Why not be happy?

Sometimes, I get accused of not being ambitious.

Well maybe that is true.  Part of me thinks ambition is for the young, who have yet to realise what the real world is like.  Another part of me thinks I did stuff in my late teens and twenties - met and interviewed so many great musicians, got my work published in magazines, did a bit of travelling, saw some wonderful sights, that wanting more would be plain greedy.  I think there are plenty who earn more in a year than I do in three that have never seen ospreys catching their prey at dawn, have not looked over the side of a boat and seen humpbacked whales come up to feed, have not had a whole row of seats on a plane to themselves to lie back and watch the Northern Lights above Canada, or touched noses with a giant anteater, fed manatees, or been groomed by a lemur sitting on their shoulder.  Maybe they've used their city parasite earned money to get backstage to meet their musical heroes, but have they been genuinely thanked for being there?  (And known they meant it)

OK, in my working life I have never had fantastically well paid jobs, or been promoted above my ability.  But I'd rather have a genuinely useful job that pays enough to get by comfortably that earn a living doing something that my ethics told me was wrong.  In just under two months, it will be five years since I started working in the NHS.  It happened almost by accident - just a four week temp booking that became a permanent job - but it is something that, despite my minor admin role, I am, to use that hackneyed business term, passionately proud of.

Why should I aspire to do more that a job that benefits other and lets me go home with a clear conscience?  Even if it allowed me to put aside enough funds to buy a place in the country to do grown all my own food, including keeping livestock, my ethics would not allow me to work in private health or education, or in any way be involved in the dealing in stocks and shares.  I'd far rather be content than rich from exploiting others.

Yes I still have dreams, but I'd rather be realistic.  This year I've managed to get a few flowers off the dahlias and feel I've got one up on the slugs (although that may be because they turned their attention to my pumpkins) and so far my tomato plants have been blight free.

The Autumn Equinox approaches, the time when I start to work towards next year's harvest.  I'm starting to hone my planting lists, and will be visiting the Wisley Flower Show to purchase Autumn planting peas and broad beans, plus the first garlic, shallots and onions.   I'll be on the look out for more unusual edible plants, plus bulbs for containers to move around to brighten corners as required.

It's coming up to two years since I broke my ankle, but I still have aches and pains where the ligaments were damaged, so we're getting really serious about no-dig beds - once the couch and bramble have stopped fighting back.  The Annoying Middle Class Family and their slug pellets on the plot next to us have given up, and Howard is considering asking to take that over.  But first, we need to whip the one in my name into shape.

Another swathe was tackled today, and I've replanted my saffron bulbs in a sandier compost mix in the hope of more than a couple of home grown threads this year.

We're digging for small victories from here on in.

My walk on part in the war (well, one of them)

Suitably chastened by John for Going Gently, I'm finally getting round to another post.  Nothing earth shattering has happened here - still no sign of anything approaching Summer, for starters.  Have had a couple of lovely days out over the bank holidays, including a day at the Weald and Downland Museum.  That dovetails into the most interesting thing that happened to me lately, bumping into the matinee idol of the historical scene, Peter Ginn (Tales from the Green Valley, Victorian/Edwardian & Wartime Farm) as I walked to the station after work.  Having talked about my interest in Dig for Victory and Land Settlement, and my collection of books relating to the subject, then shared our mutual admiration for the butter made at Acton Scott, I asked him if any other projects were in the pipeline.  Turns out the next series will cover one of my other favourite eras of history - medieval, with particular emphasis on the influence of monastic agricultural practices on the farming population as a whole.  It was filmed at the Weald & Downland, and will probably be broadcast in October.  Sod's law that last year we didn't venture down to Sussex due to not wanting to park in a quagmire - we could have seen the team in progress.

This past April, one of my absolute musical heroes died.  Scott Miller is hardly known in this country.  His first band, Game Theory, never played here, though I had the good fortune to be on holiday in Boston one year when they played there, and his second, The Loud Family, only managed one brief visit to the UK.  Yet those who have heard him music are inclined to revere his - fantastic songwriter with a marvellous turn of phrase, musically or lyrically.  After taking a decade out, he was planning to record a new Loud Family record this Summer, which makes the loss more keenly felt by those who knew him or his music.

I was lucky enough to interview Scott Miller on the only London date of the Loud Family tour, though the article was never published as the magazine it was for went bust shortly after.  I hope I still have a typed copy of it stored away should anyone ever want to read my memoirs.

I've been recalling a few tales to the temp we've had at work for the past month.  Whatever his work rate, it's been wonderful to be in the same office as someone who has heard of some of my favourite acts, let alone discovering on his last day that not only has he heard of The Soundtrack of Our Lives, but Mantra Slider is his favourite track.  Then, when I was talking about how Golden Earring didn't just suddenly appear in the 70's, but had been part of a massive scene in the 60's, he piped up "Q65 were Dutch too, weren't they?"  As you can imagine, my gob was well and truly smacked by that one.

So good luck William in your future postings, and hope you keep earning enough to subsidise your future musical endeavours.

One of the anecdotes I shared with him was my brief connection to the career of another music legend who died recently.  Albeit a music legend whose fame came without uttering or playing a note.

My first job out of sixth form college in 1979 was with a small music management company.  Somehow or other they had secured the rights to release the full recording of the original Radio series of The Hitchhikers Guide To The Galaxy on vinyl.  This meant various meetings in the two room Covent Garden erie that served as an office, many with Douglas Adams, who at the time viewed publicity not as oxygen but as irritating at best, stifling at worst.  Anyway, the series had a fanbase that included many notable people, including some at record sleeve designers Hipgnosis, who agreed to design the cover.  As it was a double album, this meant a gatefold sleeve.  So one day everyone gathered to discuss the final design for the sleeve.  The front and back were sorted out, the inside of the gatefold gradually agreed upon, except for a blank space in the top left corner.  Silence, pencil chewing and head scratching from all parties, then I innocently piped up that there should be some kind of representation of an entry in the actual book.  This was siezed upon, and Adams scurried away to create an "entry".  This was then delivered to me, and I was sent to a telex agency near Leicester Square (something I imagine has long ceased to exist) to type up snippets, and as a teaser for the album, send them to various music publications and other such companies.  The printouts of these messages then had to be taken to the Hipgnosis office in Denmark Street for them to be pasted up onto the last remaining blank space of the artwork.

So there you have it.  When Storm Thorgerson, designer of so many iconic record sleeves, ran out of ideas, who did he turn to?  Me.

Compare and Contrast

Another weekend without any useful work done in the garden or at the allotment.

Nigh on 48 hours of light snow meant that the only meaningful thing we got done this weekend was our weekly trip to the wonderful bakers, Holtwhites Bakery, which opened towards the end of last year in Enfield.  A proper artisan bakers, where proper bread is made with only those ingredients necessary - flour, yeast, water, maybe some salt, maybe some seeds - no chemicals to speed up the process or mask decay.  It's become our Saturday routine to go there, pick up some gorgeous proper bread - a sourdough, a ciabatta, some cheese and a cake or a fruit Danish pastry, before going into Enfield proper, stopping for a coffee and a snack before doing the more basic shopping.

What we HAD planned to be doing this weekend was to visit the RHS gardens at Wisley for the Grow Your Own weekend.  As well as stalls from some great nurseries and seed suppliers, there were talks lined up from the likes of James Wong, Pippa Greenwood and Charles Dowding.  Charles Dowding was there last year, and much as I enjoyed the talk, the combination of hushed atmosphere, lowered lighting and warmth meant I drifted off and missed parts of the lecture.  Remember the equivalent weekend last year?  It was a mini heatwave, and we were being told that unless significant rain came, we were heading for a drought.  Well it seems like it hasn't stopped raining since.

Ten years back was the start of the invasion of Iraq.  I was working myself to a frenzy, sowing seeds and in particular planting potatoes at the old allotment, as I felt sure that Britain's involvement in such a cavalier act would lead us to be ostracised by the bulk of the EU, and maybe on the receiving end of sanctions, and growing as much of our own food would be crucial.  As it was, sanctions never happened, the war dragged on and bankrupted our economy, and the ordinary working people have been paying for it ever since.

I have a good memory for dates and so forth.  A good thing, as living with a domestic god means that he is far tidier than I am.  Reading matter and notebooks that I leave where I can refer to them again get put away neatly, so I can't directly refer back to every sowing record I've made in the past 12 years beyond last year.  Apart from pots of flower bulbs, and the onions, garlic and shallots I got in the ground before I broke my ankle the previous November, I wasn't steady enough on my feet to start seed sowing until the corresponding weekend last year.  Most years I has a few things in pots and modules by the end of February, with the bulk started mid March.  This past year I have upgraded my little shanty town of mini greenhouses to a slightly more sturdy model, but still unheated.  I don't have the luxury of a heated greenhouse, and leaving seedlings on the windowsill is bound to upset the cat, so I have no choice but to wait until there is a definite movement in the seasons.  It seems this year we're three weeks to a month behind what has been normal for the past decade or so, ironically probably more in line with most of the last century.  So on the plus side, I can probably follow my precious little book The Wartime Weekend Garden to the date.  Who knows?  We may still get a long hot Summer, from May until October, with no blight and a decent crop of tomatoes.

Another aspect of living with a domestic god is that he knows how to look after clothes properly.  Clothes are gently laundered dried in the fresh air before being put away carefully, shoes are polished and reheeled, giving year's more use.  Once clothes are past their absolute best, they still are serviceable for wear - in the garden or whilst doing assorted DIY tasks.  In the case of t-shirts, they can serve as a extra layer against the cold until they are so threadbare they get used as rages, or end their days being composted.

A sort through of Howard's Winter wear has found a few items that have been outgrown - knitwear from a few years ago that was fashionably skinny, and don't skim his temporarily unfit form.  Thus I have come to inherit a rather lovely jumper - khaki with a zip up placket, brown cuffs, hem and collar.  It has an army surplus feel to it, and goes perfectly with my favourite stretchy skinny cut combat trousers and lace up boots for my modern take on a Land Girl uniform.  All I need is a jaunty neckerchief and red lipstick, but as that doesn't suit me I'll stick with my favourite copper brown one.

And there they were – gone

Well, that's another shockingly unproductive year out of the way.  Started it with my leg in plaster, then we had a Summer to forget, Autumn saw Howard strapped up with a mangled knee, and December had me strapped up less severely with a less serious version of the same injury (damaged knee ligaments and bruising on the bone).

So 2012 - be off with you.  Personally you were a let down, even though there were some positive moments.

I just haven't been inspired enough to write anything new for so long.  Last time I managed to post, I was wondering about how the Olympics would impinge on my day to day life.  I have to say it hardly affected me.  If anything, transport was better.  None of the usual hold-ups causing me to miss my connections to and from work.  But as soon as everything was over and the visitors had left, the daily nonsense of two minute delays, roadworks and over-crowded short trains started again.  Note to assorted bus & train companies - people visit London all the time.  If you can run a reliable service for six weeks in Summer, you can do so 52 weeks of the year.

Performance wise, the Olympics were great. Starting with the at times bewildering opening ceremony and ending with the inspiring closing of the Paralympics - in particular the Druid call to celebrate the seasons, I went from cynical observer to diligent watcher.  That still doesn't forgive some of the horrors of the Olympic closing ceremony mind.  The sporting performances were special too - from established names (Wiggins, Bolt, Weir, Ennis), lesser known stalwarts (the British Dressage teams, when suddenly everyone know their Passage from their Piaffe) to new stars like Johnny Peacock.  Special mention to a certain horse - Trinidad - who made her below average riders in the Modern Pentathalon seem competent.

But it's over for another 4 years.  It was a pleasing sideshow, but the real world goes on.

The real world included a shocking excuse for a Summer, when the only thing that grew to any level of satisfaction were my salad leaves.  OK, it's nice to pick your own home grown salad for your lunch each day, but it would be nice to have tomatoes, beans and potatoes too, to name but a few crops that failed dismally this year.  The past three months have been so wet that we more or less gave up trying to get to the allotment due to regular flood risks over there, and the back garden path is a good 6 inch thick with wood chips to such up moisture.  The hens have been moulting on or off since October, and only one has come back into lay.  For the first time in three years, we had to buy eggs.

But we're not giving up.  This is a low point - we can build from it.

The rumbling panic over the date 21^st December 2012 – talk of the Mayan calendar ending on this date built as time got closer.  Assorted doom and gloom merchants took advantage of this, imagining various catastrophic scenarios.  When we didn't fall off the edge of their flat earth, it started being a "symbolic" end, and veiled threats of major upheavals took over.  Well, as these types are often the same ones who think the moon landings took place in a film studio and other such garbage, a word sounding a little like symbolic comes to mind.

But the 22^nd December DID see the end of an era.

That night, The Soundtrack of Our Lives played their final live show.  They may not have been the commercially biggest band in the world, but in my eyes they were among the mightiest.

I was first introduced to their music at a time when I was at my lowest ebb – Summer of 1996 - in between jobs and just diagnosed with epilepsy, my mood following my frequent hospital appointments was lightened by popping in to see my fiends at Heavenly Records.  On one of these visits I was given a copy of a record by a band that St. Etienne had heard whilst recording in Sweden .  And that is how I came to have one of the first copies of Welcome To The Infant Freebase in the UK .

I took it home and listened to it from start to finish. It was a timeless mix of rock, psychedelia, a touch of prog and folk.  Everything I liked, performed with utmost confidence, skill and not a little humour.  I was hooked immediately.

Strangely enough, a matter of days later, I met Nigel Cross, original editor of legendary music publication Bucketful of Brains, who was brandishing a copy of the LP, having seen the band in Berlin, and realised that I would be interested in them. I thanked him and said I already had the record.  Even though this was to most ears a new band (albeit formed from the ashes of another celebrated Swedish band Union Carbide Productions) he wasn't at all surprised that someone had already got me interested.

Seeing them live, you came to realise what a tight unit they were, musically and as bandmates.  They didn't play the UK much, but I got to see them as much as possible.  Their last UK show was in September, the day after Howard damaged his knee.  He turned up at the venue strapped up and on crutches, which allowed us to be given a spot close up to the stage.  It was a great, emotional night, with singer Ebbot morphing from rock guru into mighty shaman.  The final song, Instant Repeater 99, ended with the band taking a bow at the from of the stage.  More than a few middle aged men were reduced to tears by the sight.

Thanks to modern technology, and in particular YouTube, I can relive the night whenever I want.

Ah well - must keep going.  Spent this afternoon at the allotment for the first time in a couple of months.  Mostly filling up compost and leaf mould bins, but also reacquainting myself with the lie of the land, envisaging a fully productive plot once again, and trying not to be overwhelmed by the task in hand.

Three months until Easter.  Let's see what progress can be made by then.

We won't See It's Like Again

OK, so a week away from the Olympics.

Normally, I would be looking forward to it unreservedly, but if you live and work in London, you are in no doubt that this event is being put on AT OUR EXPENSE.  Granted, assorted poison manufacturers (be they so-called edibles, nuclear power junkie energy suppliers or out in the open toxic chemical vendors) and sweat shop exploiters are "sponsoring" the games, the vast majority of the funding is via our taxes.

More than a week to go and there was evidence the transport system had the clear potential for meltdown.  I am lucky in that my journey between home and work can be by suburban overground or tube.  I suspect that for the foreseeable future I will have to rely on the latter.  My two journeys by tube this week had me witnessing three near miss accidents involving tourists unable to work out what the direction signs pointed to, overly large trolley cases and packed escalators.  We've had weeks of patronising messages asking us not to expect to be able to use the transport system that as season ticket holders we've paid up front for, but to walk to work.  Yeah - 12 miles up and down hill, and be fit and well enough to put in a day's work?

Oh - and all the security guards at Kings Cross station have been transferred to Stratford.  Retailers are already resigned to a shoplifting epidemic over the next few weeks.

And word has gone round work that we're expected to arrive on time, or early, not take any leave (unless already approved, like the month my manager has taken), and not be sick without a certificate - even for half a day.

Yet authorities chastise anyone who shows anything other than blind enthusiasm.

Ho bleedin' hum.

I have no doubt it will be a great sporting event, and that there will be phenomenal performances, but how it will follow what has come to pass this weekend is questionable.  Bradley Wiggins - avowedly clean triple Olympic champion cyclist and mod.  And now winner of the Tour de France.  To have held the yellow jersey for so long takes an unimaginable mix of strength, stamina, speed and tenacity takes some doing.  To put it in perspective - Howard cycles a ridiculous distance to work each day, but the total for the week is the same as the distance of most daily stages.  No, Wiggins deserves the plaudits.  One definition of being a mod is "Clean living in difficult circumstances".  What more needs to be said?

Although it didn't impinge on my life to such an extent, I felt underwhelmed by Jubilee fever too.  I started to weekend by doing exactly what the Queen did.  Though I watched the Derby in the comfort of my room, dressed in my gardening gear as opposed to being at Epsom all dressed up.  The weather, of course, played its part on putting a damper on the mood, and the one thing I looked forward to - the flypast - was cancelled due to low cloud.  That said, we did have a mad dash round North London and Hertfordshire, trying to see the Jubilee Beacons.  Not a flicker.  In 1977, I was able to see the Harrow-on-the-Hill beacon from the front of our house, and the Windsor Castle beacon was an orange dot in the distance from the back window.  I felt let down.

I confess to buying one Jubilee souvenir - a tasteful shortbread tin from Marks & Spencers.  But then I like biscuits, and it was made sense to have something better than half a packet rattling round the desk draw.

Of course later in June was a royal event I had more time for - Ascot week.  Some great racing, but the fireworks of the last day - the arrival of the unbeaten Australian sprinter Black Caviar - were more of a flicker than an explosion.  Whether she did perform well despite injury, or she is in fact just on a par with some good European horses, we will never know.  But in all honesty, the search for the highlight of the week was over before it had really started.  Frankel - superb as ever, took the first race by a distance, and everything else was the aftermath.

Next Friday is my birthday.  It is also the opening ceremony.  I may watch some of it, we may drive up to the Ridgeway to see the fireworks, I'll see what mood I'm in on the day.  On Wednesday, the torch relay passes nearby, curtailing both bus routes I need to get home, so I've booked a half day rather than get stranded at a crowded bus stand the wrong side of a roadblock.

I do feel I should be swept up in a wave of enthusiasm, because the Jubilee and Olympics are unlikely to happen again in my lifetime.  But as Howard often says, there a few things more depressing than "organised" fun.  Am I the only one who feels imposed upon?

That said, yes, I look forward to some great sport.  I hope I can celebrate medals for the likes of Wiggins, Greene, Murray, Tweddle and the British Dressage team.  I hope a few arrogant bubbles get burst, and hope above hope that a certain elected buffoon of a mayor is forced to keep a low profile and not embarrass the city I live in more than absolutely necessary.

Catching up - again

The Sunday evening ritual once again.  Long soak in the bath while dinner cooks, then checking the weather forecast for the week to decide what clothes I'll need to have ready.  Looks like rain for most of the week after tomorrow, so nothing that will suffer if the hems get soggy.  Hang a few pairs of trousers in the bathroom to take advantage of the steam to loosen any creases, and don't drain the bath, as the water will be reused to soak some seed trays overnight.

Have had a busy weekend in the garden, catching up on the seed sowing.  The showers this afternoon provided a few natural breaks in the proceedings, but I'm getting happier with my progress.  Hopefully 24 different varieties of tomatoes will provide for our varying needs, from salads to sauces.  Because of the cold spell over the past couple of weeks, things have been slow to germinate, but hopefully there will be enough to plant at the allotment as we get the beds ready.

The allotment is undergoing a total revamp, restarting most of the raised beds after our miserable year in 2011.

At the end of March, we went to the Grow Your Own day at RHS Wisley, and attended a talk by no-dig vegetable growing expert Charles Dowding.  This was on one of the last warm days of March, and we'd been walkling round the gardens prior to sitting down in a sill, quiet, darkened room for the illustrated talk.  I tried hard to pay attention - I wanted to take in the information.  I made notes, I concentrated as best I could, but even so I nodded off a couple of times.  Fortunately, Howard drifted at different points in the lecture, so we were able to garner enough knowledge to tackle to couch grass plantation with renewed vigour over the Easter break.

We knuckled down to clearing the beds, starting with the one in need of planting first - the potato bed.  When the rain eventually arrived, we retreated to the shed and resolved to get that sorted for the year as well.  First thing we did was purchase some new pans for the camping stove.  Up to now we'd been using a couple of aluminium camping mess tins, but I wanted something a little better.  Ironically, the answer was found in Ikea (a set of three steel saucepans) for less that the cost of the old mess tins.  Next move - curtains for the window.

The council are starting flood prevention works in the park next to the allotments, to hold back the brook when it bursts its banks.  If all goes to plan, it should mean less flooding on the plots, but the neighbouring golf club is up in arms as the lower reaches of their course will become a temporary lake during deluges.  Boo bleedin' hoo, I say.  I know the area of the course this involves, and I've never seen anyone using it.  The one downside of the flood works is that one of the best Blackthorn bushes will disappear under an embankment.  But I'm sure that are plenty of others nearby that will survive and we'll still look forward to gathering Sloe berries in the Autumn to enjoy in gin for the rest of the year.

The little raised beds in the garden have started to yield a decent amount of salad leaves for our lunches, and I pulled a huge amount of rhubarb last weekend.  This has been turned into a chunky compote, which in turn has become crumble for dinner, and added to yoghurt, a welcome addition to weekday breakfasts.

The hens are now laying regularly, and we're starting to share the eggs with neighbours again.  The Ramsons in the back garden and growing nicely, and I've found loads of seedlings which I plan to transplant and maybe share.

Yes - everything in starting the grow again, and so far I'm just about keeping pace.

Back on my own two feet again.

So as of tomorrow, life goes back completely to normal.  I need to be at my desk, logged in and ready, at 9am, so when the first alarm goes off at 5.30am, I need to hit the light switch rather than the snooze button. I will be leaving work at 5.30pm instead of 4, which means travelling at the peak of the rush hour and not getting home until almost 7pm.

That is what I'm dreading most.  I'm sticking to using bus and tube for the moment rather than risking using the staircase at our local overground station.  In the morning that works out fine, as I get on near the start of the route, and there are plenty of seats.  Come peak time travelling back on the tube, I used to rarely got a seat until a few stops before I alighted.  Until my ankle to totally healed and pain free, I need to be sure I can rest up and not be thrown here and there.  I'll be taking my stick with me for the next couple of weeks at least.

I've got leave booked for the week after next - so I can watch most of the Cheltenham Festival, as I do every year.  It's when I really get serious about seed sowing too.  As I don't have a proper greenhouse, or anywhere to put seedlings over heat, I need to wait until the weather is turning.  I have a row of mini greenhouses lining the south facing side of the garden where to suns hits for the longest time, so the seedlings get the most warmth and protection they can.

But even there, we have a snag this year.  Next door's fence is disintegrating.  We have agreed to help replace it, and indeed have a batch of fence panels ready to use when the job gets started, but as yet their landlord hasn't stumped up the funds for the job.  We may just have to get started and hope for a refund, as the length where my mini greenhouses are has started leaning badly too, and there is a danger it may send my seedlings toppling.

There is also far too much to contemplate at the allotment. Seriously thinking of just sheet mulching the lot and starting new beds on top.  Not only did we lose one third of the year because of my ankle, but the two months before that were restricted by Howard's leg infection.  Still nothing wrong with a clean slate.  The fruit tress and bushes are still there, and I've ordered more, so we have a structure to work with, and a shut to shelter in.  Oh - and plenty of compost.

Yes - four months have gone by since I ended up in Chase Farm A&E.  A whole third of a year.  I missed Autumn and Winter in effect.  Yesterday on the way home from shopping, we stopped by the lake.  It was the first time I'd been there since an unseasonably hot Sunday in October.  I'd missed out on my customary visits on New Year's Day and when the snow fell.  I don't know if I missed seeing any rare migrants or Winter visitors, but my visit yesterday made me feel like I was reclaiming some of the more invigorating, wild parts of my life.  The birds were certainly aware of the approaching Spring - territorial squabbles among ducks, geese pair up, and possibly the noisiest Mute Swan I've ever encountered.  Quite a few of the Black Headed Gulls were gaining their Summer plumage too.

The Wheel has turned with one almighty clunk.