Clarissa et al.

Oh, dear, I was late to work today - not badly - just a few minutes and I did have an excellent excuse. I was just leaving the house when Kevin Leahy, until he retired Curator of Archaeology at North Lincolnshire Museum, came on the television talking about this amazing Anglo-Saxon hoard.

So naturally I had to stay and watch. As the other archaeologist involved said when interviewed later in the day "Wow!"

Then on the way I learned from Radio 4 that Dianne, Kevin's wife and a fellow Museum Learning Assistant and friend, had been helping him catalogue it. We had sort of vaguely picked up that something exciting had happened - more from a buzz in the air than anything anyone had actually said - and the few people who were in on the discovery had all been quite wonderfully discreet so we had no idea what had been discovered or where - indeed, a fairly recent new addition to their family could have been responsible for Kevin and Dianne seeming somewhat 'lit up' of late.

By the way, regarding my lateness I should add that in indulging myself by staying to watch I did know that I wasn't going to inconvenience or let anyone down as today there were (instead of the usual one) three of us to set up for the new Museum Workshop "The Appliance of Science" which Rachel was premiering (very successfully) and Katie and I were observing and learning, and I was in and working a good half-an-hour before the school arrived.

Pam asked how Blackie was getting on with Bert.

They are getting on fine. Tonight I went out to call them in. No sign. Half-an-hour later they saunter up together - two boys returning from an evening out.

On the radio as I was coming home from work a man was talking about the value of acquaintances as distinct from friends, and I sort of see his point that the term friendship is being devalued by its use on such sites as this and even more on Facebook and the like. But, that aside, do we as adults actually rush headlong into friendships we later would rather get out of? Surely most of us leave behind "Will you be new my best friend?" in the playground, though I suppose there is a later mad rush to make friends in our late teens as schoolfriends are left behind and work friends take over, and this is even more the case when the young person has gone away to college or university.

It seems to me that there are many layers of friendship and acquaintanceship.

Top of the list are Bosom or Best Friends - the sisters we would have chosen if fate and biology had not decreed otherwise.

Just below this layer (probably no more than one or two people thick) are the more numerous Dear Friends - the people whose friendship carries on regardless of geography and circumstances.

Then, in equal place, are the Friends of Propinquity and the Friends of Custom.

Friends of Custom are the inherited friends - the almost relatives, the honorary aunts and uncles and their children.

The Friends of Propinquity are the neighbours, club members and colleagues who are friends beyond that circumstance, but whose friendship may dwindle to no more than Christmas cards when/if that regular easy contact is removed. Only a few workmates etc. really reach the level of confidence which can truly be termed friendship, but many are Friendly Acquaintances - people with whom there is a genuine warmth and within the workplace etc. and who appear to be as much friends as the Friends of Propinquity, but with whom the relationship stops so to speak at the factory gate or the garden fence.

Then there are the Acquaintances - people whose names you know and with whom you regularly exchange a friendly word in the staffroom or at the school gate where you talk mainly about that shared circumstance - the work, the kids . . . and let's be honest, most of our so called e-friends also fit into this category, however frank and open our blogs.

And last there is the Nodding Acquaintance - people whose name you don't know (unless they happen to be wearing a work badge) whom you see regularly at the bus stop or in the shop and with whom you exchange a nod, a smile, a few words. You don't really know them, but you would notice if they weren't around.

So, yes, I do agree that there is very much a value in acquaintanceship as distinct from friendship, but I don't think that it is anything like the simple two tiers of his thesis, though I also wonder whether my complexity of layers is more of a female thing.

Has anybody noticed that - whether as interviewee, part of a featured group or just in the crowd - whenever somebody you know is involved in a TV programme, if that somebody (especially if it is yourself) is middle-aged and somewhat overweight the cameraman focuses forever on the wrinkles, the double chin or the fact that you are lounging back in your seat with your knees apart; wheareas, if your friend or relative is clearly the most beautiful and most talented person there, the camera skims over them at lightning speed, cutting away before you have even had a chance to say to yourself "That's my girl!" or "That's my boy!"?

We had Back to Church Sunday at Swallow this week. Invitations were sent out to the whole village and the church was pretty full I am glad to say. On the other hand I was finding it quite difficult to find someone to invite personally - nearly all my friends who live locally (and indeed those who don't) are regular church-goers (organists, church wardens and the like), and even at work nearly everyone involved in Museum Learning is too. In the end I opted for asking Inge who seems to fit the profile perfectly being an anglican who can seldom organise herself to church, so I asked her and she said yes. Sadly she hadn't quite got what I meant, so she arranged to go to church today, but not in Swallow at 11.30!

The last few nights we have been lighting a small fire in the evening - a month earlier than we usually do so. Blackie clearly has never seen a live fire before and was very quaint with his slow, cautious creep towards it, but now he has decided that they are a really good thing and is the cat that sat on the mat all evening before he goes out for a late constitutional prior to settling down indoors for the night.

Next week we are exchanging the open fire for a wood burning stove which should be more efficient and environmentally friendly. Will the cats like it so well?

I think I may be stuck with Blackie, in which case he needs a proper name. Joe thinks Shadow; however, since there is a chance he may go to a friend who collects classic cars my mind was running on Jaguars, but things like E-type XK 120 and Mark V don't seem ideal cat names. I could follow an oddish family precedent set by Patsy and Pam and call him something daft like Snowy - daft that is for a black cat, albeit one with a few white hairs on his chest. Childhood reading suggests the name Carbonel. Personal precedent with cats called Fred, Fred II, Annie and Bert would seem to lead me to something on the lines of Stan, Frank or Jack. No doubt he will let me know what suits him in time.

The Naming Of Cats
T.S. Eliot

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn't just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there's the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey -
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter -
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular,
A name that's peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum -
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there's still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover -
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.

I was reading a blog earlier that has a twitter column down the side. I could do with that just to mention in passing that on tonight's Mastermind I scored 10 on the Oscar Wilde questions when the contestant scored 8, and went on to score 11 on the general knowledge to her 6. I also scored 8 on the germanic languages which surprised me considerably more, and 15 on his general knowledge.

I am feeling quite smug, though in fairness I should say that I scored just one on each of the other two specialist subjects, though I did manage a consistent 11 on each general knowledge.

A man came along to measure up for a little job that needs doing. I had just put the kettle on so I offered him a drink.

"Yes, please," he said, "and my man who's waiting in the van. He's been all morning on a job - the lady never offered him a drink, and he's parched."

I make a point of offering tea or coffee to anyone who is going to stay longer than just reading the meter (and to them too on a very cold, wet or windy day). I won't say that it will turn an incompetent jobber into a skilled craftsman or a dishonest cowboy into an honest injun, but regular tea goes a long way to making sure that a normally honest workman does a fair job and clears up properly afterwards. Apart from which it is no less than a basic courtesy to anyone.

It's like washing up after yourself in any staffroom where you are a visitor, or offering to make colleagues a cup whenever you put a kettle on for yourself, and sharing your Kit-kat or Twix when there are two of you - it oils the wheels of life and makes people comfortable together.

Back to work properly today with two workshops at the Wilderspin School. The two large groups from a Scunthorpe school were still at the beginning of their Victorian history project, but very eager and and willing. I think the second group was slightly disconcerted by the enthusiasm with which their teacher threw herself into the role of the bossy Mrs. Jarvis, the vicar's wife, who is visiting the school along with her ladies committee of Victorian busybodies (our 'cover story' for there being so many adults in the schoolroom), but they had a great time.

We had the 'maypole' swing unlocked for the first time when I have been in the school and the children absolutely loved it when we moved out to the playground to inspect it and the Victorian privvies.

I haven't got a picture of the children playing on the swing in Barton, but the first picture shows children dancing round the pole, and the second vintage picture shows a similar swing in use.

At the beginning of each workshop we are supposed to give a little reminder about fire exits and fire alarms. This morning's group asked me whether they had such things in Victorian schools. Now, to be honest, it isn't something which has ever come up before and in the normal run it wouldn't be a question most of us would be able to answer with any certainty. However, I was sure because my grandmother many years ago told me this story of her own schooldays - not strictly Victorian, but before the Great War.

One day when she was in the sixthform Nan simply didn't feel like doing her Greek prep.

"You'll never get away with it!" exclaimed her friends aghast, "Miss --- [the headmistress] will be furious!"

"I will, and she won't," my grandmother replied.

The day of the lesson came round and each girl in turn stood up to parse her lines of Greek verse. At last the headmistress turned to my grandmother, "Phyllis Jones parse lines . . ." but she never reached the end of the sentence because my grandmother stood up and blew her fire whistle.

You see, that term she was the school's Fire Captain and she had during the course of the term to call one surprise fire drill. By the time bells and whistles had been sounded throughout the buildings, and all the girls had assembled in front of the school, been counted and returned to their classrooms, the Greek lesson was over and my grandmother had another week to prepare.

I don't have any problem with cross cultural international adoption - several of my cousins became my cousins by that route, and it has been pretty successful, so I'm rather in favour of it.

Equally I know quite a number of people who grew up quite happily with parents - or more often just the father - of an age with most of their friends' grandparents.

I don't personally know anyone brought up by a same sex couple, but, subject the the usual checks which would be made on any prospective adoptive parents, I can't see anything particularly against it.

I know nothing of celebrity adoptions beyond having read 'Mommie Dearest', so I shall pass no judgement as I doubt whether - celebrity or not - there are many people as ill-suited to parenthood as Joan Crawford, and presumably modern vetting techniques would weed such a person out before she ever got her hands on a child.

In short, in theory I have nothing against Elton John adopting any orphan going. Those who have the power to make that specific decision think otherwise and I am not saying that they are wrong.

What I wonder is why people with love to give and money to burn don't instead find a suitable poor family in the country where the child lives and sponsor that whole family plus the orphan(s) providing a decent house, a good education, health care etc., and visiting regularly so that when Uncle Elton (Uncle Reg?) - or, come to that, Auntie Madonna - calls it is like Christmas three or four times a year? Not to mention the family holidays taken with him and David in various paradises around the world! OK, it isn't the same as adoption and having the child with him always, but in ten or a dozen years time it could actually be a much better option than for a man of pensionable age having to deal with teenage moods and tantrums on a daily basis.

This morning on TV before I went to church so I didn't hear what conclusion they reached - if any - they were debating whether Islam itself was to blame for islamic extremism.

No, it isn't Islam or Christianity or Judaism or Atheism or Communism or Fascism or any belief system going which is in itself to blame. It is those fundamentalists of any and all beliefs who brook no opposition to their views and feel it necessary to beat other people into submission to those beliefs.

I remember how certain I was about everything when I was in my teens and twenties. I was right and that was that - no arguments. We are most of us like that in our youth, and for most of us time mellows our views and, even when we remain certain, we feel that we can allow others their misconceived beliefs without feeling any rancour towards them.

Sadly, some people don't, and a few of them take their views to their most violent extremes and preach this violence to the young, who - especially the young men - are at their most susceptible, full of hormones and itching for a fight even to the extent of being willing to lay down their lives. Even worse some of the manipulators aren't even wholly convinced of the truth of their own arguments, but use them to create a position of seemingly unassailable power for themselves; one only has to have a quick glance through the pages of history to see how many heroes of the revolution ended up as the most monstrous dictators.

The world may condemn suicide bombers, but so many of them are so young that I cannot help but feel sorry for them caught when they are vulnerable in that spider's web of extremism and never given an opportunity to grow into the reasonable tolerance which characterises the silent(ish) majority of humankind. And if you don't believe such a thing is possible, look at many of those in the government of Northern Ireland.

Most people if you murmur to them "There's ketchup on your chin", "Your flies are undone", "Your skirt's tucked in your knickers" or something similar will give you an embarrassed smile of thanks and rectify the problem before anyone else notices. One in a hundred will go off at the deep end as if it is rude of you to notice and ruder still to mentiion it. My nephew has just done this because I told both him and my father that the corn on the cob had left butter on their chins. My father wiped his chin.

It is a more difficult matter if the criticism is of something done or - more often - not done. The teacher can say "You would have done better in the exam if you had bothered to revise" but it is much harder for a pupil to say "I would have done better in the exam if you had bothered to teach me the correct syllabus". We all have the right to criticise. Or do we? How many people actually have the right to criticise their employers or their customers? The customer is not always right and neither is the boss.

Most people nowadays suffer from customer care feedback forms, but there is seldom a medium for reply. We all should have the right to respond, and if we criticise we should accept that the one criticised has that right.

We should also remember that if we are prepared to say when things are not right, we have an equal duty to praise when they are - especially when people have gone that extra mile for you. (see last blog)

Over the last few years I have bought some incredible bargains over the internet and suffered a few disappointments.

In the last two weeks two companies have surpassed my wildest expectations with the quality of their service.

The first of these was Fragrance Direct. I'm one of those people on whom many perfumes suffer a disastrous chemical change and smell absolutely horrid after a few hours, but a certain number of floral scents - rose, lavender, lily of the valley etc. - maintain their sweetness. I had seen (and smelled) some lovely rose in a National Trust shop which reminded me that I had run out of eau de toilette, but it was rather expensive and I hadn't any cash on me. That Sunday evening I ordered a bottle of each of my three favourites over the internet - total cost for 3 big bottles including p&p £13.88 - and they arrived on Tuesday morning. All three are well-known brands and are so cheap because of damaged or lost outer packaging. The lavender is a bit fugitive and really needs topping up during the day, but the other two cling for a full working day without being overpowering.

The next was even better. Back in the spring I bought myself a new two person picnic set when I went for a little wander in Driffield between teaching morning and afternoon workshops at a primary school there. When, after using it just three times, I found one of the melamine plates broken in the bag I emailed the makers Concept International to ask for a replacement. The label on the bag said that they would replace any faulty items on production of a receipt, but naturally after so long I hadn't still got the receipt though I was able to say where and when I had bought it and a broken plate looks like carelessness even though I had no idea how it could have happened between putting the complete set away after washing up and opening the case a couple of weeks later. Anyway, I fully expected to be quoted a price at the very least to cover the postage, but they sent me a replacement plate absolutely free of charge which I think is wonderfully trusting and very good business because they do some lovely sets and one day soon I may decide to replace my 30+ year old thermoses and insulated bag with something a touch more co-ordinated.

Anyway, good for both Fragrance Direct and Concept International for their excellent service.

Last night we held our meeting here, and I was somewhat surprised by the mixed reception Tennyson's poems had received.

The real problem of course is that poetry in the nineteenth century was meant to be read aloud - even as late as the 1890s my great-grandfather Jones (a clergyman) was giving penny readings partly for the benefit of a semi-literate rural populace and partly to give the novels and poems of the time their natural expression. There are lots of novels nowadays which can be read at a gallop - zooming through at several pages a minute, but many Victorian novels need to be read at walking pace to savour every phrase. This is even more true of poetry: even if you don't actually read it aloud, it needs to be spoken in your mind rather than skimmed.

Another thing is that Tennyson's poems were publishing events - each volume eagerly awaited and slowly savoured, so it is little wonder that a volume containing many of his longer works was not much enjoyed by some members who must quickly have suffered from verbal overload.

As I mentioned in an earlier blog, I spent much of my childhood believing that Tennyson was a relative, and I read and memorised a good deal of his poetry then, so much of what I read this month was a revisiting of old friends.

Mind you, even without the putative kinship, most Lincolnshire children used to get the Tennyson treatment at school. Did any teenage girl confronted with the lines ‘“The curse has come upon me,” cried the Lady of Shallot’ not have a secret snicker? And were we confronted with ‘the onion lady’! Over and over again from third year juniors to third year grammar every (English) teacher included her in our studies. To this day I can see and hear Mr. Waite as he read it to us. I can also remember reading the poem round the class under the less than inspired tutelage of Ma Lindley – every reading fluently flat as each girl avoided any hint of expression lest her classmates level the accusation of ‘showing off’ at her. Actually I may be wrong in saying ‘reading’; I think it was recitation and that we had all been assigned verses to learn. Despite scholastic overkill, it is still a great piece of populist literature.

And there is so much more Tennyson which has this same dramatic appeal. Who can not want to stand up and declaim the rolling cadences of The Charge of the Light Brigade or sit rapt as the story of Idylls of the King unfolds?

On the other hand the lack of story, the inordinate length and the high Victorian sentiment make In Memoriam very heavy going. It was after complaints about length and dullness that I found it necessary to recite this little known poem to illustrate how succinct Tennyson could be and how vividly he could convey plot , scene and character in a few short verses.

THE SAILOR BOY

He rose at dawn and, fired with hope,
Shot o’er the seething harbour-bar,
And reach’d the ship and caught the rope,
And whistled to the morning star.

And while he whistled long and loud
He heard a fierce mermaiden cry,
"O boy, tho' thou are young and proud,
I see the place where thou wilt lie.

"The sands and yeasty surges mix
In caves about the dreary bay,
And on thy ribs the limpet sticks,
And in thy heart the scrawl shall play."

"Fool," he answer'd , "death is sure
To those that stay and those that roam,
But I will nevermore endure
To sit with empty hands at home.

"My mother clings about my neck,
My sisters crying, 'Stay for shame;'
My father raves of death and wreck,-
They are all to blame, they are all to blame.

"God help me! save I take my part
Of danger on the roaring sea,
A devil rises in my heart,
Far worse than any death to me.

I was not the only one to recite as Geoff had brought a record of Tennyson’s Northern Farmer being read in all its glorious (and fairly incomprehensible) Lincolnshire dialect. I hasten to point out that, except for the diphthongs on words such as ‘lane’ and ‘gate’, the south Lincolnshire dialect is very different from the north Lincolnshire dialect spoken in these parts – the one being close kin to other East Anglian dialects while the latter is more Norse in its origins and has many sounds and words in common with those of Yorkshire and other northern counties. I don’t know how much of the true dialect (as opposed to certain pronunciations) has survived into the television age, but I recall as a child in the sixties we had driven down to view the excavations being made at Bolingbroke Castle. In those days the site was not signposted and, after a while of fruitlessly circling the village we stopped to ask an old man on a tricycle who answered my father’s request for directions in a true unspoilt dialect. Fortunately my father is one of those people who can comprehend answers given in hitherto unknown foreign languages, because that – as near as dammit – is what this was, and we did manage to find the castle.

Going back to Tennyson: one thing that we all noted with astonishment was that the editor of the Penguin Classics Alfred Lord Tennyson Selected Poems had failed to select that best known and most lovely of all word paintings The Brook. Popularly said to be Sommersby Beck, Tennyson always claimed it to be an amalgam of all the brooks he had known, and I am sure all the Bookworms can see in their mindseye the Rase where it runs through Tealby (site of Bayons Manor the Tennyson ancestral pile) and the Lud as it enters Louth (where Tennyson and his brothers went to school) through Hubbards Hills.

Not long after I had finished stacking the dishwasher after our meeting I heard Terry Wogan on TV quoting
“Men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever”
And surely that is all the proof one really needs of Tennyson’s greatness as a poet: the fact that his language is so vivid and so very memorable, he has, after Shakespeare, given more oft-repeated quotations to the English language than anybody else.

My father bought a new TV for his bedroom today - a 22" flat screen.

On the box was a label saying that the box was to be lifted by two people.

Presumably we are talking about brawny young warehousemen. My father - all 5'6" of him - is 82 years old, and he tucked it under one arm to bring it in from the car and carry it upstairs.

I'm all in favour of not being expected to lift and move things which are too heavy or too bulky, but we are talking large tables, grand pianos and stacks of chairs here, not smallish boxes.

A sense of proportion is needed in all things.

Right at the beginning of the holidays we agreed that several of us would meet for a picnic at Fountains Abbey - the rule for these picnics is to choose a venue roughly equidistant between Issy (and most of the rest of us) in northern Lincolnshire and Becky in Lancashire so Harewood House, Newby Hall, Ripley Castle and now Fountains Abbey have all been the logical venues over the years. This year for obvious reasons it was important to avoid anywhere with past associations which is why Fountains (new to Becky) was the choice.

The weather forecast was horrible: good for Lincolnshire, East Anglia and the south east, but wet and windy for the west and moving across the country during the day. Issy and I did a shuffle around and I won getting the girls (Jessie and Esther) while she got Joe. We made good time on the boring motorway route and arrived to find the Studley Roger carpark devoid of our friends in their bigger, faster cars (not that their more powerful engines should matter - my car does 70mph on a motorway and theirs should do no more).

"Are you sure we're in the right place?" asked the girls increasingly plaintively.

"Yes" - I was sure.

I was also right.

The trouble is that the National Trust in its infinite wisdom does not signpost the Studley Roger end as an entrance to the Fountains Abbey/Studley Royal site, and is therefore very easy to miss. This is a pity as the walk through the pleasure grounds and along the river gives the most magnificent first view of the abbey.

The others had variously ended up at the west gate and the visitor centre, but, after asking directions, they rolled up in convoy to find the picnic site set up and the kettle on the gas-ring.

We did things in style - possibly too much style for some tastes* - with the adults sitting up at folding tables and the children on picnic rugs. I had made two quiches (just one of our number - Joel 14 - is a recent convert to vegetarianism) one red onion and cheddar cheese and the other smoked salmon, prawn and asparagus and between us Issy and I had brought along seven different salads - dressed green, undressed green, two different cous-cous, samphire and dip, rice and prawn, tomato and mozzarella, and there was a huge array of cakes, biscuits and fruit to finish up with - home-made, garden picked and bought according to individual time and taste.

Inge, Becky and Issy relaxing at after the picnic

For two hours the sun shone, and we sat and chatted while the children went off to paddle and explore. Just after we had packed things into the cars in order to start our walk up to the abbey the heavens opened. Inge and Nigel with their three and Jessie decided to go off elsewhere, while the rest of us deecided that discretion was the better part of valour and we would start our walk closer to the abbey. This is where I made my first mistake. The visitor centre entrance is still at quite a distance from the abbey and offers the most dreary approach. The view below is the best view of the abbey from this approach.

Not good, is it? You would think that they could have done better with a World Heritage Site! It is also a steepish uphill walk back especially in sopping wet canvas sneakers.
We paused on the way down at a grange (now, I suspect, the education centre) to read the boards - here are a very damp Hannah and Esther riding rocking sheep, proving that 14 and 15 are still children and that cousins can be more alike than sisters.

It stopped raining and we had a damp look round the abbey, but not the grounds. Then Issy and Esther went off to get back in time for yet another party in Esther's busy social life, and Becky, Hannah, Joe and I went to the cafe for tea and cakes.

For what it is worth: go to the Studley Roger entrance (where there is also a teashop) if you want a very beautiful walk (and possibly a picnic), go to the western entrance if you want a picnic and to look round the abbey and hall, and go to the visitor centre entrance if you want the tourist experience with gift shop and restaurant. And don't forget that you can get in on English Heritage tickets as well as National Trust. If I had used mine I could have taken the children in free, but didn't realise until after Issy and Becky had paid for a family ticket.

* I mentioned that some might think our picnic arrangements a touch elaborate, but not compared with some. At the end of the picnic I read the assembled crowd this extract from Mrs. Beeton's Household Management (a first edition facsimile given to me by Issy and Becky about a quarter of a century ago).

BILL OF FARE FOR A PICNIC FOR 40 PERSONS.

A joint of cold roast beef, a joint of cold boiled beef, 2 ribs of lamb, 2 shoulders of lamb, 4 roast fowls, 2 roast ducks, 1 ham, 1 tongue, 2 veal-and-ham pies, 2 pigeon pies, 6 medium-sized lobsters, 1 piece of collared calf's head, 18 lettuces, 6 baskets of salad, 6 cucumbers.

Stewed fruit well sweetened, and put into glass bottles well corked; 3 or 4 dozen plain pastry biscuits to eat with the stewed fruit, 2 dozen fruit turnovers, 4 dozen cheesecakes, 2 cold cabinet puddings in moulds, 2 blancmanges in moulds, a few jam puffs, 1 large cold plum-pudding (this must be good), a few baskets of fresh fruit, 3 dozen plain biscuits, a piece of cheese, 6 lbs. of butter (this, of course, includes the butter for tea), 4 quartern loaves of household broad, 3 dozen rolls, 6 loaves of tin bread (for tea), 2 plain plum cakes, 2 pound cakes, 2 sponge cakes, a tin of mixed biscuits, 1/2 lb, of tea. Coffee is not suitable for a picnic, being difficult to make.

Things not to be forgotten at a Picnic.

A stick of horseradish, a bottle of mint-sauce well corked, a bottle of salad dressing, a bottle of vinegar, made mustard, pepper, salt, good oil, and pounded sugar. If it can be managed, take a little ice. It is scarcely necessary to say that plates, tumblers, wine-glasses, knives, forks, and spoons, must not be forgotten; as also teacups and saucers, 3 or 4 teapots, some lump sugar, and milk, if this last-named article cannot be obtained in the neighbourhood. Take 3 corkscrews.

Beverages: 3 dozen quart bottles of ale, packed in hampers; ginger-beer, soda-water, and lemonade, of each 2 dozen bottles; 6 bottles of sherry, 6 bottles of claret, champagne a discretion, and any other light wine that may be preferred, and 2 bottles of brandy. Water can usually be obtained so it is useless to take it.

Joe took issue with the final sentence of paragraph 2, while Issy and Nigel both perked up at the list in the final paragraph.