Afternoon Tea

 Dear Reader,

 I did say a few months ago that I would not write my blog again .  But friends I was very ill and couldn't quite make the effort to type.  But happily I am now better so will continue as before, but perhaps not every Sunday just when I feel sprightly enough.

                                                                               * 

                                                                              

Scones originated in Scotland in the early 16th century as large oat-based griddle cakes.  They are not quite cake, but not a biscuit or pastry either, scones have a unique texture of their own.

They are traditonally made with flour, butter, sugar and milk, but it is the quality of the accompaniments, in particular, cream, that elevates them on afternoon tea menus.

Around 1840, scones became an essential part of the fashionable ritual of afternoon tea in England.  This was popularized by Ann, Duchess of Bedford, who was a close friend of Queen Victoria.  Afternoon Tea is still an English tradition and enjoyed by many who visit hotels or cafes where it can be obtained. Or you can just have it at home! 

 

                                                                     * 

 From Francis Kilvert, September 5th 1871 in Radnorshire

'The day was lovely and i went over to Newchurch..... A solitary fern cutter was at work on the Vicar's Hill mowing the fern with a sharp harsh ripping sound.  In the first Newchurch field the turkeys, black and grey and fawn-coloured, were mourning in the stubbles, and a black pony was grazing pensively over the hedge.'

From Gilbert White   September 4th 1774 in Hampshire

'Wood-owls hoot much.' 

                                                                           *

Afternoon Tea

 If the woman had had

choice of mother,

she would have chosen

one who liked afternoon tea,

with scones, strawberry jam,

sweet biscuits, and hot Darjeeling.

 

But the mother of the woman

did not like afternoon tea.

She liked cocktails, excitement,

after dark and its secrets,

stirring things up, mischief,

and life’s excesses.

 

As the woman knew

that choice of  mother

was not negotiable,

she chose her friends

with four o’clock in mind.

 

                                                                           *

With very best wishes,

Patricia 

 

 

autumn leaves

 Dear Reader,

 

I was thinking about autumn coming and this photograph shows off the colours of this season so well.

 

I hope you are all well and having a interesting and successful life.

 

With best wishes, Patricia  

Silent, Their Men walk by

 

Dear Friend,

I know you have read my blogs over the last few months in which I told you I was feeling ill. So today I have decided  to send you a rant I wrote about why this was so.  I am sending it to the OLDIE magazine and hope they might publish it under RANTS.  Its worth a try.

High Blood pressure.

 

I am 86 and was perfectly happy until April this year.   Then it was discovered that I had high blood pressure.  And the fun began. I needed to get a reading of, sometimes, 240/89, down to 130 /75 approximately every day.  If I couldn’t achieve this figure I would probably have a heart attack. So it was medications for me.  All in all over the four months of horror I tried four different pills and had various distressing and depressing results.  These pills made me very ill, and very tired.  

 

Here is a list of the side effects which made my life a misery:

Burning sensation in the hands, palpitations, chronic constipation, disturbing thoughts, tingling everywhere, tiredness, inability to sleep,

swelling of the ankles and legs, hearing ear syndrome, which meant I heard music in my ears all day, headaches and almost anything else you can think of. The absolute worst one was Ramipril.   This one gave me a hacking cough, as well as everything else, especially at night.  With only one and a half lungs in my chest, this was not good. 

 

But the joy was, of course, that in spite of these horrific side effects, taking the pills meant that I might not get  heart attack for years, so the doctor kindly told me.  So here is the dilemma:

 

Either you take the beastly pills and feel languid and lifeless all the time , without let up, but maybe halt the heart attack, or you decide to not take anything, enjoy your last years on earth and wait for your fate with equanimity.  

                                                                                      *

From Dorothy Wordsworth   August 31st   1800 in Westmorland

‘A great deal of corn is cut in the vale, and the whole prospect, though not indeed with a general autumnal yellow, yet softened down into a mellowness of colouring, which seems to impart softness to the forms of hills and mountains.  At 11 o’clock Coleridge came, when I was walking in the still clear moonshine in the green.  He came over Helvellyn.  William was gone to bed, and John also, worn out with his ride round Coniston.  We sate and chatted till past three.  Coleridge read us a part  of Christabel.’

                                                                              *

Silent, Their Men Stnd by

as universal woman talks,

with women

who are not friends,

or neighbours,

or women they know or love,

just women.

Their bonding thread

is laughter, touch, glance, cry,

instant understanding.

While silent, mystified, their men stand by.

                                                                          *

With much love from Patricia

Inheritance

 

Dear Friend,

I was/am very upset upon hearing that Jason Arday, the Cambridge Professor, had taken his life. He had been so hounded by the press and social media that he couldn’t stand it, obviously,  any longer.   If you didn’t already know, Jason was black. 

What he had done was to invent qualifications for himself in order to become an academic of the highest order.  He invented himself and probably believed his own inventions.

My point here is :   that don’t we all invent ourselves to an extent?  WE tell stories and add bits here and there to enrich them, we boast of things we haven’t really done, and we know celebities well when we have never met them.  We might feel in ourselves that we are a triffle dull and that exaggerating ourselves makes us more interesting.

In Jason’s case he probably just wanted to be a professor with such intesnsity that the truth of him became a fantasy, he simply invented himself to be the man he so wanted to be.  Was this such a terrible crime that he was made to take his own life?  Surely not or many of us coud be implicated in this way for an understanable crime.  

Cambridge University has many questions to answer.  I hope they are made to.

                                                                                                

                                                                                                *

From Dorothy Wordsworth     August 31st   1800 in Westmorland

‘A great deal of corn is cut in the vale,  and the whole prospect, though not tinged with a general autumnal yellow, yet softened down into a mellowness of colouring, which seems to impart softness to the forms of hills, and mountains.  At 11o’clock Coleridge came, when I was walking in the still clear moonshine in the garden. He came over Helvellyn.   William was gone to bed, and John also, worn out with his ride round Coniston.   We sate and chatted till half past three.  Coleridge read us a part of Christabel.’

                                                                                                  *

 

Inheritance

 

 

 

 

What was it that made me

think of you, who

are bone-dust now,

with no statue or monument

to bear your witness?

Was it the apple-bruised spots

on the Gloucester Old Spot pigs,

their legacy from apple orchards, long ago,

to mark them out?

 

In the afternoon sunlight

as I bent to touch their skin

I saw that my hands, brown-spotted,

were your hands, identical.

Was this your legacy to me,

something to say that you were here?

 

More precious than possessions,

you passed to me our inheritance

from some ancient eastern shore.

Your browness, your hands, brown spotted,

which marked you.

 

 

                                                                                      *

With best wishes and love to you all

Patricia

Every so often blog

 Dear Reader,

 

Dear Friend,

I have been asked many times over the years whether I am ‘religious.'  Probably you have been too.  This, for me, is a difficult question to answer. I am not quite sure what being ‘religious” means.  So am I a Christian?  Yes, I believe and love Jesus Christ who I maintain is my friend, but is that being religious?  I don’t think so.

For over thirty years Geoffrey and I went to church every Sunday.  It was, in a way, our tradition. It was what we did.  I enjoyed the services, loved the church sitting right in the middle of Oxford, and some of the old hymns are heart warming. But what of the church’s 

teaching, what of the Bible?  Is it, as John Betjamen asks in his poem, a true story? 

I suppose we all individually have to make up our minds which bits we want to take as our religion, which bits are true for us.  So, having jusr written this piece, I suppose I am religious, on a chosen spiritual path of my own making, and this works very well for me.

                                                                     *

From John Ruskin  August 13th  1872 in Berkshire

‘Entirely calm and clear morning.  The mist from the river at rest among the trees, with rosy light on its folds of blue, and I, for the first time these ten years, happy’.

From Gilbert White   August 15th  1783  in Hampshire

‘The last gathering of wood-strawberries.  Bullfinches and red-breasts eat the berries of the honeysuckles’.

                                                                     *

Chapel

 

Away with the cherubs

the angels, the painted ceilings

the high arches

the high ceilings

nudes male and female

the artifacts

the gold crosses

and ornate statues of the 

Virgin Mary.

 

Give me a chapel with

whitewashed bricks

wooden pews

oak door with studs

daisies on the altar 

in a china jug

a bust of St. Columba

and quiet peace

in God's house.

 

With best wishes to you all

 

Patricia 

 

My Blog

 Dear Readers,

 

I have had several requests to be able to read my small blog which I decided to write after stopping the Sunday edition that I wrote for eleven years.

 

If you would like to be on my list just send me an email :  

 

patricia.huthellis@googlemail.com

 

and I will send you, by email, the current blog. 

 

I felt rather sad when I had made the decision to write no more and decided therefore to just write a small blog every so often for friends and family.  Please join me if you would like to.

With very best wishes, Patricia 

The Mind Cupboard

 Dear Reader,

 

I thought I would just put your favourite poem on the blog as a last gesture.

 

The Mind Cupboard

 

My mind cupboard overflows
with unwanted debris.
It needs a spring clean.

I will brush away the cobwebs
of cheerless thoughts.
Scrub out the stains of childhood.

I will replace the brass hooks
corroded with salt tears,
empty all the screams
hoarded through the years.

I will replace the accumulated ashes
from the worn self-paper,
with virgin tissue.

I will chase and catch the wasps,
relieve them of their stings.
I will refill this cupboard
with love, and learnt, brighter things. 

 

Very best wishes, Patricia 

My Retirement

 Dear Reader,

 

I have been writing my blog for eleven years now and thoroughly enjoyed myself.  But the time has come when I find it all a bit of strain and so I am not going to write it any more.

 

Thank you all for reading it and I wish you every happiness in the years to come,

 

With very best wishes, Patricia 

Truth Modern

Red Admiral

 

Dear Reader, 

 

I saw a Red Admiral butterfly in the garden last week, well I saw it from a window in the kitchen.  Because it is so hot outside and I get ocular migraines if I go out in the sun, I haven't been outside more than once this last week.  I expect if you are young and sprightly and reading this you will wonder what the fuss is all about from heat we are having.  But I assure you for elderly people such as myself the extreme heat can be dangerous as well as being unpleasant.

Gosh I look forward to a day of rain, or several.  A gentle breeze and light rain would be perfect, perhaps we will get some next week. I certainly hope so.

                                                                                * 

I feel very upset about the murder of Ann Widdecombe last week.   Not particularly because she was well known but that such a thing should happen in the Devon countryside.  There she was, getting on with her life, and someone breaks into her house and murders her.  

What is England coming to?  When I lived in the  New Forest fifty years ago we didn't even have a key to the back door and possibly not even to the front door either.  We walked through the forest, the children and I, never fearful of who we might meet. But I wouldn't do it today. 

Ah well, the world has certainly changed,

                                                                                       *

 

 

From Gilbert White   July 15th    1786  in Hampshire

'Made jellies and jams of red currants.  Gathered broad beans ....The cat gets upon the roof of the house, and catches young bats as they come forth from behind the sheet of lead at the bottom of the chimney.' 

           

From Francis Kilvert    July 16th   1863 in Wiltshire

'As I walked along the field path I stopped to listen to the rustle and solemn night whisper of the wheat, so different to its voice by day.'

                                                                           *

Truth Modern

 

 

Through a kaleidoscope’s

shifting, bright colours,

set close to the eye,

the viewer’s truth is reflected,

assuring the mind of its veracity,

acknowledging its fantasies

as realities,  

seeing truth

not as it is, but as we would

like it to be,

spinning words,

detaching truth from its moorings,

setting it loose in murky waters.

Illusions of truth

sandwiched between lies

is the authentic truth

of our times.

 

                                                                           *

Wit best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stations

 Dear reader,

Pigeons are the oldest domesticated birds in the world, tracing their origins back to the Middle East 5,000 to 10,000 years ago.  Descended from the Wild Rock Dove, they were originally farmed for meat and bred as messenger carriers before transitioning into urban environments where they adapted to modern city life. 

Because Wild rock Doves naturally roost on cliffs and possess an incredible ability to navigate and return home over long distances, humans quickly began selectively breeding them for communication. 

During WW1 and WW11 hundreds of thousands of homing pigeons were utilized by militarizes on both sides.  Because radios could be easily intercepted or jammed these 'war pigeons' were vital for delivering critical intelligence from the front lines. 

                                                                            *

 

I see, with trepidation, that it is going to be 32 degrees or more again next week.  Gosh I long for summers of yesteryear.  A weak sun and a gentle breeze, proper picnic weather, and a quiet walk through the woods. 

So it will be back to drawn curtains and fans, and not venturing out.  What have us humans done to the planet?   We have destroyed it or are doing so.

                                                                               *

From Dorothy Wordsworth  July 5th 1802 in Westmorland 

'A very sweet morning.   William stayed some time in the orchard....It came on a heavy rain, and we could not go to Dove Nest as we had intended...The roses in the garden are fretted and battered and quite spoiled, the honey suckle, though in its gory, is sadly teazed.  The peas are beaten down.  The scarlet beans want sticking. The garden is overrrun with weeds. 

 From Gerard Manley Hopkins  July 9th 1871 in Lancashire

'After much rain, some thunder, and no summer as yet, the river swollen and golden...there was this day a thunder storm on a greater scale - huge rocky clouds lit with a lived light, hail and rain that flooded the garden, and thunder ringing and echoing round like brass.'

 

                                                                                   *

Stations

 

are full of people,

people angry, people joyful

people sad, people anxious,

people disappointed,

people running,

people excited,

old people,

young people,

middle aged people

the odd dog

 

Stations are full

of smoke

the smell of frying onions

gauloise cigarettes

pigeons

lost luggage

people hurrying to and fro

the crashing of doors

noise and emotion

 

Stations

are the beginning

or the end

 

the alpha

the omega

 

                                                                  *

 

With very best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                     

 

A Variation on the Tortoise and the Hare

 Dear reader,

I have really hated the past few days of extreme heat.  Perhaps it is a little better today, but not much and my study is too hot to think and write the blog.  Please forgive me,  I have holed up this week with curtains drawn and fans on full strength so am feeling a bit feeble and tired.

But this poem about the tortoise and the hare always seems to amuse you so here it is :

 

A Variation on the Tortoise and the Hare

The tortoise, shell-encased,
shy, and timid,
was fond of quiet places.
He ate lettuce sandwiches,
drank bottled water
and did deep breathing exercises.
He was slow alright,
but kept on "keeping on" getting there,
although a little fearful
or what life can bring.

The, he discovered anxiety pills,
and grew bolder,
he opinionated more.
Rejected lettuce,
ate avocado and prawn cocktails,
drank vodka,
and tried his hand at salsa dancing.
Confidence change him.

Ah ha the hare.

The hare spoke his mind.
He jumped and danced
texted and mobiled friends,
arranged outings,
and had a ball.
But the Gods were watching him,
the sent a "don't forget card"
to remind him of his tortoise life.

his quiet life
the life that was right and good
for a tortoise.

He threw the anxiety pills away
and slowly his shell grew back,
he started reading again,
he talked less,
thought more,
enjoyed lettuce sandwiches
and drank bottled water.
He became the tortoise 
that he was meant to be.

 

With best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

Moment

 Dear Reader,

Stained glass windows, made up of coloured and painted glass pieces held together by lead strips, were especially popular in Europe in the period between 1150 and 1550, when they were a prominent feature of cathedrals and other churches as well as city halls and homes for the elite.  

Its translucent qualities made stained glass especially popular in religious contexts where large windows with scenes from the bible and the lives of saints could animate a saved space with colourful glimmering lights, and subtly change the atmosphere depending on the tie of day, and the changing of the seasons. 

                                                                                   *

I see it is going to be very hot next week, a heatwave on Monday and Tuesday.  This kind of weather does not suit me at all.   I shut all the curtains and blinds, put on the fans and spend the time reading and doing a jigsaw puzzle.  Mary gave me the puzzle for Christmas this year and I am doing it again for the third time.  I like doing the same puzzle over and over again, I don't why this is the case, but it is a fact nevertheless.

                                                                                

                                                                                     *

 

From Dorothy Wordsworth     June 20th  1802  in Westmorland

'We lay upon the sloping turf.   Earth and sky were so lovely that they melted our very hearts.  The sky to the north was of a chastened yet rich yellow, fading into pale blue and streaked and scattered over with a steady islands of purple, melting away into shades of pink.  It made my heart almost feel like a vision to me.' 

From William Cowper    June 21st  1784 in Buckinghamshire

'We have now frosty mornings, and so cold a wind, that even at high noon we have been obliged to break off our walk in the southern side of the garden and seek shelter, I in the greenhouse, and Mrs. Unwin by the fireside.  Haymaking begins here to-morrow.' 

 

                                                                                      *

Moment

 

The church is cool from summer sun,

organ music plays.

 

We walk down the aisle

enjoy the scent of lilies

filling the holy air

point out ruby stained glass windows

depicting Christ on the cross,

examine oak and stone carvings

plaster heads of saints

the altar cloth rich in green and gold.

 

He runs up the pulpit steps

says a few words in Latin.

I laugh

then we kneel together in a back pew

say a prayer.

 

He takes my hand.

 

                                                                    *

With best wishes, Patricia 

 

Maybe Prince Philip's bedroom looked like this.

 Dear reader,

 

The only things I know about Prince Philip are the ones I read in the newspaper or in a book.  It seems to me that he was rather a difficult and taciturn man, not easy for the Queen or for anyone else for that matter.  

I sometimes like to imagine the Royal family and concluded that Prince Philip was very traditional in his tastes so I wrote the following poem with that in mind. I really know someone who reads a book called "Grouse in Health and Disease' and finds it very interesting.  Well it takes all sorts doesn't it?

The Duchess of Kent, now sadly died, was my favourite Royal.  She was, I think, kind and good and taught the piano at a local school calling herself Mrs. Kent. 

                                                                             *

I have been doing small sketches about this and that on Instagram which seem to go down well.  This week I had had a good idea so I spoke about it. Lots of the women who perform on Instagram wear lovely  new clothes and I suddenly decided that I would like some new ones too.  But I am short of money and had a good idea. Put all your existing clothes out on the bed, I said, then jumble them all up.  Put different cardigans with different dresses and change the colour scarves you usually wear and lo you have new outfits from your own collection.  It works very well and I am pleased with the results.

 

                                                                                 * 

From Gerald Manly Hopkins   June 16th  1873 in Lancashire

'I looked at the pigeons down in the  kitchen yard and so on.  The look like little gay jugs by shape when they walk, strutting and jod-jodding with their heads.  The two young ones are all white and the pins of the folded wings, quill pleated over quill, are like the crisp and shapely cuttle-shells found on the shore.   The others are dull thunder-colour or black-grape-colour except in the the white pieings, the quills and tail, and in the shot of the neck.  I saw one up on the eaves of the roof: as it moved its head a crush of stain green came and went, a wet or soft flaming of the light.'

                                                                                   *

Maybe

 

Prince Philip’s bedroom

looked like this:

 

Two afghan carpets cover the floor,

in the corner a narrow bed with quilted eiderdown,

a small oak bedside table

with lamp and parchment shade,

two small books:

‘Grouse in Health and Disease’

and ‘Fishing on the Spey’,

hunting pictures, horses and dogs

are hung round the room,

a mahogany chest of drawers

with family photographs on top,

one with the Queen and a corgi,

two silver hair brushes lie on

a round table with mirror,

and his bright blue dressing gown

is thrown over an embroidered stool.

The arm chair has a floral cover

with matching chintz cushions,

and there is small vase

of early daffodils on the window seat.

 

Or maybe not.

 

                                                                         *

 

With best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

This Man

Pictures of Ratty

Dear reader, 

Making my breakfast last week I looked out of the window and saw a large rat in the garden.  Now I am not keen on rats.  They are a smidgen better than mice because they don't scuttle about but nevertheless I am not keen.  In fact I sat down all of a tremble.  Knowing my usual anxious state I started to imagine that he/she would get into the house, and possibly have lots of baby rats as well.

So what was the best thing to do?  I decided that I had to think of a rat that I liked or at least tolerated.  Ah yes, I thought, Ratty from The Wind in the Willows, and was in fact,  quite fond of. It was possible I suppose that the rat in my garden was a vague relation of The Wind in the Willows character and therefore a sort of friend.  

The trembling stopped and I felt composed again.  

The moral of this tale is, I suppose, that it is your attitude to events that makes us calm and happy.The way we digest news of any kind can take take the stress out of it if we allow it to.

Change your attitude and see if I am not right.

                                                                                     *

 

 From Gilbert White    June7th 1783 in Hampshire

'Tulips are faded.   Honeysuckles still in beauty.  My columbines are very beautiful.  Tied some of the stems with pieces of worsted, to mark them for seed.  Planted out pots of green cucumbers.'

 

From Francis Kilvert   June 15th  1873 in Wiltshire

'The sun and the golden buttercup meadow had it almost to themselves......One or two people were crossing the Common early by the several paths through the golden sea of buttercups which will soon be the silver sea of ox-eyes.   The birds were signing quietly.  The cuckoo's notes tolled clear and sweet as a silver bell.' 

                                                                            *

 

this man

 

loved blue

 

it was a ship, a blue ship

 

that he sailed in

 

it was his power

 

made his heart beat faster

 

drove him along life’s waterways

 

 

but he sailed away

 

came adrift

 

became shipwrecked

 

no power no heartbeat

 

this man

 

had lost the blue

 

 

but I made a small ship out of wood

 

gave it sails of the finest silk

 

an engine fired with love

 

 now he sails again

 

his power came back

 

 

and I painted the ship blue

 

for

 

this man

 

 

                                                              *

With very best wishes, Patricia