Christmas 2011

41 Albion Street,
Stratton,
Cirencester,
Gloucs.
GL7 2HT

December 2011

Bonjour tout le monde!

Whilst Christmas is fast approaching on the inside lane like some demented Jeremy Clarkson on speed, and I am caught bemusedly trying to hide under the blanket of procrastination from the glare of the impending tawdry tinsel-fest, I fear it is time to admit defeat and allow myself to become caught up in the slipstream of Mammon-worshipping. You’ve no idea how hard this can be ... “You mean I have to ... (gulp) ... spend lots of money .... nooooo!” “Aarrgghh! ... we haven’t any wrapping paper .... do we even have Christmas cards?” “What should we .... ? who do we ... ? where is .... ? (panic!) ... sob!” “Oh, an OCD-er’s lot is not a happy one ... happy one.”

A small cat has inveigled its way into our lives this year, and resolutely refuses to leave, despite being lost somewhere in deepest, darkest France (sigh) ... well ... a motorway service station somewhere in the vicinity of Paris. Could be the good food and drink (hic!) ... would you leave? But, more on this story later .....

Well, this was supposed to be the year of the great house insulation-happening, which unfortunately didn’t! I think the builder lost the will to live ... either that, or he went bust whilst waiting for us to make up our minds! You may think that house insulation is relatively straightforward ... but this is the Cotswolds .... and nothing gets past the planning police ... “you want to do what??” Only a trusty architect (grovel) could persuade them that insulation and extra rendering on a wall that was actually rendered anyway, wouldn’t ‘substantially alter the appearance of the building‘ and wouldn’t therefore need planning permission ... (sigh). Climate change .... what climate change?

Eventually we plumped for a builder who’d had a fair amount of experience of doing external insulation work on behalf of ‘The Green Shop’ at Bisley, and who came recommended by the owner ... we even went to see work-in-progress at his house deep in the Cotswolds. Next came the long-drawn-out agonizing that is probably familiar to anyone with an old house who doesn’t want to compromise whatever character hasn’t been knocked out of it by previous owners, and yet still hold to their deeply green principles of wanting to use materials with the lowest possible carbon foot-print ... To wood or not to wood, that is the question : whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to accept the pragmatic compromise of phenolic foam, or to use twice the width of wood-fibre .... Oh, were you expecting it to scan? We became very ‘au fait’ with different U-values ... non-U-values (?) .... toxic silicone additives ... less polluting silicate additives ... lime ... lime-concrete mixes .... insulating render ... even Google’s translation of German technical sheets .... very .. um .. interesting (!) All compromises made ... consciences squared ... blanket of procrastination tossed aside ... but ... where was Dominic? His ‘phone remained unanswered. Even Jools, our carpenter, failed to get hold of him. Is he under the patio? No. Is he in the cement-mixer? No. Could aliens have abducted him? Possibly. To this day, dear reader, no one has been able to determine his whereabouts. Surely this must be a case for Mulder and Scully.

The fruit bats among us have been in fruit heaven this year. Our local ‘fruit group’, which supposedly comes under the umbrella of ‘Transition Cirencester’ (!), a misnomer if ever there was one, raised itself languidly from its couch of slumber (yawn) in mid-August with the realization that .... it was almost that time of year .... the eyeballs in the sky! ... erm ... what??? (clue : ‘The Perishers’). So many apples were massing on the outskirts of Cirencester that we realized that we had a huge fight on our hands. And it wasn’t just apples, they had reinforcements this year ... pears, plums, and damsons. The weather was against us .. we were hot, sweaty and tired ... and then there was the heavy bombardment whenever we managed to close in. Many brave souls were driven to the brink of insanity (not to mention insensibility) by the constant ... thud .. thud ... thud ... of the falling apples. But after three separate forays, we finally overcame them, and they were crushed at last (groan) ... Oh, fresh, unpasteurized apple and pear juice (swoon) ... mmmm! ... there is really nothing to compare ... the flavour is ‘awesome’ as Rupe would say ... we were in fruity heaven! Strange how quickly the juice seemed to evaporate. And now the house is crammed with pots and pots of chutneys of various kinds, just awaiting next year’s ‘Bala Bazaar‘ (our annual Albion Street fair which supports an orphanage / school / farm in Kenya). We also have an apple ring mountain, and apple / cinnamon ‘leather’ has become the snack of choice .... only another six sacks of apples to go ... apple purée ice-cream anyone? Next year - damson vodka! Appled out ... moi? Apples to the left of me ... apples to the right of me ... into the valley of apples .... “noooo!” ..... “help!“... Apple retribution.

And what of our hippy daughter? Tamsin arrived home in February in order to ‘do up’ her van to some sort of standard that would be acceptable to the MOT people ... though it wouldn’t do to look too closely underneath all that grease ... um ... is that a hole? Luckily it passed. It now languishes at a garage somewhere in Scotland, while Tamsin is ‘finding herself’ somewhere in Portugal. Or is it Spain? As ever, with Tamsin, things are never straightforward. Dana, her friend from her days at Dartington, had actually managed to receive some Arts Council funding to dance around Ireland, providing that she obtained matching funding ... yes, we were amazed, as well! The van was required for transport, as Dana has even less money than Tamsin (quite an achievement), and since this appeared to fit in with Tamsin’s plans, then the van was duly loaned to Dana. The poor van was barely out of its hospital bed, when it was dragged up north, kicking and screaming .. “.. erm ... the engine sounds a bit funny .. ”, coughing and wheezing its way all the way up to the Findhorn Community in Aberdeenshire, where it finally petulantly refused to go on and demanded its medication. An ambulance could not be dispatched until we’d proved that the van was a centimetre or two (true!) under the limit for free towing to a hospital of one’s choice. Arguments raged ... someone from the Environmental Transport Association (ETA) was dispatched to check measurements, and finally, the van was towed to somewhere more congenial, close to where Dana lives, where it has remained ever since. Some tinkering with its innards has taken place, but age was diagnosed - Ireland would have proved too much for its constitution. It was abandoned for another! Now it really needs a little TLC .... and a few gold coins ... (sigh). Seems appropriate here to quote a translation of Martin Luther - “Here I stand; I can do no other.”.

Tamsin’s other responsibility was Melia, the kitten, who was smuggled into the country under a blanket, despite the van being searched for illegal immigrants at the same time (they also missed the stash!). She then proceeded to lose the cat at various people’s houses / service stations all the way from London to Devon, and on one occasion, because of a lack of communication with mobile ‘phones (?), Melia was almost given to a lost animal sanctuary. But, despite all her best efforts ... the cat came back ...

.... to be introduced to her initially cat-indifferent parents; more specifically her mother in panic mode ... aarrgghh! Will the sofas survive the vicious claw-onslaught? Will Bob be permanently in sneeze-mode? Will the bath fill up with cat-poo (only initially, as it turned out)? Over the next few weeks, Melia’s feisty character played upon the tiny suppressed cat-loving part of us, and despite living in a permanent state of anxiety for most of the next two or three months (moi, that is), we grew into a grudging acceptance of a love-hate relationship with the fluffy bundle. There was no escape ... many was the time when, stumbling zombie-like down the stairs in the morning in search of ... “coffee ... must have coffee” ... a tortoise-shell blur hurtled past ... (curses! expletives!) ... deftly avoiding our stumbling feet, in order to be the first at the coffee-pot (!) Or .. for a change .. the tumbling sound of a lightning cat ... pitter-patter, pitter-patter down the stairs ... whirring round and round the ankles (more curses, more expletives) ... tummy tickle? A rustling sound, coming from the kitchen .. louder and louder .. accompanied by a playful ‘chirrup’ (!) (you thought cats went ‘mieow’ didn’t you?) ... “aarrgghh! no! Melia’s in the paper-basket, shredding ...” Interestingly, Melia was totally obsessed by the sound of paper. Weeks after she left, we were finding little (or not so little) piles of shredded paper all over the junk-room, where the hand of man fears to tread (!). Tamsin said later that Melia always seemed to be enjoying herself in there ... Who needs a paper-shredder? OK, so she’s a little indiscriminate ... but definitely more fun!

Indiscriminately shredding the sofa and the plastic greenhouse outside was also her idea of fun. She would give you ‘the look’, paws raised in anticipation, desperate to get stuck in ... will they? ... won’t they? ... “Melia ... no!” It’s now or never. Furious fast scratching and shredding ... a blur of legs, feet and claws ... (oh, cat bliss!) .... before ... it’s all over before it really begins (cat sigh). Accompanied by much cursing (us, not the cat), we would finally disentangle her from her intimate encounter with the object of her desire. Later .... (sharp intake of breath) ... was that an orange, black and white blur hurtling past at head height? “Oh, **** (expletive deleted)! Melia!”. The cat was swinging past sans trapeze, but with perfect poise and delicate precision, executing death-defying leaps from window sill to overcrowded mantelpiece to bookcase ... but not a birthday card wavered ... not a feather quivered ... not a pot was dislodged .... Will the adrenalin levels ever return to normal .. calm down dear! calm down! ... deep breaths ... in ... out ... in ... out ..... “Argh! no! the video!” ... heart palpitations .. thud .. thud ... thud ... Ah .. a period of calm ... relax ... relax ... Melia’s favourite position was lying on the scanner (flat and warm) whilst Bob was typing away on the computer ... and occasionally a little paw would delicately reach out for the keyboard. But then again, her delicacy in behaviour was endearing and amusing ... we were astounded to see her wander in from the outside world just to use her litter tray, and then wander outside again. So, what was wrong with the garden?

Tamsin initially ensconced herself at a farm in the middle of nowhere (well, ten miles outside of Cirencester), where there were a handy crop of mechanics to give helpful advice to a game young woman, who was keen and broke enough to do most of the work on the van herself. From here she devoted two days a week to volunteering at ‘Herbs for Healing’, in return for learning more about the medicinal uses of herbs, which is what she’s passionate about. Cycling to and fro meant that she had an intimate knowledge of where all the best clumps of this and that were growing. We had many a mother and daughter ‘bonding session‘ whilst searching for herbs in the byways of the Cotswolds. Wild garlic and dead-nettle soup ... mmm ... It really brings it home to you how much knowledge has been lost simply by no longer walking or cycling in the countryside; we no longer notice the sheer abundance all around us. There is a disconnect between the natural world and our modern lives, where all is cargo cult; we no longer know nor care where everything comes from, so long as it’s there when we want it. Tamsin’s views on this chime with my own, and this does bode well for the future of the mother / daughter relationship ... so long as she’s not ‘lost‘ off-grid somewhere in deepest Portugal ... or is it Spain? Can’t even send an old-fashioned snail-mail ...

When Tamsin disappeared out of our lives sometime in May, she decided that she didn’t need possessions, i.e., she didn’t need to be encumbered by possessions, which is subtly different. What this actually means is that we have some of her possessions and Heidi, her ex-boyfriend’s mother has most of the rest .. in Germany. Other little bits are ... shall we say ... scattered hither and thither. As far as we know, she’s removed everything from the squatted smallholding in Holland (phew). I suppose this suits her wandering lifestyle, as she can then travel light from possession to possession, so long as she doesn’t wander outside of Europe! She left us bearing a very large rucksack, trumpet tied to one side, ukulele to the other, slide trombone in a box in one hand and Melia-in-a-box in the other ... for some reason this reminded me of Ken Dodd ...

On the ferry, the cat, newly spayed and chipped and legal had to be taken for walks around the deck on a lead ... this she didn’t like ... probably made her queasy. After a a couple of months in Germany helping to do up her boyfriend’s bus, Tamsin and Ilakh decided to go to the Rainbow Gathering in Portugal in August. It was on this journey that Melia went missing on the outskirts of Paris .... (sigh) ... hitching with a cat ... a confused cat ... where’s home? .. and the temptation of the local cats proved too much. She’s now registered as missing on several French websites, but she’s probably keeping herself to herself and enjoying the local wine and cheese like the rest of us do ...

Rupert has taken the first step to leaving home ... he’s finally become a student! After many years of gaining places at various music colleges to do opera singing and turning them all down, he’s finally enrolled at BIMM (Brighton Institute of Modern Music) ... but in Bristol (don’t ask) .. to improve his skills as a drummer. He seems to be enjoying the challenge. For electoral role purposes, he does appear to live with us, though if anyone challenged us on that, we’d have a hard time proving it ... though ... the pile of dirty mugs brought home after band-practice .. the empty food-box .. the steaming, ever-increasing pile of dead T-shirts (and other ... unmentionables) in the corner of the bathroom ... could be an indication that he’s in residence ... either that, or we’re infested with whatever is the opposite of a ‘borrower’ ( ... erm .. a ‘student’ perhaps?). Mundane challenges, such as working out how to fit in enough sleeping time, or girl-friend chatting on the ‘phone time, seem to be eluding him ... just as well he’s mastered the art of power-napping .. well .. almost .... zzzz .. zz ..”Rupert!” .. zz ... “yes, what?” ...

Earlier in the year, in February, it seemed that Rupert and his cousin, Karen, were taking part in the drama equivalent of the ‘battle of the bands‘ competition. Rupert decided that he’d take part in one last opera before student-hood kicked in. So we all trooped off to Cheltenham, to a wonderful old Victorian theatre (not Regency this time), for the opera ‘Carmen’, where the singing was amazing. I never used to like opera, but I can see how the drama and over-the-top spectacle and excitement just draw you in. Rupert played a smuggler, who didn’t have much to sing, solo-wise, but did have, what Rupert does very well, lots of over-the-top acting and dancing! And he was on the stage almost the whole time. A couple of weeks later, accompanied by our long-lost sheep, Tamsin, we all trooped off to Lechlade, where Karen was playing in an old fifties comedy called ‘The White Sheep of the Family’. This was classic fifties stuff, rather amusing, and since there were only about six people in the whole play, everyone had masses of lines to learn, were on stage almost all of the time, and had to get the timing right. Karen played a maid in a family of middle-class professional thieves, and the comedy revolved around what to do about the ‘new girlfriend‘ whom everyone thought was straight, but who turned out to be not as she at first appeared. So .. much mutual back-slapping and congratulations .. and rightly so ... such splendid performances!

And now ... the Dealer Russian Tour! This was the highlight of Rupe’s year. ‘Dealer’ is a local band who had a huge following locally during the ‘80s, who re-formed a couple of years ago (incorporating Rupert) for a ‘farewell’ gig, and enjoyed the experience so much that eventually their ‘manager’ (band member + wife) did a bit of wheeling and dealing and wangled a Russian Tour! Apparently, during their ‘heyday’, Dealer appeared on the same bill as some famous ‘80s band, and thus the Russian gigs were born of a misconception! It all looked good on a map ... another day ... another city ... but Russia is big .. very big. Not only did they have to pay to get themselves to St. Petersburg, but the whole tour was chaos from day 2. The Russian so-called ‘tour manager‘ had no idea how to organize a tour, having booked overnight trains for all the wrong dates, one day out every time (doh!), but luckily, everyone else at a local level was very kind and helpful to them, even when communication was through an interpreter who was always drunk! Trying to find a common language was born of necessity, for even with (or possibly because of) the inebriated interpreter, never had Rupe’s schoolboy German ever been so necessary. Organizing a bed for the night ... or overnight transport ... ferrying their gear to the railway station ... organizing van hire in lieu of mis-booked trains ... being driven hundreds of kilometres through the night (“aarrgghh! noooo! .. was that a pot-hole or a tank-trap?”) for gigs the following day ... ‘phoning ahead to the next gig venue to find someone to meet them and organize a place to relax / sleep before the next gig ... thank goodness for the many kind and helpful Russians with some knowledge of English and organizational skills ... otherwise .... I think you’re beginning to get the picture of potential and actual chaos beyond the realms of imagined chaos! It sort of puts you in mind of the Beatles’ Hamburg gigs before they were famous .... or maybe this is just normal for all band tours (sigh).

Everyone’s stress levels being at an all time high ... very little sleep .. very little decent food ... too much vodka ... too many ciggies ... meant that tempers were beginning to fray, and band members were beginning to find out a lot about themselves and what levels of deprivation would cause them to unravel. For the middle aged, unravelling happened soon after leaving the comfort zone. Before long .. arguments were raging ... more vodka was being imbibed ... a falling out ... followed by a falling down the stairs ... curses ... followed by .. hospital and a cancelled gig .. oops! Rupert, by being younger and seeming not to inhabit a comfort zone (“what’s one of those?”) fared rather better, in that, he’s used to little or no sleep, eating scavenged food, sleeping in dodgy places, and keeping his head down when trouble is brewing. Not a lot phases him! As with Tamsin. (Hmmm ... perhaps this was their way of rebelling against the intense ball of anxiety that is their mama ...).

Despite everything, they all made lots of friends ... Rupe spends ages on Facebook keeping up with Russian friends, who all hope that Dealer will do another tour to their city. It seems that they were in much demand amongst young women, as Russian men are somewhat prone to misogyny. They were also much appreciated in cities other than Moscow and St. Petersburg. These two cities get a lot of western bands visiting and have a lot of money, but in more provincial cities there is much deprivation, very rarely do western bands visit, and therefore music fans really appreciate any band who’s made the effort. Because they didn’t stay in hotels, they usually stayed in ordinary Russians’ homes. A strange observation from the days of the Soviet Union .. everyone lives in ghastly crumbling apartment blocks smelling of the proverbial cabbage and wee, the lifts don’t work, the common areas filthy, rubbish-filled and rat-infested. But inside ... they’re all mini palaces! Stuffed to the gills with the latest technology ... bright lights .. glittering everything .. the contrast couldn’t have been greater. Russians have really bought into this capitalism thing - even those with little money. I guess that this is an area of their lives that they have some control over .. forget the lawless dark world outside the door.

There is a being who lurks in the conservatory, an intense face lit by the blue glow of a bank of computer screens (actually two, but this sounds better), surrounded by piles of teetering books, papers, and piles of vanquished apples (see above), and occasionally muttering curses, expletives, and incantations into his long grey beard. “Could this be? ... why yes ... I do believe it’s ... it’s .... oh, you know ... the name’s on the tip of my tongue .... it’s .. um .. thingy!” Mumbling incomprehensible phrases, eyes ablaze with passion (or is this madness?), we have reason to believe that the plan for heat-pumps to take over the world has almost succeeded, i.e., it’s the end of the Ph.D as we know it, Jim. Well .. almost ...

He did take time out to snip sheep’s toenails (?) ... aha! .. got you! ... just when you thought there’s been no mention of sheep! How could a sheep-obsessed being not write about sheep? It would be too much to bear ... (sob). Yes, we visited an old quarry where a beautifully soft and fluffy herd of Hebridean sheep were being employed in land management on behalf of the Gloucestershire Wildlife Trust, somewhere in the depths of the Forest of Dean. And in return ... they got their nails trimmed by a bunch of amateur incompetents! I think that they need a union .... “One out, all out, brothers! .. erm ... sisters!” ... “Oh, you can’t catch us we’re part of the union ...”, etc. ... (no, we certainly couldn’t) ... “We demand better pedicures!”

A lot of my time seems to be taken up with SW Green Party stuff at the moment (being Treasurer) - it's not hard work, but it's constant. Our fund-raiser, Sharon, keeps coming up with ingenious ways of making money, and at the moment, we're selling cook-books of everyone's favourite recipes ... for some reason, Sharon seems to have included rather more pictures of me than I feel our one ice-cream recipe merits! So, there's a lot of money passing through the account at the moment (much gold-obsessed rubbing of hands, cackling, and dancing round fires ... “Keep the noise down, Rumplestiltskin!”), and I'm trying to keep tabs on it all ... especially as the end of year accounts are looming (gulp). I've only got one more year at this Treasurer lark, as we're only allowed to do any one job on the Committee for up to five years, presumably to prevent burn-out and to bring in 'new brooms' and give someone else a chance (“what! .. you mean some other idiot might want to do this job?”). You never know though, someone may vote me off the Committee at the A.G.M. before my five years are up ...

And yes, I’m still going into the Museum one day a week to volunteer. Of course, I think I’m being useful ... but they’re probably all thinking ... “oh, it’s that old duffer again ... hasn’t she got a home to go to?”.

Random fact : I’m now orange ... I’ll leave you all to work that one out .... (?)

Time now to wish you all a jolly Christmas (ho! ho! ho!) and a happy New Year.

Lots and lots of love from Bob, Joy, Rupert and Tamsin (most of us in some way and at some point ‘in absentia’).

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Christmas 2010

41 Albion Street,
Stratton,
Cirencester,
Gloucs.
GL7 2HT

December 2010

Hello Everybody,

“No .. o .. ël! .. Baaa!” “No ..o .. ël! .. Baaa!” “No ..o .. ël! .. Baaa!” “No .. o .. Baaa! .. ë ..ël!” … “Quick! Get the ear plugs!” For ‘tis the season when little knots of woolly-fleeced local Mafiosi gather outside pubs, singing menacingly, in order to fund their gamboling (!) habit come the Spring. For the unsuspecting, beware, for they are devious and will try anything .... the sob story (tearful eye, baleful expression, sound of ghostly violins) “Pity us poor starving….etc.” .… the violent (knitted brow, teeth bared) “Gi’s yer cash Jimmy, or we’ll jump up and down on yer ..” … the intellectual (furrowed brow, earnest gaze) “We have the U-value, we could insulate you to death! (sweat! sweat!)” … (?) Oh, come on! Surely you’ve seen ‘Black Sheep’?? No? Welcome to rural(ish) life, Gloucestershire style .... (cackle!) ...

The Allotment Wars of the last three years finally came to a head at the end of last year when the totalitarian land-owners, with their Hoplite phalanx of neat ‘n tidy, kill-everything-in-sight accomplices of crazed herbicide obsessives, finally evicted us laissez-faire landless peasants, i.e., our neighbour Eve (who actually rents the plot), from the fruity half of her allotment. This was most definitely the last straw for us sub-lettees, and we decided not to re-engage in battle this year. Just when you’re developing long-term plans to improve your little plot, you realize that the annual insecurities induced by the November Visit of the Weed Police only encourage the gardening equivalent of strip-mining. Pieces of old carpet and print-free cardboard weighted down with some good chunks of Cotswold stone may not look pretty, but do slow the oxidation of compost and moisture-loss, and keep the soil weed-free come the Spring. But .... it doesn’t look tidy! So .... “off with their heads!” (sigh).

The dawn of agriculture may have enabled a surplus production of food and the ultimate rise of civilization, but this year we decided to shed the odd shackle of civilization and take the ‘uncivilized’ route towards hunter-gathering .... well .. maybe just gathering ... or foraging ... after all, we are veggies! Big Fruit Hunting has never been popular (though see apple-rustling below ... makes a change from sheep-stealing ..’Ere .. gerroff! We’ll bite yer bums!”) .. it just doesn’t give one the same frisson ... Now, squirrels ....hmmm ... maybe we could be veggies that just eat squirrel ....There are some interesting squirrel recipes from trigger-happy Americans on the web .... but I digress. This is all part of the movement called ‘Transition Towns’. Not heard of it? ... but it’s mainstream ... it’s been on the Archers .. you have to have heard of it!

The basic idea is that the local community, town or village, should help to make itself as resilient to outside forces as much as possible, such as the chaos that would ensue from a shortage of oil, or climate change, or food, or any future problems that may arise, and that are currently outside of our control ... which in fact, is most of modern life! We must grow more local food, map local fruit trees on common ground that no-one makes use of, including those in people’s gardens, distribute to those in need, put people who would like to grow veggies, but have no gardens, in touch with people who own gardens, but who don’t make use of them, foraging of wood for fuel, find out what and where we can obtain things for free, teach each other skills such as knitting, how to make do and mend, and ultimately to re-educate people into a non-throw away mindset, that doesn’t require people to buy ‘loads-a-stuff’ to be happy. Create a local currency to keep money in the community, keep the supply chain local, and re-use as much as possible. Hence our foray into foraging ... it just makes so much sense .... and you have to start somewhere. The downside of this is that your house fills up with ‘things that may come in handy’ ... so, no change there then ... our top floor’s been like this for years ... haven’t been up there for years ... oh, dear, I seem to be turning into my mother ... aarrgghh!!

Since ‘Transition Cirencester’ came into being in October, we’ve created a Wood Group and a Fruit Group, and subsequently have had an Apple Day and a Wood Day. One of our local landowners is an organic farmer and member of Transition Cirencester, and he owns Harebushes Wood just on the edge of Cirencester, opposite the Norman Arch which used to be part of the old Abbey, and is a favourite place for dog walkers. He invited people to come to a specific area of the wood, to gather or hand-saw as much firewood from fallen trees as they could get into a car or trailer. Once upon a time, foraging was common, and it should be still. It should not be viewed as trespassing. It would be rather good if this altruistic act spreads to our other big, but aristocratic, local landowner .... but ...

Another small landowner on the edge of Cirencester who owns an orchard, suggested that we try out our skills in capturing apples ... tricky beasts, apples ... waving a 2 metre pole with canvas bag at a refusenik apple is definitely a skill that needs to be practised. First, the easy bit. Select your apple and position your grabber underneath. Now for the skilled bit .. a quick deft turn of the wrist with the apple grabber, and tug at the recalcitrant apple. A heavy bombardment of all other apples on the branch, if not the tree, will ensue .... chosen apple may or may not lie in canvas bag ... lie stunned under tree until help arrives ... apples and head bruised (groan), fit only for juicing (the apples, that is) .... repeat until you gain the upper hand (sigh) ..... Told you those apples were tricky ...

Next, the juicing ... hard physical work, unless you have ‘a scratting mill’, which be Zummerzet for a machine that mills your apples into little pieces to make them more amenable to being juiced, as in cider-making. We didn’t! The ‘scratting’ and juicing was truly a team effort, though. Those of us who survived the attack of the killer apples, were determined .... it was them or us .. hack! hack! ... pound! pound! .... creeeak! .. the turning of the screw.. (the juicer, not Henry James) ... until the juice flowed .. and flowed ... about 5 gallons worth ... and oh, the flavour! ... no pasteurized juice could ever compare with this ... the taste buds were zinging! Because it was unpasteurized, it probably wouldn’t have survived more than a few days. We took away 4 litres of the brown nectar. It was gone in two days ... never stood a chance! Cider? What cider?

A good morning’s work. But what to do with all these bruised and blemished apples? First the segregation into good apples for storing or apple rings, and the rest for chutney or fruit leather. I had to work fast ... it was only a matter of time before the evil ones would take over ... For the next few hours, all was a blur of fingers, apple corer and knife .. not too much blood ... until ... (sound of fanfare) ... 2 x 4 feet of dowel with apple rings considerably enhanced the decor of Tamsin’s sometime bedroom. After a week, we dared to peak into the gloom, fully expecting to see two rows of furry rings (?), but .. prod! prod! .. pinch! pinch! ... only two rings showed any sign of furriness, the rest were dry. After a week in the freezer, they’re now in the cupboard waiting to infest Bob’s muesli. Not only do they taste good ... they were free!

This has been such a bountiful year for fruit of all kinds, but because of the myths and legends that have accreted around almost any food from the wild, people’s fear and suspicion has ensured that it has mostly been left to rot on the trees and in hedgerows ... only food from a supermarket shelf is safe. Bob and I got odd looks from people when we were gathering a ton of elderberries ... aren’t they poisonous? They just need a good wash to remove airborne pollutants, but otherwise, no. Self-set damsons from the allotments ... grapes from our neighbours’ vine ... apples and elderberries from down the road ... nothing has been safe from the scavenging ravenous Irving beast .... that’s an awful lot of ice-cream ... rhubarb ‘n ginger, anyone?

We didn’t entirely abandon the growing of food. Four runner bean plants very nobly struggled against the shadiness to produce some beans before the October frosts. Around these and our neighbours’ vine twined the very tasty nasturtiums from last year’s self-set seeds, and then a few desultory radishes appeared, only to be much molested by molluscs. Indoors in the conservatory we had high hopes ... actual tomatoes! ... maybe even healthy tomatoes! As the summer progressed, the plants looked suspiciously healthy, the leaves even developing a silver sheen, which upon closer inspection, appeared to be delicate spotting ... ah! how pretty! A couple of weeks later ... an interesting silver filigree pattern .. a cloud of tiny, tiny, evil insects ... an interesting curl to the leaves ... Hmm .. what may we deduce from these clues, Watson? I fear that this may be the dreaded scourge which afflicts many an indoor plant .... leaf curl (gulp). The tomatoes struggled manfully ...er .. tomato(fully) on, desperately producing tomatoes, all the while growing weaker ... and weaker ... producing a reasonable crop of little tomatoes, before nobly giving up the ghost (cut to the Dead March). The evil insects packed up their belongings and moved to the aubergine plants, and even though the aubergines were in .. out ... in ... out ... (of the conservatory) and shaken all about ... nothing we could do would prevent their little flowers dropping off (do evil insects have flowers?) ... where were those pesky pollinators when they were needed? ... (sigh) .. Just when we were about to evict it, the pepper plant knowingly started the production of peppers ... hmmm ... there’s a lot we don’t know about plants ... could it be (gulp) ... reading my mind? Perhaps Prince Charles is on to something ...

Following on from the repatriation of ancestral remains back to their homeland, the Museum has released a few of us oldies back into the wild, but, like the institutional beings that we’ve become, we just have to keep returning for intellectual and emotional sustenance. As you’ve probably realized, ‘normal’ people who commute to work don’t really have much time for the hunter-gatherer life-style ... it’s hell trying to lassoo coffee beans ... So, yes, I decided to take the money and run ... to early retirement. There were many, many reasons for this, and it was a very hard decision to make .. but it seemed like the right time .... and the monetary inducement was a nudge in the right direction! But I do volunteer one day per week, mainly to carry on with those projects that work always seemed to get in the way of ... Let’s hope that Ye Olde Rusty Brain Cells can be cranked back into life after being much abused during The Cancer Treatment Wars.

Being free to do what you want curiously has the opposite effect – you try to impose discipline on yourself, but not always successfully ... ah, a nice warm duvet in the deep gloom of winter .... zzzzz! But the internecine strife, misunderstandings, no proper accountability and consequent stress of life on the Committee of the regional Green Party does get me out of bed ... well, almost ... (yawn) ... zzzz!

But what of Tamsin (who?), musician (?), sound artist and anti-capitalist, back-to-the-land hippy. She seems to divide her time between Germany, home of her boyfriend, and Holland, home to her and about a dozen similarly-minded individuals with whom she shares the ‘official squat’ smallholding, together with the usual assortment of animals. She mostly lives in the farmhouse, but retreats to live in her bus when life just gets too much (empathetic sigh). This year she’s fought off an angry frustrated ram (!) ... they don’t have any ewes (mistake) ... helped to grow a massive crop of hallucinogenic hemp (?), produced the music for the ‘house film’, which was entered for a nation-wide competition (they didn’t win ... but hey ...), held an open-day for the local community, and leant how to make felt straight from the ram ... bzzzzz! ... minngg! .... clip! clip! ... baaa! (worriedly) ... hence the strained relationship ram-wise. The last we heard was that she was using home-made plant dyes and selling her own felted jewellery in the local craft market. Ever resourceful is our Tams ... whenever she’s in the U.K., we usually find her under a bus ... our neighbours are peculiarly tolerant in this respect .. but the sighs of relief, when her bus departs down the street, are palpable! We won’t be seeing her for Christmas, sadly, as she’s organizing the squat’s 10th anniversary party in January ... and of course, she’s too poor .... plus .. a kitten has made her life more complicated (sigh) ... It will be strange without her ... but there’s always Skype.

Rupert is leaving home ... shock! horror! Well .. not quite! He’s actually giving up his sound technician job at the college to learn to be a better drummer at the Brighton Institute of Music in Bristol (?), funding it by carrying on with his part-time job as care assistant. There is no going back, he’s now paid the course deposit ..... correction ... we’ve paid the course deposit. The plan is to share the daily commute to Bristol with fellow band member Jamie, but I wonder how long it will be before Bristol’s tentacles reach into his soul ... or the Ice Queen lobs an ice crystal into his heart (??) (hmm .. not sure about that analogy .. error! error! .. re-boot the brain cell!).

The fast pace of Rupert’s life became ever more frenetic this year ... opera, musicals, music gigs ... fitting in his two jobs .. No wonder he has to go to the gym ... suddenly I feel knackered ... zzzz! Playing minor evil characters seems to be his thing .. lots of acting and not too much learning of lines. First he played Spoletta, the evil henchman of Scarpia, the even more evil Police Chief in ‘Tosca’, which played to a full house at the Pittville Pump Rooms in Cheltenham, an appropriately magnificent grand opera venue. And then almost at the same time he was ‘Injun Joe’ in the musical ‘Tom Sawyer’, which also played to a full house, but at a typical village hall, where size constraints meant that the action took place amongst the audience. This was such great fun! River mist ... cicadas ...watery eyes (?) .. (cough! cough!) .. “Where’s the stage?” .. “Isn’t the smoke machine up a little high?” ... much shouting .... members of the audience trampled to death (slight exaggeration) .... shots ring out ... Injun Joe leaps out of the window at the back of the hall ... pandemonium! Later, a large boulder (part of the scenery) falls on Injun Joe and appears to crush him to death ... audience cheers wildly! This was one of those totally unplanned but serendipitous moments, when everything fell into place (!) ... with poor old Rupert pinned to the floor, pretending to be dead, whilst in pain!

But, out of Rupert’s many gigs, my favourite was at the reunion of ‘Dealer’, a local rock band, who last played together in the ‘80s and had a large local following. Lacking their original drummer, they drafted in Rupert, and the gig was amazing!!! The hall was stuffed to the rafters with a good mix of old and young rockers, and ‘Dealer’ then proceeded to raise the roof! With all the heavy duty electronic kit they were using, a fuse blew at one point, and whilst it was being fixed, Rupert improvised on the drums for about ten to fifteen minutes. This was awesome!!! Rupert is soooo talented!!! Dealer will soon be doing a tour of Greece ... yes, they have fans in Greece ... (???) ...

‘Carmen’ is the next opera on Rupe’s ‘to do’ list, but he’s currently having a break from learning his lines, as it’s Rupe and Lizzie’s fifth anniversary since they first met, and they’re just off to Paris for a romantic weekend (ahhh ...).

Bob is still slogging his way through the Ph.D. I don’t see much of him ... he’s usually to be found in the dark lit by an evil, eerie glow, and accompanied by the tapping of keys ... cogs whirring (!) .. occasional mutterings ... curses ... before emerging, now and again, blinking into the light to hunt the biscuit and cup o’ tea. “Yee harr! Them dang tea leaves sure do put up a fight ...” .... erm .... sorry ... mental aberration ... only another three months ... (sigh) ...

Random favourite saying of the month : ‘To hellenikon’ - ancient Greek for ‘The Greek Thing’. Anyone else been watching Richard Miles?

Sorry ... incoherence setting in ... time to wish you all a Merry Christmas (if I actually get the cards written on time) or at the very least a Happy New Year!

Lots of love from

Bob, Joy, Rupert and Tamsin (very much in absentia!)

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Christmas 2009

41 Albion Street,
Stratton,
Cirencester,
Gloucs.
GL7 2HT

December 2009

Dear all you jolly folks out there,

Ah ‘tis that time of the year when you all go running for cover as the over-stuffed Irving Christmas letter hoves into view through the letterbox, slamming you against the wall, knocking you to the floor, – so, no different from everything else at this time of year, then (“.....wow! ... like .. how much booze went into this pudding? ...”). Our sheep-based theme for this year is sheep-poo! The cards are made from it .... (ee-eugh! ... sudden clatter as it drops from thy delicate mitt to the floor ...). Yes, this year the sheep are wishing you all a Merry Christmas in the only way they know how ..... (?) .... and it’s also very green (picks up card ... stares at it with deep suspicion ...). Yes, poo has now entered our lives, instead of merely leaving it ......

On a similar poo-based theme, the weed police from the Bathurst Estate have pronounced our attempts at allotmenteering as not fit for purpose and have chopped the plot in half. Gone are the damson trees and blackberries – scavenging will never be the same again (sniff)! I’ve rather lost heart (sigh). Allotmenteers appear to fall into two categories – those with time on their hands, and those for whom time is an illusion (lunch-time ... doubly so). It is an unfortunate situation that the Bathurst Estate looks kindly upon those who hoover their allotment and polish their veg., and believe that a weed is the Devil incarnate, and that an allotment is a battle-ground over which they must enact their battle strategies daily (“exterminate! exterminate!”), in order to keep the Devil’s spawn at bay. “Into rows you ‘orrible lot, straighten that stem, left! right! left! right! left! right! .... atten ... shun! Get those ragged leaves cut, you ‘orrible little plant!” ........ And then there are those who sub-let their allotments, due to lack of time, and appear to have another life .... ‘The weeds they do grow high and the weeds they do grow low’ (ye olde folk song – slightly corrupted) ... the result of which is .... tension! grrr! Life just doesn’t contain enough rain-free Saturdays .... but too many hot, hot, work-filled weekdays. Result : crop misery and joyful weeds!

The tendrils of the Green Party have twisted and tightened their grip on us this year, due to the European and County Council Elections. Bob was persuaded to put himself forward as a candidate for the County Council Elections, campaigned on two Saturday mornings for the European Elections only, and with the MPs’ expenses scandal still rankling with the public, he managed to get 929 votes, which was 10% of those who voted – quite respectable in this true-blue Tory heartland! On the strength of this, the Stroud & District Green Party to which we belong, decided that it might be feasible to start a Cotswold sub-branch (hey! ... stranger things have happened).

I, too, have spent time on the streets (nooo! not in that capacity! ... behave yourselves!). Leafleting and canvassing in Stroud and Minchinhampton ... tramp! tramp! tramp! ... Throb! Throb! Throb! ... aah! me feet! ... How big is this ward? .... more hills than Rome .. mind wandering ..... fingers trapped in vicious sprung letterboxes ... scary humans .... scary vicious dogs ... oh the heat, the flies, the dust , the horrible heat .... water! ... water! .... spare a thought for the hard life of a party activist, guv .... vote Green on Thursday ... cough! .... thud! ... (expire) ...

Actually, we had great fun this last Saturday! Instead of increasing our carbon footprint by going down to London to be on the Climate Change March, we stayed put in Cirencester garnering signatures to send to Copenhagen in the hope that if the negotiators see that there is a groundswell of public support for binding carbon emissions targets, then they might be spurred on to reach an agreement this time, instead of the waffle that was Kyoto (sigh). I mean how could the public resist this manic-looking woman leaping out in front of them – “... oo-er! .... let’s sign it and get out of here!” I’ve decided the key to getting people to notice you is optimism and weirdness – a lethal combination (!?) I managed to fill six sheets of paper in a bit less than two hours .... no, they didn’t all read Mickey Mouse ... It was good that we represented lots of organizations who care about the environment – Friends of the Earth, Christian Aid, United Nations Association (no, I don’t know much about them either, but hey, they organized the whole thing). Of course, it helped that it wasn’t raining.... !

Yes, I’m still Treasurer for the South West region of the Green Party. I think it definitely requires a special (?) kind of person for this job ........ gold! gold! (cackle! cackle!) .... The Euro Elections (in addition to Local Party Support) are our raison d’être and so this year has been busy. But even though I’ve made some mistakes and taken some decisions that I now feel were wrong, I feel strangely rather more confident about my abilities ... a novel sensation this! They’ll probably chuck me out at the A.G.M. .......

Our wandering minstrel, Tamsin, should be returning unto the bosom of her loving family very soon. Our itinerant Sir Galahad spends part of her life rescuing tomatoes from the jaws of hell, hacking her way through forests of triffids, doing battle with frustrated rams (??), and murdering the odd unfortunate chicken, usually in Holland, where she lives on a smallholding, in an official squat. The summer sees her tackling the highways and byways of England, attempting to entertain small children at festivals, and trying, but not quite managing, to earn money ..... (sigh). Actually she did manage to get a paid (yes, we fell over in a dead faint, as well!) job clearing up after the plutocratic hoards at Glastonbury this year. It’s amazing what people leave behind – some people work just for what they can collect afterwards – it’s that lucrative! We ended up with some interesting (!) articles of clothing ...

Her Court Case is coming up just before Christmas, and we still don’t know the details of what she is accused. Mystified? Yes, so are we! Apparently, as far as anyone knows (except the solicitor that is, who refuses to tell us, and isn’t trying hard enough to contact Tamsin) she is accused of ‘Driving without Due Care and Attention’, and not stopping at the scene of an accident. Now this sounds serious, but actually, according to what little we can garner from the police, it seems that whilst driving her van in the middle of Cirencester, Tamsin clipped someone’s wing mirror, causing a scratch, and then failed to stop when told to by a member of the public. Tamsin wasn’t even aware that she’d done anything, and so, of course, she didn’t stop, and she wasn’t aware that anyone had asked her to – bit of a catch 22 situation this! The solicitor can’t understand how it ever reached the Court – perhaps they’re short of convictions this year. Since Tamsin doesn’t have any valuable possessions (even the van is in Bob’s name) or even a job, fining her would actually be a waste of time. Now I cannot understand how a clipped wing mirror constitutes ‘Driving without Due Care and Attention’, as I was convicted of this offence 30 years ago for bumping a car at a set of traffic lights – rather more serious I think! This is quite a bizarre situation!

Our permanent lodger, Rupert, is beginning to re-think his life, deciding that having a plan B might be a good option, even when Plan A is still fully functioning. This recent flurry of activity has involved taking Grade 5 music theory, winding up to taking Grade 8 singing, applying to Brighton College (actually in Bristol ... (!)) to do drumming, and thinking about reapplying to Trinity Music College in London, where he obtained a place years ago, but turned it down – oh, what to do? I am suspecting the influence of the fair Lizzie, Rupe’s girlfriend, who is currently at UCL reading Psychology, is amazingly well-organized, and isn’t one to let grass grow under her feet .... Rupe’s just gonna have to keep up!! Read into this what you will ....

Just recently, we’ve seen rather more of Rupe, as he’s taken up ..... cooking!! Due to his desire to become fit, whilst at the gym, a trainer made up a diet sheet for him, and Rupert is actually preparing food from scratch – and enjoying it! I never thought I’d live to see the day! He’s become instantly confident in his newly-acquired skills, such that he’s now planning a welcome-home meal for Lizzie ( ...“quick, where’s the smelling salts?) ... she’ll be bowled over! It was enlightening listening to Rupert persuading his friend Jamie of the benefits of eating healthily. Jamie said that he found white rice very boring and tasteless, but when Rupe cooked him some black Canadian wild rice, Jamie loved it ..... Hoorah! a convert! .... boo! the cost! ... looks like we’ll be subsidizing his eating habits for some time to come ... (sigh).

During the brief interlude that passed for the dry season, I spent many happy (???) hours ... days .... weeks .... years ..... (“I’ve told you a million times- don’t exaggerate!”) ...... scraping my fingers to the bone (ouch!), and perching precariously on window-sills, causing a semi-permanent ridge along the less-than-padded backside. This was to enable the sashes of two of our upstairs windows to be brought back to their original wood perfection at last, ready to receive their proper old-fashioned, but long-lasting, coats of linseed-oil paint. Weather-watching was a rather more popular activity than normal this year, as we avidly scrutinized the BBC web-site hour-by-hour, almost minute-by-minute, to see whether we could risk placing Bob outside to be either frazzled by the sun or shrunk by the rain, or blasted by gritty gales (or possibly even Gaels) from the North ...... only two more windows to go now ..... mañana ....

And then, we thought .... “Let’s have a holiday!” Wow! novel! ... pushing the boat out here, what? In Scotland? .... in October? .... madness .... but as it turned out, October was an amazing month, and Glasgow was not quite as grim as Bob had remembered ... ah, those sweet childhood memories ..... (???) Again, we went a-Landmark-Trust-ing, more specifically, we stayed in two properties designed by Charles Rennie Mackintosh, one at Comrie, a small town in the Highlands, and then the famous Hill House at Helensburgh. Yes, we decided to immerse ourselves in all things Mackintosh for a week.

Comrie is a small town set in aspic, and, if the tourist literature is to be believed, appears to be the ‘Earthquake Capital of Britain’. But ‘though the Highland Boundary Fault lies just 2 kilometres south of the town, it may not necessarily be responsible for the earthquakes. A tiny stone-built one-roomed ‘hut’ was built in the first half of the nineteenth century, after a number of prominent local bourgeoisie with much leisure time and an interest in things scientific, decided to set themselves up as the ‘Comrie Pioneers’ to investigate earthquake activity in the area. Being enthused by what we had read, and having a desire to commune (?) with a few fellow sheeply creatures on the way, we set out a-walking. Two miles further down the road ... “Aarrgghh!! I’ve just worn a hole in my ankle! ...... Oh, that’s why I haven’t worn these boots in years .... oh, bugger ... it’s no good .... I can’t go on! ....” “Sorry, old girl ... I’ll have to leave you at the side of the road with the ostrich egg full of water, as wolf-fodder ...” An hallucinatory cup of tea and accompanying biscuit suddenly loomed large .. as we hobbled off in search of the ‘Earthquake House’. After a while in the middle of the wood, and up a steep slope, we came upon a house made from gingerbread .... (wishful thinking, old girl!) ... quick reconnoitre ... no witch in sight, as yet ... peered in through the windows .. no bread-oven ... but there on the floor, surrounded by the more modern seismometers of the British Geological Survey, was ..... a skittles game! .... or .... a square of loose sand with a wooden cross, the arms of which were pointing in the direction of the four points of the compass. Upon each arm were three ‘skittles’, the one closest to the centre was the thinnest, and then in progression, wider towards the outside. Depending upon direction of fall and which size(s) of ‘skittle’ fell, a crude estimation of the direction and strength of the earthquake could be inferred ..... not quite as pretty as the Chinese version of the four dragons’ heads releasing balls from their mouths ...... Gradually, we became aware of a shuffling sound and heavy breathing ..... the witch? ..... the local itinerant pervert? Hearts thudding, we turned slowly around (gulp). We were being eyed suspiciously by ... a cow (or two).... (phew). Could it be the witch in disguise ... (?) These remote communities, you know ..... I’ve seen ‘The Wicker Man’ .... We beat a hasty retreat (or in my case .. a slow shuffle) and, as I staggered back into town, with a bruise the size of a hen’s egg, and a swollen ankle, and cursing myself for bringing the wrong boots, I found myself pondering why it was that so many geographical features and businesses had incorporated the name of ‘the De’il’ ...... and where were all the children ... in this town of rich old folk .... (“quick! .. get a cup o’ tea into ‘er, before she really goes off the rails!”). Ah .. just like the community of folk living in the woods in railway carriages .. but no rails ... (sorry, I promise to get back on track ... groan!).

Comrie must have always been prosperous, since there was also a magnificent glass observatory built on the roof of the Mackintosh building, pre Mackintosh, as it were, before the conflagration that was the cause of its re-design by the young architect from Glasgow. The Mackintosh building was in the most prominent place in town, next to the square, and on a sort of cross-roads, overlooking the river. The sitting-room incorporated this rounded turret, which gave the flat a feeling of being central to all the life of the street, even though up above it – a view in almost every direction – fantastic! And, as all the visitors to the Landmark stated in the obligatory log-book, “It’s just yards from the local chippie!”. The building is not in most books about Mackintosh’s work, as it had been forgotten until an architectural student from Glasgow started looking through old Mackintosh commissions for his Master’s thesis, in the 1970s. He arrived to find this old couple in residence, proceeded to tell them of the building’s history, whereupon they admitted to him that they were just about to refurbish the place, and this was going to involve pulling out this ‘old, dark fireplace’, as it didn’t fit in with their colour scheme!!! Once they realized the significance of what they were living in, they decided to move and sell it to the Landmark Trust, ostensibly to allow it to be gazed upon by a wider public, but probably because they were fed up with people banging on their door wanting to be given the guided tour!! After much haggling (sorry ... negotiations), the Landmark Trust finally managed to acquire the whole building, which meant that the Mackintosh fitted-out shop below the flat was safe from future developers as well. It’s amazing that the shop fittings have survived for a century in their original state - it’s probably just that the shop has always been a ‘general stores’, selling anything and everything, and the layout just ... works!

After Comrie, we drove along the shores of Loch Lomond to Helensburgh, and actually stayed in a flat at the top of the most famous of Mackintosh’s buildings, The Hill House. Along the way, our attention was diverted by a choking cloud of smoke, and many cars swerving and screeching to a halt, before disgorging blokes with a desperate air, armed only with cameras, who rushed off into the evil black fog never to be seen again. Bravely we followed into the centre of this nightmarish vision of hell (cough! cough! wheeze!) ... eyes-a-watering ... where we came upon .... (click! click! whirr! click!) .. a scene reminiscent of paparazzi around a celeb! It seems that Ivor the Engine’s Scottish cousin was being taken to his holiday home in Mallaig for the winter, before again being wheeled out for the tourist hoards in the spring.

Having been booted out of the Comrie flat at the crack of dawn ... (yawn) ... well, 10 a.m., ... we found ourselves at Hill House before even tourist opening time, which was at least three hours before the time allowed to get into our holiday flat. Panic sets in ... eyes glaze over ... brain shuts down ... “must have cup of tea .... cannot function without cup of tea ....”. Eventually, wandering aimlessly around the outside of the building, a particular type of sound .... clink! clink! crash! ... chisels it’s way into the sub-conscious, and almost instantaneously, the conscious brain, in a very English Pavlovian way, conjures up the image of a giant cup of tea .... “A café! .... tea at last”, she sobs joyfully (!) Our heroine is saved ... but .... how to get past the guards? A plan is hatched. We must appeal to their kind understanding of the tea-less condition. We begged ... we cajoled ..... we were contrite ... we were English and we needed our tea ... “We promise to come back tomorrow and pay to get in, honest!” The guards relented ... who could stand in the way of a tea addict and their ‘fix’ ... the situation could become dangerous. “You will go straight to the door at the end of the corridor which will lead to the café.” “Do not pass Go.” “Do not collect £200.” “If you look at anything Mackintosh, you’ll be turned into giant pumpkins ...” So, looking neither right nor left, we eventually chanced upon a most welcome scene ... carrot cake ... chocolate brownies .... Chelsea buns ... and .... TEA!!!

Replete, we staggered up to the top floor of Hill House, overburdened inwardly by cakes and outwardly by luggage ... up and up the spiral staircase, past bemused visitors looking through the looking glass into another world ... until finally (gasp!) ... we found ourselves in the servants’ quarters and the ‘school-room’, which would be our home for a few days. Hill House was designed for the Blackie family, of book publishing fame, and stayed in family hands until the early 1950s, when the patriarch of the firm at that time, died, and the house was sold to someone else. It deteriorated and was eventually rescued by the Royal Incorporation of Architects in Scotland, who didn’t have any money, didn’t know how to conserve early 20th century concrete, used inappropriate materials which made the house non-breathable, leading to damp problems (sigh), which ultimately was the cause of the parting of the ways between the outer concrete coating and the sandstone walls ... oops!

The next day, after scabbing loads of apples of different unusual varieties from the orchard (a perk of staying at the flat) we did indeed pay to look around, and were very impressed. The Scottish National Trust, the current owners, had done a good job of restoration and gathering together much of the original furniture. When the rest of the Edwardian world was into dark furniture and heavy wooden panelling, this was so different, being light, delicate and white, with judicious use of coloured glass to create interesting light patterns everywhere, and of course, all hand-made. The hand of Margaret McDonald Mackintosh was everywhere - you can see that, especially with interior design, there was a true collaboration between the two of them, though of course, Rennie Mackintosh, being a bloke, gets much of the credit (sigh). As we were looking around the large sitting room, with its big square bay window and window seat, we were wondering .... it would be cold sitting here in winter ... “Oh look ... a typical little-squares pattern in the wooden arm- and back-rests ....” .. “Hmmm ... this looks rather like what we have in the Museum ....... wonder if there’s a large radiator behind here ....” “Quick! the guide’s left the room ...” .... a little light grovelling on the floor, underneath a little curtain ... “Ah yes, there it is ..” “Oh oops!” ... the little curtain had unclipped itself ....... guide returning .... (gulp!) ... “Oh hell! there’s no time to clip it back on!” .... red faces .... exit room trying not to look guilty (phew) ....

Glasgow now beckoned. Thirty years and a whole City of Culture had been and gone since Bob had fought his way out of its gloomy rain-sodden streets, to somewhere more congenial down south. We boarded the train cursing a system that didn’t allow you to use Student Rail Cards until 10 a.m., but praising the regularity of the trains and the clarity of the information given both verbally (“Wow! you can hear what she’s saying, now that‘s novel!”) and on a screen in each carriage. Perhaps in England, they just like to liven up each boring journey by keeping you in the dark (?), whilst they take you on a Magical Mystery Tour, which may, or may not, involve a bus at some point (sigh). Alighting from the train, Bob felt a little strange. “Odd ... there’s something amiss here ... ah! ... what’s that bright light in the sky?” .... (frazzle!) ... Bob turns into a little pile of dust ... (don’t worry, folks, a cup of Darjeeling reconstitutes even the most intractable of English middle-class dusty vampires!).

Well, we tramped up and down Sauchiehall Street, with Bob muttering “What a dump!” periodically, as we stared at yet another anonymous burger-joint, coffee-shop, tat-seller, and congratulating himself on his foresight in leaving when he did. What appeared to be so disconcerting, was that there had been a theatre dumped in the middle of the road at some point, cutting the road in two, and this, together with a lot more pedestrianization, had completely altered the whole dynamic of this area of the city. Sauchiehall Street had slid down-hill and Buchanan Street was now the posh bit. The only remnant of its heyday was the Willow Tea Rooms designed for Kate Cranston by Rennie Mackintosh, which, in its upper gallery area, has been much restored to its former glory. The Salon De Luxe was indeed very deluxe .... mirrors, leaded coloured glass, typical Mackintosh floral motifs ... the sheer handcrafted opulence is hard to describe ..... and the cakes .... the teas ... the cream .... the calories (or should that be joules) ..... mmmm!

Apart from the reconstruction of the Mackintoshes’ own house (originally demolished by the University!) at the Hunterian museum, which was unfortunately closed for re-furbishment, we did manage to visit most of the other touristic Mackintosh haunts that we had planned to visit, such as the Glasgow School of Art, Scotland Street School, and bits of the Kelvingrove Museum and Art Gallery, which were all we had time for ... this time around .... The Scotland Street School is now a museum of school life, is extremely interesting, but is a thing of beauty in a wasteland of utter urban desolation. The area was a poor one, and so, of course, had to be blitzed to make way for a motorway. Its hinterland, and therefore its raison d’être, had disappeared, and so it ceased to be a school and became a museum. Now, the nearby subway and millions of multi-storey car parks act as a ‘park and ride’ system, and, all forlorn, stands this building ... so sad. Reading how Rennie Mackintosh treated his clients, the school board in this case, it seems obvious now, in hind-sight, why he found it difficult to obtain commissions in Glasgow, and never had the reputation he deserved in his life-time. He was so determined that the school should be built to his original designs, no matter what the cost, that he agreed one set of (more simple and therefore cheaper) plans with the school board, whilst working to his more expensive plans on the ground with the builders, stone-masons and artisans .... devious or what? Of course, the school board had to cough up once the money had been spent. But can you just imagine the tense arguments?? The artist wanting to follow through his concept ... the client ever mindful of cost .... future generations glad that Mackintosh was such a devious bastard!!!

Looking at each other as we arrived back in Helensburgh, it suddenly dawned upon us .... maybe we shouldn’t have bought these massive hard-back books ....... the Hill House is straight up the hill for a mile or two ..... us folk from the Fens don’t have the blood oxygen-carrying capacity of other mortals ... it be quite remote ... hazy memory .... fangs ... blood loss ..... pallid complexion .... As to the slog up the hill .... “Aarrgghh! I’ve got blisters on my bra straps!” An interesting place, Helensburgh, built on a grid system for rich people, rather like Herculaneum (?), with villas marching up the hill, each one commanding an ever more extensive view of the River Clyde, and unlike Herculaneum ... two railway stations! From the tiny railway station half way up the hill, you can catch the sleeper train to London ... how well connected ... that’s rich folk for you!

Clip-clopping (!) over the sun-frazzled landscape on our way home, cheroot dangling from parched lips, squinting through eyes half-closed against the now-familiar bright light, we scanned the horizon. Fables had reached our ears that told of an award-winning motorway service station in the Lake District, which sells local produce in its shop and serves local food in its restaurant. Could this fabulous place really exist? Calories of untold value await the person who stumbles upon its existence. But just as the stomach-clock had all but given up, a notice loomed .... was this really the place? “At last!” (cackle! cackle!) ..... “Calories beyond the dreams of avarice!!” “Mine, all mine! ... errrm ... that is ... Ours, all ours!” “Oh all right ... theirs, all theirs, as well ...” (humph!). We could not resist .... cheese ... cheese .... and ... more cheese ..... and chocolates (??) “Hmmm ... does the car look closer to the ground .. or is it my imagination?”

So .... holidays in Britain are not necessarily dominated by rain storms and howling gales ... unless you’re camping, of course ... though even Rupert and Lizzie basked in sunshine this year ... (faint!)

Well, dear readers, I must resist the temptation to bore you further, before you lose the will to live, and wish you all a traditional Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Lots of love and best wishes from ..... Joy, Bob, Rupert and Tamsin (“Who are these people?”)

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Christmas 2008

41 Albion St
Stratton
Cirencester
Gloucs.
GL7 2HT

December 2008

Baa! Baa!

Baa baa beaa baa baa beeh baaa … (“no dear, it’s for human beings, try again….”)

Hello non-woolly friends,

Another 12 months has passed and ‘tis time to wheel out the Chirtsma lttre mchaeni….. and give the Christmas letter machine its annual service so that it can fulfill its elor (“just tweek that knob, will you”) role in puzzling and, with a bit of luck, amusing all you luvverly people. (ain’t you lucky!)

We’ve done quite a few miles this year visiting friendly (but slightly nervous) communities around Britain to watch them graze, and met some nice people too.

At Trelay Farm, somewhere in the vicinity of Bude, not far from the sea, we were promised a bee, but found, as well as woolly and nude communities, feathered egg-laying communities (perhaps better known as sheep, pigs, chickens and ducks) – slightly disconcerting for woolly veggies (cough! ….. fluff in the throat ….).

Probably we’d better explain….. Having lived in our little house with its tiny slab-encrusted garden for more years than we care to remember and having spent two summers cultivating (?) an allotment, we feel more and more that co-operation is the best way to live, more especially now that peak oil has arrived, and that communities of all sorts need to be rather more self-sufficient and resilient, and rather more in control of their own destinies …… “decentralization rules! ….. reverse the legacy of Thatcherism!” (“Calm down, dear, you’re not on the Climate Change march now”. “Baaaa! Baaaa!”….. “What do we want?” ….. “More grass!” …. “When do we want it?” …. “Now!”).

Trelay is peopled (sheeped?) by a bunch of hard-working ‘greens’, who have achieved much in only about two years since buying the farm. The major driving force is a woman who seems to have a background in engineering and business, is very no-nonsense, and is very well versed in the legal side of things – Trelay’s constitution is very well-thought-through. They need more people, as they have a large mortgage on the farm, and many out-buildings, all with year-round planning permission, not just for holiday cottages - luckily, the planning people made a mistake. Trelay reaps the benefits, though, as it’s now feasible for a community to live and work there. Planning red tape is the usual reason why there aren’t more communities about. It does mean that you could convert a barn into a really well-insulated eco-home, which uses very little energy, with the ultimate holy grail of being off-grid eventually. They nearly all eat together, though there are one or two rebels, and a school bell summoning you for meals …. dong!... dong! (….the bells! .. the bells!). The one thing that set them apart from other communities that we’ve visited, was the acceptance that old folk are part of the community, and are not to be shunted off either to live in an old folks’ home, or destined to live a lonely existence somewhere, but are part of the ‘family’- certainly, Jackie’s aunt lived there, and she was never lonely! The only down-side was the farm’s isolation – North Devon / Cornwall does not have much public transport – though car sharing would be the obvious solution. It’s a small world – it seems that some of the folks living there, including Jackie, alias ‘the headmistress’, are well-known to people in Green Party South West (of which more later), whose circles we also infest!

Dol-llys is a very pretty early nineteenth century house, with about 14 acres of land, some of which is woodland (yes, they still remember Tamsin …. “now there’s a girl who knew how to wield an axe!” …. passed into legend after only two years …). The up-side of living there is its proximity to Llanidloes, being only one mile away and thus easily walkable. Llanidloes itself is a town seething with ‘green’ ideas (close enough to Machynlleth for the CAT influence …. meeow!), but too poor to have attracted developers, with the consequence that its centre has a very nineteenth century appearance. Dol-llys people manage their woodland very sustainably (in fact, there’s an adjacent Community woodland ….. definitely no shortage of kindling, then!), which means that woodburners are the heating of choice, for which they are self-sufficient. They managed to get a Community grant for a large wood-chip boiler for central heating, and have the connections for solar hot water in the roof (for summer use), but getting this past the planners …… (sigh). Sometimes one feels that planners live in their own little universe, not heeding what messages emanate from government concerning the greater use of renewables, seemingly unaware of the role that they could play in helping to prevent imminent runaway climate change by allowing us to reduce our carbon footprints. (“Boo! …. gerrof your soap-box, woman….!”). Dol-llys folk only eat together about two or three times a month when they work together on house maintenance, the woodland, or the gardens, or when social occasions have been organized together. They certainly don’t live in each other’s pockets at the moment, but one does wonder how they would respond to suggestions concerning a little more communal living ……… Definitely worth exploring further.

Postlip Hall, just outside Cheltenham, is a Jacobean mansion with a Grade I listed barn. The up-side of this barn is that the community hold the CAMRA Beer Fest in it every year! This raises funds for the upkeep of the barn, which of course is …. the down-side. The cost of the upkeep of various buildings and roads means that Postlip folk are always having to run events and thinking of ways to raise money. On the positive side, the social events are on your doorstep …. staggering home was never so easy …. and you get to learn new skills …… lime plastering, carpentry, being Treasurer …. aaaarrrrggghhh!!!! …….. see below for explanation of crazed outburst … Postlip does have its own bore-hole, however, which means that there aren’t any water rates to pay – hurrah! As far as we can tell, Postlip appears to be populated almost entirely by doctors, ex organizers of the Cheltenham literary festival, and current organizers of the Cheltenham folk festival ……. gosh! I’m feeling knackered already …. zzzz …… We did feel a certain affinity with the folkies, but the doctors …. hmmm … think Green Wing …. One interesting fact that we learned whilst doing an apple-scooping-up-from-the-stream-and-orchard-floor day, was that one can’t just leave fallen apples if there are sheep in your orchard … they explode, apparently (the sheep that is … not the apples!!). The moral of the story? Avoid eating fermenting fruit if you’re a herbivore . …… I have the strangest feeling that my liver might object to living at Postlip ….…. “and what about us sheep?” …. baaaa! (hic!) … baaa! (hic!) ….. “Holy exploding sheep, batman!” …(cackle!) …. “stop giggling” … (cackle!) ….…. “I thought I told you to keep the sheep out of the barn whilst CAMRA were here!”.

Yes, for those of you not in the know, there are communities out there peopled by quite ordinary folk (baaa! … oops, sorry … and sheep…. and other non-woolly things), the length and breadth of the country, who are doing things for themselves, working towards becoming self-sufficient in energy and water, as well as food.

As you may know, Tamsin has been living on a smallholding in Holland, whilst doing a Sonology (the science of sound) course at the Royal Conservatoire in Den Haag. In reality, the smallholding is a legal squat (now .. the words ‘legal’ and ‘squat’ don’t often crop up together …. but … this is Holland we’re talking about). Tamsin has developed practical skills-a-plenty, since first she started living in a van whilst a student at Dartington. In addition to her log-splitting skills, she has now become adept at murdering the odd cockerel by hand, goat-milking (haven’t noticed any disappeared ‘dreads’) and has done her fair share of veg growing and fence-mending, and can cook amazingly well using any ingredients that come to hand on the smallholding (poverty … the mother of invention!). Because everyone eats together (there’s only one kitchen), Tamsin is not at all fazed by having to cook regularly for large groups of people – in fact, she should seriously think about becoming a chef at a wholefood restaurant. This would certainly help overcome the odd cash flow problem. I’m so pleased that both Rupert and Tamsin have taken on board the necessity of always trying to live by a set of ‘green’ principles, namely the rejection of cheap ‘stuff’, trying to always source local, or fair trade and organic, and being aware of your carbon footprint in everything that you do, even if it costs you more and can sometimes inconvenience you - in fact, mending and making do. Yeah, we’re all just a load of skinflints really! (“Ebeneezer! ……I’m the ghost of Christmas past” ……etc.).

As for moi, I decided to put myself forward for Treasurer of Green Party South West in January this year. It’s always difficult to recruit people for unglamorous jobs such as Treasurer, as people hate the idea of having to be accurate, legally responsible, and unpaid!! (Crazy or passionate? – such a thin line). The situation is even worse for a large region, as opposed to just the local party, where everyone knows each other. Being an obsessive, though, ‘tis just up my street! I’ve certainly learned a lot about banks, how insecure they are (“Gold! Gold! Gold!” …. (cackle! cackle!) …. “Are you sure she’s the right person for the job? ….”), and how vigilant one has to be to stop them emptying your accounts even faster than you can spend it! … (sigh) …… (“Global capitalism” ….. “Don’t talk to me about global capitalism” …… “Nobody listens to me” ….. “Brain the size of a planet” ………. “and me with this pain in my diodes all down my left side …..” …… “Yeah, yeah …. thank you Marvin”).

Rupert is still living with us – however, on the positive side, he does now have two jobs, both within walking distance of home – yeah, some people have all the luck! Apart from his 20 hours per week job as Sound Technician at Cirencester College, he is now a carer for a local lad, Tom Tooley, who had an op for a brain tumour which left him a little brain damaged and needing 24-hour care. Rupert often does 12-hour night shifts, which is not as onerous as it sounds – after all, what other job pays you to go ‘clubbing’? Sometimes this involves going to London, where the carers have as good a time as Tom, the bouncers let them in ahead of the queue, they always get taken to the best spot in the place, and carers get in for free! At other times, it’s just making sure that Tom’s oxygen levels don’t get too low as he sleeps. Tom can do a lot for himself, and even goes to Bath Spa University. Rupe’s involvement with Tom goes back a long way. He’d been teaching Tom music studio techniques and they’d been writing dance music together, long before the job of carer came up. Rupe was offered the job just as his cash flow situation was becoming really dire – serendipitous, or what? And why was Rupert’s cash flow a problem? Well, apart from there not being enough of it, there is Lizzie, not to mention various bands to service ……. (sigh). Lizzie is actually very good at organizing Rupert’s money for him, but now she’s at University ……. money just flows through Rupert’s fingers like water ….. Isn’t love wonderful? Rupert and Lizzie must have seen each other almost every weekend this term ….. good for cementing their relationship, and keeping National Express profits up …. bad for Rupe’s bank balance! We do keep threatening to make him pay for his share of the Council Tax ….

Bob is still hard at it, nose to the computery grind-stone – beat! beat! lash! …. “c’mon you lazy good-for-nothing!” … “research!” …. “collect data!” …. “write papers!” …. “six papers by Christmas … on the dot!” ……or …… (huh! huh! hurrh!) ….. “You sold your soul for £13 grand per year” …. “Now you’ll sufferrrr…!”..(cackle!) …… (and other such evil intonations). “Yes, the PhD is going fine, thank you for asking”. Where he fits in time to be Friends of the Earth Co-ordinator for Cirencester, and be a candidate for the Green Party in the District Council elections next year is beyond me. We’re told that this is just a paper candidature, in that one doesn’t actively campaign, but just to run a flag up the pole and see who salutes – to see what support the Green party has in the Cotswolds …. ha! ….two? ….three? ….. not forgetting Prince Charles .. unfortunately he can’t vote ……Oh! for the seething foment which is Stroud – the fastest growing Green support in the West (no, not Ernie ….. and .. wasn’t he a milkman?) …

Guess what? I won a prize draw! I never win prize draws – amazing! At the beginning of the year, I was sent a newsletter from Spiezia Organics, exhorting me to spend obscene amounts of money on the latest moisturizer. Just as I was about to recycle it, my eye was caught (ow!) by the mention of my name, in conjunction with ‘winning’ and ‘4-star hotel’. Having established that we could stay in this hotel for two nights, bed & breakfast and one evening meal for free, at any time of the week or year … we promptly forgot all about it for months! We then resurrected the info from the pile of teetering paper that engulfs our kitchen table for most of the year, and decided that we might as well celebrate our 29th (yes, we liked that … so random) wedding anniversary by staying at this country house hotel – Budock Vean - in Cornwall. The weather was perfect for early November, lots of warm sunshine, very little wind, good coastal paths ….. whoosh! …. leaving the protection of the Helford River inlet, perhaps was a mistake …. The sun began to sink below the horizon … the clacking of chattering teeth increased … we turned inland … ready to face the ordeal of yet another meal. We would do our best.

But previously on this channel …. We arrived …… “it was a dark and stormy night ….” (well …dark anyway) … we checked in …. the smiley receptionist summoned the porter from wherever porters live (a coffin in the basement?) …. “No, no, it’s OK, we don’t need any help” ….. as we lugged our assorted bits and pieces up the stairs. “It was a dark and stormy night ….” … suddenly, just as my trembling fingers were poised two inches from the key-hole, clanking key in sweaty fingers, there came the sound of heavy footfalls on overly-soft-pile carpet, accompanied by the rasping, strangulated cry of the out-of-breath …. “Is everything all right … sir? madam?” … I grinned …. “Absolutely fine, thank you!” He looked somewhat crestfallen … (“bugger! no tip!”), before slinking back, rather more slowly and softly, down the stairs. Strange how there seems to be a muscle-wasting disease that overcomes anyone who stays in posh hotels, or maybe the force of gravity on their luggage increases - posh hotels being part of another universe. Our ‘superior’ room was … well … superior … mirrors everywhere. …. now, where’s the smoke? … wow! … designed to flatter, eh! …. my bum looks good in this … ah .. illusions …. Goldilocks approached the bed. Why wasn’t there a middle-sized bed, or a bed that was just right. She would have to sleep in the enormous bed …. though .. if she ate the big bowl of porridge, it might just become the right size …. And sure enough …. the enormous meals transformed her into an obese little girl - in only a few days. The moral of this story? Posh hotels can be bad for your health – government health warning. Was there a husband? This is difficult to determine – for she never discovered where ‘the other side of the bed’ was … except in her dreams ………

Well, dear reader, Svengali-like, we managed to exert our evil charms upon the hotel computer system, for it overlooked the enormously expensive extra evening meal, and we got away with a bill of …… just £10-40!

Latest news flash ….. Tamsin has bought another van …aaarrrggghhh!!! no! The good news ….. the junk from the previous van, which has been sitting on our ex front garden for months, is accompanying her into oblivion … sorry, I meant Holland …. as will a good deal of what is in her bedroom … yes!! What colour did you say the carpet was? …… not dust-coloured? Interestingly, we have uncovered some chocolate from almost two years ago …… but you probably didn’t need to know that …

A year ago, when Tamsin last appeared upon these shores, she crashed her newly-converted bus …. after all that work the previous summer by her and Bob. She was tired … it was 3 o’clock in the morning …. and she had just fought her way out of the maze of roads around the M25, when her flask of tea rolled under her feet and prevented her from braking as she was exiting from a roundabout. She could have missed it … but, no …. she hit a lamp-post … even though there was grass all around. She was so unlucky. Unfortunately, the bus was an uncommon make, and after months of wrangling with the insurance company, and trying to locate the correct bits for repair …. even trying to get someone to make said ‘bit’ …. the poor old bus had to be written off. It was an emotional time for Tamsin and Bob, as they’d put so much effort into the conversion.

And now, gentle reader, ‘tis time to wish you all the traditional Merry (!) Christmas and Happy New Year, from all of us –

Joy, Bob, Rupert, Tamsin …. “Oy!”.. “What about us viruses?” ….. (cough! splutter! wheeze!)

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Christmas 2007

41 Albion Street,
Stratton,
Cirencester,
Gloucs.
GL7 2HT

November / December 2007

Yuletide Greetings to one and all!

Twelve leaves a-falling, eleven winds-a-howling, ten sheep-a-leaping .. (?) .. er .. pardon? … shouldn’t that be lords … them, too! “Like … er … wow! …. powerful mushrooms, man!” “Holy leaping sheep, Batman!” BOINNGG! “Time for bed” said Zebedee! Greetings from the autumnal Cotswolds, where the sheep have highs and the weather lows, and monkeys chew tobacco … erm … (!) …. what!!? (I blame the mushrooms – Bob).

After several months of covetously eyeing up the big sheep with curly horns and frizzy wool at the end of the road, I am now their woolly equal … baa! baa! (thinks : “.. grass .. sheep nuts .. mushrooms?!! ..”). Chemotherapy equals wavy, woolly hair (OK.. ish) … and wavy, woolly brain cell …. (?) .. “Er … what did you say my name was, again?” Two years (according to a radiographer) is how long it may take before the old brain cell notices that it has neighbours to communicate with. Will being in virtual solitary confinement à la Guantanamo cause complete breakdown? …. Would I even notice? ….. “Oh, put her out of her misery, someone!” “No! No! I’m too young too die!” “Aaarrgghh!” ….crash! … thump! ….

This year has been ‘an awfully big adventure’ (for some of the pea plants, that is!) …. down at the allotment. Yes, I know! Little things …… (sigh!). We managed to grow the odd pea, weeds, the odd bean, more weeds, chard, even bigger weeds, rhubarb, gigantic weeds, a share of some damsons and blackberries ….. cough! choke! ….. “it was the weeds what did it, guv!” … thud! … expire …..! The best crop of all was the waving grass ….. now … if we had a sheep …. Towards the end of October, the weed police from the Bathhurst Estate sent a missive to Eve, our next-door-neighbour, and fellow allotmentee, accusing her of the heinous crimes of subcontracting out her plot and growing a hay meadow. “Death’s too good for her!” “Burn her! Burn her! “ Oops! sorry! … crossed wires with ‘The Wicker Man’. We hurriedly (!) turned over our third of the plot, Eve ran a lawnmower over the rest and hacked at the blackberry briar, with the result that we appear to have won a reprieve. We live to dig another year!

As hinted at earlier, the cancer ‘treatment’ est finis – I’m now so full of evil chemicals that I could qualify as a hazardous waste dump, not to mention the ‘glow-in-the-dark’ boob, and the sudden affinity I feel with hill-sheep after Chernobyl! …… “Woke up dis mornin’, dun got those slaughter-house blues real bad …..”. After the not-so-pleasant, long-drawn-out chemical warfare, the radiation was a doddle! Every other day for six weeks during April / May, I waited for the bus, talked to neighbours I hadn’t seen for ages, got to know every inch of Cotswold countryside between Cirencester and Cheltenham (very beautiful), got through a fair bit of reading … spent a few minutes being cooked, especially in the last week … “ouch!” … turned black … waited for the bus … watched the foliage become thicker … “Bugger! … can’t see the sheep for the trees” … past the allotments … home again, home again, jiggety jig! On the plus side, I can now design a mean hat out of a turban, a scarf and a belt (a girl’s gotta have standards, y’know!). On the down side, the specificity of global warming in a very local context (?), or a lack of HRT, means that with monotonous regularity, I erupt like Old Faithful (aargh! steam! steam!) … and I need my eight hours worth ….. yawn … zzzz! …. “Uh … letter …What letter?”. Tamoxifen … ha! you wouldn’t want to go there! Suffice it to say that the above problems have been compounded ten fold by this insignificant little pill …. ah, but I shouldn’t be too hard on it, it is supposed to be preventing the return of …. (gulp!) … the evil one!!!

Quote of the day from the Christmas pudding maker in the kitchen : “It’s easier to get carried away on a lemon….” …. (??) … (Bob).

The smaller of our two treasures, otherwise known as Tamsin, spent a year at home being broke, and working at a nursery school for at least a couple of afternoons a week, filling in for the times when they didn’t have quite enough staff to cover. The owners of this business appeared on the surface to be as straight as they come, but we should have twigged that if they were prepared to employ Tamsin, with her semi-bleached, dreadlocked, be-ribboned, be-wooled (?) hair, then all was not as it seemed ….. (more later).

An ‘individual’ appearance may be Tamsin’s employment nemesis. Whilst she was working at the above nursery school, she received a ‘phone call one Friday, almost out of the blue, from the owner of a local private Montessori pre-school, in response to a C.V. that Tamsin had sent weeks before and had forgotten about. The job was that of a part-time music teacher. After her initial excitement over Tamsin’s qualifications, and positive feedback over Tamsin’s ideas for working with children, even asking her to go in for a trial afternoon the following Tuesday, the woman then came round to deliver all the ‘info’ she thought Tamsin would need to make up her mind over whether or not to join them. She found Tamsin working under the bus, sweaty and dirty, and definitely not looking her best! After the weekend, Tamsin ‘phoned up to ask what time she should arrive, and was told she was not suitable (?), and was not given any adequate explanation as to why. Tamsin was so shocked, she didn’t have the presence of mind to quiz her further, but since nothing had changed in the interim, and there certainly had not been time to interview anyone else, we can only surmize ….. Such blatant discrimination!!

Earlier this year saw Tamsin persuading us of the merits of the ‘Big Green Gathering’, that it would be “just your sort of thing” …. hmmm …. “But it’s camping … I hate camping!!”. Visions of Glastonbury crossed with the Mudmen of Asaro (Papua New Guinea) were conjured up by my unconvinced brain. “Erm …..” “Oh Mum, you’ll love it!” A compromise was duely reached, and the second week of August saw us slinking off to the Gathering, but without tent, and effetely turning up at a B&B. That this sort of subversive behaviour should crop up had not occurred to the organizers. The field was surrounded by high fencing and patrolled by guards with evil dogs. Every evening, the guards would lock the gates at 9-30 p.m. Every evening, we pleaded with the guards .. would they unlock the gates … would we find freedom on the other side … could we find our torch … could they find the key … “Er … who’s got the key?” “Thingy’s got the key, and he’ll be another ten minutes ….” ….. twenty minutes of wandering … up and down .. up and down .. up and down .. row upon row upon row of assorted vehicles in the dark … “Oh, joy! At last!” … “cackle! cackle!” … (sob!) … never has our rusting heap looked so good! Driving tentatively up to the gate, the guard stopped us .. (gulp!) … what did he want? “You realize that you can’t get back in ‘till 8 tomorrow morning?” We mumbled a reply …. he seemed satisfied … the gate opened … we were free!

Actually, it was interesting, with lots of talks on green political issues, transition towns, community permaculture schemes, low impact dwellings, workshops on how to approach the planning system, how to build a straw bale building, films about communities here and in other parts of the world, etc., as well as lots of music, kids activities (of which more below!), washing machines powered by bicycle (child-driven – very useful!), solar-powered showers, and superb vegetarian food …mmmm! Of course, the ‘It’s not easy being green’ Strawbridge family were there too … but we mustn’t hold that against them! There were passionate deep greens, right though to others who just turned up for the music, and those who were there …. just … to …. experience .... “Like, wow, man … I’ll just chill out for a while …..”

Mobile ‘phones not usually working at festivals, meant that we kept not commumicating with Tamsin … her ‘phone was either left in Judd’s van (Judd being, at that moment, her boy-friend), or it was dead … then having to ‘phone or text her friend to pass on messages, when and if they happened to see her ….. (sigh!) … by which time we’d moved on! It transpired that the brother and sister who owned and ran the nursery school where Tamsin was working, had a second life as children’s entertainers! And their brother lived in a van! No wonder they were averse to him just turning up and parking it outside the school - it would scare off the punters in Cirencester! Double lives, eh? …. though they were definitely at the straighter end of the clientele that descended on the Big Green Gathering …. (!)

Tamsin disappeared off to Holland, specifically to Den Haag’s Royal Conservatoire, at the end of August to do a course on sonology or ‘obscure sound stuff’, in her ‘new’ bus which she ruthlessly insisted that I, Bob, help convert into a live-in van over the summer (there seems to be a rule that I spend at least one summer in three confined in a cramped space). “Noooo! …. not … the shower!” (quiver! quiver!). The bus is even bigger than her old rusty van and is a sort of giant Reliant Robin made in Co. Durham by a company of deserved obscurity in the late 1980s. Much was learnt in the process – never buy a vehicle wider than your street and of which only 400 have been made (only broke one side mirror, only cost £90 to have a new clutch pipe made) – how bus windows are held in place and why they leak (several tubes of goo later they sort-of stopped) - how bus bodies are held together and why they leak (more goo, many self-tapping screws) – when lifting a 3 tonne bus on tarmac with only soil as support, your jack may go down as well as up (more lumps of wood) and more about vehicle electrics (what is a split-charge regulator anyway?).

She left for the continent with the bus almost finished, much to the relief of the neighbours, pausing only to collect her newly-acquired ‘boyfriend’ Jack (ex Canon Frome …. but more of that later) plus yurt and hefty wooden floor, repair a broken fan-belt on the M25, make a detour to Brighton to collect a load of her friend Dana’s accoutrements (for later removal to Berlin), do a gig and go to a party whilst there, stop off at Ghent for another party, with a small interlude on a campsite in Den Haag, before finally touching down on an organic farm and official squat near Utrecht…. (pause for breath). She now commutes like the rest of us …. plus ça change …..

Having visited the odd community or two in the past year, we finally found one, Canon Frome Court, that (a) we like, and (b) is prepared to accept us (actually, they’ve only refused one family, so that’s not a great recommendation). This involves visiting for two or three weekends to get to know as many people as possible, attending one housing association meeting, then getting sponsored by half a dozen people to be put on The List. Once on The List (the holy grail), you keep on visiting until a flat of the size that you want becomes available. The community then decide who on The List would satisfy certain criteria held to be necessary for a balanced community at that time, such as family size, age, and useful skills. The flat is then valued and offers are invited from those that are chosen. This may sound onerous, but actually there are only about half a dozen families or couples on The List at the moment. This is because you have to keep up the visits, making at least one visit per year, and for various reasons, people sometimes stop going, so they fall off The List (ouch!).

Canon Frome Court is a Grade II listed Georgian building and stable block, with Victorian and early twentieth century additions. It is a 45 acre small organic farm, which the whole 18-flat community is involved in running. It was once a school, so the ornate ballroom became a gym, now a function room, and there is an outdoor pool! The village church is just across the tennis courts, and it is even on a bus route during term times, stopping just outside the main door – how’s that for service? There is a large walled garden, complete with poly-tunnels, and greenhouse, orchards, two milking cows, a flock of sheep (swung it for us!), half a dozen goats, chickens, bees and fields devoted to barley for the animals, wheat, onions, and potatoes. They think they are about 80% self-sufficient in food.

I first went there towards the end of April - Bob having already enjoyed(?) being a slave a few weeks previously in March. It was in the post-euphoric aftermath of chemotherapy, when my step was springy (not yet troubled by a heavy head of hair!) and prior to being zapped, when I still had more energy to dig weeds than Bob! (enough of this competitive weed-digging! – Bob). Since then …..there was this machine ….. people in white coats ……. draining the very life-force from my body …. (gasp!) …. no energy ……. zzzz! Hmm …. not sure if alien abduction would be accepted as an excuse for being late for work …. But I digress …. the sun was mercilessly beating down on our heads …. the logs were heavy … the weeds tough …. water! … water! …. (gasp! gasp!). And that was April. August arrived …. the weeds were still tough, but …. it was raspberry season …. tomatoes … basil …. salad leaves …. pick your own lunch … cream and cheese from their cows … eggs from their chickens …. zilch food miles there! And … it was party time! …. which is where Jack comes in … remember him, dear reader, Tamsin’s sudden inamorato? We arrived after sun-down, and ground to a halt in front of a large notice about ‘foot and mouth’ and washing wheels of vehicles with disinfectant. What to do? … bleach … no water … cannot fetch water without possible contamination … erm … spot people under spot-lights erecting wooden structure (a stage) in front of the house … yell at them …. Jack finally walks over with water … saved! The following evening was Canon Frome’s summer party, but this time organized by ‘the young folk’ and their followers from the village. The first half involved any musicians actually resident at Canon Frome, and the second half appeared to consist of local bands, followed by dancing to DJs. At some point, Tamsin got together with Jack … two weeks later, she and Jack set off for Holland … a whirlwind romance? … erm .. well ... not exactly ….

Also squeezed into the narrow time-frame between the two … cough! … treatments, was a few days’ stay in a Landmark Trust property – unfortunately during the Easter holidays, i.e., very expensive - an expense of cancer treatment I hadn’t thought of before! If we’d left it until after everything was done and dusted, it wouldn’t have made any difference, because of summer prices (sigh!) – you just can’t win! What is now known as the Danescombe mine, on the National Trust Cotehele estate near Calstock in Cornwall, is an old engine house, now made habitable by the Landmark Trust, set amidst other picturesquely-ruined mine buildings, and surrounded by a wood. This was a superb location, by a stream, at the end of a road of National Trust holiday cottages, over a bridge, where it became a bridle track, so no cars passing by ….. silence …. tap! tap! tap! ….. silence ….. tap! tap! tap! ….. silence …. tap! tap! .. was my brain harbouring death watch beetle? … surely nothing could survive in there …. ah, no, it’s a woodpecker, brilliant! … never seen one before! An evening of wine and chocs and reading …. toowit … toowoo ….toowit … toowoo … er … would somebody please turn the owls down a bit? Next day …. miinnngggg! ….. clunk! …. miinnngggg! …. clunk! …. miinnngggg! ….clunk! … waking to a little light tree-pruning haunting dreams of helicopters … Enough of this stream of consciousness stuff! Early records of mining activity being somewhat sketchy, there appeared to have been some confusion over whether this mine actually was the Danescombe mine. Could this have referred to one slightly lower down the valley? Any history of these two mines appears to be muddled, especially since they each closed and then re-opened more than once, due to the vagaries of the copper and arsenic markets .... hmmm ... wouldn’t want a veg plot there, would we, folks?

We tramped up the hill (gasp! gasp!), with a magnificent view over the Tamar, looked around the mediaeval Cotehele house, and then tramped down the hill … and when they were up, they were up, and when they were down, they were down … (sorry, got side-tracked, again!). The fortified house didn’t have electric lighting, and the tapestries had been cut to fit around different doorways as the house was altered over the centuries (“don’t want to waste money on a new one, this’ll do …” hack! hack! snip!), but an abiding memory was of a row of early Victorian fire-extinguishers, looking rather like glass grenades, each containing carbonic acid, which one was supposed to throw into the fire in order to produce carbon dioxide ..... I’m guessing no-one ever had to put this into practice!

The gardens were pretty, but we wanted to get away from other tourists, so we went on long walks round the estate, ending up at the Prospect Tower, which was supposedly built to celebrate the visit to the area of King George III and Queen Charlotte, with the purpose of signalling to the Edgcumbe family’s main house, Mount Edgcumbe, on Plymouth Sound .... “Quick!, they’re coming! Tell ‘em to put the kettle on!” ..... “Oh damn, it’s become cloudy .... no signal ...” Later ... “Er .. sorry, tea’s orff, Your Majesties!”. After our descent and emergence into the sunlight, we were suddenly aware of a threatening presence (gulp!) .... slowly does it ... no fast moves .... the eyes stare at us ... one of them makes a move for the rucksack .... “Walk faster! She’s after the sandwiches!” .... (sigh!) ... even cows seem to be addicted to fast food .... Next day ... walked back up the hill (cough! wheeze!) to buy local artwork, specifically, light-fittings made from beautiful handmade blue / purple glass .. couldn’t resist ... walked down the hill .... “me knees are killing me!” “huh! flatlanders!” ... and round the bend ... (?) ... to view local ceramic art .. bought blue bowl ... such extravagance ... fall on sword ... Supported local economy ... which is nice ...

I, Bob, did so little in the first half of the year that I can’t remember any of it. Think I must have done some computing…. ah, yes, that’s why I’ve forgotten…. Then there was the previously-mentioned bus, of which nuff said. And on 17th September, I was pitched head-first back into deep academe to start “The PhD” (fanfare!). It has been a strange few months so far, an odd mixture of, of…. an odd mixture, anyway. Like turning up for a new job and being asked “so what do you want to do?” Because they are grooming us for our bright new future as academic, social science, researchers, we get jolly lectures on philosophy of research containing this “ism” and that “ism”, an awful lot of which sails gently past me, and stern lectures on ethics and the need to be organized and disciplined, against which I have a thick layer of crumpled habits and wooliness as protection. We are an odd, cosmopolitan group, us novice researchers from the Built Environment dept. There are two Mexicans, a Czech, a Brazilian, a Thai, three Brits (none of us spring chickens, either), a Nigerian or two, maybe someone from China, so the language problems are fun but no worse than you would expect! Soon I will be expected to go out into Conference World and give presentations and papers on my minute, but in-depth, corner of knowledge…(shiver!). But what is your thesis about, you ask? No, don’t! or else I might start to tell you and we’d be here for three years…… (Actually, it’s about ground source heat pumps – Joy ….. There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?)

Things were looking up earlier this year, when Rupe announced that since we were thinking of moving at some point, then he, too, had made a decision to move out at the end of June. Shocked - we almost fell out of our seats! It seems that someone that Rupe knew was doing up some flats and re-letting them, and had thought to let the biggest one to Rupe and three friends. Since this would have involved a slight illegality (not wanting the expense of fire-doors or a fire escape), of letting it to a couple who would then sub-let to Rupe and a friend, it didn’t in the end happen. The bloke had a fit of conscience .... and we still have the entire top floor and much else besides, cluttered up with the accoutrements of a musician ... or two ... (crush! squeeze!) ... not to mention Tamsin’s kitchen equipment, which grew exponentially every time she infested a different squat / house, and which now does not fit in her bus ...... (sigh!).

Rupert had more than his allotted fifteen minutes of fame this year, when, at Easter, the lighting and media technician at the college, decided to organize a production of Ben Elton’s musical ‘We will rock you’. It was open to anyone to audition, not just college students, and so there was a lot of talent about. Somehow or other, Rupert was persuaded to play the ageing hippy, for which he was eminently suited, as well as putting on his other hat of sound technician, pre-recording the backing tracks for the music to make the sound richer, since it is difficult for people to sing and dance at the same time, and there is rather a lot of that in a musical. He also recorded the performances for the DVDs …. the words ‘pea’ and ‘drum’ spring to mind at this point. Originally, there were only going to be performances from Wednesday to Saturday, including the matinée, but the tickets sold out so quickly, that this was extended to include Tuesday, and then finally Monday, which is when we managed to go. Being first night, it is almost expected that something is likely to go wrong, but such was the level of professionalism on the stage, that we never really noticed (however, this was just after my chemotherapy …….. “huh! excuses!”). The ageing hippy was supposed to play a video tape of forbidden music to the hero and heroine, but the machine refused to play (apparently, this was because someone had forgotten to rewind the tape after the dress rehearsal …. (sigh!) …). Unfazed, Rupert and the leading lady ad-libbed their way through the ‘crisis’, and Rupert sang in lieu of what was supposed to be a video of Queen! The audience had a really great time, singing along with all those Queen songs that have been lodged in our memories since …. er ……. since …… er ….. hmmm. Interestingly, during rehearsals, the director was always telling Rupert off for ad-libbing …….. As an after-show ‘thank you’ gift, he was given a chocolate champagne bottle inscribed with “The swearing hippy”! …. It’s still sitting there as a reminder….. he was on a high for weeks ….

Apart from this, Rupe is still gigging, doing lots of musical things, occasionally teaching drums, is still working at the college, is still with Lizzie, his girl-friend, has failed his driving test three times, is trying again next week (Dec. 11th), and is rapidly running out of money ....... so, nothing new, then .... Since Rupert’s been with Lizzie, he’s been smoking much less, and ‘culture’ (apart from music) is impinging on his brain ... (?) .... they’re just off to see ‘Noughts and Crosses’ at Stratford, a modern take on the ‘Romeo and Juliet’ theme ... things may be looking up .....

By now, I feel that I’ve probably bored you enough, and so it’s time to wish everyone a Merry (?) Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Lots of love to you all,

Joy, Bob, Rupert and Tamsin.

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