Organic veg delivery boxes rool

Is it a truism that as you get older the more you feel the need to complain? Me, I expect decent and friendly service and have been known to carp when it doesn't come as standard. I've mentioned Riverford before and whilst waiting for the new veg garden to become a reality, the weekly boxes have been a fab addition, bringing new varieties and mostly seasonal goodies at their best. The Guardian praised them last week with the acknowledgement that the soil on the carrots could be collected to create your very own London based smallholding; in my case, when I'm too lazy to scrape the soil into the compost bucket, it just clogs the sink and the less than organic Mr Muscle sink unblocker (the things that have websites!) has had to work overtime. But then we got the tomatoes. In January, February and March. Horrid, quickly turning rotten, tasteless. What else would they be in winter, and why were they in my box? My query was very swiftly answered; my local Riverford distributors obviously felt the same way although they were tactful. Then Adrian, Riverford's Customer Services Manager got in touch and apologised for the poor quality of the product: "Whilst our own tomatoes will not be ready for some months, we do feel that having tomatoes in the boxes brings a positive addition for this time of the year. We are therefore currently importing tomatoes but we are aware however, that the quality of some of them has not been up to the standard that we would expect. The taste of the product has actually been good but there have been issues with their physical quality including blemished skins and mould appearing very quickly." That made me have an immediate munch on one of the unappetising examples to test out the tastiness: My conclusions, shared with Adrian were that they don't even feel right in the hand - if I was selecting produce from a market stall, I would not be purchasing them - if I was picking them off a homegrown plant I wouldn't buy that seed variety again. The stalk end was showing signs of incipient mould and had been in the fridge ever since delivery (I rarely need or want to put summer tomatoes in the fridge - far tastier at room temperature or warm off the plant). The flesh texture was both hard and weirdly pappy - like a tomato out of season - although the pulp and seeds were quite flavoursome. As nice as the idea of tomatoes is, I just cannot square organic principles with this unseasonable (and importing) approach - although if the produce was fabulous I am as apt to drop a principle as anyone else. As they are so very far from fabulous, what is the point? I love tomatoes, but they need good hot sun for good ripening and taste. I appreciate that they feel the need to jazz up the veg boxes in the winter months, but the tomato thing just isn't working - the odd lettuce they have been putting in have, on the other hand, been fine. Adrian kindly said the feedback was useful and much appreciated, and in this week's box is a stop press note that they have been disappointed with the standard of their tomatoes, that they have tried to persevere with the grower on the promise of improvement of quality, but as this has not happened they have removed them from the boxes. I am sure I have not been the only one having a carp, but isn't is refreshing that the customer's views are truly taken into consideration to improve the quality of the service. Full marks Riverford.

First lambing in Devon (2006)

"It's warmer in Devon - let's lamb a bit earlier this year" has turned out to be somewhat wishful thinking. It snows, it hails, it's as windy as hell, but the lambs have started to arrive all the same. A quarter of the way through and we have had all ewe lambs - how weird is that? Never one for probability theory, I guess that each lamb has a 50/50 chance of being one sex or the other, so I presume that there is no greater probability that the remaining lambs will turn out to be rams. Perhaps the new ram, Toy-boy, has an intriguing chromosomal make-up. The old ram, Thoom (or Tomb? was never given the spelling) was put in with the ewes at the same time as Toy-boy and there is no proof of who did what and to whom. Raddles and all that malarkey seem too much trouble for our small flock. Reading Hardy's Return of the Native can put you off red raddle for life, but it's just a crayon or powder - originally red ochre or iron oxide - that is put on the ram's chest so you can see which ewe has been served and by which ram, using different colours for each ram. Some use a harness to attach a crayon block to the ram, but it all seems rather too S&M to me.
The new mothers are doing their thing admirably, seeing off dogs Mopsa and Fenn in no uncertain terms if they get too close (ie in the same field) and producing huge quantities of milk; I don't know how they manage to walk.

Today we have naming of fields

The farm is strangely shaped along the lines of a miniature South America, with the house on the eastern coast of Brazil, a bit of river frontage on the west coast of Ecuador and a mill leat across the top of Venezuela. Accordingly, and not much changed since medieval farmers were doing their thing, the field boundaries are all shapes and trying to describe where you will be is not as simple as saying 3 along and 2 up. The naming of fields feels like an exercise not to be undertaken lightly, and maintaining the historical names if they can be extracted seems appropriate for somewhere that has been around for so long. Even so, I suspect names change every few generations. Last weekend we walked the farm with someone who had grown up here and he knew names for all but three of the fields. So we have Big Stone Horse Field and it's neighbour, Little Stone Horse Field, both stoney and where the horses were kept. Then there is Pretty Field, so called because it has a regular shape. Big Furze Down and Lower Furze Down are the names for the two fields that had been covered in gorse before they were ploughed up for arable purposes; gorse still flowers in patches in the hedgerows and creates a very prickly and effective sheep fence. Long Lands was probably named for the fact that although not large (none of the fields are very big), it is a fair uphill walk to reach the end. Higher Down and Lower Down sound like a joke but they do what they say on the tin, and Big Oaky and Little Oaky have a few fairly spectacular oaks in the hedgelines. Bull's field was where the bull was kept with his cows, and so on it goes. Having only to take responsibility for a limited number, we have named the nameless fields. One is now Mopsa's Meadow and another Fenn's Field. Nice to think that long after the dogs have gone their field names will survive. And yup - that's South America, not the farm!

In the eyes of the delivery men

When, last March (2005) I got out of the car and peered over the gate down the farm track, to the long whitewashed house with yellow window frames, I knew this was going to be my next and possibly last home. Peripheral to right and left were the old barns, roofless and in one case, covered in "dangerous, do not enter" signs, but they in no way detracted from the views rising above the house, nor altered the fact that the house sat sheltered in a dip surrounded by masses of space and enormous oak trees. The place felt untouched for decades and the quietness of the location was something I hadn't thought was possible to achieve. So love at first sight then. Living a long way from anywhere you make a lot of use of online-shopping; clothes, beds, tractor parts, and whatever else is needed. As a consequence you see confused delivery men (they are always men) frequently. The confusion is based on three things: there is no street name; they take pot luck in deciding whether to deliver to us or our neighbours because the farm names are very similar (but not the same); and according to delivery man lore, only sad, mad or bad people live so far from an urban sprawl. Last week was a prime example. A couple of chaps were delivering a new wardrobe and stopped outside the gate and phoned us to check if they really were in the right place - their drive down the grassy road and subsequent view of the derelict barns meant that they didn't see how it was possible that the place was actually inhabited by anything other than bats and rats. Even when they came inside the house they didn't believe anyone actually lived here permanently. I hadn't realised that to some eyes we appear to live in the equivalent of a rural slum. Me, I think it's beautiful, and rich with a life-time of possibilities and projects. It's clearly all in the eye of the beholder.

Tearaway Tamworths

Tamworths have got something of a reputation. I believe that they are a fairly primitive breed, with all the natural instincts that brings, and little of the softening of domestication about them. Known as flighty pigs, independent, and the Houdinis of the swine world, a few years ago a pair of Tamworths made national headlines for over a week when they escaped and trundled this way and that through the Wiltshire countryside, eluding capture for a considerable period of time. Yesterday morning I was making my way down the list of weekend chores when I heard my name being bellowed from the neighbouring farm. I downed tools and shot off to find out what was wrong and after a panted explanation of a new arrival Tamworth weaner having escaped up the road, we set off to head it back where it was wanted. Five of us failed in this task, and just as we were about to regroup, the alarm was raised that its sister had now also managed to leap from its new pen and disappear in the opposite direction. Throughout the day the few cars and tractors coming passed announced sightings of one or other of the ginger pigs and by dusk one had been recaptured and securely placed in its pen. Utterly exhausted by its escapade, it sank into fresh straw and fell fast asleep. As of writing, the sister is still out and about, but as our neighbours are currently the only folks round here with pigs I guess that it will be drawn back by piggish noises and smells and the desire for breakfast. Stop press! Great news - after 36 hours apart the Houdini twins are now reunited.

A party game for Xmas - make sausages

It has been an ambition of very many years to make our own sausages; convenience food in the best sense of the word. Firstly it seemed to be a guaranteed barrel of laughs, with enough double entendre to last a lifetime. Secondly it meant knowing the content was 100% high quality home-reared meat. Thirdly, I think sausages are delicious, they are quick to cook and in hot demand for barbeques in summer and for dark winter evening suppers. And lastly, no matter how I plead with the local butcher when he butchers our pork for us, he produces perfectly nice sausages but they are never quite coarse enough for our taste and always with rusk added even tho I beg him not to (he is convinced that they would all go horribly wrong without rusk and my line that French sausages are 100% meat has little effect - British tradition must be best!). So, thanks to Natural Casing Company's hog casings (fat sausage size - you can keep your feeble chipolatas) that last for up to a year in the fridge, we got together with our neighbours for a trial run before deciding how many Berkshire weaners to buy next spring (that's to say, how many pounds of sausages could we face making next summer). First you rinse the casings (including running the water through them which is a hoot) and soak for about an hour to get rid of excess salt. We used some chunks of venison from the unlucky doe that had got herself tangled in our fence and had perished before we could untangle her, with some of our neighbour's pork - Berkshire they think or perhaps Saddleback - it was the odds and ends from the freezer, but the tell-tale black bristles were still intact. A little salt, black pepper, fresh sage and thyme were added, the zest of two lemons, a sploosh of Chablis (dregs), and a sprinkling of home-made granary breadcrumbs when the mincer needed a clean through (the sinews can get caught up in the blades) which might account for a maximum of 1% cereal and I guess a great deal less. After mincing the whole lot on the coarsest setting in a 40 year old Kenwood we fell about while rolling the 4-5 foot long casing onto the sausage making nozzle before turning on the machine and feeding in the first dollops of coarsely minced meat. Luckily we had remembered to tie a knot in the end of the casing so when the skin started to gently billow we knew that sausage was on its way. It was much, much easier to do than we had expected, even more hilarious in a teenage playing-with-condoms sort of way, and fabulously tasty. As the meat had all come out of the freezer we ate most of the sausages that evening with celeriac, carrot and swede mash, russian kale in mustard sauce and roast tatties (all from our Riverford box). 10/10. And definitely found a new party game.

To be taken daily - a little bit of happy art

I've just received my 2006 diary: the Redstone diary of Happiness edited by Julian Rothenstein and Mel Gooding. I've been chuckling and smiling my way through it, and admiring everything from the gorgeously perfect red paper pocket at the front, the rough mustard pages for me to scrawl on (carefully), onwards to the wonderful images. You get a topless young Elvis (from a more relaxed pre-six-pack era); gently erotic images from East and West; smiles and grins captured from across the world; absurdities like the visuals from a Chinese rusk packet from the fifties; Ganesh happily picking up sweetmeats with his trunk; some Manolo Blahnik and posh shopping bags for the happiness-is-a-designer-label lovers, and luscious Chagall (La Promenade shown here), McLean, Blake and Frost . It has cured me of Collins' diaries forever. My new diary ensures at least daily mini-happinesses for 2006.

The Aga saga and a dinner invite

Did you hear the great Matthew Fort blot his copybook last week on Radio 4? He was developing the theme he had originally created in the Waitrose Food Illustrated after being forced to continue the debate in the Guardian following an outraged response from Aga owners. Bantering with John Humphrys, James Naughtie (clearly a closet Aga devotee) and Amy Willcock, apparently called the Queen of the Aga (listen to it here - 8.50am slot) he obviously thought it useless at cooking without really having any experience of it. Amy did a fairly pathetic job of standing up for the great beast in the kitchen - her crown needs handing over to someone who is a far better exponent and I'd like to make a nomination. Not that long ago the even greater Nigel Slater wrote about his new Aga in the Observer - I think we should get Fort and Slater to slug it out, culinarily speaking, side by side and put Fort's comments to the test, where it counts, at the stove.
I have had the pleasure of using both an Aga and Rayburn off and on during the last twenty years, (interspersed with fan ovens and the like) but have only just been lucky enough to get an Aga of my own, an ancient snoring oil-fired beasty that came with the current house and is our only form of cooking; we utterly depend on it. For me, there is absolutely no other way of producing such perfectly moist roasted meats - tender on the inside, crispy without and genuinely melt in the mouth. I have always thought our home-produced lamb second to none, but I challenge anyone to cook it more effectively in any other cooker. For the simpler things in life, its cheese on toast is fabulous. There is something about cooking stuff on the bottom of the oven that makes a grill redundant and cocks a snook at burnt cooking smells. There is however a downside or two that you have to manage your way around. For those of you who would never use the cooker to heat a kettle, it isn't an issue, but if you like to hear a whistling kettle on your stove, are planning the sunday roast or evening dinner and fancy a cuppa first to set yourself up, use the electric kettle instead to keep the heat in the Aga. And most of the cooking should be done in the oven and not on the plates - this really takes adjusting to if you have always used a conventional electric or gas cooker where the hob seems to rule. Me, I have nil patience and if the Aga had let me down I would have got an electric oven and hob installed quick as wink. Instead, the better and far cheaper option has been to invest in a small book and learn how the Aga is best used: Richard Maggs' The Complete Book of Aga Know-how. Come and have dinner in Devon with us Mr Fort; afterwards you might be tempted to put both the book and the Aga to the test.

Duck Eggs - a Saturday Guardian snippet

Fancy earning enough to take someone out for dinner by sharing your favourite nosh thoughts with friendly fellow Guardian readers? They pay £50 for every We Love to Eat item they publish (increased to £75 these days!).

me, I plumped for duck eggs.....(you'll have to scroll to the bottom) or just read it here:

"If you mention duck eggs, urban people screw up their noses. Rural folk will agree that they are great for baking, the deep yellow of the yolk adding a golden glow to any sponge, but you wouldn't want to just, well, eat them, would you?
We, on the other hand, will spurn a hen's egg if there is a duck's on offer. Nothing fancy required: try duck egg and chips, bacon and eggs, hard-boiled and chopped in mayo, chopped in the bottom of the salad bowl with the dressing to tart up a freshly cut lettuce, boiled with buttered soldiers, or scrambled, with a slice of smoked salmon and bagels for a special-occasion breakfast.
We now have our own ducks so we can be pretty profligate. When friends and family descend, a huge platter of egg mayonnaise will always be the first dish to disappear. But my mother won't touch them. Just mention them on the phone and you can feel the reflex nose action."

Mopsa and Fenn move to Devon

Back in June 2005 we moved to Devon, partly to accommodate the addition of Mopsa's half-sister Fenn, but mostly to find more space and a more peaceful environment. We seem to have ticked all those boxes, and the livestock have moved down with us, as did the contents of the greenhouse. The spuds stayed behind and I hope the new owners have found, dug, and enjoyed them. Visitors have been keen to see the new place and we have been thrilled by the quality of local food available to feed them. For the first time in a decade, we haven't been in a position to produce all our own summer veg, so the thriving Riverford has been our source of organic green grocery, delivered to the door every Friday morning just in time to plan weekend menus. However, we think ahead and with no greenhouse here, week one found us buying a massive polytunnel to make sure that 2006 = homegrown. Of course it is still unpacked and lying on the ground looking as reproachful as a heap of plastic and scaffold tubes can manage, but I have faith that it will go up well before it's time to sow seeds.
The Tuesday Hatherleigh market has proved a good place to buy live poultry and waterfowl if you take your time and tune into the auction-speak. After a few months of being duck-egg-less (the trauma of travel?) we are finally producing our own breakfasts again, and I suspect that the addition of 5 new ducks - Khaki Campbells and Magpies - finally created enough impetus for the ducks to assess that they could either get on and lay or face the pot. Local cheese is also interesting - Devon Oke, Curworthy, Cornish Yarg (local-ish), although the Sainsburys Brie that was discovered to be riddled with maggots (immediately after eating a large chunk) still makes me squirm.

Cheese, cheese, cheese

Cheese. Cheese. Cheese. Soft, hard, mild, mature, blue veined, chalk white, buttery, pungent, nutty, in your face, gentle, toasted, chunks, melted, fondued, goats, ewes, cows................ I love the lot. Does a day go by without some kind of cheese finding its way onto the plate? Only on the days when it by-passes directly into the mouth. Today was a cheese delivery day. After Mopsa barked so loud and deep that the courier left the box in the porch without ringing the bell and scarpered off down the path before he could be forced to come face to face with the terrifying beast, the aroma from the parcel left no doubt as to what was inside. A couple of Christmas's ago Peter (he of the posh blog) and Gavin sent some cheeses from Pant Mawr Farm. After specific guidance on storing it (cut each 1kg round into pieces, bag 'em, label 'em, stick 'em in the freezer) and loving the results, I bought more for a summer party, and the whole lot disappeared, and then more and more so that now there is a constant supply in the freezer, and friends keep asking for the mail order details.
So, what's available and what does it taste like? According to the website there are seven cheeses in the Pant Mawr range and all are made with vegetarian rennet and pasteurised milk. Our presents were Caws Preseli, a soft cow's milk cheese that has more (gentle) flavour than is fair for any mouthful, and Caws Cerwyn, a softish hard (you'll see what I mean if you treat yourself) beautifully pale yellow cheese that is equally mild and flavoursome. Everyone seemed to enjoy these best with crusty bread or oatcakes and some great grapes - a real end of dinner pair of cheeses. The Mature Cerwyn - Caws Cerwyn matured for about six months - has a crumblier, harder texture, shouts out for a chunk of fresh pineapple alongside (forget Abigail's Party, just enjoy the cliched combination), or for using in cooking or grated into leafy salads or celeriac remoulade. It has a deeper flavour, and stirred the senses of friends that love a cheese with serious bite. And then there is the smoked Cerwyn; and the jury is still out on that one. When the parcel was delivered, I thought that I had walked into a smoky bar rather than my own porch. When I opened the box and then unwrapped the cheese, the strength of the smoking was so eye-wateringly pungent for both nose and eyes, that I thought the whole smokery had been parcelled up and sent too. Described as having "a delicate smoky tang", trades description would probably disagree! I know that both hot and cold smoking of foodstuffs is de rigeur for the taste as well as a great way of preserving, but a little more subtlety would have been welcome. As a result, half of the round is still in the freezer awaiting its moment. The last one I have tried is the Soft Goats Curd, with a light covering of olive oil, but it took half an hour to get into the plastic pot; we never worked out the right way of opening it. If your temper holds out it is very tasty indeed, a world away from so much of the supermarket goats' cheeses and perfect for spreading thickly on thin pancakes (we are talking pre-low-carb-diet days), adding a handful of cherry tomatoes and herbs, rolling up, drizzling with olive oil and baking in the oven.
Caws Preseli, Cerwyn and Mature Cerwyn are likely to be pretty constant presences in the house, and the only other cheeses I have bought regularly in recent months to supplement them are Dolcelatte and Parmesan (Parmigiano Reggiano), and I reckon that's an awesome recommendation. Mind you, there was the Malvern ewe's milk hard cheese found in the fab Ombersley Evertons Deli, the supply of mini babybels for the car, the brie, the rubbery Jarlsberg (the more rubbery the better), the local farmer's market cheddar.......................... (Quick November 2005 update - a gift of a Torrington cheese from Cothi Valley Goats, bought at Cardiff's Riverside Real Food Market was to die for; quite the most lusciously lingering and complex flavour). Contact them at Cothi Valley Goats, Cilwr Farm, Talley, Llandeilo, Carms SA19 7BQ
Tel: 01558 685555. E-mail: goat@homested.fsbusiness.co.uk for farmhouse goat cheeses, kid meat, baked goat cheese products.

Following the Atkins path

I haven't eaten any bread since the middle of June 2004. Five months without bread, pasta, potatoes, rice and pastry. To steal the over-used Victor Meldrew phrase, I can't believe it. To anyone who loves their food as much as I do, that seems an impossibility and one I just didn't try and conjure with before deciding that my weight was out of control and it was time I took myself in hand(fuls). I realise that I have only written one blog since I started, on any subject, and it is probably because any spare time for thought has been spent thinking about producing grub that will satisfy but not expand the waistline any further.
It was the BBC's Diet Trials that started me thinking. I watched aghast as people tried to live with Slimfast, wondering how on earth it was possible to manage a life on non-foodstuffs. I shrugged at Weightwatchers - been there, not done that, and Rosemary Conley was too uninspiring for words. And then there was the much maligned Atkins Diet that intrigued me. We produce a lot of meat and grow a big plot of vegetables. So I got the book and read it. And then I adapted it for me. The main focus is on non-processed foods which in my book of trying so hard to be organic, fitted the bill. Then I was encouraged to eat a good quantity of protein - although the pound of cheese a day (topped by streaky bacon and a ladle of lard if you read the dafter press coverage) is never advocated - how did that myth come into being? For a couple of weeks only I restricted my fruit intake, and permanently (til now anyway) laid off the major carbohydrates. Breakfast was the hardest thing to adapt. I don't want an egg every day - although a mushroom omelette or scrambled eggs with smoked salmon is great a couple of times a week, I can't stomach that daily. So I decided to forget it was breakfast time and ate whatever was healthy and fresh. I might have a bowl of raspberries and blueberries. A mango or half a fresh pineapple. A (big) salad of cos lettuce, real mayo and shavings of parmesan - a kind of Caesar Salad without the croutons.
We bake all our own bread and the hardest thing is smelling the bread as it comes out of the oven. But now I don't eat it, the six loaves last at least twice as long, so the temptation is only there once a month and I have managed to live through that. Pasta, that previous lunchtime staple, has gone the way of bread. I find it easier to stop something completely than create havoc by trying just a little bit. And five months on I am two stone lighter and have about 8 pounds more to lose before attaining my self-imposed first phase goal. When I get there I'll decide if I can take it any further. If my BMI (or you may prefer this one) is anything to go by, for my 5'6" I should be anything from 8st 3 to 11st, a whole 2 st 11lbs variation of possibilities. I would love to be able to create a 'what if?' graphic image of me at either end of that range!
I have read a range of books that have an alliance, however tenuous, to Atkins to see what other tips I might pick up. South Beach was interesting, but I had already found my own way by then, and that's the only trick - finding what works for yourself. Montignac was unreadable and confused, whilst Ruth Watson's Fat Girl Slim was full of useful advice that I continue to refer to, but many recipes added sugar and garlic, both things I try to avoid. Gillian McKeith's programme You are what you eat was unmissable but I haven't taken myself off for any colonic irrigation as yet, although I know friends who love it! (I was mesmerised by this article when it came out in the Guardian in 2002 - one of those pieces you cannot forget and definitely in the category of more information than you really need to know).

I am writing the list below as a reminder that this is the time when it is horribly easy to fall off the wagon. Having gone down at least two dress sizes and feeling closer to "normal", I am in danger of becoming too relaxed. Perhaps if I write this out I will be saved from the ignominy of reverting to my bad ways and pinching not inches but yards. And just as importantly, I want to record my top tips for myself so I don't forget them and can re-use them because if one thing in life is certain, I will have to!

1. get carbs from vegetables - unlike Atkins, I don't restrict how many tomatoes or carrots I can eat - just cook them healthily and pile up the plate. I also eat parsnips - an Atkins no-no. The only vegetables I avoid are spuds and sweetcorn. Grow swiss chard - you can use it as a pasta substitute - just pile the sauce etc on top of the steamed stalks.
2. When desperate for a plate of mashed spud, find a celeriac or two, and treat it as a King Edwards - it's delicious and my only problem is that being November I have now eaten all the ones I grew! Swede comes in an ok second best.
3. Keep the fridge, the freezer and the larder chock full of good things to eat.
4. Try to keep some parmesan or Gorgonzola to crumble/grate into a salad or to just have a chunk on its own - the powerful flavour is incredibly satifying.
5. Berries and cherries are great for when a sugar buzz is required, although they need to be eaten within a couple of days or the fur grows.
6. Roast a chicken frequently - you can always tear off a piece and munch if a slab of toast covered in butter tempts.
7. Have a great piece of steak, add mushrooms and a salad and pretend chips don't exist. Get the butcher to cut two thin slices of sirloin, so it takes longer to eat than a thicker slab, and some hefty horseradish is a must to accompany it.
8. Buy whatever I fancy that is on my ok list - loads of tiger prawns, smoked salmon, scallops, fresh fish etc etc. It feels like a constant treat, it tastes yummy and it's just tough if the food bill has gone up.
9. Eat nuts - not in huge quantities, but in the evening when the after supper munchies attack, have a small handful and feel indulgent
10. I often need to eat something at 5 o'clock - and if I don't that is when I am most likely to eat something I will regret. So either have a snack or just eat dinner ridiculously early
11. Organic dark chocolate is a three times a week treat (at least) a couple of (big) squares does the trick
12. If cooking for others it is very easy to eat a dish using plenty of vegetables and meat and omitting the noodles, rice, spuds etc whilst you serve that element separately for everyone else. Roast dinners are fine - just leave out the roast/baked spuds and cut off the excess fat from the joint once it has cooked.
13. Eat big meals. Make a big bowl of salad with dressing - not low fat synthetic rubbish but with olive oil or real mayo and slowly eat the lot out of an attractive bowl. Don't go hungry - ever.
14. Take stuff in the car for long journeys as the petrol station choice is rubbish! Keep a net of baby-bels in the car, plus small bottles of water and put together a bag of fruit and perhaps some cooked chicken before setting out. Keep a fork in the car and make a dressed salad in a tupperware. Chop up a whole pineapple, stick it in a pot with a lid and get the steering wheel sticky if you can't find the fork.
15. My complete no-no list: bread in any form, including breadcrumbs; spuds; rice; pasta; pastry; sugar; most processed foods; milk; breakfast cereals; any chocolate or sweets apart from organic dark stuff (Green and Blacks is great); eating the same thing day after day
16. Keeping fingers crossed

Sod choice

When I go to my local pub for supper I want to be sure that there is a wide enough menu to ensure I don't have to stick to steak every time. When I go looking for a new skirt I seriously hope that knee length navy blue A-line is not the only option available unless I am in a reminiscent of school days mood. When nosing in the fishmongers, scallops might be great for Saturday, but I might prefer tuna on Tuesday. Yes, choice can be great. But if I want to buy water, gas or electricity, want to post a letter or parcel, need directory enquiries, will fall over unless my broken leg is fixed or need to be sure that my neighbours children will be well educated, I don't want choice. I want a single sure-fire service of absolute excellence available to me and everyone else. I don't want to compare prices or quality of service from a choice of bum deals; I want one simple customer-focused delivery that will fix my leg to perfection whether I live in the North or the South without me having to dither about which hospital will do a better job. I want clean water, guaranteed not to be cut off if I find myself in penury. I want a bus service that can't be cut because it is a lifeline to just 20 people. I want the best school on my doorstep, because they all have to be best. I don't want choice, I want excellence, and I fear that "choice" will become the wicked issue of the early 21st century. You know that something is seriously wrong when all the opposition party can say in response to the government's new plans for schools is "you stole our idea" like some playground spat, because everyone wants "choice" to be their slogan of the year. Choice when attributed to public service suggests duplication, profiteering, expensive marketing campaigns and cutting of front-line services. I don't want to spend my life chasing the best rate for electricity or filling my bin with insistent exclamations that someone, somewhere can do something better/cheaper/with a wee free gifty if only I would just sign on the dotted line. You can just see it - "we use softer plaster in a wild range of colours to fix your leg more pleasantly, our nurses are easier on the eye, our doctors have a fab bedside manner and you only have to travel 500 miles to get it".

Has time stood still in the West End?

Sunday 9th May 2004, The Observer, headline "West End seeks the sound of black music". A piece from the 1950s? The 1980s perhaps? Or, embarrassingly, if the West End is really that far behind regional theatre across the country the early 1990s? No, it was in last Sunday's paper, and here we are in 2004. As the author of the report Vanessa Thorpe puts it "Black artists are at the cutting edge of the music industry in Britain, but the West End has yet to play host to a show which celebrates their music" and she quotes Brigid Larmour of ACT Productions "It is quite shocking that this hasn't happened yet. It would be very sad if racism is playing any part in that".
Considering the major work with Black artists in London at the Hackney Empire (calling itself Britain's leading black theatre) and the Theatre Royal Stratford East (whose musical theatre initiative to develop new contemporary musicals that represent the eclecticism of multicultural London is now in its third year), the Arts Council's BRIT (Black Regional Initiative in Theatre), Eclipse and decibel initiatives, the work of prominent regional theatres such as Nottingham Playhouse ("we make bold and thrilling theatre. It is world-class, made in Nottingham and as diverse as our community") and ... well just try googling "black theatre uk" and you'll get over 800,000 choices to pursue, how could we have reached 2004 and still be headlining what I would now expect to be mainstream, beyond specific comment other than in reviews and well, just part of the cultural happenings of everyday folk?
If we look at the scene a year from now will it be fundamentally different? When our communities in London and elsewhere are increasingly diverse, when Birmingham will be the first majority black city in the near future, can we still be wondering if black artists will be adequately represented and their work promoted as anything other than a one-off, a fashion statement, a special season or access initiative?
Theatre Royal Stratford East's mission statement says that it will "lead in the development of shows which reflect both specific ethnic identity and multiculturalism", so dealing in its own way (if unintentionally) with the comments that received so much attention made recently by Commission for Racial Equality head Trevor Phillips. In answering his call for integration and an end to multiculturalism, black artists responded in every way imaginable - it seems that after all there is no one way to define our identities or the process for getting to be part of a world we admire rather than fear or despise. Perhaps we should wait for the day that the Royal can draw a line through its bold clear mission because it no longer needs to draw specific attention to something that has become so basic, fundamental, part of the furniture, and where an artist doesn't have to be defined by their colour because their work gets the profile it deserves. Then we will finally have a theatre sector to be proud of, and where racism plays no part.

Pen to pantry

Some months ago a friend 's purchase of some fancy young poultry had proved unlucky - most of the birds turned out to be cockerels and fought each other and then attacked the hands that fed them so sealing their fate. Knowing that we would be putting them in the pot, the glossy picturesque trio were handed over. One was made into fabulous Jewish penicillin - chicken soup - with strips of the boiling fowl, slices of the stuffed neck (using a dumpling suet mixture) and baby carrots cooked in the soup served as the main course. The second paid homage to the first, being prepared the same way and the third was eaten last night. Stuffed with chestnut, chive and celery stuffing, put in an open cast iron casserole with half a pint of giblet stock and a glass of white wine, covered with strips of our own streaky bacon it pot roasted its way to deliciousness. We served it to friends on Easter Sunday with parsnip and carrot mash, red cabbage, and rosemary roast potatoes. Mmmm mmm mmm. The carrot, parsnip, cockerel thing being so fab, I used the carcase to make chicken stock and threw in more of the same root veggies (I had dug up all our remaining parsnips that afternoon and instead of finding the half dozen or so I expected, two dozen big uns emerged and needed using), some cumin, coriander and celery salt. That'll provide us with soup for at least three days.
Now the vegetable garden has been cleared, mucked and rotovated, we have planted potatoes - organic Charlottes for earlies and Valour for main - carrots, chard and parsnips, and the stuff in the greenhouse is desperate to go out as soon as frost dangers seem to have passed. This is the first time I have lifted old parsnips and planted new over the same weekend, but in the spirit of rotation, they have a new position in the plot, where the muck is lightest. As always, I've had to put electric rabbit fencing round the plot to stop both rabbits and our own geese and ducks from chomping on the emerging shoots. As soon as the broad beans and brassicas go in they will need netting too to save them from pigeon deforestation. I swear that the birds sit on the telegraph lines just waiting for me to plant out the tender young things, so the netting has to be done immediately the plants are put in the ground.

It's lambing time - 2004

The most demanding time on the smallholding is greeted with excitement and trepidation in equal measure. We put the ram in with the ewes at the beginning of November so that we lamb nice and late in the Spring at the beginning of April, so avoiding freezing February nights in the lambing shed. The ewes get wider and wider during March til some of them look like dining tables on spindly legs. You know the moment you have been waiting for is imminent when their nipples are the size of organ stops and lying down uncomfortably is their only activity between eagerly consumed feeds. Once you have your first few lambs, you spend your time peering nervously at the remaining expectant mothers, knowing that they are going to get started the moment you are needed elsewhere, and will probably need your unavailable help. This year we have had an unusual amount of singles and that makes for bigger lambs which in turn means the ewe is more likely to need a human latex-covered hand. The best moments are at 5.30 in the morning doing the first round of the day, and a pair of beautifully presented lambs are suckling eagerly at their attentive mother having needed no help from you at all. A quick dose of iodine on their navels to prevent infection, a bucket of congratulatory feed and one of water for the ewe (they drain that first post-birth bucket like a fugitive from the desert) and they are back outside. Each year we wonder at their behaviour, but why is it that the mums-to-be all cluster together and that the new mums set up creche in a separate cluster, welcoming each new mum as the ewes moves inexorably from one status to the other? After about a week, the lambs start to play together and leave the ewes for longer periods to congregate like kids in the school yard, playing chase at ever increasing speeds along the fenceline, proving that lambs do indeed have legs made of springs, by displays of vertical take-off. All this is very cliched and will be familiar to anyone with sheep, but each year it is a fresh miracle, and the sight of lambs continues to stop cars along the lane and gives folks time to grin on the way to and from work.

A world of grey

The column inches will turn into column miles - that's the one thing we can be sure of. What is disturbing me into "having a blog" is that the world of grey in which I live seems to have been aristocratically Huttonized into a universe of black and white. The government is all shiny, new and wondrous. The BBC is murky, guilty and heads will roll. Whether wittingly or not Lord Hutton seems to have undermined his inquiry by having taken such a strangely monochrome approach to what must be an incredibly complicated and difficult series of events. If the BBC made mistakes, and I bet they have, what possible benefit can be had from sacrificing Greg Dyke? Surely a leader needs to lead in good times and bad, take it on the chin, deal with it and when appropriate refute allegations where they are unfounded or unfair. That the BBC Governors found it necessary for Dyke to fall on his sword says more about their cowardice and inability to be independent than it does about any culpability. If apologies need to be made, then make them and move on. Anyone who saw Tony Blair on the news last night (January 2004) glinting from underneath his newly polished halo could have been forgiven for retching over their TV dinners.

A luxurious place for luxurious people

One way or another the planned summer holiday never happened, so Mopsa and I were treated to a posh country break near Ashburton in Dartmoor in December. Prepared to confront bad weather head on, we chose somewhere that could provide cosy log fires, a supreme location, fabulous food and on the doorstep woodland walks for the mega-pooch.
Doing the old Internet hunt (googling: posh country hotel dogs) we found Holne Chase. As we drove down the rutted drive six weeks later through undeniably ancient woodland to a smart but not too grand hotel facade, we did the metaphorical rubbing of hands at having made a sound choice, previously sight unseen. Things got even better as a very friendly Dutch member of staff walked us down to the stable suite where we were staying. Stable doors opened onto a simple but smart sitting room with what at first appeared to be a cast iron log stove (turned out to be gas-fired) in full flame. Squashy Knole sofa, rugs, even squashier dog bed and TV (never turned that on) made up the downstairs, and a good sized bedroom with seven foot double bed and decent sized bathroom completed the upstairs accommodation. We snaffled the biscuits, bathed and changed for dinner and headed up to the hotel restaurant for the first of several delicious meals. If you like game, seafood, and most meat-eaters fare, then you'd be happy at Holne Chase. The food is excellently prepared, unpretentious and substantial with great local cheeses, big wine list and good, friendly service. The geese, ducks and hens that roamed across the huge lawns made it feel very much like home and the walk to the river was beautiful.
But then we noticed a few niggles, which to our mind deleted the hotel's own determinedly held definition of luxury. First the wardrobe: it was a cupboard with hangers which contained a rickety melamine chest of drawers. Only trouble was you couldn't see what you had put in the drawers as the cupboard had no light, and there was a real sensation of not really providing space for personal possessions and clothes for more than a single night. Bedside tables had no drawers either - just the ubiquitous chipboard with mini tablecloth and glass top to give the impression but without the substance. The bath was shallow and there were inadequate shelves for putting your own things down in the space - but a nice fluffy towelling dressing gown was provided (but only for one and there were two of us). No extra pillows were in the room and I like to sleep on a good mound of them. Being specially offered as a hotel to take dogs, walking boots, fishing rods and other accoutrements of the country life, there was no hard floor area for these, and worse, no sink for washing the dog bowl, filling the kettle and doing stuff you wouldn't want to do in the upstairs bathroom. The cold water was consistently warm - absolutely yuck for brushing your teeth but the worst of the domestics was the rationing of the bogroll. Even the lady on reception had the grace to say that at a luxury hotel, you should expect to use two sheets per go! We did have a fabulous break, but we were constantly aware that some of the small things that make all the difference to your longed-for holiday were not quite right. We didn't complain about any of these things as we were there to relax and rest, and I knew I could get it off my chest with a backward looking blog. There were previously unannounced supplements for some dishes (an additional £5 for beef on a menu that was already £35 per head for three courses). However, our special request for lobster on day 3 of our stay was dealt with swiftly and we had no qualms paying for a supplement for this which we knew we would incur in advance. The owner of the hotel was much in evidence - a countryside alliance type of chap, who joshed his guests loudly and with vigour (causing occasional offence, but apparently harmless). It was only as we had paid and we were leaving that he let rip some appallingly homophobic comment, believing that I would, of course, agree with him! I would suggest that the place needs a few "home improvements" but that the most successful one would be for the owner to spend his time playing pooh sticks on the various bridges on the Dart and leave the running of his fantastically located joint to his excellent staff and their lovely dogs.

To Trust or not to Trust

My time on the board of Arts and Media Training will finally be up after an extended and very rewarding 11 years. Having had a great deal of fun (yup, that's the word I'd choose) recruiting some extraordinarily talented new board members to join the still fresh and fabulous existing Directors, my time as Chair comes to an end in April 2004. So what next? Conscious that I could use the time for more reading, walking, dog patting or cultural enlightenment I am seriously looking instead at an alternative non-executive role. It kind of gets in the blood. But who with? Arts and Business have a Board Bank service to broker the right skills with the right organisation, so that's one route, but what about extending slowly, carefully and with trepidation into a new field? What about inveigling ones way into the huge beasty that is the National Trust? These days (and this is a very new development) places on the regional committees are advertised to all National Trust members, and you fill out an application which is very reminiscent of any job application you will have ever completed. And rather than referees you need three nominees, all of whom must also be members. In the West Midlands they are looking for 3 or 4 new committee members, and are interviewing 12 self-selecting bods, including myself.
Its the outdoorsy bits that get me; walking coastal paths, woodlands and beaches in the care of the NT is always a seriously appreciated pleasure, and Mopsa is always welcomed and able to get through the sensibly designed stiles and gates. The scourge of creeping commercialism is kept away from sites of natural beauty which are kept raw and accessible, balancing protection with access. Their own souvenir shops are only a minor irritant with their homogeneity firmly rooted in uppermiddleclass stereotype (yes, I think it deserves a singular description), and even so I do love the chocolate ice cream served in Heddon Valley, Devon. The gardens, the deerparks, the rarebreeds and all that countryside stuff has me all stirred up with positives, but I can't say the same for the properties, or at least how they are displayed and offered up. The Guardian ran a strong piece on how the art was displayed by the NT, and my recent visit to Attingham Park would support this blast of criticism; the rooms are so dark that you can barely see the outline of what might be a tantalising piece of beauty or a slab of dross. The many guides are charming, knowledgeable, articulate and too everpresent, and I cannot like the roped off approach that in one fell swoop diminishes the size and feel of the rooms and stops you with equally everpresent labels from touching anything, even solid marble-topped tables that could surely take the strain. However, I think we are supremely lucky in having the NT, and I am very curious to know what it would be like from the inside looking out.

Mopsas first sculpture trail

It's been months since my last blog and I can only blame a surfeit of work for that, but it hasn't just been all work and no play. To my delight, public art seems to be playing an ever increasing role in my professional life. Our recent visit to the Tyrebagger Sculpture Trail for a new client meant four hours of strolling through the Aberdeenshire heather and under the forest canopy in deliciously warm late summer to view the whole trail of twenty sculptures including the then about to be launched and fabulous new piece (Tyrebagger Circle) by Gavin Scobie. You enter a gap in the forest to see what might be an ancient wooden temple in a surprisingly gleaming new state, but with no apparent means of entry. As you circle around it, a narrowish slit enables you to squeeze into the high-sided cylinder to reveal a roofless room that has all the peace and calmness of a space intended for nothing less than contemplation. There are three magnificently raw, simple and substantial seat blocks which allow you to sit and look up into the forest, or down to the flickering shadows of leaves and branches. You are completely enclosed and simultaneously part of the whole forest. A magnificent experience.

Back at home, jealous of the Aberdonian dogwalkers daily arts-rich walking possibilities, I took Mopsa to Witley Court to see the Jerwood Sculpture Park - now moved to Ragley (unfortunately neither website does justice to the sculptures). A very different experience this time with just ten sculptures in a small woodland area - you can see the next piece pretty much as soon as you leave the previous one, unlike the journey of discovery approach at Tyrebagger. They have some of the biggest names on show: Lynn Chadwick, Anthony Gormley, Elizabeth Frink, and all the pieces are based on the human figure, so although some of the individual pieces were wonderful the overly thematic approach made the total experience rather boring - not enough of the unexpected or anticipation of discovery. I had to ask the staff in the visitor centre, who by the way loved Mopsa, for info on the sculptures. They gave me a leaflet that they kept behind the counter, with a scrappy photocopied A4 map of where the sculptures and other features of the site were located which they gave out only on request. You enter and exit the site through the visitor centre and on my way out I asked for a second leaflet on the sculptures to send to a colleague and the staff explained that they don't put them out on display as people just put them in the bin, but that as I was interested, yes of course I could have another copy. So unless you are committed to finding out about the sculptures or know they are there, there is no casual way of picking up the info, although you cannot miss the sculptures themselves as you walk to Witley Court. We sat outside - coats firmly zipped right up - and had a delicious cheese on toast at the tea room - before going back to the Court to watch the fountains whoosh spectacularly into action.

The glass that burns

Yeah, yeah, we all sat in the school playground with a magnifying glass or mirror and set fire to a heap of dry grass and mars bar wrappers, but that basic science lesson has never been one I thought would be of any interest in later life. Along with melting railway points and creating fury on the railways, the current summer heatwave has taken advantage of my mirror. Today, after a pleasant lunch out with a mate, I get back to discard the posher clothes for the necessary shorts combo, to find ash, scorchmarks and thankfully no more than that on the oak table top by an almost-south-facing window. I'm lucky the house didn't burn down. Just a few inches from the window is a strong magnifying mirror (yes, I don't wear make-up, but I like to see how gaping my pores are getting as the years roll on). I can see it now - laser-like sun driven power just about gets a hold when the rain clouds move in the way and prevent havoc and heartache and insurance claim. And Mopsa had been in the house the whole time. Doesn't bear thinking about.
Mopsa is off to the vet tomorrow morning for her annual jab. She loves it there and gets ridiculous amounts of fuss from the veterinary nurses and receptionists. I have booked an early slot as she is finding the heat too much for her thick coat and Bernese snow-loving temperament, and I have to take her in the car. She's also none too keen on thunder storms, so this isn't her favourite time of year. Big wuss!

Fancy a job, two days a week - unpaid?

Let's leave whimsy to look after itself for a bit and get furious instead. Yesterday's post (July 2003) brought me a letter and advert telling me that the Department of Culture Media and Sport (DCMS) have recently advertised the vacancy of Chair of the Arts Council England (ACE) now that multi-millionaire and John-Harvey-Jones-for-the-new -millennium Gerry Robinson is moving on. The letter asked me if I would circulate the advert amongst my networks. Unfortunately, I do not number multi-millionaires such as Gerry, or Lords Palumbo or Gowrie (ex ACE chairs) among my aquaintance who can delight in the rigours of ACE for no payment for two fifths of their working week. If I remember rightly, Gowrie didn't initially accept the role in the 1990s because of the lack of pay, and it would seem that nothing has changed. Are we really, so deep in new Labour times, still under the misapprehension that you need to be rich or richly retired in order to take on what is a pretty major public role? The Chair of the Arts Council of Wales is paid, and rightly so. I have several people in my "network" (ghastly phrase) who would be exceptional candidates for the role. I do not know the intimate details of their bank balances, but am horrified that DCMS expect that a glinting heap of gold is a necessary pre-requisite to becoming or even considering the ACE Chair. It's about time the Government and ACE stopped talking about Arts for All and started delivering arts for all by paying for the skill and dedication they require to advocate and develop policy at the very top. Apparently, arts policy making is only for the incredibly wealthy. Shame on you!

Pure whimsy

Without realising it, I have been producing what can only be described as a whimsical blog site. It must be in response to past seriousnesses, an unconscious side-step away from the working day and the depressing nature of the news. So, in the spirit of what has gone before, a couple more animal-focussed tales to share.
Last week I found an inch in width and 30 inch in length discarded snake skin on top of the compost heap; I know because I measured it. Reaching for the Readers Digest Animals of Britain book from off the shelf, I am reassured that it is from a grass snake who will travel a mile or more to find a comfy compost heap in which to lay up to 40 eggs. A few days later a youngster (this time pencil slim and a mere 14 inches long) whirred its forked tongue at me and then slid off into the undergrowth. I want to know where the other 39 have gone, and now find myself gardening in gloves at a more than usually heightened state of awareness in case my curiosity is answered.
Last night a day-old bird sat in the middle of the road asking to be crushed or cared for. It's now under an infra-red lamp where the cats can't reach it. Wondering if it was an escapee from the local free range poultry farm, we retraced our steps to see if we could find it a friend. Mopsa's nose and my ears found a second huddled beasty in the long grasses of the verge and there are now what I think are two turkey poults considering whether they have a strong enough survival instinct to make it into a second or third day.

Focussing on the text

Back to the Belgrade Theatre for the opening show in their short but sweet new writing season. Conor McPherson's This Lime Tree Bower is the first offering of the season, a gently brutal piece that is a triple tours des forces by the three actors (Peter Quinn, Dermot Kerrigan and Nick Danan). The theatre space has been transformed from the traditional proscenium stage and stalls to a studio theatre by extending the stage apron-style half way across the auditorium, with additional seating arranged on either side of the stage itself. With minimal staging, and all but no physical or verbal interaction between the actors, there was nowhere for the performers or the text to hide. Separately, they wound us into the substance of their individual and collective lives: the adolescent worship for an undeserving but attractive new school mate; the world weary self-loathing of a lecturer of philosophy; the desperation created by the love and loyalty of a son for his desperate father. As each new character is revealed it becomes clear that the three are closely connected - fifteen year old Joe is brother to twenty year old Frank, and lecturer Ray goes out with their sister Carmel. For Joe and Ray, their thoughts about women are their most defining feature. Joe's sexual yearnings move from the safe abstract to the combined pain and pleasure from catching his schoolmate rape a drunk girl met at the local nightclub; that neither he nor the audience are clear that it is rape until much later adds to Joe's confusion. The memories of his dead mother drift in and out of his consciousness; his admirable sister makes minimal impression. As for Ray, if his cynical mysogynism had been revealed in dialogue, I suspect he would have become a hateful caricature. As it is, the monologue reveals instead a painful self-awareness and disgust, for all his surface cockiness.
Frank has no time for women; either frightened off by a female brush of the hand as a boy, or too encumbered by his fixation on the man who he perceives to have undone his father, the most apparently sensible of the three pursues the most reckless course with the result that he finds that money can indeed bring happiness, or at least freedom from desperation and subservience.
McPherson has built a platform that demands actors of significant substance - this production delivers the full package.

A Mr McGregor moment

"Once upon a time there were four little Rabbits, and their names were Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail and Peter..... 'Now my dears' said Mrs Rabbit, 'you may go into the fields or down the lane, but don't go into Mr McGregor's garden: your Father had an accident there; he was put in a pie by Mrs McGregor'". So you 're out there early morning in your nightie and wellies to feed the menagerie, and notice a frantic wriggling in the netting covering the cauliflowers in the vegetable patch. You immediately think "RAT!!!" and feel the involuntary shivers leap up your spine to the top of your head when you realise that there is no tail to speak of and that you have Peter Rabbit entrapped. A very junior Peter Rabbit, all of eight inches long and completely entangled. Do you bop him on the head and make him into a sausage roll - not even enough meat there for a pastie - or do you say, ahh, poor little mite eating my vegetables, cut him carefully from his bindings and let him free? It was fish for supper.

Fox poo

Dog walking, meandering, rambling, striding, mooching - whatever you call it and whatever the pace to suit the mood, a daily activity in my life. Her name (obviously) is Mopsa. A big and most beautiful representation of six stones (I can only work weights in imperial), with every ounce making its presence felt. Today was a fox poo day. You are in your own sweet world, admiring the foxgloves, watching the squirrels do their tarzan impressions, catching your arms on a nettle, tussling with a five bar gate, when your canine chum announces her pungent presence with more than mere traces of fox shit adhering to her ears. Why do they do this? The rest of the walk has you shooing her away to keep the air around you breathable, and the first thing once home is retrieving the Marigolds and giving her the hosepipe or bucket treatment, which she detests. She then does the doggy shake thing, which has you leaping out of range before any trace lands on your own clothes. Vile, vile, vile.

Foods to relish and regret

Why has it taken a (smallish) handful of decades to understand my stomach's true happiness? I'm not talking guilt here - the chocolate cake that tastes amazing but has equivalent energy for a full day's intake, if delicious in every way and has you curled up with a contented smirk is fine by me and my insides. But what about those instantly lipsmackingly gratifying things that mean regret in two hours time or are still lingeringly present the next morning in the form of lethargy, less than happy breath and the sense that today, you will be leading not with your head but with your stomach? Consciously knowing that your stomach is there (no matter how sizeable it may be) is a bit like sensing your feet all day - you only do that when they hurt. So what is in my relish column and what should be relegated to the regret side of the balance sheet?

Relish - lovely stuff

• raspberries, lychees, mangos, bananas, lemons, limes, pears...... apple crumble, fruit tarts. Plus dollops of extra thick cream
• fine plain chocolate
• home-baked bread, croissants, real bagels
• unsalted butter
• lobster, langoustine, scallops, mega prawns, salmon (smoked, raw, grilled), tuna, squid, octopus, haddock (why is it so difficult to get this stuff where I live?)
• Free range poultry
• lettuces: butterhead, lambs tongue, salad bowl, romaine, webbs chinese leaves, iceberg
• brussels sprouts - I can't be alone in this! Cauliflower, broccoli, asparagus,french beans, peas, mange touts, swiss chard, red cabbage. And roasted: parsnips, red peppers, beetroot, carrots
• baked beans
• duck eggs
• lamb, pork, beef, - home reared or know the owner!
• anything you could proudly call cheese from the cow, goat, ewe or buffalo
• pasta - fresh, dried or spaghetti hoops
• apricot jam
• cashews, almonds, pine nuts, walnuts, pistachios

Regret (some I hate, some I just regret)

• grapefruit, oranges, sharon fruit. Eccles cakes, mince pies and garibaldi biscuits. Single cream - what's the point?
• Cadbury's Bourneville
• do you remember Dinkum white sliced? Was it just a childhood nightmare? Was it really called Dinkum? And where have all the great bagels gone?
• that Anchor stuff
• fish and chips - in fact, most (all?) takeaways, kippers, herrings, roll mops
• the other stuff (battery hens....)
• spinach, curly kale, winter greens, green peppers, excess onions (wonderful french onion soup is now in the regret list), garlic
• bakewell tart
• goose eggs
• too much lamb, pork or beef, whatever the source
• fruit sauce topped cheese-cake
• Heinz macaroni cheese
• marmalade, mincemeat
• dry roasted anything

The teeming aviary that is Talking Birds

One of the most extraordinary and invigorating multi-media performance companies to be found anywhere, the three artists who make up Talking Birds (Nick Walker, Derek Nisbet and Janet Vaughan) (see also Nick) never fail to surprise or create an itch to be scratched. Try calling their Telephone Exchange +44 (0)845 2255918 and get a different one-minute story for each day of the week; log onto Web Demographic to re-determine the definition of mundane; fall from a great height into the novel Blackbox; jiggle about impatiently in the hope that they come to a venue somewhere near you sometime soon. Next public piece from a Tbird will be the Coventry Mystery Plays (5-23 August 2003), held in the every-time-you-see-it-jaw-droppingly-awe-inspiring Coventry Cathedral ruins for which Derek composed the music.

Two black piggies

It was seriously hot here on Friday, so we took a break from work to clear heads and loosen muscles. Now that I am all grown-up and don't need to ask teacher, we were working in the garden. As we had managed to down six litres of water between four of us in two hours, I took the opportunity to check that the menagerie inmates were finding adequate shade and water. First prize went to the pigs, who at twelve weeks old had just about managed to climb into their water trough, squished together side by side, snouts and ears emerging like a pair of mini-hippos. By the time they reach maturity they will be lucky if both their heads fit in at the same time. Exponential growth seems to be the piggy order of things, even though they have permanent run of a large grassed area which they use as a formula one race track, and are not fed over generously. I should point out that we will in due course be doing the Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall thing and hugely enjoying the produce.........

Bras

Don't you just love 'em? I realised it wasn't just a personal deliciousness recently, when in the middle of her office a friend whipped up her top to show me the well-fitting bright fuschia bra she had just bought. I don't know if the sparkle of her smiley face was brighter than the colour of her new undergarments, but it was a close run thing. Years ago, when we visited Brazil together (working trip, honest, and it really was Brazil) the same friend was so intrigued by my collection of all black bras that she tried them on even though you could fit several of hers into.............you get the drift. On our return, finding an example of a black one in her company's lost property basket (well, it is a theatre company), she parcelled it up and sent it to me anonymously. It caused what I can only call a ruckus in the post-room.

Larkin with Women

Went to The Belgrade Theatre to see Larkin with Women by Ben Brown. Came away feeling it had been a worthwhile evening and that doesn't happen enough, for sure, and at home looked again (briefly) at Larkin's poems, which led on to Marvell and then Donne..........

The difficulties with "biopic" plays is that the actor may not be portraying the person as we had envisaged them. Sometimes the essence of the individual is overridden by the supposed need for facial and physical verisimilitude. I always, perhaps mistakenly, thought of Larkin as someone far more prickly and difficult, not just in his insistence on how he wanted to live his life - that was more than well displayed through the writing - but as an enduring part of his personality (altho that would apparently contradict with his attractiveness to women, but we are meant to be a contradictory species; that's all humans, not just women). I felt that John Arthur who played Larkin was not quite there, and in particular didn't click with his readings of the poems. Perhaps the diffidence in the readings was reflective of the man - but I'm not entirely convinced.
There were some lovely bitchy comments on Ted Hughes and the nature of poet laureateship. I see in my mind's eye a shortened version, but a two-parter, counterbalanced by seeing Larkin through Ted Hughes' eyes, both poets enlivened by their clutch of intriguing women. Did the men ever meet I wonder? The bitchiness would suggest so.

Geese

Our gander has lost the lead in his pencil. After two or three years of more (and often less) successful reproduction, all the eggs the goose is laying remain unfertile, and friends are peeved at the absence of their Christmas goose. The pair must be seven years old by now, but as they live for about thirty years, I don't see any reason for this sad state of affairs. After a fox scared the goose off her nest last year and she refused to sit as a potential self sacrifice on the offchance of hatching the eggs herself, investment was made into an incubator but still no joy. She keeps squirting out those eggs every other day in an ever hopeful fashion and I hate to disabuse her. The hunt is now on for some fertile eggs, but my small ads research is failing to bear fruit.