K1.....P1....

We have had a wonderful week of mist, fog and..........rain! Beautiful damp days that force you to stay in and loll around in front of the fire, reading or knitting!

It's funny, but cold, wet, inside days always turn my thoughts to knitting. I love knitting and in my time I have turned out hundreds of different things, some successful and some not! (Sorry kids for those ghastly orange and yellow jerseys and tank tops that came out of the cupboard with horrifying regularity!)

I remember my mum and my Aunty Julia knitting up a storm every weekend in the winter months when I was growing up. Because their knitting was so similar, they would share the task of knitting a jersey or jumper, one would tackle the sleeves and the other would do the front and back. They bought the wool in skeins and then needed to wind it into balls, so either my sister or I would sit with our arms out and our hands stiff, thumbs up and fingers straight out while they hooked the skein round our outstretched hands and wound it into balls. (And our arms ached with the effort!) My aunt had a way of winding the wool round her thumb somehow, and the ball would end up with a neat hole in the middle. I tried that a few times and was thrilled when the skeins were phased out and the ball arrived, ready rolled!

But, I digress!!

Ho Ho Ho!

I am so sorry if this starts off like another 'call back the past'! It isn't, it has a quick reference to the past and then fast-forwards to the present!

'Present' being the operative word!!

When I was small (skip through this next ramble if you are bored with my childhood bits), at the beginning of December every year, my sister and I would be given an Advent Calendar! I think my aunty Julia gave it to us, but that part is lost in the mists (more like fog) of time! We would take it in turns to open the little numbered doors, but we first had to find them as they were so cleverly hidden behind trees and rosy-faced children and snowmen!

Old Fashioned! (Pic thanks to Google)

And they were all covered in sparkly glitter that stuck to our fingers and rubbed off on our clothes and faces. Behind each little door was.....not a chocolate! There was a tiny picture hiding behind each one, angels, a sleigh, Santa Claus, and behind the last one, 24 December, was a tiny Nativity scene with donkeys and all!

Rosy faced children and sparkling snow.

As Time Goes By!

I have a few hazy memories of my childhood in England (it gets further away every day!), but my sister can remember for both of us! Some things are as clear as day, I remember wearing a really scratchy dress one Christmas, I remember that the lounge was kept for 'special' occasions! I remember being in trouble more times than I could count and being sent to my bedroom. I remember my first day at school. I remember 'helping' dad on the allotment. I remember dancing round the Maypole (badly!) And I remember that mum had a very special clock that stood on the mantelpiece in the lounge. She called it a 'French Carriage Clock', and I can clearly remember her winding it once a week. One thing puzzled me about this though, as mum used to say that it was an 'eight day clock' but there were only seven days in a week! So what happened to the extra day?

Just like mum's clock (Pics thanks to Google)

She would insert the key into the special keyhole at the back of the clock after opening the little door, and carefully count the number of times she wound it. She always said that she must not over-wind it, or she would break the spring. One end of the key was to wind it and the other end was smaller and moved the hands. I loved to watch the movement of the wheels and cogs through the little windows, but woe betide me if I touched it!

The key.

Then she gently closed the door and put her ear to it to make sure that it was ticking as it was so quiet. This clock timed our lives week by week and was with mum and dad in every house they lived in. I don't remember it ever having it's original travelling case, but dad made a wooden box for it and that kept it safe during moving times. As the years passed and digital took over, it became more and more difficult to find someone to repair and clean it, and by the time mum gave it to Catherine, it was not working. Catherine managed to find a specialist clock man in Johannesburg who gave it the 'once-over' and it sat happily on their mantelpiece counting the hours and weeks for them. Then it got wet! Water leaked through the roof and down the chimney breast after one of Johannesburg's spectacular storms, and that was that! Then they moved to Dubai and the clock was packed up in storage...........until a month ago!

I could watch the wheels through the window!

Amazingly, Catherine found another specialist in Knysna and took the clock to him to see if he could help. He was pleased to see that it had been well looked after and that we hadn't lost the key! (Amazingly, because it was stored in Johannesburg, there was no rust in the workings!) He was also able to give some background. It turns out that it is an English Carriage Clock, not French at all, and was possibly made before the First World War. Certainly before World War 2. It will cost quite a lot to repair, but it is worth a lot more in sentimental value.

And hopefully it will continue to count the hours for them for many years to come.

Sleep Tight, Daffy.

This is not the post that I had planned for today, that one is written and waiting to be shared with you, but sometimes life gets in the way and plans have to change.

This morning we had to say goodbye to one of our beloved cats.

Daffy in the garden as a youngster.

Daffy arrived in the garden as a kitten six years ago, feral and wary. Together with an older cat, (Dilly), he would wait for me to bring food but would never let me near him. Months later I was able to touch him, and then he moved in.

He was always around, he was the one cat who seldom ventured past the front door, unless I hauled out the vacuum or strangers arrived. Then he would streak out of the door like black lightning, only returning when the coast was clear.

Daffy with Alfie on the couch, move over!

He had two favourite sleeping spots, the couch in the lounge and our bed. Every now and then he changed over to the chair in our bedroom, and on winters nights he loved to take over Alfie's bed. Being black, he blended in with the black blanket and the only thing we could see was a white whisker, or an eye. Then Alfie left his bed to Daffy and slept on the bed with us.

Daffy and Dopey on the bed.

He was quiet and unassuming, until Rob rattled the butter dish, or cut a piece of cheese. Then he would come and sit next to Rob and bite his leg until he got a little bit of butter. Every evening he would appear in the kitchen at the precise moment that Rob made his evening coffee. The he would always have a little milk before heading back to bed. He was never a problem and never sick. But the only time he ever sat on my lap, was last Friday evening.

Then on Saturday we noticed that he had not come down for breakfast and he spent the day quietly on our bed. He seemed fine, purred when we spoke to him, went out when he needed to but by the evening his breathing was laboured and his third eyelid was beginning to appear in the corners. Yesterday we knew that he was ill. There was no vet on duty and nothing that we could do until this morning. We kept him warm and as the vet opened this morning, we were outside.

Our beautiful boy.

He had feline leukaemia. He was in pain and there was only one choice for us.

Beautiful words, and so true.

We stayed with him until the end and then brought him home to lie in the garden next to Clyde, our old boy who had come with us from Johannesburg.

Our hearts are spilling over right now.

Yes, Another Cook Book!

I am one of those strange people who hate cooking but love cook books! I have a vast collection (I think I have mentioned this before) and regularly page through them to find exciting things to make, that is if I was going to make anything exciting!

The first recipe (or is that 'cook') book I really remember well was one that was given to my mum by her close friend when we left England, way back in the middle of the last century! (That sounds scary, but it is true!) It was written in 1960 by an American lady called Peg Bracken and was called 'The I Hate to Cook Book'. Mum regularly made a particular chicken dish called 'Saturday Chicken', an easy and delicious recipe that calls for a tin of mushroom soup, cream and chicken pieces and that's basically it! She made it for special occasions and when (if) people came for dinner, and she usually made a lovely cream cheese tart to follow. It became a favourite of mine too and I cannot remember how many times I have made it and shared the recipe with friends over the years. Funnily enough, I think that the first time I ever made it on a Saturday was just the other day!! Even Rob commented! There is a 'Sunday Chicken' too, that's a curry version of Saturday!

The book has been well used obviously!

Mason Williams

That name may not mean very much to a lot of people out there, but all will be revealed in time. Stay with me! I must admit, it meant nothing to me until I delved further! Intrigued? I hope so!

Mason Williams (Thanks to Google)

Maudlin Monday!

Do you ever get days where you feel a little maudlin? The dictionary definition is as follows; weakly or tearfully sentimental, esp. from drunkeness (French 'Madeleine' referring to pictures of Mary Magdalen weeping)

Now, I am not drunk, and certainly nowhere near being weak and tearful, but yesterday would have been my mum's 100th birthday and we used to tease her about getting a telegram from the Queen. (Does she still send them I wonder?) That got me thinking about my childhood and this morning while I was doing some dusting, (yes), I happened to dust the beautiful glass biscuit barrel that used to stand on the sideboard next to the phone when I was growing up. I used to try and sneak a biscuit (or two) when mum was out of the room, but no matter where she was, she would hear me! I could never get the lid on or off without it making the tiniest tinkle against the side and then I would hear 'I can hear you!' from mum! Even if she was upstairs with the Hoover! Again this morning I tried to lift the lid quietly and again it tinkled and I bet that mum heard me and frowned!

The empty biscuit barrel!

A Collector by any other Name!

I like to think of myself as a Collector.

A serious collector of Memorabilia, or as my children would say, 'a hoarder of junk!' I love 'olde worlde' things and our kitchen is a showcase of days gone by!! (Except the things that really matter, like a stove, fridge, freezer, hot water, microwave, washing machine...............)

My favourite things are coffee or tea pots and old enamel jugs and bowls and various kitchen gadgets. Rob collects old wireless sets, so between us we never leave an Antique (aka junk) Shop empty-handed.

And we both love tins!

Tins above and an old radio below.

Watch the Birdie!

I have just received some beautiful photographs of my gorgeous grandchildren, emailed to me from Spain. According to the Oxford Dictionary, a photograph is 'a picture formed by means of the chemical reaction on sensitive film', but it goes much deeper than that. Without the shadowy images of years gone by captured on little bits of card, I would never have known what my maternal grandfather looked like, as he died when my mother was small. In fact, my mother wouldn't have known either. When I was about seven, or eight, (I think), my dad went through a phase of developing his own photos, and we would be snapped in our dressing gowns, a budgerigar on a shoulder, with mum reading to us, or my sister and I playing in the garden. He then spent ages in the bathroom with towels jamming the door so that no light could show through while he developed and printed them under a special light and strung them up on a makeshift line held in place by mum’s clothes pegs. I still have some of those old memories!

I can spend hours looking though my old photo albums. Remember the ones that had the peel-off plastic sheet that 'stuck' your photos onto the page? They worked for a few years, but eventually the plastic lost its ‘stick’ and peeled off, and all the photos fell out! The little sticky corners that held the photos in place seemed to be a lot better, remaining even after the photo was removed and leaving you wondering what on earth had been in that square! Especially if there was an odd caption handwritten underneath. Something like, ‘Gosh Horace, what a brave thing to do at your age!’

Mine looked exactly like this! (Thanks to Google!)

My first camera was a 'Brownie Box' that had to be held in front of me while I peered down through the lens and hoped that it didn’t move while I pressed the button! The film had to be wound on by hand but there was no ‘safety catch’ in case I forgot to do that in my excitement to capture something, and multiple pictures could be taken on the same bit of film! Somewhere I have ghostly photos of snow on roofs (I just love those old chimney pots that are so characteristic of old London), with my granny floating in the middle of them, sitting in her chair in her lounge! Odd but interesting! The last Brownie I saw was in a museum, how technology has changed.