Open letter to Jamie Oliver

Dear Jamie

You've set up your restaurant training young unemployed people. You've done schools. Could I suggest that you might now turn your attention to hospitals?

Hospital food is awful. It's like school food only far, far worse. I know there's a tight budget, but I have eaten well on a tight budget. It's possible.

Take soup. Each hospital I've been in or visited serves soup before lunch and dinner. How many people do you know that have soup before every meal? Soup as a starter is for Special Occasions. Soup in hospital - thin and unappetising - is not necessary. Have you tried languishing in bed (or flat on your back, as I was for six weeks) and dealing with soup? Many patients are old or frail. Soup is a challenge too far. And usually horrible. And an unnecessary extravagance.

Then  there's the appearance of the meals. On one occasion, I recall removing the lid of something I'd apparently ordered, and weeping. I didn't know what it was meant to be, it looked like something you might see on a pavement outside a pub on a Friday night, and there was too much of it.

Just two examples, but you get my drift (I'll save the leather omelettes for another occasion).

So. Please could you do something? You have the clout that I lack. And in the past, I have had to feed a family on very little money, so would be happy to offer some ideas. Just in case you run out.

Yours etc.

PS I write having just fetched my thin, undernourished husband after two weeks in hospital, so my facts are fully up to date.

An embarrassing condition

No. Not that kind. A different kind altogether.

I've had it for years, but until recently, didn't know it had a name. But now I know. I have Face Blindness. I know i have this because i recently did a little test in the Times, and failed (or passed. Depends how you look on it). I don't always recognise people, or I bound up to people I don't know and greet them like long lost friends. I often have no idea who's who in films and on TV, and drive any companion mad by constantly asking "is that the baddie or the goodie?", "is that the guy who married that girl or is it the other guy?". That kind of thing.

One of my sons, B* (hallo, B!) has the same thing, which is comforting in a way, but I also feel responsible, as he probably gets it from me (he got very little else from me, as he is a clone of his father. So maybe it's quite nice really? No. Not nice. A bloody nuisance, if I'm honest).

I would love it if all the characters in films wore name badges, or different coloured hats/hair, or at least wore identifying clothing, but that's never going to happen. So I shall continue embracing total strangers, amd ignoring friends. And if you're either, please don't take offence.

I can't help it, you see. It's a Condition.

*B has just become a follower. He took pity on me being stuck at 99. We Face Blind are basically very caring people.

Old stones

We live near Avebury. There are ancient stones in Avebury. Some of them are in a circle, and some are not. People come from far and wide to look at/pray by them. At any time of day or year, there they are (the people); looking at the stones. I saw them yesterday on my way back from visiting John in hospital, in the p***ing rain, in their woolly hats and scarves. Looking at the stones.

Now, I have nothing against the stones In fact. I'm sure I'm missing something. But they are stones, and they are old, and many people think they're wonderful. But aren't all stones old, by definition? Each with its own little past?

But  the bank  -  (see picture) -  is wonderful for rolling down (if you are young. I tried rolling down a bank fairly recently, and found that at my age, it doesn't really work). And the hills are beautiful, and great for picnics, and there are some wonderful old oak trees. In fact, I really like Avebury.

Just not the stones.

(And just in case someone rises up in furious defence of the stones, please remember that (a) I have nothing against them and (b) like you, I am entitled to express my opinion. But if you like them, please do tell me why.)

A tense situation

I have wondered for many years why it is that we use the past (or maybe it's the subjunctive?) tense in some situations.

Example: you go into a shop, and the assistant asks "what were you looking for?" It's as though you stopped looking for whatever it was as soon as you crossed the threshold (which, in itself, begs the question: why are you here, if you no longer want what you came in for?).

I just wondered.

Magpie 139

DIALOGUE AT MIDNIGHT

"Waste of electricity's obscene.
Turn off the light! We must think Green!"
"I've got no time for politics.
 But still, you're right. Now, where's that switch?"

They turned the light off. In the gloom
They stumbled blindly round the room.
Bumped into things, and tripped, and swore,
And ended up upon the floor.

"This is no good, The answer's plain.
We'll have to turn it on again."
"No no! We can't.Had you  not thought?
We're burglars! We could get caught!"


(A very poor effort at the end of a bad week. But thanks, all the same to, Tess at Magpie Tales)

...and now it's butterflies

Earlier this week I posted about the poor woman who was prosecuted for giving paracetamol to her cat. Well, now the RSPCA has turned its attention to butterflies.

Apparently Damien Hirst's latest opus involves a room filled with 9000 butterflies. Setting aside the "art" aspect, apparently the insects are provided with food, so that's ok. But wait a minute. Some of them have been brushed off clothing, or trodden on, and have succumbed, and the RSPCA (bless them) are very upset.

This begs two questions. Firstly, have the RSPCA really got nothing better to do? And secondly, would they be so bothered if this involved, say, slugs or wasps? My grandchildren were particularly thrilled at the sight of wasps crawling into a wasp trap at a National Trust site this summer. Where were the RSPCA then, as the wasps slowly drowned in syrup? Or what about flea powder? That probably hurts (if you're a flea), slug pellets (ditto), and those revolting fly papers?

Ah. But butterflies are pretty, aren't they? So that's it!

Silly me.

My own annus horribilis

This year just goes from bad to worse for us. It started with a family tragedy, then the death - timely, but sad - of my uncle, moved seamlessly through several horse accidents and then Titch's death, and now John has fallen and broken his hip.

Why am I sitting here blogging? Because John is in theatre, and I can't settle to anything else. Waiting is horrible, isn't it. My kids have been marvellous, insisting on coming down in relays, and I'm just sitting in a useless heap. Moaning into the blogosphere...

But the sun is shining. That's got to be good, hasn't it?