Full of goodness
Rich in sunny vitamin Cee
Clap hands for peppers
Full of goodness
Rich in sunny vitamin Cee
Clap hands for peppers
In 1967, there was a serious strike of dock workers in the United Kingdom. There were anxieties about shortages of stocks of various household goods. And one of the most worried people was my late mother. Maybe, having lived through the lean days of early post-WW2 Britain, she did not want her family to be caught short of any essential supplies.
Very soon, she filled one of our smaller bedrooms with enough toilet rolls to keep an army happy. We did not have to buy toilet paper for many years after the strike was over.
Some years after she died, my father and I looked into a large cupboard which was used mainly to store unwanted furniture and other junk. We hardly ever opened this storage area because we knew there was little inside it that we might ever want to see again. However, when we opened the cupboard sometime in the 1980s, my father and I found that its floor was packed solid with a layer of tins of canned meat: ham and so on. Sadly, this went to waste.
My mother worried that in addition to shortages of groceries, the strike might lead to a failure of the public water supply. To prepare for this possible tragedy, my mother bought bottled water. Today, water packaged in plastic bottles is extremely common,and many will not leave home without a bottle of water. However, in the late 1960s in the UK, bottled water was a bit of a rarity. In those days, it was de rigeur to drink only bottled water in France, but in the UK you just turned on the tap.
Given the scarcity of bottled water in the UK of 1967, it is amazing that my mother was able to find quite a few gallons of the stuff. What amazes me to this day is that all of the bottles bore labels indicating that they contained spring water bottled in Bulgaria.
Under the still water
In a Japanese pond
Kyoto Garden in London’s Holland Park
In the 1960s, as a protest against the horrendous apartheid regime in South Africa, shoppers in the UK were asked not to buy produce from South Africa. This is a stry told to me by my late mother, who was born in South Africa but was completely disgusted with the prejudice against ‘black’ and other ‘non-white’ people in the country of her birth.
My mother was in a fruit store in a north London suburb. She saw a fellow customer take some oranges to the sales counter. The customer asked the shop keeper:
“Are these oranges from South Africa?”
“Definitely not, Ma’am.”
“Oh, that’s good. I’ll take them.”
Overhearing this conversation, my mother asked the lady who had just bought the oranges:
“What’s wrong with oranges from South Africa?”
The lady replied:
“You’re not supposed to buy them because they might have been touched by coloured people.”
My mother could not believe what she had heard.
This anecdote just goes to show how a simple message can be totally misinterpreted.
When I was a young child, probably less than ten years old, we made one of our regular family holidays to Holland. My parents, having studied Afrikaans to varying degrees of competence, felt easier visiting a country like Holland where the native language, Dutch, was not too exotic for someone to comprehend with a knowledge of Afrikaans.
One Saturday afternoon, my parents decided to take us to see the tulips at Keukenhof gardens. I cannot recall anything about the flowers.
However, I do not think I will ever forget the car park at Keukenhof. We had parked our car early in the afternoon when the parking area was fairly empty. When we came to leave, the car park was very full.
Everyone wanted to leave at the same time. A disorderly tsunami of vehicles converged on the exit gates. Nobody seemed to be regulating the traffic. It took us well over an hour to escape from the motorised mayhem.
Sadly, I associate Keukenhof with traffic rather than tulips, and although I love tulips, seeing them often brings Keukenhof to mind.
Small birds chirruping sweetly:
We should enjoy fresh air
Photo taken at Kyoto Garden in Holland Park, London
The Oxfam secondhand bookshop in London’s Portobello Road is one of my favourite haunts. It has a great stock of books on a variety of topics and the people who work there are very friendly.
Recently, I entered the shop ad headed towards the ‘History’ shelves. Near them, there was a male customer speaking with a female shop assistant. They were standing next to a cardboard box filled with dictionaries.
“Which of these dictionaries do you reccommend?” the customer asked, “the Collins or the Oxford?”
“It’s a a matter of taste. Both are good.”
“But which do you prefer?” asked the customer.
“I prefer Oxford.”
“I have always used Oxford. I like its approach to spelling. I used it a lot when I used to work in a publishing house,” responded the lady, edging away to escape her persistent questioner. He turned to me.
“Which do you prefer?” he asked me.
“And why do prefer that?”
“No good reason, ” I replied,”it was the first dictionary we were given at school. Maybe, that’s something to do with my preference.”
“And which authors do you think are good?” he asked me, adding, “I have just given away my television.”
I could not reccommend the books I have written, as that would be immodest and likely to prolong this conversation.
“Thomas Love Peacock,” was the first author’s name that entered my head.
“You could also try John Buchan. You know the chap who wrote the Thirty-Nine Steps,” I suggested.
“Never heard of him.”
“Balzac is also good in translation,” I added.
“Hmm. What about this one?” the customer asked me, holding a novel by George Orwell.
“He’s also good.”
At that point, I was ‘saved by the bell’. My fellow customer’s mobile ‘phone began ringing at a very high volume. It sounded as if a fire alarm had gone off. He rushed out of the shop.
I went to the cash desk to pay for my latest purchase. When I had finished, my new acquaintance came back into the shop, and said to me:
“Sorry about that. You are real gent. It was nice talking with you.”
I left the shop and will probably not visit again for a long time as viral considerations are forcing it to close indefinitely.
Notting Hill Gate, not to be confused with ‘Notting Hill’ as in the Hugh Grant film, on the western edge of central London is not lacking in mediochre modern architecture, mostly constructed in the 1960s and 1970s. One building stands out as being aesthetically a cut above the rest. This is the former Czechoslovak Centre, the Embassy of Czechoslovakia, a fine (if that is an appropriate adjective) example of ‘Brutalist’ concrete architecture.
The Centre was built between 1965 and 1970, and was designed by “…Šrámek, Stephansplatz and Jan Bočan, from the Atelier Beta Prague Project Institute, were the architects of the embassy, working in cooperation with British architect Robert Matthew and based in his office” (see HERE for detail). The building won an architectural award from RIBA in 1971. Unlike many buildings built at te same time, the Czechoslovak Centre building has not suffered from ageing. It stll looks in great condition.
In 1993, Czechoslovakia ceased to exist. It split into the Czech Republic and the Republic of Slovakia. Despite this, the Czechoslovak Centre building continued to have diplomati cfunctions. The building was divided into a Czech Embassy and a Slovak Embassy.
Before and after the separation of the two parts of what was once Czechoslovakia, I was a member of the Dvorak Society, an English organisation for promoting interest in music from the Czech and Slovak lands. The Czechoslovak, and then later the Czech and Slovak embassies used to host occasional congenial recitals of music for the Dvorak Society.
On one occasion after 1993, my wife and I attended a recital at the Slovak Embassy. After the music was over, we were treated to delicious food and Slovakian wine. The ambassador mingled amongst the guests. My wife asked him how the Czechs and Slovaks were coping with sharing the same building. Smiling, he replied:
“We have to cope well because we have to share the central heating and hot water system that was installed to serve the building when it was a single embassy.”
My father’s grandfather lived in Cape Town (South Africa) during the Spanish influenza pandemic at the end of the first world war.
He was terrified that he would be afflicted with the deadly illness. He had heard that applying a mustard plaster would help him avoid the disease. So, he smeared his stomach with mustard and covered it with an adhesive plaster. Then, he retired to bed.
After about three days, my great grandfather developed a high temperature. Fearing the worst, he summoned a doctor. The medic tore of the plaster to reveal the damage that the mustard was causing. It had ‘eaten’ through the skin, which was then becoming infected. The infection caused by the mustard was causing the fever, not the dreaded ‘flu.
My great grandfather survived the Spanish ‘flu. What killed him several years later was something that was supposed to protect him from illness. He died following an adverse reaction to an anti-tetanus injection.
Most are white, some black
Flexible necks, but not giraffes
They are swans, of course