Clarissa et al.

As any readers of the previous blog will realise I went to Norfolk today. It is half-term and Pa had a meeting in KingsLynn. Joe and I hitched a lift; we thought about going to Sandringham, but it is quite expensive and we decided that just over two hours was insufficient time to do it justice, so we went to Flitcham instead armed with my camera with a nice big, empty memory card.

This is where my great-grandfather, David Jones, was vicar, where his two youngest children were born (the older ten were all born in Wales), and where he was buried.

Here are some pictures of the church, and of his grave which would have been within the apse of the early mediaeval building.

I wanted to be able to say that the fine Victorian font is the one in which my grandmother was baptised, but there was a big improvement scheme in 1901 when these pews were put in at the expense of the parish's patron, King Edward VII who also donated this font from Sandringham at the same time (about six years after Nan was born). The organ, also a gift from the king, is dated 1909 and replaced the reed organ which Ethel played, helped - or more often hindered - by her youngest brother and sister who had the job of pumping it for her.

However, this is the school she attended from the age of two - the same one where one of her sisters was the teacher.

Leaving the village we drove past the old vicarage. "I wish I had the nerve to walk up to the door and say 'My grandmother was born here; can I have a look round and take some photos'." I said.

"Go on!" said Joe, "I dare you!"

I rose to the bait, stopped the car, and walked up to the back door. The bell wasn't working and I very nearly walked away again, but I didn't - I knocked and eventually a man answered. I explained my mission. He said that he was just working there and went to fetch the lady of the house, and - to cut a long story short - she took us round to the front of the house to photograph the aspect we had previously only been able to see from across the fields between the graveyard and the vicarage.

We talked for a while, and she showed me the stable where Jenny (the pony who lay down in water to the great inconcvenience of the younger passengers in the pony trap who, whatever the weather, had to get out barefoot into the ford and encourage her out) lived, and where great-grandfather had his study away from the hubub of the house. I told her the story Nan told about the day she and Gwladys were due to have their photograph taken when she hid in the walnut tree which is why she is holding the piece of ivy to disguise the fact that her hands were terribly stained . . .

and she showed me the walnut tree.

I also photographed these box bushes one of which may be the one under which Nan used to hide when she wanted a bit of peace and quiet.

Finally, here is the whole family (except Gwladys who according to Nan decided to wash her hair rather than risk not being the centre of attention) in the garden on the occasion of oldest sister Bertha's (Sissy's) wedding to Herbert Mason.

Great-grandfather is easily identified, and great grandmother, Emily, is at the extreme right. The bridesmaid next to her is Florrie, and the little girl is Nan (Phyllis). The bridesmaid slightly behind the bride is Ethel. Archie, the oldest brother is the young clergyman behind the happy couple, and the other brothers are from left to right Percy, Harry, Frank and Cyril. So far as I know, the rest are members of the Mason family.

About a hundred years ago three right little vandals went to Castle Rising, and left their marks on the ancient stones of the room below the great hall.

Those young vandals were I believe three of the twelve children of the vicar of Flitcham, my grandmother and two of her older brothers. I can imagine them cycling over - did Nan have her own bike, or did she travel on Frank's crossbar? - calling briefly on the couple who lived in part of the ruined castle as its caretakers, eating their picnic (washed down no doubt with lashings of ginger beer), and while 12 or 13 year old Cyril spent ages laboriously carving his initials large and clear, twenty-something Frank took his 9 or 10 year old sister round the castle before they both scratched their initials smaller and less deeply beside their brother's before they left.

Of course they shouldn't have done it and I can't be certain that it really was them, but it makes them - Nan especially - seem very close. I first went to Castle Rising with her in 1964 when she told me about going there with her brothers. I think from what she said that it must have been a favourite place which they visited frequently; years later I went back there with Mummy and we discovered this graffiti just as we were reminiscing about the earlier visit when I found I was resting my hand on this very stone as we talked. A quarter of a century later I have at last remembered to take my camera.
Anyway, here are the three believed to be the vandals.

Frank, Cyril and Phyllis all in photographs taken at about the time they entered their teens and went away to school with none of them looking terribly happy about it, which probably proves that neither graffiti nor stroppy teenagers are anything new.

I was eating my breakfast this morning when I heard someone knocking on the patio door. Who is it? I thought, and Why don't they come to the back door like everyone else?
I went to look, and there was a family of partridges obviously anxious to get in out of the rain. By the time I had fetched my camera they had either got tired of waiting, or something (myself or Albert- the cat - who had been very interested in these visitors) had scared them off. Here is the last of them on the point of departure.


TUESDAY
I have realised that it is one partridge (the adult male?) who is attempting to fight with his reflection rather than a Partridge Family desire to get in.

This is for Liz whose cat, Sid, helps on the computer. Here is Albert being helpful and hygienic in the kitchen.

We were at church in Thoresway this morning - just six in the congregation plus organist and priest. Apparently everyone is away for the bank holiday. (Does this mean that churches in the Lake District, Snowdonia, the Scottish Highlands, Provence and the Algarve full during holiday periods?)

I came back to find my father watching the service from Wesley's Chapel in London just in time to hear them singing How Great Thou Art in various languages from around the world which reminded me of our last holiday in Wales where the congregation was invited to join in the Lord's Prayer in their own choice of language (in that case English, Welsh and Dutch). The singing was very moving, especially when the congregation all raised their numerous national flags during the final refrain - a brilliant way of putting across the Pentecost message.

That service also included the baptism of a baby - Ellie Rose - who had a wonderful sense of occasion and behaved as though she really understood that something momentous was happening. I loved the way that the parents and godparents were all addressed by name, and that the minister carried Ellie Rose round the chapel so that all the congregation - those not in the gallery at any rate - could greet her personally, although I do realise that this would not always work as well as it did on this occasion. The baby baptised at Swallow last Sunday, for example, had clearly taken a dislike to the nasty lady who poured water on his head and decided to have a good yell as long as he remained in her arms.

I don't yet know the Common Worship form of baptism well enough to be certain of the details, but it struck me that the form of words used at the Wesley Chapel had a simplicity and directness which is sometimes lacking in church services. I thought that the various attempts since the 1920s to modernise the language of worship were (apart from more complex doctrinal purposes) supposed to make it all more comprehensible, but it seems to me that usually all that has been achieved on that level is to raise the hackles of the traditionalists and confuse those occasional church-goers who remember certain prayers and responses from childhood, without ever getting to grips with the rhythm and vocabulary of modern spoken English.

Going back to last Sunday's baptism, one thing those of us who are regular church-goers must remember next time we have a church full of irregulars is to get there in good time and - whatever duties we may have in the way of meeting and greeting, bell-ringing, handing out hymn books etc. - spread our coats and handbags across the front pews to reserve ourselves places. This is not the selfish act it at first seems, but one of charity to the whole congregation who need to be given a lead on when to sit, stand and kneel, rather than have them looking around and gradually following suit as in some sort of ill-regulated and embarrassed Mexican wave.

I remember it was explained to me some long time ago that we kneel in supplication and penitance, sit for instruction and stand for praise. However, you do need to know what comes next before being able to follow that simple rule, so it is much easier to follow someone at the front who is au fait both with proper form and local practice.

We also need better ways to help the children in the congregation keep quiet and occupied during the more difficult parts of the service: we have suitable colouring sheets, but now we need some clipboads and someone to invent crayons that don't clatter so much.

Woody is back, and this year he seems to have brought his missus. AND I have managed to take a halfway decent photograph, albeit through glass as he is a very timid creature.

On second thoughts, looking at the photo again, I think that this is the Missus.

See also March 2nd 2006 for an earlier attempt at a photograph and also http://trickymum.blog.co.uk for May 21st this year.

While in Grimsby today Pa popped into Asda and was stopped by one of the older assistants who stand at the entrance handing out baskets and expressing a willingness to help.
"I remember you, Mr. Turner."
"Do you?" he asked wondering what was coming next.
"I was up before you in court and you were going to send me to prison. I've never been so scared in my life. Then you decided that you would give me a final chance, and said that if you ever saw me in court again I'd certainly go down. I've never been in trouble since. And my children have done well, gone into the forces and they've never been in trouble either."
Nice to know that you have done some good.

In today's workshop Jordan, one of the boys, chose to disply the Victorian apron by modelling it on himself. There was some discussion in his group as to whether he should be called Jordane or Jordana, but I'm afraid that it seeems he will forever be known as "Katie Price"

Driving through New Waltham the other day with a colleague we saw the children on their way to Toll Bar School all wearing blazers. Apparently they are not allowed to take these off however hot the classroom. Kristen remarked that when she was at the school not very many years previously they had worn jumpers and the same rule pertained. This senseless rule has something to do with being a 'Good School'. She also told me that the few girls who didn't wear trousers would have to kneel on the floor to make sure that their skirts exactly touched the ground and were thus neither longer nor shorter than knee length. It must have been difficult for growing girls to keep to this rule, and very expensive for their parents.

Of course, the measured skirt length is nothing new. Back in the 1960s while we at Clee Girls Grammar could get away with anything but the very shortest mini-skirts (descibed by our headmistress as 'pelmets'), at the neighbouring Wintringham Grammar School the girls were made to kneel, but here a value judgement came in because slim girls were allowed four inches clearance, while fat girls were allowed only two!

This led to memories of freezing playing fields and track-suits (or lack of them) and back to infant school where we did PE barefoot and naked except for our knickers. I particularly remember the discomfort of jumping off the wooden jumping block onto a coir mat and straight into a forward roll. Nowadays, Kristan told me, it is forbidden to make children - however young - do PE in their underclothes, and forward rolls can only be attempted with an adult on either side to lend support.

I was told in the staffroom at Signhills that when the children are taken to the local park Jane (the head) won't let them go on the playground because it isn't covered by their risk assessment despite its safety surface and well designed equipment. I well remember Jane hanging upside down, knickers showing and skirt over her head, from the climbing frame over the tarmac playground at infant school. I should point out that both she and I were no more than five at the time.

I can't help feeling that we have gone too far down the health and safety route and that it is no wonder that so many children nowadays are overweight and unfit when every effort seems to be made by those in authority to turn them into wimps.

Going back to my original theme of schoolwear: on that same drive through Waltham I noticed a girl dressed in the green checked dress, green blazer and straw boater of St. James' School. It actually looks rather nice, but surely the only point of the hat is to tell people that this child goes to a fee paying school? Nothing against straw boaters - I have a straw boater myself which I have for the last quarter century worn to summer weddings, christenings and even a garden party at Buckingham Palace - but isn't any hat other than a sun hat in summer or a woolly one in winter just a wee thing pretentious for school? (Which as a comment after dropping Buckingham Palace into the discussion may not be well advised, but my point is that nowadays hats are for best rather than everyday wear.)

I'm not against school uniform, but is in necessary for them to be quite so old-fashioned, uncomfortable and unbecoming? Primary school children generally look nice and comfortable in their brightly coloured polo-shirts, gingham frocks and sweat shirts showing that they belong to a school community without the rigid uniformity which seems to be enforced upon their elders.

My nephew Josh is a truly wicked person! (Somewhere between modern and traditional usage of the word wicked.)

Today is his last day of school before he starts study leave (or hay-making and rabbiting leave, as he will interpret it) prior to his GCSE exams. Despite being before the study leave begins, there is an exam today.

When Pa went to take Josh and Jess to school, Josh had got his ferret out. (Actally, one of his ferrets: the vasectomised male was less than adequately seen to and his female companion now has a nest of kits.)

"What are you doing with that?" asks Pa.

"I'm taking it to school," replies Josh completely straight-faced, "they said we could take one lucky thing to have on our desks during the exam. This is mine."

Apparently he said it so well that his granddad actually believed him!

Last year when I went to Signhills School to do Florence Nightingale for year 2 (3 classes in succession) - I was greeted with "Hello Lissa, nice to see you" by the school secretary (Anne Osborne as was - now Pickup), then by the headmistress (Jane Casujuana - now Powell) and finally, as I sat down for a cup of tea, another teacher handed me a photograph of a truly dreadful play we had both been in about 1966/7 with the Hackforth twins, Bridget and Diana Campbell, Elizabeth Bellamy, Heather Horne, Angela Favell, Karen Jary and a load of other people whose names I don't quite remember.

The school was being ofsteded, but I gather the comment by the inspector on what he saw of my bit was "I can certainly see why you have her." - so that was all right. Actually I thought that the children, especially in the first group, were so well behaved that open questions were a touch lost on them; on the other hand, they had been very well prepared and answered the closed questions excellently and were very friendly and polite.

Well, obviously the Ofstedders weren't the only people who thought that I was worth inviting back, because I was back again today. The children were still as well behaved and well informed, the school was still running calmly and smoothly, the staffroom was still as friendly, the old friends were still there, and we had another excellent day. This time I had Kristen with me so that she can learn the workshop, and the children were not slightly over-awed by the inspectors so the open questions worked better from the start.

Well, it seems that Joe was right.

By the end of the first day we had had more visitors and made nearly as much money as we did in the whole of the weekend last year. And by the end of today we had had 250 people through the door!

The theme, as I said, was "My Favourite Things": so here they are:-

Mine was the local history display . . . oh, yes, and a bunch of tulips . . ..

Pam made one of her fantastic cakes.

Joe's favourite was all things miniature.

Trish loves her garden, and Chris loves flowers.

Madge chose the theme "Family, Furry Friends and Flowers"

and the weekend ended with the baptism of her newest favourite thing - her great-grandson Liam Sidney - and here he is with his parents (2nd and 3rd from the left) and godparents, and the Rev'd Elaine Turner (no relation).

Aaahh!!!

This weekend it will be our turn to be one of the host parishes for the West Lindsey Churches Festival. Some churches do no more than allow it to be known that their door is unlocked always or on this weekend, others make a huge effort. Holy Trinity, Swallow is in this latter category.

The festival is in its eleventh year and we have been involved from the start. Our original co-ordinator retired after a few years and it looked as if nobody would take over when 14 year old Joe volunteered, with me as his safety net. Seven years later we are both still in place.

This year our theme is "My Favourite Things", and we have flowers, a local history display and refreshments starting with sausage and bacon butties in the morning, soup for lunch and cakes for tea . . . all in a church with no kitchen, just a cold tap in the churchyard!

It is all a lot of work! And I have to confess that I wonder whether it is worth the effort. My feeling is that there is a finite number of people visiting the churches who will plan their tour with very little regard as to what each church is offering in the way of food, and that our menu will attract no more visitors than tea and biscuits.

The trouble is that Joe gets a bit carried away when he sees what is done by parishes with a population 10, 20, even 50 times the 150 in our village and a church with an attached church hall or at least a kitchen and loos in the tower, and thinks what a good idea it would be if we did that too! I have told him that if we don't get a great many more visitors this year than we have for the last few we will revert to a less labour intensive contribution to the festival next year when our theme will be 'Swallow People' in the hope that non-church-goers in the village will want to contribute their own photographs and memories and make it more of a village festival and less reliant on outside visitors for success.

In the meantime, we haven't begun yet and I am already shattered!

Today it seemed that the Stars in their courses were fighting against me.

I needed to go into work to pick up the stuff for tomorrow's outreach workshop. I planned to go in the morning. Although it was more-or-less a day off I duly woke up just before eight, decided I'd just have ten minutes more, and eventually got down to breakfast at ten-to-eleven.

Admittedly I had had something of a broken night: just before I went to bed a smoke alarm started bleeping - not the persistent bleep of a major fire (or slightly singed toast - our alarm does tend to be a touch alarmist when it comes to toasting or opening the oven door or using the grill, and it's not even in the same room!) but the occasional unhappy yap of a battery short of power. So I unhooked the battery on the downstairs alarm, and hoped that the one at the top of the stairs would be sufficient to warn us of any danger.

I went upstairs, washed, cleaned my teeth, said my prayers . . . then "Beep". So I detached the battery on the upstairs alarm and went down to re-attach the one on the downstairs alarm as I now assumed I had been mistaken in thinking was the source of the original sound.

I went to bed, and started to doze off. "Beep". I got up, went downstairs re-disattached the battery. How can both of them fail simultaneously?

Thoroughly awake I read my book for a while, then turned the light off and listened to the dawn chorus. Which is why, when I turned over for ten minutes more shut-eye this morning, my eyes stayed shut for a couple of hours.

Around noon I set off for Scunthorpe. Calling in at Poundstretcher on my way to the museum for a cheap photo album I discovered they no longer stock them, which was one wasted detour. I then filled my car up with boxes of historic - mainly repro - toys, and set off for Tesco in search of bread and milk. They were having a powercut, and were not selling anything chilled or frozen, including milk. Are they really going to chuck all that food? OK, pork chops, soft unpasteurised cheeses, shellfish, frozen chickens . . . I can see the point, but can't they just shove a warning sticker on the milk, cream, hard cheese etc. and flog it at half price or less?

Back home via Normanby Hall where Margaret had left a jar of her honey for me to pick up, to unload sufficient of the toys to make room for Jess, Josh and possibly Joel when I collected them from school. Just as that was done, Pa rang to say that his meeting had finished early and he would pick them up. So I reloaded the car.

I have to pick up Kristan tomorrow morning. I couldn't find the bit of paper I wrote her address on, I couldn't find the list with her phone number, and I couldn't remember her surname to look her up in the phone book. I'd got as far as Sadler in my mind, but couldn't make the leap to Harness which is actually her name. Eventually I thought to look on my mobile where her number was stored under her first name. So I rang her, and she gave me her address again. She probably thinks that it's old age, but then she is half the age of most of her colleagues and probably thinks we're all pretty ancient.

Now I shall change the sheets and do the ironing postponed from earlier. Will the iron blow up? The bed collapse? Or will it just be the world and his wife ringing up every five minutes wanting to speak to Pa, who has just gone out to another meeting?

Every year West Lindsey has a Churches Festival when lots of churches (many of which have to be kept locked with key notices most of the time) are open for people to look round. Many of the congregations put on a special effort with displays of local history, arts and crafts, flowers etc. This weekend it was the turn of the western half of the district so, after we had been to chuch this morning, Joe and I went off to explore a few more churches.

We started by driving almost to Lincoln to see Barlings St. Edward, a small Norman church which has just completed an exstensive restoration programme. The church was approached through an immaculate churchyard along a very well kept gravel path. Inside there was a display of photographs of the restoration. On the north wall of the nave there is a newly restored commandments board - only one as the other was destroyed during earlier 'improvements'. I wonder, does the lack of the final five commandments give the good people of Barlings carte blanche to murder, lie, steal, covet and commit adultery?

By the time we left the drizzle had become rain so we didn't go the extra mile to view the monastic remains just down the road, which we had in any case seen before accompanied by the herd of cows who share the field with the ruins.

Our next stop was Cherry Willingham St. Peter and St. Paul - 700 or so years younger than Barlings and very different from the other churches we visited today except for the care taken of it by the community it serves. Here all the village organisations except the Indoor Bowls and Cricket Clubs had contributed to the display with contributions from Brownies, Guides, Cubs, Scouts, WI, Drama Group, Playgroup, Football Club, Outdoor Bowls Club and several other I have forgotten.

Our next stop was in another big village: Nettleham All Saints. I used to know the road through this village very well, but realise I haven't been through in years since it was by-passed. I think I have visited this church many years ago (King's England: Lincolnshire no doubt in hand), but today we were shown round by a true enthusiast. I won't go into detail, but this church is Saxon in origin although not mentioned in the Doomsday Book since it was by then in the possession of an abbey in France and thus, being exempt, it didn't need to be listed for valuation and taxes. It was then transferred to the Bishops of Lincoln and remained in their possesion until a change in the law in the nineteenth century made such arrangments illegal and the parish became a rectory. At about the same time the mediaeval wall paintings were uncovered and restored.

There was a major fire in the chancel area in 1969 since when there has been some very good restoration including the modern stained glass east window and brightly painted roof.

By this time the rain was coming down hard, so we forewent the pleasure of walking round the outside of the church and headed off to Owmby-by-Spital St. Peter and St. Paul. Here they had a very professional looking display about the young men of the village who went off to fight in the Great War. All those commemorated on the war memorial had been carefully researched, as had several of those who had returned to live to a ripe old age, but there was an appeal for information about many others.
The light was really terrible by now.

Our last port of call was Normanby by Spital St. Peter where they had an art exhibition. The delightful thing here was that, though the pictures were arranged in themes, there were no value judgements made; it was simply a celebration of a shared interest with pictures by primary school children next to those by professional artists, with the full range of amateur ability and compentence between. To my mind the loveliest pictures were those by an amateur watercolourist who, I am told, has only recently returned to painting after a gap of about a dozen years, but it was the over all impression of enjoyment which made it such a lovely end to a really enjoyable day.

By this time it was raining harder than in the last scene of Four Weddings and a Funeral, and we headed home to the boiled beef and carrots I had left in the slow-cooker, and the brownies and fairy cakes I had bought from the stall at Cherry Willingham for pudding.

The most beautiful car ever designed.

In the 1960s my father was selling cars, mainly Morris but also quite a few Jaguars. The other day Jake expressed an interest in these latter, so Pa got out his sales records. Between 1961 and 1966 he sold 22 used and new Jaguars in about equal proportions at prices varying from £225 for a 1954 Mk VII to £2,271 for a brand new (1963) Mk X. The total for all 22 cars over 5 years was £27,600 - this is the total price, not the profit - which would buy him one used 2006 S-type now.

The new E-type he sold to Antony Hopkins, the composer, in 1961 for a massive £2,204 could now fetch in the region of £100,000 in good condition! My father says that he never saw anyone so lit up about a car. He had been unable to get one in London, and when Pa mentioned during the Cleethorpes Musical Festival that he could get an E-type for him in a matter of weeks a deal was struck immediately, and Mr. Hopkins returned as soon as the AH 600 number plate was arranged, stayed overnight with us, and was last seen speeding out of Cleethorpes followed by a police car, or "Exit pursued by a bear" as was quoted from 'A Winter's Tale' in the thank you letter. My own memory is that he had bought new driving gloves for his new car: at six I was until then unaware of these specialist garments.

In the 1960s the commission on these and the much larger number of Morris Minors, Morris Oxfords, 1100s etc. seemed like riches to us, and the fun of being collected from school if Pa happened to be passing at the right time in a whole range of amazing cars was a joy to Helen and me and a source of fascination and envy to many of the boys at primary school.

One of the oddest sales was a beautiful 1951 Bentley designed to be driven by a chauffeur with its glass screen behind the driver's seat which was bought for £335 to take the dogs out in by a man who had already bought that most expensive Mk X Jag which he didn't want to spoil with muddy paw prints! It was lovely to be driven in state for the few days that the Bentley was our family transport. (And fun to hear the envious comments of some other children who mistook it for a Rolls! Liz, whose father was driving an extraordinary Russian car at the time, always took lifts in anything my father happened to be driving completely in her stride.)

I'm still fond of Jaguars (not at all in line with my greenish credentials) and had to take a photo when I saw these on a visit to Wallington Hall a couple of years ago.

It would be interesting to know whether any of the cars listed on this attachment are still around.

Jess is 13 today - a teenager! For some months she has been practising with phrases like "Talk to the hand "cos the face ain't listening" which her grandfather doesn't understand at all. She does it very well, but is fortunately much too involved with horses and dog training to be much bothered with being a stroppy teenager.
Anyway, here is the birthday girl:

Our workshops at the museum are limited to 36 children. Some are equipped for this number and no more, with others it is a question of space, and for some there is no particular reason other than that is the stated maximum number and is presumably the number on which health, safety and insurance assessments were based.

Today's school arrived with groups of 37 and 39. Admittedly the teacher was apologetic about this: she had relied on a certain number of absentees when she made the booking, but had happened to hit a week of exceptional good health when not a single parent had booked a family holiday before the high season makes them too expensive.

Now what can you do? It isn't the children's fault, and you can't disappoint them. You can't tell the teacher to send the four extra children home, nor can they be left to sit on the bus all day, or left to play in the park. (I won't even think about the problem the teacher would have in selecting the excluded four!) So you accept the full number for the workshop, although you do wonder what the insurers would say if there did happen to be an accident. But really the teachers shouldn't take the risk when clear limits are set, nor should they rely on our good natures when it comes to waiving the rules.

Having said that, the extra children were no trouble, and all the children were well behaved, friendly and polite despite the fact that there were several with obvious educational problems. There were enough teachers and assistants for the numbers, and everybody had been well-briefed. It was a very good day, with just that one niggling little worry about what would happen if something did go wrong.

Liz: In response to your latest blog, here is a picture of a tree tunnel I drove through on the way home from work today. I hope you like it. Fortuitously I did have my camera with me.

Two successive emails

1. Precious only daughter (19) is going to attend university in Ontario

2. Precious only son (29) is going to live in Michigan

Didn't someone tell me about a classic sociological study about relative crime rates - especially murder - in the cities of Detroit and Ottawa which have a similar population and industrial profile? I think the statistic was something like that the one had as many murders in a day as the other had in a year.

If I'm right about what I was told, Emma is going to a much nicer place than Richard.

Either way, it's a long way away.

There are some truly horrible crimes, and one of the very worst is rape.

Our neighbour is guilty!

. . . and, before you get the wrong idea, this is the view from our garden . . .

Not that I am looking at the view since the garden has become a no-go area now that the wind is once again blowing from the west: five minutes out there and my nose and eyes are streaming. Helen is the same, and Jess is even worse as she has a rash as well as all the rest. The menfolk all seem fine - curse them! - though even they admit that the smell is frightful.

Joe and I went to Ripley Castle today which is just at the limit of what I consider a reasonable distance for a day out. It has been the home of the Ingleby family for the last 700 years.

The view of the castle was rather spoiled by the giant marquee being put up for a wedding this weekend.

My guide book to the castle has pictures of Sir Thomas and Lady Ingleby with their two baby sons; those sons are now at university, and there are two more brothers and a sister aged 12 upwards, so it is obviously several years since I last visited. The house tour was a very thorough look at everything (with the family anecdotes attached) in a smallish range of rooms on the ground floor of the Georgian house and all three floors of the Tudor tower, which took an unhurried hour.

We then took a similar time strolling round the pleasure grounds including the walled garden. (There is a longer walk through the deer park and round the lake, but we gave that a miss on account of my swollen ankle - and the fact that Joe is a complete pain if you suggest anything that might actually be called a walk - even spending more than half-an-hour in the garden caused a bit of a grump.)

After we had seen all this we had a cup of tea and a scone. Joe had his smelly Earl Grey and I had proper Yorkshire tea. Which reminds me of a terrible joke.

Do you know why Marxists always drink herbal tea?
Because all proper tea is theft.

It's Jacob's 19th birthday today. So he got up at about 5 o'clock in order to be at college in time for 6.30 stables, and tonight he is having dinner at home with his parents, brothers and sister making whoopee on chocolate cake washed down with coke.

Oh, dear, these idle, drunken students!

(His present from me? As requested, a car kettle for hot chocolate and pot noodles on cold early mornings. The picture above features Jacob atop the present from the rest of the family and also a good proportion of his own savings - yes, a student with savings, and all from his own earnings from working as farm labourer, builder's labourer and blacksmith's assistant every holiday since he was 13, and stable lad every day!)