  having done that we had some mercifully short prayers, and we listened to some tales from the bible, honed down for little fidgets like us.

in between stories, we sang other songs, jesus loves me this i know, and jesus died for all the children, all the children of the world.

i loved singing, so it was no bother to me, to lift up my childish squeaks with the others.  some of the boys squirmed like they do, when confronted with sentimental songs.

each week we sat, numbers varying from about five to 20 but we still went.
a good turn out raised the rafters we thought, with morning has broken, and
in winter our carols sounded very christmassy in our ears.

in the interim we were given a drink and a biscuit and then plunged in with stories and more prayers.

she was good, keeping interest going in a purely mystical topic among lots of children.  its not easy.

at long last, with the last note from the piano echoing in our ears, we stood to say goodbye for this week, and made our way escorted, to the front door and freedom.

stepping outside, we pulled on our white gloves, smoothed down our coats, pulled up our socks, checked we had our belongings, and gaily stepped out for home.

pushing open the gate, we sailed up the garden path and made our way to the side door.  in we went with, mum, dad, guess what happened this week...
tommy so and so kept poking susan in the back, and she kept squealing.
barbara was there as usual, and brenda had her new dress on, it did look pretty. and so on...

mum and dad delighted to see their brood returning home, had had their fun and now was back to 'oh how nice, no, dont do that you might tear it, leave that, lets have a nice cup of tea, dont forget to hang your coat up, dont slam the back door...oh you have.... put your shoes away and get your slippers on...[that from dad] and mum, did you have a good time'

so, went each week.  each week until we got too old, and we stayed at home, whilst mum and dad retired.  we watched the good old films on the pride of the houshold, a Kolster Brand New Queen, a tv of outstanding merit.

looking back, it was probably a standard model, but because we had bought it, it had the best place in the sitting room.  everything had to be moved round to accomodate it.

there were wonderful funnies like norman wisdom and old mother riley. my sister and i used to roll around laughing at each and every one, especially the marx brothers, and 'our house' with charles hawtrey.

my sister and i had the two best armchairs to relax in, normally occupied by my mother and father, so a privilege, and we sat together like darby and joan and shared sunday afternoon together quite happily.  we didnt argue all the time, just most.

each sunday afternoon was wonderful.  my mother had thoughtfully provided us with a jam sandwich each and a drink, and we were content with our lot.

sunday afternoons were better at home we thought.

all my life i have suffered from my health, and i used to stand and look out of my window when i was small to observe the passers by, on one side of the house, or the garden at the other.

of course, in my grandmothers house, the only window, giving off an obscure diffused golden light, was onto the back yard.  there was no view there, but the interior of the house was where my grandmother was, so i didnt need anything else.  it was a narrow view obstructed itself by the tin bath hanging outside against bath day, and on the opposite side, a glamorous heaven scented lilac tree.

when i stayed, i lay awake in the golden sunny early hours and breathed in the peace and quiet and looked at the curtains drawn happily across the narrow sash window, but my grandmother was only next door so it didnt matter i couldnt see out.

my home life, had several windows, my bedroom window, when i was sick, and the downstairs from the kitchen and sitting room.  the sitting room had two windows, facing back and front.  the front having curtains and nets.

my bedroom window was higher than my bed, so i got a view of the sky
between the curtains.  i spent a lot of time there, and got to know the movements of the clouds and stars.

i laid listening to the A3 with its traffic roaring away, and motorbikes in the distance rrrrrrr getting louder aaarrrrhhhhh and then passing and fading.
trucks and traffic in busy times bypassing guildford and going who knows where, and the dreadful day when michael hawthorne got killed in the 50's.

getting better and going downstairs, i was then able to lie on the sofa and gaze at the front window.  in sunny times, the nets used to lift and flap a little at every passing breeze.  sometimes i could glimpse from where i sat passing pedestrians, and hear mothers talking to each other with large baskets of shopping, having just alighted from the bus at the corner.  they had been to town and were returning to make the midday meals for their families or a lone lunch till their families returned in the afternoon evening time.

when i got better, i was able to go and sit in the back garden and gaze at the windows from the other side, reclining in my deckchair, and wonder when my mother was coming out with her wonderful home made lemonade, made specially for a little invalid.

the toilet window was on high and i could only see little tiny wedges of sky when it was open, and the bathroom window opened on to the side of the house, so when in use, the bathroom window was firmly shut.

my patio window in my sitting room today, affords me a view of most of my garden.  when ive been ill i sit and stare at it, and indeed nowadays i can see the squirrel going about his business, performing daredevil stunts leaping across from one frail bough to another, with the branch going into alarming heart stopping dips and then flipping up as the animal leapt across to another.

he would then collect his nut, from my hazel tree and skip down the trunk with the nut in his mouth, and look very furiously for somewhere to bury his treasure.  picking a point for no reason i could see, a few scuffs of his front feet, and there was a hole.  in it went, and earth piled up behind, was scuffed back in and patted down again.   ears alert, sat straight upright, looking and smelling and off, quick as a flash up the tree trunk, in  a movement so quick, it was sometimes hard to keep up with him.

then theres my doggies, i have great hours of fun watching them playing in the summer and light hours.  back and forth sniffing and relieving, sometimes on each other if they dont get out of the way quick enough.

and then i can see my garden swing i purchased as a bargain, and where i love to sit in the sunshine.

and then theres the other kind of window.  the window i use to talk to people.  i cannot see through it, yet can observe the world at my finger tips.

my window i use every day to talk to folk passing by outside my window, in different parts of the country.  what would i do without that.  it has been heaven sent for me, as i have got older, affording me entertainment in the small hours and conversation when the world is awake.

windows, for me, have provided me with a place to watch the world go by since i was born.  no wonder im a writer, not a doer.  health has prevented me from an active life on foot, but it doesnt limit me thinking and talking.
so, windows are a good thing for me.  so, curtains up, the show must go on.

ive just had an email from my daughter, she is having a lovely birthday.
she almost squealed over the wires about the present i sent her.

i 'adopted' a donkey in her name as i know she loves donkeys.  her husband is going to take her to see it later on this year.  

plus a little something to get some chips with of course.  and also i sent her and young lady a magazine each.  its nice when ones present is a success.

and the donkey benefits of course into the bargain!!! 

so all round a good day.

xx