The FrumplingtonsSaw the Pope on the news earlier this evening. He is currently visiting Turkey. Now, I’m not about to make any big pronouncements on matters of religion. But one thing I did notice on the BBC’s teatime bulletin was how the Pope was dressed: all in white; from head to papal toe.
And you know what that means…
Cue the fried egg sandwich!
Chris
We had just finished our evening meal and were having a cuppa. Shana was busy selling the family silver on eBay. (No wonder I can’t find the bloomin’ sugar tongs!) And I was watching the BBC’s Holiday programme while I finished my drink. For some reason, despite the fact that I actually quite like his presenting style, Holiday presenter Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen (or, as I think of him, ‘Lozza’) seems to bring out my mischievous side. It’s that white suit he wears while filming in all those exotic locations; if I were a wealthy man, I would happily pay a sizable sum of money just for the pleasure of seeing him attempt to eat a fried egg sandwich (and a big one too) without splattering himself liberally with yolk.
Personally, I’d never be able to keep a jacket like Laurence’s clean for five minutes. Even a black t-shirt can end up looking more like the results of an octopus’s finger-painting class after I’ve worn it for a couple of meals.
LLB is apparently all set to design part of next year’s Blackpool illuminations. Now that has got to be worth seeing. I’ve never seen the illuminations (honestly, I must be the only person in the country who hasn’t). Maybe next year we’ll get there. All I’ve got to do is find something clean to wear.
Chris
I was watching Match of the Day just now; or half-watching it, mesmerised as usual by the colourful advertising hoardings pitchside. For those who are really interested in the minutiae, the match was between West Ham United and Sheffield United; or, if you prefer, the Hammers versus the Blades. (I reckon that sounds like a typical Saturday night fracas in Lincoln town centre.)
Anyhow, back to the adverts: I was intrigued by one sign that read simply WWW.BOBBYMOOREFUND.COM and immediately mentioned it to Shana, who was on a frantic online hunt for a pink duffel coat. (What a crazy life we lead, eh?)
“Who on earth is Bobby Moo?” I asked. “And why would anyone want to get a refund on him?”
And then it dawned on me what a nincompoop I was being. It was nothing to do with any Bobby Moo at all. It was Bobby Moore. The footballer. And the site was the Bobby Moore Fund. A perfectly acceptable charity to advertise at a football match. And if you hadn’t heard of it before, you have now, so there are no excuses for not going to check out the site and maybe even putting some much-needed wonga their way.
Try and get back here for the half-time oranges though.
Chris
If you’ve been down Lincoln’s Monks Road recently, you can’t fail to have noticed the piles of black refuse sacks that litter the area. This is not, as some might suspect, a new kind of landscaping project that Lincoln City Council are trialling in the area. It is instead a by-product of the recent city-wide introduction of wheelie bins for all residents.
Unfortunately, in areas where there are a lot of properties that have been converted into flats (Monks Road, Sincil Bank etc) the wheelie bin is not always the ideal solution; among other reasons, there are often problems with restricted space in residents’ communal areas. This means that some people, whether they like it or not, still have to use old-style rubbish bags. Sadly, this seems to have taken local waste tzars by surprise; they just assumed (wrongly, as it turned out) that everyone would be able to use the smart new bins. Nobody thought to devise any contingency plans in case things didn’t work out as intended.
The upshot is that the local dustcart jockeys will now take only rubbish that has been put in the nice new wheelie bins. Anything that is put out for collection in black refuse sacks is now left by the bin men for a period of more than 24 hours’ penance before it is grudgingly collected — during which time the bags get soaking wet because of the rain, get kicked around by Lincoln’s drunks late night revellers, and presumably attract all manner of vermin into the bargain.
Not surprisingly, this also annoys the hell out of local residents, who pay more than enough council tax already and seem to get less and less value for money every year.
It is almost as if, as far as anyone at Lincoln Garbage Central is concerned, all of these flats suddenly sprang into existence overnight — instead of having been here for years. This was quite simply a forseeable problem that for some reason was not foreseen. (You can invent your own theories as to what went wrong/who fouled up etc; I’m saying nothing.)
Even where the wheelie warriors have managed a successful deployment of bins, the result has not exactly been ideal. Most of Monks Road now looks like either a wheelie bin car park (all those bins standing outside people’s ground-floor front windows don’t do much for a house’s kerb-appeal, now do they?); or a Wheelie Bin Slalom Challenge obstacle course, meaning that you now have to weave in and out like a drunken ski-racer if you want to get from one end of the road to the other.
There is one good thing though, as far as the local authorities are concerned: Lincoln Christmas Market is set to take place soon. This means that thousands of once-a-year visitors will see Lincoln at its busiest and brightest; and, more to the point, the tourist hordes will be well away from all those smelly rubbish-strewn areas that local residents have to put up with on a regular basis. All in all then, this should generate lots of good PR for Lincoln…
Just as long as the wind is in the right direction.
Chris
Update - February 2007:
There are distinct signs of improvement re. the above problem: although there still seems to be a purple bag supply problem, black bags are apparently being collected again. Bins left on the pavement continue to pose a hazard from time to time though.
It was a bit windy this morning. But at least the sun was out and it was a fine morn for a foray into town. Today we were on a shopping expedition — for ‘Sundries’. (Don’t ask, right? Just don’t ask.)
Before heading home exhausted and heavy-laden (and clearly trying to elicit the sympathy vote from our readers — shopping can be such hard work, can’t it?) we needed to get four pints of milk from Heron on Sincil Street.
We had hardly gone two feet when we were nearly knocked off our feet by a strong gust of wind. I had my coat open at the time with my scarf loosely draped round my neck. The force of the wind took hold of the scarf (a recent fun purchase, a present for me from Shana, with pictures of teddy bears all over it) and, as far as I could tell, had blown it halfway across town. Fortunately though, Shana, who was following me closely, holding on to my coat tails and making good use of me as a human windbreak, had stopped my treasured scarf before it could go any further. She had managed to catch it by the quite ingenious trick of putting her head directly in its intended flight path and locking her teeth onto it. In this respect she resembled nothing so much as some kind of wild-eyed flamenco dancer, using my teddy bear scarf in place of the traditional rose, and, on this occasion, not bothering to use a set of castanets or any of the usual flamenco paraphernalia. Perhaps, if we could repeat this little vignette, we might even be able to waltz away with first prize (albeit as late entrants) in the BBC’s Strictly Come Dancing series.
But to have any chance of recreating it all faithfully, we’d probably need to be in a wind tunnel. And in any case, I’m not sewing sequins on my scarf just to get on the telly. Not bloomin’ likely.
Chris
It emerged today that the cost of staging the 2012 London Olympics could rise by 900 million pounds. People are inevitably already wondering whether the Olympics preparations are going to be another Wembley: long delays, spiralling costs etc. Should we buy tickets for the 2013 Olympics instead?
Meanwhile, the let’s hope the puny specimen below (the result of twenty minutes’ idle doodling by yours truly — and half a dozen reams of A4 paper) doesn’t have to pick up the tab. He might just collapse under the weight!
Just finished reading Nice Cup of Tea and a Sit Down by Nicey and Wifey. I feel I must state my position from the outset: I like Plain Chocolate Digestives for one simple reason — they are far better than Milk Chocolate Digestives. End of story as far as I’m concerned. However, according to the opinions expressed in this otherwise super little book, my preferences mark me out as someone with a pronounced superiority complex. Well, I’m not the argumentative sort as a rule, but I will say just one thing in reply to that: my favourite biscuits are better than your favourites, so there!
And while I’m being all superior, I would also like to put in a good word for Pink Wafers, which are much derided by Nicey. (Such chauvinistic attitudes really must not be allowed to go unchallenged.)
But let’s not get too belligerent about all this. After all, we’re talking about the pleasures of tea and biscuits here.
Nice Cup of Tea and a Sit Down covers virtually every aspect of the tea and biscuit experience, from the technicalities and techniques of dunking, to what sounds like a horrendous example of bad table manners: the Tim Tam Slam, a pastime indulged in not in the far more demure tea rooms of England, but by (yes, you guessed it) Australians!
Most of the well-known biscuits and their various characteristics are discussed in this book. As well as difficult matters of etiquette, such as mug thieves in the workplace, and what to do if you are at a stand-up buffet and are trying to juggle three or more plates at once.
Nicey and Wifey are not afraid to explore areas of controversy, including the court case involving ASDA and the imitation Penguin; and the great Jaffa Cake controversy: is it a cake or is it a biscuit? (Oops, sorry Nicey, you’re too late, it’s neither biscuit nor cake: it’s GONE. Apologies for talking with my mouth full, by the way.)
And for brainy readers there is even a bit of science stuff, about the processes that go into creating some bizarre substance called hydrogenated fat, which is an important ingredient of some biscuits. And a really quite off-putting description of the family dog in a piece about Why Americans Call Biscuits ‘Cookies’. Not while we’re eating, please Nicey.
Nicey and Wifey also enjoy frequent bouts of biscuit anthropomorphism. Ironically, this is most in evidence in the section on Cake, and in particular about wedding cake, which apparently likes a drink or two. Or three.
Or four.
Nice Cup of Tea and a Sit Down is a wonderfully warm and funny read. The only real thing missing from it is that there is no mention of Gipsy Creams, a true classic biscuit if ever there was one. This fantastic biscuit is however, judging from recent correspondence on the Nice Cup of Tea and a Sit Down website, in danger of disappearing altogether. And this, I think we can all agree, would be a tragedy. Time for a campaign to prevent their total extinction, I think.
Chris
The iron broke this morning. I don’t know what Shana was doing with it for it to break — using it as a makeshift hammer or something — but the end result was that part of the sturdy plastic at the back of the iron simply broke off, thus exposing various scary-looking wires. We decided it was potentially unsafe, and in any case we have had it for a very long time. So it’s high time we got ourselves a replacement.
Personally, I’m not particularly keen on using irons anyway. (It’s a man thing, you know.) I much prefer to press my clothes using our big ‘café style’ Breville sandwich toaster. Well, you might as well get your money’s worth; that’s my philosophy; and you can’t spend all day every day sitting around eating toasted sarnies, can you? So, as I see it, using the Breville (we like to pronounce it ‘bree-vil’ to rhyme with ‘weevil’) as a trouser press is a good use of the sandwich toaster’s ‘downtime’.
Of course, you do have to make sure that you clean the Breville thoroughly after it has been used for food. Otherwise you attract a lot of funny looks, and people wonder why you always smell of bacon or corned beef.
Now, you might scoff at my unorthodox use of a sandwich toaster. But at least it’s better than the ironing arrangements we used to have: one of George Whatsisname’s fat-reducing grilling machines. These are without question fine if all you want to do is cook healthier burgers and such like. But they’re really not much cop when it comes to pressing your trousers. Think about how those grilling machines work: a ridged hotplate allows melted fat to run harmlessly away from any food that you are cooking. But it is exactly these same ridges that tend to leave rather unsightly multiple creases in your best polyester slacks if you try to use your grilling machine as an iron.
So it may not sound very sophisticated, but actually our flat-surfaced sarnie toaster is actually a big improvement on the way things used to be.
But it’s not good enough for Shana…
“I want a new iron. And a proper ironing board!” Shana demanded. I swear that, if the floor in our one-bedroom condo had been made of something better than cheap chipboard and papier maché, she would have stamped her foot too, but she didn’t: she was obviously scared of going through and being left there with her legs dangling out of the ceiling downstairs. And so off she went to scour the Internet for the best deal.
After a few minutes, Shana announced that she had found just what she wanted. “Here it is,” she beamed. And there indeed it was. At additions direct, an online catalogue. A snip at only sixteen quid. Here’s a picture of it:
Nice, isn’t it? And here’s how it was described:
Ironing Set
Adjustable Beldray ironing board with clothes horse and 4 clothes hangers. Ironing board max height 55cm. Includes morphy Richards iron and storage tray.
There was just one snag. At the end of the product description it said,
Age from 3 years.
Well, I suppose at forty-ahem! years of age we just about qualify as eligible to use it. It was of course, a child’s ironing set.
Shana will naturally never be allowed to live this episode down. Christmas will soon be here, and I am thinking of buying one of those little toy ovens; you know, the ones with tiny little saucepans and realistic hobs. Shana would love that as a present, I’m absolutely sure of it. Just one thing: if you’re reading this, try and keep my plan secret. That way, it’ll be a nice surprise when the big day comes.
Chris
We have only just got over the trauma of what happened to us yesterday morning: We only wanted to go to a few shops in town; browse among some secondhand books, hover around in the haberdasher’s, that sort of thing. But first, we had to stop off at a cashpoint machine. Now, taking money out of our account, even for essential items, can be traumatic enough; we’re not rich, you know (at least, not rich enough to have one of those First Direct accounts anyway). So a few deep breaths were needed before punching in the amount of cash we required. Imagine then our distress when, after taking the money out of the slot and while waiting for the advice slip to spit itself out, an announcement appeared on the ATM screen, something like this:
PLEASE TAKE YOUR MONEY AND DISPOSE OF YOUR RECEIPT CAREFULLY
KEEP BRITAIN TIDY
“What, all of Britain?” I said. “Britain in its entirety? Including all those remote islands round the coast of Scotland?”
“I assume that’s what it means,” Shana agreed.
It’s a bit of a tall order, I thought. And anyway, I’m not very good under pressure.
“But…but,” I blubbed, “There’s only two of us! And besides, it wasn’t us that messed the place up to begin with.”
Maybe I should simply stop taking everything quite so literally eh? Life would be so much easier.
Chris
I’d write more blog posts but, as you can see, I spend most of the time with my nose in a book. (Anything to avoid spending money on a bookmark, that’s me.) Here’s a few I’ve read recently.
Margrave of the Marshes
John Peel was — indeed, still is — considered by many to have been one of the world’s greatest radio presenters, although Peel himself would doubtless have shrugged off such wanton admiration.
Margrave of the Marshes is written in his familiar understated, at times whimsical style. Or at least, half the book was written by John; a computer problem resulted in his early drafts of the book being accidentally deleted, and he had to start all over again. Sadly, he did not live long enough to complete the book. The second half was written by Sheila, whom John affectionally dubbed ‘Pig’ and tells the story from John’s return to England from the USA (where he spent most of the 1960s) right up to his untimely death, at the age of 65, on holiday in Peru, which he had always wanted to visit. Familiar material to Peel fans maybe, but an absorbing read nonetheless.
The Five People You Meet In Heaven
Mitch Albom has achieved quite a difficult feat: he has written this book, The Five People You Meet In Heaven, which tells the story of an elderly fairground worker who is involved in an horrific accident. By bringing the various events of Eddie’s life into perspective, we see how everyone’s lives are intertwined in one vast fatalistic matrix. It is a sort of fable, a morality tale, if you will; what it essentially says is that even the lowliest member of society is important in the grander scheme of things. In less experienced hands, this story might have come across as sickeningly over-sentimental. But Mitch Albom has managed to avoid falling into that trap. And instead, this is a moving, thought-provoking story. Highly recommended.
Word Freak
When Wall Street Journal writer Stefan Fatsis decides to try to become a Scrabble champion, he has little idea of what he has let himself in for. Especially as he begins his mission by beating none other than John Williams. Who he? Only the top man at the National Scrabble Association, that’s all. Thus lulled into a false sense of security, Stefan sets off to explore the twilight world of competitive Scrabble. Word Freak is his story of his experiences along the way.
Scrabble has, some would say, more than its fair share of eccentric characters, and Stefan plays against them all: to name but a few, there’s pill-popping health nut, Matt; black rights activist, Marlon; the Man With a Thousand Allergies, GI Joel; and Scrabble supremo, Joe Edley, who used to sleep under a bush in his local park — because he believed it would be a character-building experience.
The scariest opponents though, were the many middle-aged women in Scrabble’s lower leagues; women Stefan nicknamed ‘blue-hairs’, and who were not all as mild-mannered as he at first suspected.
Stefan also explains how Scrabble developed over the years and why many players feel it is undervalued by the companies that make and sell it. And he meets the men who gave years of their lives to help produce Scrabble’s definitive dictionaries and word lists, only to receive virtually no reward for all their efforts.
But the big question is: Did Stefan Fatsis finally manage to become Scrabble Champion of the World?
All I will reveal is that he was present at the World Finals. If you want to know more than that you’ll have to buy the book and find out for yourself.
Chris
© http://thefrumplingtons.com/