Ewe are kidding me!

The lady who comes to cut our hair came to cut our hair yesterday. It was pissing down.

"I feel really sorry for those poor sheep in the field behind your house," she said, as she trimmed my beard. "They looked really wet and miserable."

"It's worse than that," I said. "When sheep get wet, their fleeces shrink, so they get squeezed from all sides."

"Really?!"

"That's why their eyes bulge out."

"Really, is that true?! Jen, is he having me on?"

"Yes, he is," said Jen, trying to stop stuff coming out of her nose.

"It's a good job you told me: I was about to go and tell all of my friends!"

Evacuee kids

From p.171 of Off the Record, the wartime diary of the author and journalist Charles Graves:

May 30th. [1941]

Took Peggy to H- on the 1.15 a.m. from Paddington. […]

H- has the best beach for about 100 miles in any direction, and is directly opposite Ireland. H-is full of evacuated children from Merseyside, Liverpool University students doing theses, various foreign refugees, and others who have skipped from danger areas, like London. The greens on the [golf] course were in good condition. Local regulations about showing lights are not very strict. This despite the fact that the German Bomber Command aircraft always go up Cardigan Bay to attack Liverpool, and thus get a “fix” on the naked lights visible in various parts of Merioneth, including H-. H- has had no bombs nor sirens. Found four evacuee kids at Erinfa—Leslie the blonde, Norman the brunette, David the red-head, and Edwin just mouse colour. As a test of observation for them I hid eight pennies, three sixpences and a shilling round the terrace of the house. Leslie the blonde found practically all of them. Played penny bridge, and went to bed to the hoot of the owls. Thank goodness there are none of that much over-praised bird the nightingale round here.

To explain:

  • Charles Graves was the younger brother of the poet and novelist Robert ‘I, Claudius’ Graves;
  • ‘H-’ stands for Harlech in North Wales;
  • Erinfa was the Graves' family home, where Charles's mother—a German—Amalie Elizabeth Sophie von Ranke, was doing her bit for the British war effort by taking on the four ‘evacuee kids’;
  • the blond evacuee, Leslie, is my Uncle Les (then aged 7);
  • the brunette evacuee, Norman, is my dad (then aged 6).

I managed to track down a second-hand copy of Off the Record a few months back, and, yesterday, left it as a surprise Christmas present at my dad's. By a strange coincidence, unaware of the present, Dad was reminiscing about his days as an evacuee over whisky on Sunday evening. He is planning to pump his older brother for more reminiscences over Christmas lunch at my sister's place this afternoon.

Norman and Leslie
Norman (L) and Les (R), inspecting the Open Golf Championship claret jug in 2006.

25 not out

It's that time of year again. So did I make it up Moel Famau for the 25th consecutive Christmas Eve?

I certainly did:

Expedition team.
The Silver Jubilee Expedition team.

An excellent turn out! Irish Mick and Carolyn had a lot of catching-up to do. The last time they saw each other, she wasn't even a mum!

Twenty-five years! It's official: I'm in a rut.

See also:

Slater, get real, man!

Jen and I watch a lot of cookery programmes on telly (although, being from Yorkshire, Jen tends to refer to them as cooking programmes). Last night, we watched a recording of one of Nigel Slater's Christmas specials, in which he improvised a meal called bauble and squeak (do you see what he did there?) from leftover goose, ham, pumpkin and roast potatoes.

Jen and I watched in open-mouthed incomprehension.

Who in God's holy name has ‘left-over roast potatoes’? And eight left-over roast potatoes at that!

Code-10 abort

I answered the phone within two rings, but there was silence at the other end. Three seconds later, there was a click, and a woman with an Asian accent introduced herself as Rachel. She began to ask me about pension plans. From the slight time delays, I guessed the call was being bounced off a bird above Karachi.

I explained to Rachel that, yes, I was indeed already receiving a pension. She asked me who I was receiving my pension from. I explained that I was receiving a pension from the Queen. This seemed to confuse Rachel. She asked me which pension company I was received my pension from. I explained that it didn't work that way, and that I received a cheque through the post each month signed by the Queen.

Rachel put me on to her supervisor. I didn't catch his name. He also had an Asian accent. I then had to re-explain my pension arrangements to him. He sounded confused as well. He explained that their database showed that I might not be receiving as good a pension as I could be. This set alarm bells ringing. I demanded to know which database he was accessing, as my personal details were supposed to be secret. He sounded even more confused. I asked him where he had got my phone number. He explained that his company had bought my details off a data provider, and asked me if my concerns had anything to do with the telephone preference service.

I explained to the man that I am indeed registered with the telephone preference service, and that, in calling my private number, he had blown the cover of my MI6 safe-house. The man tried to reassure me that there was nothing to worry about, but he was far from convincing and sounded pretty worried himself. I told him he didn't know what he was talking about, and demanded to know whether our conversation was being recorded. He said that it was. So I blurted out something about having to establish a new safe-house and hung up.

I'm going deeply covert: Coventry Protocol. The code-phrase is BLACK APRICOT.

Soup selection

Jen and I have been making a lot of soup recently. Well, when I say Jen and I, what I really mean is Jen has been making a lot of soup recently, and I've been helping her. Well, when I say I've been helping her, what I really mean is Jen has been making a lot of soup recently. Pulsating pulse soup, stilton and broccoli soup, Thai chicken and mushroom broth, roasted red pepper and tomato soup, spinach and nutmeg soup.

Which got me thinking. How come you don't get bacon soup? Yes, I know you do get bacon soup—I have a large book of soup recipes, and bacon soup is definitely in there—but you just don't, do you?

Wouldn't bacon soup be totally awesome? The clue's in the name: bacon… soup! What's not to like?

And, while we're at it, how about cat soup? And Pope bouillabaisse?

What about you lot? Are there any particular soups you like to try?