Tamiflu A-Go-Go and On Yer Bike!

Poor old Dulcie (my eldest girl). She was a real sore throat-y, vomit-y, ear infection-y, conjunctivitis-y mess. Freya (the little one) was just fine, slightly snotty, slightly off her food, but otherwise bouncing off the walls and demanding a kitchen table full of paper, glue, feathers, beads and paint to keep her occupied, whist Dulcie lingered in her room, waiting for me to bring warm drinks and an hours reading (The Lady Grace Mysteries, very good for those who are 11-13 ish). Darn that swine flu, darn it to heck! (This is how I imagine good, Christian, women who post their thoughts on the internet swear. In real life I'm a little less Ned Flanders).



They're better now though (thank God), and Dulcie and the DH are off to the frozen North this weekend to sing a a rather beautiful priory. The little one and I are not going, simply because as soon as we get back we're off to Devon for our annual camping holiday and I just couldn't imagine having the time to pack for a choir trip and packing for a camping trip in just a few days, the logistics of the thing just twisted my melon, man. Poor Freya hasn't quite cottoned on that we're not going this year, I'm being too much of a coward to tell her the bad news because last year she loved it, it was all fairground rides and paddling and fish and chips and hardly ever sleeping. And of course, if you're four, the heady delights of Bridlington are a glamorous zenith.



I shall attempt to make her weekend as fun as possible. After we've aired the tent and packed the rucksacks and shopped for a picnic I'm going to take her to the Coventry Transport Museum. I know, you may think that such a trip is hardly comparable to an old fashioned seaside adventure, but to Freya the Coventry Transport Museum is heaven. When she first started school she did a project on the history of transport and they made a big deal about bicycles. What she doesn't know about Penny Farthings you could write on a postage stamp, but what she really likes, what she really, really, likes are the Safety Bicycles - because, as she says, ladies could ride them and not get their skirts caught in the wheels! For some reason, she finds the idea of ladies in long skirts riding bikes wonderful. So this spot of Youtubery is for her.



A while ago I watched a social history programme which featured many of the bikes in the museum and Paul Atterbury said that the wide use of bicycles at the turn of the last century has been credited with expanding the gene pool! This is a nice thought, bicycles truly are a very convivial technology!

Anyway, my youngest is not the only one who is a little bike crazy ce moment. I do not drive. To get about I either walk, use the bus or wait for the DH to come home so he may chauffeur me about like I'm Lady Muck. However, I used to ride a bike. A man's mountain bike. A man's mountain bike which I can't get on unless I contort myself into impossible positions raising my rear end and lifting my leg in a highly inappropriate way. When I used to ride it to and from work I wouldn't get on it on school premises just in case any of my pupils saw me. Freya would tell me that I need an old-fashioned lady's Safety Bicycle, so that I may ride it in a skirt, indeed so that I may ride it without having to visit the chiropractor. So right now I am hankering after a Pashley Princess.

Freya is, of course, quite right. I hanker after this bike. I hanker after it just like 19 year-old boys called Liam hanker after Subaru Imprezzas with alloy wheels. This bike is handmade in Stratford-Upon-Avon, so it's a local product (and therefore morally good), this bike is the Rolls Royce of the Safety Cycle. I shan't bore you with its particulars, you already know that it's expensive and I can't afford it. But a girl can dream. A girl can visit the Coventry Transport Museum and dream.

Take That, You Swine! Red Tories, Tales from a Victorian Problem Page and a Jolly Good Prayer

So we have a case of suspected swine flu. Not a big deal so far, but I'm keeping an eye on the little one, making sure her temperature doesn't rise and she's nice and comfy. Poor little mite, she's missing all of the fun of the last week of term, but isolate her we must, as per the NHS regulations. Of course, I'm seeking revenge on the swine flu virus by making my favourite belly pork recipe. The DH once told me that here in the West Midlands pork is not a meal, but a way of life. He's right. Every little independent cafe in town, every butchers and a few fast food trailers all sell the beloved pork and stuffing batches/bap/cobs, and long may the pork products reign, that's what this goode huswyfe declares. Anyway, here's the recipe, which is more of a suggestion, really.

Slow Roasted Belly Pork with Garlic and Oregano

Ask your butcher to score the skin of your belly pork (buy it in one piece and not those piddly slices, you'll not regret it). Get your joint home and chop a goodly amount of garlic together with some fresh oregano (thyme or rosemary will do), mix the herbs and garlic with olive oil. Now, massage this embrocation into the belly pork, remembering to rub it into all of its crevices and in between the scoring of the skin. Season all over, thoroughly. Cover it and leave for at least an hour to marinade, and up to 24 hours in the fridge. Roast the belly pork for 30 minutes per pound in a slowish oven (125/150). When it's time is up turn the heat up to full blast and crackle that prok skin for ten minutes or so (keep checking and don't leave the kitchen). Yummy. Serve with garlic and chilli greens and mashed/crushed spuds.

Now, it will come as no surprise to regular readers that my political inclinations embrace neither laissez-faire morality nor laissez-faire economics, so I've been very interested in reading some of the articles by Phillip Blond, which have been fluttering around the press over recent months. And today I read a good blog post by Gerry Hassan arguing that Progressive Toryism/Red Toryism can't work because:

"It is obvious from this that Red Toryism is incompatible with the main body of thinking in contemporary Conservatism. This points to the Cameron Conservatives portraying themselves as radical, while staying close to the Thatcher/Blair consensus which has brought the country to the brink of ruin. This means that ‘blue Toryism' will prevail in debates within the party and once the Conservatives are in office."

It was an interesting blog post, but not entirely successful in refuting Blond's main ideas, which are really worth a read (no matter the colour of your politics or the country in which you live). However, what struck me was how perceptive and encouraging were Hassan's final thoughts:

"Intellectually, this signals the shape of the future faultlines of British politics. These are less defined by left versus right and more by authoritarianism versus radical decentralisers. The events of the last week have just defined the character of each side a little more clearly. On the authoritarian side stand Blair, Brown and Cameron, and most of their parties. On the other, decentralist side, can be found Red Toryism, John Cruddas and Labour reformers in Compass, and the Lib Dems.

The new establishment which has arisen in the last thirty years is fixated on a narrow and very hollow idea of ‘freedom' which is centred on our power to consume, shop, spend money and see ourselves as atomised, individualised ‘selves'. It still has control of the two main parties, most of the media and corporate opinion, while the radicals who see the sorry state this has led the UK to, have much less power, access and status, but a coherent case and a growing body of opinion prepared to listen to them."

Too true, Gerry. This voter is listening, and learning.

Now, onto wackier things. No, nothing can be wackier than British politics, so I shall re-phrase that last bit. Now, let us relax and indulge ourselves in a bit of vintage nonsense.

Ahh, the Victorians, so pathological in observing the social niceties were they that they could not bring themselves to publish the actual problems on the Problem Page, leaving the reader to guess at what was bothering Hopeless, from Stafford, from the delicate responses of the Agony Aunt. In this case, the Agony Aunt was Annie S. Swan, who, poor thing, was inundated by the missives of the Victorian lovelorn and desperate. Here are a few of her responses, as published in The Woman at Home magazine, circa 1890.

Certainly, MARGUERITE, absolutely decline all future acquaintance with the man. He is a coward and a poltroon. Cut him dead on the street, and everywhere else you may happen to meet him. I should take no other revenge. It would do you no good to make the matter public, and the probability is he would not care. Men like him are not easily wounded. You can very well leave him to One who has said, "Vengeance is mine."

I have not much patience with CONDOR BIKE. In the first place, she has no business to be secretly engaged to anybody, and if secretly, why? No.1 is sure to mind if his sweetheart accepts a bicycle from another man, even if he has not paid her any particular kind of attention. I should advise "Condor Bike" to lay the case before her own father and mother.

ORCHID. - It is a pleasure to answer such a tidy, concise, and practical letter; you give us no trouble at all. For your questions. 1. Soap frequently causes pimples, especially the cheap, much advertised kinds; Clever's are good, so is Dr Mackenzie's arsencial soap.

I hope you enjoyed those as much as I did! I've learnt such a lot from Mrs Swan: avoidance of poltroons at all costs; never accept a bike from a gent; and arsenic reduces pimples. I may post a few more, if they prove popular, so speak up gentle reader!

But before I go, here's an ancient Gaelic prayer that I hope you'll enjoy.

As the hand is made for holding and the eye for seeing, thou hast fashioned me for joy. Share with me the vision that shall find it everywhere: in the wild violet's beauty; in the lark's melody; in the face of a steadfast man; in a child's smile; in a mother's love; i n the purity of Jesus. Amen.

The Cross Spotty Child

John Bull, Sleep Reading Children Bedtime Stories Beds Magazine, UK, 1950 "She fidgeted and fussed and cried and had to be read to all the time, and wouldn't drink her orange juice and lost her hanky in bed...She was a cross spotty child"

My youngest was in a foul mood when she came home from school yesterday. She was so incredibly rude to her sister that her dad put her on the naughty chair. She didn't take this indignity very well at all, and the poor DH was in her bad books until bedtime. When I emptied and cleaned her lunch box that evening I told the DH that she was in a mood because she had eaten hardly a bite of her lunch. As usual I blamed bad temper on low blood sugar.

Well, this afternoon, during my break from teaching she showed me a particularly itchy spot of eczema, she told me it had been itching her like crazy all morning. It looked like a proper, blistery spot and not a bit like eczema, an upon closer inspection, little spots were popping up all over her face and chest. She also feels achy and has a slight sore throat. Methinks we have the pox! (Chicken pox that is).

Actually, at the moment, she's quite enjoying having chicken pox. She likes to look at her face, examine her spots, she doesn't feel too poorly, she's going to have a whole week off school! And, she turned to me and said, "now I have chicken pox, can you read me The Cross Spotty Child from the My Naughty Little Sister book?" and I, of course, replied "well, yes I can," because it's so nice to link beloved stories to real life events. Pass me the book, the Lucazade, and the calamine lotion, we're hunkering down for the week!