Wednesday, 26 August 2009
Coming Home
I've been shouting, 'Yeah Baby!' quite often since I got back; on feeling my pillow, on my first cup of tea, on washing my malaria tablets down with white wine, on turning the cold tap and DRINKING THE WATER, on leaving the back door open and not worrying about the mosquitos coming in, on eating meals that aren’t curried - but mostly on having completed such an amazing adventure.
Tuesday, 25 August 2009
India II
For the last week in India we went to help out in a rural orphanage. This is where children from the city slums come for sanctuary when their home life is considered unsafe, or when one or both parents have died – usually from AIDS. The orphanage houses 45 boys and 5 girls aged between 6 and 18. They had an assembly hall, called the Temple of Peace, a dining area with kitchen, and small houses to live in. The little ones had house-mothers to help with washing and cleaning. The older ones performed these chores themselves. The women who worked there had also been offered sanctuary from destitution.
The children had clothes, presumably donated, and virtually nothing else. There were some well-thumbed books available, three worn out tennis balls and a broken cricket set. A volley ball net was strung out over some rough ground.
The electricity only worked for twelve hours each day, a week of daytime power, followed by a week of night-time power. When the children settled to do their homework, they were limited in how long they could write by the setting sun. Some of them would gather round two solar powered street lights to continue their studies.
The campus was delightful. There was a lovely playground with swings and climbing equipment - something of a luxury in India. The area around the buildings had an abundance of banana trees, lemon bushes, palm trees heavy with coconuts and neatly tilled fields of grain, maize and vegetables. The ploughing was done by a very elderly man and a pair of white oxen. It seemed quite medieval, as did the local village, with basic thatched huts and women sitting outside cooking over open fires. There was a properly covered well, donated by visiting doctors who had serious concerns about the health implications of the old water supply. The village housed the primary and high schools. Both buildings were Victorian in their facilities – benches built into double desks, bare floors, chalk boards around the room and very little else. One board had the seasons written on it; summer, monsoon and winter. The children sat quietly and attentively. When we asked a class of teenagers what they dreamed of, the answers were about being doctors, teachers or lawyers. One boy wanted to be a software engineer, which I found particularly poignant, given that the school was probably about 5 miles away from the nearest internet connection. The contrast between these well motivated young people and their equivalent in this country was quite startling. None of them gave evasive ‘dunno’ style answers, they all had strong self esteem and ambition that would put their Western counterparts to shame.
There was no furniture to speak of in the orphanage. The children slept on mats on the floor (as they did in the slums) and sat on mats in the dining area to eat. Each meal consisted of chapatti, dhal, rice and a delicately spiced vegetable curry, washed down with sugary chai. The children each had a tin plate and mug, which they washed up after the meals. No cutlery was needed as the chapattis were used in traditional style to scoop the food off the plate.
The community was warm, loving and extremely happy. All the children shared the chores and never seemed to argue or complain. The timetable was well structured, the day starting with outdoor exercises at 6am, followed by washing and cleaning duties, assembly at 8am. The assembly quite often broke into vibrant drumming and dancing, a proper celebration for a new day. Breakfast was at 9am and then school or other activities on holidays. In the evenings they did their homework and ate dinner at 8pm. After dinner the children had to make their way to their houses to sleep, it was too dangerous for them to walk around in the dark on a campus that was visited regularly by cobras and the occasional anaconda. The snakes were seen to by what must be one of the bravest men around, a gentle giant of a man, who could spot the snakes tens of metres away, stalk them and throttle them with his bare hands. He had to do this once or twice a week to protect the children. We were advised to take our torches to the toilet block in the night, to check for cobras. This was extremely worrying, but luckily the cobras stayed out of the way while we were there. To think that before being warned about the snakes, I had been worried by the size of the ants. Somehow they paled into insignificance as I lay in bed trying to convince myself that I didn’t need to go to the bathroom after all.
The most startling and profound revelation about the orphanage was how well balanced, happy and enthusiastic the children were. They all shared a love of life and eagerness to learn that was infectious. When given some art materials they were astonishingly creative, and when some basic percussion instruments were brought out, their dancing and drumming took wings and soared. They worked together really well, being used to community life, sharing and caring for each other.
The children all looked lean and fit on their high carbohydrate diet. Their food was all organically grown and locally sourced, much from the fields around them. There was no junk food within miles and no money to buy it had it been. Some of the children however were smaller than you would expect for their ages, a sad reflection of their malnourished start in life.
The work the charity is doing for these children and adults is almost miraculous, giving a chance in life to so many who would otherwise have languished in the slums. The fact that they are happy and caring individuals is testimony to the love and commitment shown to them by the staff running the orphanage.
The term ‘poor’ had no meaning in this place.
The children had clothes, presumably donated, and virtually nothing else. There were some well-thumbed books available, three worn out tennis balls and a broken cricket set. A volley ball net was strung out over some rough ground.
The electricity only worked for twelve hours each day, a week of daytime power, followed by a week of night-time power. When the children settled to do their homework, they were limited in how long they could write by the setting sun. Some of them would gather round two solar powered street lights to continue their studies.
The campus was delightful. There was a lovely playground with swings and climbing equipment - something of a luxury in India. The area around the buildings had an abundance of banana trees, lemon bushes, palm trees heavy with coconuts and neatly tilled fields of grain, maize and vegetables. The ploughing was done by a very elderly man and a pair of white oxen. It seemed quite medieval, as did the local village, with basic thatched huts and women sitting outside cooking over open fires. There was a properly covered well, donated by visiting doctors who had serious concerns about the health implications of the old water supply. The village housed the primary and high schools. Both buildings were Victorian in their facilities – benches built into double desks, bare floors, chalk boards around the room and very little else. One board had the seasons written on it; summer, monsoon and winter. The children sat quietly and attentively. When we asked a class of teenagers what they dreamed of, the answers were about being doctors, teachers or lawyers. One boy wanted to be a software engineer, which I found particularly poignant, given that the school was probably about 5 miles away from the nearest internet connection. The contrast between these well motivated young people and their equivalent in this country was quite startling. None of them gave evasive ‘dunno’ style answers, they all had strong self esteem and ambition that would put their Western counterparts to shame.
There was no furniture to speak of in the orphanage. The children slept on mats on the floor (as they did in the slums) and sat on mats in the dining area to eat. Each meal consisted of chapatti, dhal, rice and a delicately spiced vegetable curry, washed down with sugary chai. The children each had a tin plate and mug, which they washed up after the meals. No cutlery was needed as the chapattis were used in traditional style to scoop the food off the plate.
The community was warm, loving and extremely happy. All the children shared the chores and never seemed to argue or complain. The timetable was well structured, the day starting with outdoor exercises at 6am, followed by washing and cleaning duties, assembly at 8am. The assembly quite often broke into vibrant drumming and dancing, a proper celebration for a new day. Breakfast was at 9am and then school or other activities on holidays. In the evenings they did their homework and ate dinner at 8pm. After dinner the children had to make their way to their houses to sleep, it was too dangerous for them to walk around in the dark on a campus that was visited regularly by cobras and the occasional anaconda. The snakes were seen to by what must be one of the bravest men around, a gentle giant of a man, who could spot the snakes tens of metres away, stalk them and throttle them with his bare hands. He had to do this once or twice a week to protect the children. We were advised to take our torches to the toilet block in the night, to check for cobras. This was extremely worrying, but luckily the cobras stayed out of the way while we were there. To think that before being warned about the snakes, I had been worried by the size of the ants. Somehow they paled into insignificance as I lay in bed trying to convince myself that I didn’t need to go to the bathroom after all.
The most startling and profound revelation about the orphanage was how well balanced, happy and enthusiastic the children were. They all shared a love of life and eagerness to learn that was infectious. When given some art materials they were astonishingly creative, and when some basic percussion instruments were brought out, their dancing and drumming took wings and soared. They worked together really well, being used to community life, sharing and caring for each other.
The children all looked lean and fit on their high carbohydrate diet. Their food was all organically grown and locally sourced, much from the fields around them. There was no junk food within miles and no money to buy it had it been. Some of the children however were smaller than you would expect for their ages, a sad reflection of their malnourished start in life.
The work the charity is doing for these children and adults is almost miraculous, giving a chance in life to so many who would otherwise have languished in the slums. The fact that they are happy and caring individuals is testimony to the love and commitment shown to them by the staff running the orphanage.
The term ‘poor’ had no meaning in this place.
|
Thursday, 13 August 2009
India
I've been wizzing around in little motorised rickshaws in India, which once you get used to the fact that no-one follows any sort of highway code, gets quite exciting. You cling on for your life as traffic drives straight at you from every angle. I am surprised to still be alive.
Sad things greet you when you look beyond the bus that is threatening to kill you. Some people sleep on the traffic islands, some children come begging (and can then be seen to give their procured goods and money to a Fagin character in the background).
From the trains you can see men defaecating, but oddly enough, this seems to be quite a chatty, communal time. The train facility dumps its effluent straight onto the line anyway, so not much difference in the end (those of us with Delhi Belly got quite chatty too as we kept bumping into each other on the frequent trudges to the toilet).
More offputting was the sight of rats happily frolicking on the railway lines, but this was made up for by seeing a couple of elephants frolicking in some fields outside Delhi.
Attempting to use squat toilets while suffering from the runs and wearing floaty, Indian costume is a bit of a bother. I am full of admiration for Indian women, who always look totally composed and almost regal, while I have been dragging various bits of my clothes back out of the U bend only just in the nick of time - I have been keen to avoid being strangled as the scarf disappears into the sump of the train.
When we were staying in Poona there were pigs wandering around, and ferral dogs with their ribs sticking out. At night you could hear when the dogs formed packs to hunt some poor pig, the squealing was something out of a horror movie. Cows wander around freely too, but they seem quite relaxed and can be seen drinking from the taps in the street (that the locals also drink from).
The mosquitos haven't been as bad as the midges I have become aquainted with on trips to Scotland, but it's quite hard to remember to take the anti-malaria tablets when on the move so much.
The food is delicious, really simple rice and dhal for most meals, but all home-made from local produce. It is interesting to see the chippatties being cooked, I think I've forgotten how to use a knife and fork.
The children we have been working with are delightful, and so enthusiastic about anything we do. The people running the charity here are inspirational, and as is often the case, inspirational people attract other incredible people to work with them - so all the charity workers we have met have been amazing. The work they are doing to help the children here is so valuable, literally changing the lives of many and saving lives with the AIDS awareness project they are also running. One memorable moment was going to watch some beautiful Indian women dressed in elegant red sarees peforming a play about AIDS in a truckers yard, where oil tankers were coming and going, interspersed with ox drawn carts. The sight of the elegant women bravely tackling such a sensitive issue in front of the tough truckers was very moving. It was made all the more fascinating when one of the women couldn't then sit in the minibus home next to a man - but had been party to a condom demonstration in the yard. Whoever had the idea to promote AIDS awareness to truckers is a genius, as the drivers are encouraged to spread the word at each truck stop they go to - spreading the knowledge across the whole of India via the transport network. As they say in the charity office, the battle for AIDS will be won or lost in India.
Sad things greet you when you look beyond the bus that is threatening to kill you. Some people sleep on the traffic islands, some children come begging (and can then be seen to give their procured goods and money to a Fagin character in the background).
From the trains you can see men defaecating, but oddly enough, this seems to be quite a chatty, communal time. The train facility dumps its effluent straight onto the line anyway, so not much difference in the end (those of us with Delhi Belly got quite chatty too as we kept bumping into each other on the frequent trudges to the toilet).
More offputting was the sight of rats happily frolicking on the railway lines, but this was made up for by seeing a couple of elephants frolicking in some fields outside Delhi.
Attempting to use squat toilets while suffering from the runs and wearing floaty, Indian costume is a bit of a bother. I am full of admiration for Indian women, who always look totally composed and almost regal, while I have been dragging various bits of my clothes back out of the U bend only just in the nick of time - I have been keen to avoid being strangled as the scarf disappears into the sump of the train.
When we were staying in Poona there were pigs wandering around, and ferral dogs with their ribs sticking out. At night you could hear when the dogs formed packs to hunt some poor pig, the squealing was something out of a horror movie. Cows wander around freely too, but they seem quite relaxed and can be seen drinking from the taps in the street (that the locals also drink from).
The mosquitos haven't been as bad as the midges I have become aquainted with on trips to Scotland, but it's quite hard to remember to take the anti-malaria tablets when on the move so much.
The food is delicious, really simple rice and dhal for most meals, but all home-made from local produce. It is interesting to see the chippatties being cooked, I think I've forgotten how to use a knife and fork.
The children we have been working with are delightful, and so enthusiastic about anything we do. The people running the charity here are inspirational, and as is often the case, inspirational people attract other incredible people to work with them - so all the charity workers we have met have been amazing. The work they are doing to help the children here is so valuable, literally changing the lives of many and saving lives with the AIDS awareness project they are also running. One memorable moment was going to watch some beautiful Indian women dressed in elegant red sarees peforming a play about AIDS in a truckers yard, where oil tankers were coming and going, interspersed with ox drawn carts. The sight of the elegant women bravely tackling such a sensitive issue in front of the tough truckers was very moving. It was made all the more fascinating when one of the women couldn't then sit in the minibus home next to a man - but had been party to a condom demonstration in the yard. Whoever had the idea to promote AIDS awareness to truckers is a genius, as the drivers are encouraged to spread the word at each truck stop they go to - spreading the knowledge across the whole of India via the transport network. As they say in the charity office, the battle for AIDS will be won or lost in India.
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Thursday, 30 July 2009
Camera Obscura and Chaos
I had an idea that I could set up a camera obscura in my back room at the weekend. It should have been easy I reasoned, as I tried to black out the (mainly glazed) back door and pin the large curtains back as best I could. Achieving a black out is quite tricky I discovered as the hours passed, and the navy blue plastic table covers I thought would do the trick weren't up to the task. I had to pin layer upon layer of blankets all over the place. The drawing pins were straining at the task, and just as I stepped down from the ladder for what felt like the millionth time, the blankets fell in a crumpled heap on the floor and I was left in bright sunshine again. After quite a lot of grumpiness, but with a strong, 'I've started so I'll finish' mentality, I managed to get the room mainly dark. I then realised I'd have to bore a hole through a blanket to get the pin hole that is needed. That didn't seem sensible, so it was back to pinning bits of blanket up in a rough 'hem' and trying to jigsaw puzzle bits of cardboard to the relevant cracks. This was further complicated by the fact that as the room did become darker, I kept losing the scissors, drawing pins and sellotape. The room might not have been going black, but the air was certainly going blue.
At last I was able to make the pin hole, and realised with dismay that the sunny side of the house is actually the front. The sun did come out for a few minutes and I was able to see a very small, and admittedly rather disappointing, image of some clouds on the side of my bookcase. The next stage should have been to get a mirror to reflect the image through a lens onto another mirror on the floor. By this time I was feeling quite depressed and decided to just admire my 2p sized image of clouds. The only good thing about this, I thought ruefully to myself, was that at least you couldn't tell they were upside down.
Apparently Leonardo Da Vinci used this method to paint some pictures. Sadly the clouds were in fuzzy vision, so that combined with my limited artistic skills, wasn't going to produce a 'master' anytime soon - Leo can rest easy in his grave.
At last I was able to make the pin hole, and realised with dismay that the sunny side of the house is actually the front. The sun did come out for a few minutes and I was able to see a very small, and admittedly rather disappointing, image of some clouds on the side of my bookcase. The next stage should have been to get a mirror to reflect the image through a lens onto another mirror on the floor. By this time I was feeling quite depressed and decided to just admire my 2p sized image of clouds. The only good thing about this, I thought ruefully to myself, was that at least you couldn't tell they were upside down.
Apparently Leonardo Da Vinci used this method to paint some pictures. Sadly the clouds were in fuzzy vision, so that combined with my limited artistic skills, wasn't going to produce a 'master' anytime soon - Leo can rest easy in his grave.
Tuesday, 28 July 2009
Black Mould and Tap Dancing Spiders
It’s all rather exciting, there is a new bath in the bathroom and a rather smart toilet which is a bit like one you’d find in a five star hotel, except the hotel wouldn’t have bare walls with lumps missing (the plumber said the walls were 'really terrible' – I think he was worried that if he leant too heavily in the wrong place, he would find himself in the back garden). I tentatively experienced the new bath this morning and enjoyed the view that notably lacked any black mould. There seem to be several bits of flooring missing, which is a bit creepy as I am fairly sure that Brother-of-the-Biggest-Spider-in-the-Universe will be procreating somewhere under the planks. I walk around rather gingerly as I am still suffering from a touch of paranoia about the fearsome furry fiends. I console myself with the thought that he and his clan might be tap dancing – their eight legs each working away on a new routine, ready to perform on my faucet(?) when I am next relaxing in foaming, five star luxury.
Thursday, 23 July 2009
Master of all he Surveys
I popped downstairs into the kitchen to get a cup of tea last night, but patrolling the basement floor was The Biggest Spider in the Universe. He was just sitting there, glaring at me, daring me to walk past him to the kettle without the password. His long legs were bent at careful angles to keep his bloated, furry body suspended, ready to pounce. He actually had horns, which was quite scary. I decided to be brave and do the glass and card trick, but by the time I had got them ready, braced myself for the battle and turned to get him, the floor was empty. I almost fancied that I heard the clatter of eight jack booted feet as he ran to hide. It's all a bit disconcerting as every time I go into the kitchen, I feel like I'm being watched. I make sure I put shoes on now, I wouldn't want to step on anything that big, and I go wriggly down my spine when I think about his spindly, hairy legs interwoven between my toes, with the mush of spider abdomen stuck onto the ball of my foot. It didn't help when I found Son of the Universe in the bath this morning. I think having the bathroom done has sent various wildlife scurrying round the house in search of new abodes. It reminded me of cycling down the towpath of the Thames past a building development once, and rats were dashing across the path as their nests were disturbed. I've gone all yucky thinking about it.
Perhaps if I give the spider a name other than Master of the Universe I won't feel so bad. I'll call him Bob the Spider, which has friendly overtones of tool belts, primary colours and jolly songs. It's a shame he can't hold a paintbrush in each hairy leg - the bathroom would be finished in no time at all.
Perhaps if I give the spider a name other than Master of the Universe I won't feel so bad. I'll call him Bob the Spider, which has friendly overtones of tool belts, primary colours and jolly songs. It's a shame he can't hold a paintbrush in each hairy leg - the bathroom would be finished in no time at all.
Wednesday, 22 July 2009
Taupe, ecru, beige
My bathroom is going to be replaced from tomorrow. This is particularly exciting as the plumber has been promising to come for several months. This had lead to a rather long period of not really bothering to clean the bathroom properly 'as its going to be gutted soon'. As a result it's been a place of less than welcoming demeanour. I had to go to a DIY shop (and I still feel slightly phobic about these places) to choose complicated things like floor and wall tiles and paint. I’m no interior decorator, but am quite pleased with a colour scheme of marbled white tiles with a hint of ‘granite’ and ‘granite’ floor tiles (non-slip luckily) and ‘Arctic white’ for the walls. It won’t be a warm and cosy room, but it might be a nice, clean room soon. I’m looking forward to waving goodbye to the black mould that has been depressing me for sometime, that even the spray-on sulphuric acid stuff couldn't help with, and the carefully positioned house plant wilted away from.
I'm not sure why 'granite' is a selling point - it doesn't look particularly special. The only thing I can think of worthy of note is its radon emitting properties (forget going to A&E for your suspected broken bone, just hold it over the draining board for a while). However, the paint colours were reassuringly pretentious as always; 'crushed cotton' and 'freyed hessian' giving a whole new dimension to Adrian Mole's sock drawer.
The pretentious colour names remind me of those menus that talk about freshly harvested sea vegetables from under the wild waves of the Atlantic or the rice that is grown in the flood waters of the Himalayan foothills. I used to think prawns on a bed of lettuce was bad enough, but reading these menus is like reading the pompous information notices next to paintings in art galleries; 'Trystan used gouache mixed with mud from the bottom of his Barbour boots and his own pubic hair to create this evocative scene reflecting the enduring power of democracy'.
Perhaps I'm going to the wrong art galleries.
I'm not sure why 'granite' is a selling point - it doesn't look particularly special. The only thing I can think of worthy of note is its radon emitting properties (forget going to A&E for your suspected broken bone, just hold it over the draining board for a while). However, the paint colours were reassuringly pretentious as always; 'crushed cotton' and 'freyed hessian' giving a whole new dimension to Adrian Mole's sock drawer.
The pretentious colour names remind me of those menus that talk about freshly harvested sea vegetables from under the wild waves of the Atlantic or the rice that is grown in the flood waters of the Himalayan foothills. I used to think prawns on a bed of lettuce was bad enough, but reading these menus is like reading the pompous information notices next to paintings in art galleries; 'Trystan used gouache mixed with mud from the bottom of his Barbour boots and his own pubic hair to create this evocative scene reflecting the enduring power of democracy'.
Perhaps I'm going to the wrong art galleries.
Sunday, 19 July 2009
Can You Glue Sequins onto a Recorder?
I'm jealous of Vanessa Mae. We went to see her at an outdoor concert last night. She was wearing an amazingly blingy dress and shoes that sparkled like diamonds in the spotlight. She was also fabulously talented and could command the stage just by posing with her violin and brandishing her bow, sending clouds of rosin flying off it.
The choice of music was a bit variable - she tried some 'popular' pieces which included a variation of something that sounded like a hoe-down which was a bit dull, but luckily went into the finale with the stunning jazzed up toccata and fugue and one of the Vivaldi 'Seasons'. I wasn't sure which one (is anyone sure which is which?) but not the whingy one, the one that makes you feel agitated and want to change the world. Luckily it's a short piece so the feeling passes quickly and you can relax again. It was made all the more stunning by having fireworks exploding in time to the music - I can't remember seeing and hearing anything so spectacular for ages (Handel is just so yesterday). All our jaws had to be scooped off the grass at the end.
I don't think I can achieve the same effect with my descant recorder, however many sequins I glue onto myself - although I do have some 'mirror on a role' which I could wrap myself up in (or at least stick onto my old trainers). There are some disco lights somewhere in the basement cupboard. I'll go and practice a few poses with my recorder this evening, and strut around before launching into 'Lord of the Dance' (most of the notes are there now). I'll have to be careful flinging it around, if I'm too flamboyant spittle will fly off. Some fussy members of my audience might be upset.
Watch this space for the stadium tour and album coming soon!
....and cue the 37 Shot Surgical Strike!
The choice of music was a bit variable - she tried some 'popular' pieces which included a variation of something that sounded like a hoe-down which was a bit dull, but luckily went into the finale with the stunning jazzed up toccata and fugue and one of the Vivaldi 'Seasons'. I wasn't sure which one (is anyone sure which is which?) but not the whingy one, the one that makes you feel agitated and want to change the world. Luckily it's a short piece so the feeling passes quickly and you can relax again. It was made all the more stunning by having fireworks exploding in time to the music - I can't remember seeing and hearing anything so spectacular for ages (Handel is just so yesterday). All our jaws had to be scooped off the grass at the end.
I don't think I can achieve the same effect with my descant recorder, however many sequins I glue onto myself - although I do have some 'mirror on a role' which I could wrap myself up in (or at least stick onto my old trainers). There are some disco lights somewhere in the basement cupboard. I'll go and practice a few poses with my recorder this evening, and strut around before launching into 'Lord of the Dance' (most of the notes are there now). I'll have to be careful flinging it around, if I'm too flamboyant spittle will fly off. Some fussy members of my audience might be upset.
Watch this space for the stadium tour and album coming soon!
....and cue the 37 Shot Surgical Strike!
Wednesday, 15 July 2009
Expanded Polystyrene and Tombolas
I'm staring at the wreckage of my healthy eating lunch. I had a problem with it, balsamic vinegar dressing looks too much like gravy, and who wants salad with gravy? The remnants are looking rather sad, scattered around messily in one of those horrid expanded polystyrene containers that destroy the world. If you use a real knife and fork, they 'carve' indentations across the bottom. It's a bit strange, not hitting a china plate when you cut your tatty, just a squidgy experience of slicing the soft container. This probably releases minute particles of polystyrene into the salad and has probably given me cancer. So, my lunch has probably helped destroy the world and given me cancer, and it didn't even taste that good.
Plastic is horrid stuff. I've given up drinking wine in plastic cups, finally realising that part of the lovely thing about wine is seeing how the light reflects the colour through the glass, either honeyed shades of white, or blackcurranty red. Holding a plastic cup with an opaque plastic tint doesn't do it for me anymore (unless on a picnic, where different rules apply). If you are at an event where the wine is proffered in plastic, my advice is to ask for a cup of tea in a mug. Someone will probably be quite pleased to have an opportunity to put their feet up in the kitchen while the kettle boils anyway. Make sure you state the 'mug' part, otherwise you are in danger of having more disappointing expanded polystyrene. While you wait for the tea, you can have another couple of goes at losing money on the tombola (you knew you were going to lose anyway, so don't get upset). Which reminds me, once I won a jar of something on a tombola, and my cynical friend smirked (which I attributed to jealousy at the time) and said it was bound to be past its sell by date. She was right. I think there are trolley loads of out-of- date tins and jars going around the country doing tombolas. Suspended in a never- land of backs of cupboards, a year at a time, but at least getting to see the world, albeit slowly.
Plastic is horrid stuff. I've given up drinking wine in plastic cups, finally realising that part of the lovely thing about wine is seeing how the light reflects the colour through the glass, either honeyed shades of white, or blackcurranty red. Holding a plastic cup with an opaque plastic tint doesn't do it for me anymore (unless on a picnic, where different rules apply). If you are at an event where the wine is proffered in plastic, my advice is to ask for a cup of tea in a mug. Someone will probably be quite pleased to have an opportunity to put their feet up in the kitchen while the kettle boils anyway. Make sure you state the 'mug' part, otherwise you are in danger of having more disappointing expanded polystyrene. While you wait for the tea, you can have another couple of goes at losing money on the tombola (you knew you were going to lose anyway, so don't get upset). Which reminds me, once I won a jar of something on a tombola, and my cynical friend smirked (which I attributed to jealousy at the time) and said it was bound to be past its sell by date. She was right. I think there are trolley loads of out-of- date tins and jars going around the country doing tombolas. Suspended in a never- land of backs of cupboards, a year at a time, but at least getting to see the world, albeit slowly.
Tuesday, 14 July 2009
650 million people can't be wrong
I've started to prepare for a trip to India in a couple of weeks time. The ratio of planning that has to be done in relation to the humble mosquito is out of all proportion. My main worry is that if there is a mozzie within about 10 miles, it usually decides to head straight for me, and to tell his mates to come and join the party. I think I must be particularly tasty to mozzies. I've packed a mosquito net, mosquito repellent, another Avon product that the SAS apparently use, lots of long sleeved tops and more tablets than I've ever seen in one place before. So when I saw an advert for a wide brimmed hat with black netting covering it, and helpful drawstring around the neck to prevent the little pests getting in, I was sorely tempted. I am not usually interested in fashion, but even I was worried that it wouldn't be a good look. I also have a worry that if the mozzies were particularly irksome and made me grumpy, I might accidentally yank the drawstring too hard and garrot myself, which wouldn't be a good look either. Maybe a boater, veil and ribbon combo (think Katherine Hepburn) would enhance my appearance more than the Harrison Ford effect? Shame the boater probably wouldn't make it in one piece through the airport luggage handling system.
So, the mosquito, what's the point - apart from being particularly kind and helpful to the protozoan parasite?
'Why all the fuss? I love mosquitos!'
So, the mosquito, what's the point - apart from being particularly kind and helpful to the protozoan parasite?
'Why all the fuss? I love mosquitos!'
Monday, 13 July 2009
Wet Leaves and Swear Words
I was on my usual Sunday morning wander round to the newsagent to get the papers, wearing my favourite wedgy heeled sandals with silly, smooth soles when I slipped on a wet leaf by the bus stop. My legs were thrust well out of their usual loci of movement, and I found myself kneeling on the pavement in a pose not unlike those seen on 'Strictly Come Dancing'. The passengers on the 281 seemed surprised that someone was so desperate for a bus to come, they they had got to their knees. As I was flung to the ground by the evil leaf, I have to confess I emitted a yell of 'f**k' (I don't usually swear, it was the surprise element). I felt quite abashed when I realised that this particular bus stop is immediately outside a convent, and that, being a warm July morning, several windows were open.
My favourite sandals are now too grimy to wear and my favourite knee is feeling a bit sore. My trousers were covered in bits of leaf and dirty puddle water too.
I just hope that no one on the 281 knew me and that the nuns Sunday morning prayers weren't disturbed. Today I will be going out to buy some sensible, flat shoes with laces and soles that can take me up Everest.
It looks harmless enough, but really it wants to break your legs
My favourite sandals are now too grimy to wear and my favourite knee is feeling a bit sore. My trousers were covered in bits of leaf and dirty puddle water too.
I just hope that no one on the 281 knew me and that the nuns Sunday morning prayers weren't disturbed. Today I will be going out to buy some sensible, flat shoes with laces and soles that can take me up Everest.
It looks harmless enough, but really it wants to break your legs
Saturday, 11 July 2009
Encompassing the World
I'm thinking of freeing myself from TV ownership. So many programmes are about doing up your house, moving house or sharing a house with lots of weird people it's become boring. I'm so in love with my radio that I think I'm nearly ready to tell the telly to leave. It's not paying its way, its not funny anymore, it wastes my time and keeps staring at me when I'm lying on the settee. It doesn't do any housework, can't do the gardening and won't clean the car.
I'm going to buy some good speakers for the computer and buy a comfy chair for maximum slumpage comfort (I'm seeing an executive leather affair that tilts back and maybe even has one of those foot rests that pings out when you achieve 45 degrees).
That's just reminded me of one of the most fascinating things I ever did see on TV, back when I was about four. It was on 'Play School' and I think it was through the 'Round Window' - a cunning device to disguise the educational element (I was fooled, were you?). It was a short black and white film of a double decker bus doing the 'tilt-test'. I was transfixed by the bus leaning over, but mostly transfixed by the over sized protractor attached to it, with a swinging arrow indicating the angle of tilt. It is a seriously geeky admission I know, but I think it started an early interest in geometry. I went on to enjoy shopping for maths sets. Other girls wanted matching bra and pant sets, I wanted a matching compass and set square set.
I loved making those flower patterns using only a compass and totally was engrossed by drawing perpendicular lines by marking out little arcs. I know the Greeks (is this where the word 'geek' comes from?) and Egyptians managed to measure the circumference of the earth and probably the distance to the moon with little more, but I was happy drawing a flower.
I'm going to buy some good speakers for the computer and buy a comfy chair for maximum slumpage comfort (I'm seeing an executive leather affair that tilts back and maybe even has one of those foot rests that pings out when you achieve 45 degrees).
That's just reminded me of one of the most fascinating things I ever did see on TV, back when I was about four. It was on 'Play School' and I think it was through the 'Round Window' - a cunning device to disguise the educational element (I was fooled, were you?). It was a short black and white film of a double decker bus doing the 'tilt-test'. I was transfixed by the bus leaning over, but mostly transfixed by the over sized protractor attached to it, with a swinging arrow indicating the angle of tilt. It is a seriously geeky admission I know, but I think it started an early interest in geometry. I went on to enjoy shopping for maths sets. Other girls wanted matching bra and pant sets, I wanted a matching compass and set square set.
I loved making those flower patterns using only a compass and totally was engrossed by drawing perpendicular lines by marking out little arcs. I know the Greeks (is this where the word 'geek' comes from?) and Egyptians managed to measure the circumference of the earth and probably the distance to the moon with little more, but I was happy drawing a flower.
Tuesday, 7 July 2009
Love to Love Me Baby
Driving to work this morning, I was listening to a compilation tape that has spent a lot of time hidden away under a bed. It was quite odd to find out it was the music from my 18th birthday party. 'Whatever happened to the Alessi Brothers?' I mused as I waited for the lights to change. Then Donna Summer started warbling 'Love to Love You Baby' (I hasten to point out this was an already an 'old' track at the point of my 18th birthday) and I remembered that this was the really, really long version. A friend of mine once recalled going to join the toilet queue when it started (remember pre en-suite toilet queues at parties?), waiting ages to go, and coming back down to hear Donna still doing her stuff. I had completely forgotten how naughty her stuff was. I had the passenger window completely open (driver's window still not mended) and was held up in traffic just level with a bus stop where several old ladies were waiting for the 131. Donna was just reaching the 'climax' (and I use the word carefully here) of the lyrics, which caused some surprise to the bus stop people, who must have thought I was doing something quite inappropriate in the car. I tried to make the window go up, but the button on the driver's side doesn't work either, so I smiled bleakly and made sure both hands were visible on the steering wheel.
The person who had made the tape for me was a one eyed ex Hell's Angel, who had quite a lot of metal bits holding his bones together. Once, while giving me and a friend a lift back from some dodgy club in London in his Triumph Spitfire, he exhibited signs of early road rage, waving a monkey wrench around on the slip road of the A3. I spent the rest of the journey thinking about the conundrum of him liking the Alessi Brothers, but ended up singing along anyway.
The person who had made the tape for me was a one eyed ex Hell's Angel, who had quite a lot of metal bits holding his bones together. Once, while giving me and a friend a lift back from some dodgy club in London in his Triumph Spitfire, he exhibited signs of early road rage, waving a monkey wrench around on the slip road of the A3. I spent the rest of the journey thinking about the conundrum of him liking the Alessi Brothers, but ended up singing along anyway.
Sunday, 5 July 2009
Playing to the Camera
The advent of the digital camera appears to have made everyone see everything as a potential photo shoot. We are no longer limited to 24 shots on a film, everyone can click away taking endless pictures of everything. I've seen people taking photos at the end or beginnings of church services, with no respect for the congregation. One thought that some specially arranged candles were set up as a photo opportunity rather than an aid to quiet contemplation before prayer. In a concert recently a couple of members of the audience kept bobbing up and down to photograph the musicians with flash at odd intervals throughout the performance. I also went to a wedding a while ago, and as the bride walked in to the room for the ceremony, all the guests turned round and rather than greeting her with smiles, held up their cameras and took pictures. It was an odd and rather disturbing sight. I've also seen lots of families on holiday where fathers instead of joining in, stand to one side and endlessly point camcorders at their brood, who then become self conscious.
Are we all in danger of never actually living important memories, being so busily tied up in recording them? As you stand aside with your camera, are you actually taking yourself out of the frame in more ways than one?
Are we all in danger of never actually living important memories, being so busily tied up in recording them? As you stand aside with your camera, are you actually taking yourself out of the frame in more ways than one?
Mapping Your Life
I like ordnance survey maps, it's a bit geeky I know, but I love all the information displayed in the twirly contours and winding roads of different colours. There was something quite enjoyable about finding a new symbol on the map and checking the key to find out what it meant. I used to enjoy geography lessons where you had to draw a cross section of land from the map and make a lovely little diagram - which was always a river valley. There is something soothing about rummaging in a pencil case to find the right coloured pencil and doing a bit of careful colouring in and ending up with the predictable blob of blue at the bottom of the valley.
As I flipped through the maps, I realised they reflected most of the summer holidays I had been on from childhood through to recent years. The North coast of Scotland (honeymoon), the New Forest (with the children), the French OS equivalent (cycling in Brittany with friend) and so on. I hadn't realised how much of my holiday history was reflected in the maps. The old maps that my parents owned are a bit brittle and faded, but the cartography looks nicer somehow - they lack the over perfect polish of computer generated artwork. There is also the guaranteed moment of frustration with OS maps when you try to fold them up again in the right way. It's all part of the vibe.
Forget the digital holiday snaps, just have a look at your old maps and enjoy memories of train journeys and tricky bends in roads and beautiful views.
As I flipped through the maps, I realised they reflected most of the summer holidays I had been on from childhood through to recent years. The North coast of Scotland (honeymoon), the New Forest (with the children), the French OS equivalent (cycling in Brittany with friend) and so on. I hadn't realised how much of my holiday history was reflected in the maps. The old maps that my parents owned are a bit brittle and faded, but the cartography looks nicer somehow - they lack the over perfect polish of computer generated artwork. There is also the guaranteed moment of frustration with OS maps when you try to fold them up again in the right way. It's all part of the vibe.
Forget the digital holiday snaps, just have a look at your old maps and enjoy memories of train journeys and tricky bends in roads and beautiful views.
Tuesday, 23 June 2009
Are We Nearly There Yet?
There is nothing quite as nice as checking your train ticket and packing your bag ready for an adventure. I'm off on my hols this evening, an over night train, breakfast in Glasgow, over the Highlands in a little train, across some water where dolphins might follow the ferry and then onto a bus for what must be one of the most beautiful bus rides anywhere.
On the wall, opposite my desk at work, I have a calendar and I've been gazing wistfully at June, which happens to have a photo of where I'm going. It will be quite strange to have been looking at the idyllic scene at work one day and overnight, to step inside the photo. I wonder if anyone in my office will look hard enough to see me on the horizon, just above Friday, 5th June? I think I might actually be a little bit off the picture to the right, where there's a join in the wallpaper. You might have to catch me as I walk across from the bus stop - I'll wave.
Another calendar in the office has a lovely photograph for July. Somewhere we used to go on family holidays when the children were little - a craggy beach in Cornwall. Flipping through the pages I find myself looking forward into the past. Buckets and spades, damming beaches, body boarding on the waves, cups of tea and pasties on the cliff top in the late afternoon sun, skin tingling from the sea. Dusting sand out from between your toes before getting back in the car and bumping along the field and back onto country lanes.
It won't matter any more if the computer keeps hanging, if the new multi function machine actually does less than the old printer, or whether the drive to greater efficiency is just slowing us all down.
I'll be waiting to see where the calendar on the wall is taking me next.
On the wall, opposite my desk at work, I have a calendar and I've been gazing wistfully at June, which happens to have a photo of where I'm going. It will be quite strange to have been looking at the idyllic scene at work one day and overnight, to step inside the photo. I wonder if anyone in my office will look hard enough to see me on the horizon, just above Friday, 5th June? I think I might actually be a little bit off the picture to the right, where there's a join in the wallpaper. You might have to catch me as I walk across from the bus stop - I'll wave.
Another calendar in the office has a lovely photograph for July. Somewhere we used to go on family holidays when the children were little - a craggy beach in Cornwall. Flipping through the pages I find myself looking forward into the past. Buckets and spades, damming beaches, body boarding on the waves, cups of tea and pasties on the cliff top in the late afternoon sun, skin tingling from the sea. Dusting sand out from between your toes before getting back in the car and bumping along the field and back onto country lanes.
It won't matter any more if the computer keeps hanging, if the new multi function machine actually does less than the old printer, or whether the drive to greater efficiency is just slowing us all down.
I'll be waiting to see where the calendar on the wall is taking me next.
Saturday, 20 June 2009
100th Birthdays and Subconscious Brilliance
I went to the newsagent's round the corner to buy a birthday card this morning. I was looking for a 'happy 40th' but noticed, at the top of the column of cards, was a stack of eight identical 'Happy 100th Birthday' cards. I thought the newsagent was optimitstic that there would be 8 people celebrating their 100th birthdays in the local area before the cards go a bit off white/ (you know what's coming now) taupe/ecru/bamboo/cream. Or, as soon as one person hits 100 in the area, they'll be getting eight identical cards. They had wisely avoided the blue or pink themes, and had hedged their bets with a brown and gold effort.
The fortieth birthday party was an extremely cool affair, it was in fact a music festival. How impressive is that? Being confident enough to know you have so many friends, you can make a whole music festival happen.
Sadly I couldn't stay long as I had to get to a fundraising quiz night, where my piece de resitance was knowing that the Isle of Wight was called Vectis by the Romans. It's odd, I didn't even know I knew it, it just happened. How many other useful things do I not know I know, and how can I unlock them (other than by persistent attendance at quiz nights, waiting for my subconscious to jump into action?). The GP sitting next to me was also surprised he knew about Pixie someone being the current number one. I think we should all go to more quiz nights, we might eventually find that we are fluent in Sanscrit or something seriously impressive. In the end we came second and won some wine, obviously my one useful contribution made all the difference there.
I've run out of ideas, maybe I should go to the pub quiz tonight
The fortieth birthday party was an extremely cool affair, it was in fact a music festival. How impressive is that? Being confident enough to know you have so many friends, you can make a whole music festival happen.
Sadly I couldn't stay long as I had to get to a fundraising quiz night, where my piece de resitance was knowing that the Isle of Wight was called Vectis by the Romans. It's odd, I didn't even know I knew it, it just happened. How many other useful things do I not know I know, and how can I unlock them (other than by persistent attendance at quiz nights, waiting for my subconscious to jump into action?). The GP sitting next to me was also surprised he knew about Pixie someone being the current number one. I think we should all go to more quiz nights, we might eventually find that we are fluent in Sanscrit or something seriously impressive. In the end we came second and won some wine, obviously my one useful contribution made all the difference there.
I've run out of ideas, maybe I should go to the pub quiz tonight
Friday, 19 June 2009
Falling for Feathered Friends
I flew a hawk this week, at a conservancy. It was quite strange, because carrying it around on a thick, leather gauntlet meant we were on eye level with each other. After a short while, I started chatting to it, then strangely, felt like we had bonded.
We learned how to fling it forward into flight and then take a chick's leg out of a shoulder bag and wait for it to come back for its snack. The chicks' legs felt a bit spooky when you rummaged in the bag, but I thought I would be brave and just get on with it. At the end, the hawk's treat was to have a full baby chick to eat. As the tutor flipped the whole chick casually onto my gauntlet I had to look away, like I was having an injection. I could hear rather gruesome tearing noises as the hawk tucked in, and saw the faces of those watching contort in disgust. When I was fairly sure he had finished, I looked round to see some chick gore had splashed onto my mac - I was reminded, momentarily, of Jackie Kennedy with the brains of her husband splattered over her Chanel suit.
Moving swiftly on, I also flew a very large and exotic owl, who looked extremely fluffy and appealing, and a pale barn owl - I had never noticed how wonderful the freckled pattern across their wings was until I saw it at full stretch in flight. The vultures were unexpectedly very appealing and wore an ernest expression coming towards you, landing with a hefty 'plonk' on the glove.
My all time favourite, though, has to be the bizarre Secretary Bird. This spindly, awkward creature has very long eye lashes, clown-style orange painted face, frilly crown of feathers sticking up on its head, and the thinnest legs I've ever seen. Down to the knees it has black feathers that look like it's wearing knickerbockers. When it runs it scampers along flicking its legs forward in a brisk, elongated goose step. It was such a fragile looking thing it was a bit of a surprise to find out it killed snakes by kicking them. It must pack quite a punch in those thin pins. The one we met was quite tame and kept bumping into the keeper when she turned around.
It was tall, it was clumsy, it looked funny and it ran funny - you couldn't help but fall in love.
We learned how to fling it forward into flight and then take a chick's leg out of a shoulder bag and wait for it to come back for its snack. The chicks' legs felt a bit spooky when you rummaged in the bag, but I thought I would be brave and just get on with it. At the end, the hawk's treat was to have a full baby chick to eat. As the tutor flipped the whole chick casually onto my gauntlet I had to look away, like I was having an injection. I could hear rather gruesome tearing noises as the hawk tucked in, and saw the faces of those watching contort in disgust. When I was fairly sure he had finished, I looked round to see some chick gore had splashed onto my mac - I was reminded, momentarily, of Jackie Kennedy with the brains of her husband splattered over her Chanel suit.
Moving swiftly on, I also flew a very large and exotic owl, who looked extremely fluffy and appealing, and a pale barn owl - I had never noticed how wonderful the freckled pattern across their wings was until I saw it at full stretch in flight. The vultures were unexpectedly very appealing and wore an ernest expression coming towards you, landing with a hefty 'plonk' on the glove.
My all time favourite, though, has to be the bizarre Secretary Bird. This spindly, awkward creature has very long eye lashes, clown-style orange painted face, frilly crown of feathers sticking up on its head, and the thinnest legs I've ever seen. Down to the knees it has black feathers that look like it's wearing knickerbockers. When it runs it scampers along flicking its legs forward in a brisk, elongated goose step. It was such a fragile looking thing it was a bit of a surprise to find out it killed snakes by kicking them. It must pack quite a punch in those thin pins. The one we met was quite tame and kept bumping into the keeper when she turned around.
It was tall, it was clumsy, it looked funny and it ran funny - you couldn't help but fall in love.
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
Bed Time Bliss
Oh, the deep joy of the lie in. Wake up, think you've got to go to work, then a wave of pure happiness washes over you as you realise you can roll over and doze off again. You can indulge in a little concern about whether you should nip downstairs to put the kettle on and retreat back into duck-down heaven with a cup of tea. If you do, make sure the tea is just the right shade of brown, which is a little stronger than for the rest of the day. (It's helpful to have a bed time assistant who's good at taking instructions and can do this for you).
Bed-time happiness is down to the knack of buying the best bedding. You spend a lot of your life in bed, so don't be scared to indulge. When buying bedding, find the duvet and pillows that most closely resemble clouds. The bliss of your head sinking into your pillow as the edges come up and caress your face is worth every penny. Don't be alarmed by that off-putting over-tight packaging, it's fun to tear open the plastic and watch your pillow or duvet inflate out like a life-raft. The duvet should waft up when you snuggle in, but need batting down gently with an elbow to ensure uninterrupted air flow for breathing (this avoids those tiresome help-I'm-being-suffocated-by-a-monster dreams).
The mattress should make you feel like an astronaut floating in space, all your worries sinking into those handy pockets with the springs in (it's been proved in laboratories in America that they can't get back out again).
If you lie on your side to get to sleep, you should choose your wallpaper with care, as you need something relaxing to look at. Children have novelty wallpaper with teddy bears and cartoon characters on it. Perhaps adults should have wallpaper with old masters on it, Leonardo Da Vinci would be delighted to know he could have a job anytime with B&Q, turning the Mona Lisa into a printed motif for 'finest' wall coverings. It would make decorating fun too, can you get the two halves of that smile lined up properly, or will she forever look like she has forgotten something at the shops and is chewing her lip? Regular patterned wallpaper should be avoided - it's annoying when you're going to sleep as you can't help but make geometric shapes by mentally joining up the flowers/blobs etc. That's too stimulating for bed time (and I'm sure you'll agree, the last thing any of us need at bed-time is over-stimulation).
Don't be disheartened, I don't always look this good in the mornings, I'd had time to do my make-up before the photo was taken.
Bed-time happiness is down to the knack of buying the best bedding. You spend a lot of your life in bed, so don't be scared to indulge. When buying bedding, find the duvet and pillows that most closely resemble clouds. The bliss of your head sinking into your pillow as the edges come up and caress your face is worth every penny. Don't be alarmed by that off-putting over-tight packaging, it's fun to tear open the plastic and watch your pillow or duvet inflate out like a life-raft. The duvet should waft up when you snuggle in, but need batting down gently with an elbow to ensure uninterrupted air flow for breathing (this avoids those tiresome help-I'm-being-suffocated-by-a-monster dreams).
The mattress should make you feel like an astronaut floating in space, all your worries sinking into those handy pockets with the springs in (it's been proved in laboratories in America that they can't get back out again).
If you lie on your side to get to sleep, you should choose your wallpaper with care, as you need something relaxing to look at. Children have novelty wallpaper with teddy bears and cartoon characters on it. Perhaps adults should have wallpaper with old masters on it, Leonardo Da Vinci would be delighted to know he could have a job anytime with B&Q, turning the Mona Lisa into a printed motif for 'finest' wall coverings. It would make decorating fun too, can you get the two halves of that smile lined up properly, or will she forever look like she has forgotten something at the shops and is chewing her lip? Regular patterned wallpaper should be avoided - it's annoying when you're going to sleep as you can't help but make geometric shapes by mentally joining up the flowers/blobs etc. That's too stimulating for bed time (and I'm sure you'll agree, the last thing any of us need at bed-time is over-stimulation).
Don't be disheartened, I don't always look this good in the mornings, I'd had time to do my make-up before the photo was taken.
In Praise of Meringue
I went to a garden party at the weekend, and there was a plate piled high with a pyramid of the most scrumptious, voluptuous meringues, oozing cream from their middles. Because of the usual meringue ‘sandwich’ format you can eat four, and actually, you’ve only had two. Pop a couple of strawberries on the side and it’s one of your five a day, healthy eating meals. Add to that the fact that they are mainly air, and there is no reason you should ever stop eating them.
Some creative culinary types make them into splendid pavlovas. I know why they’re called pavlovas too, because you start salivating at the very thought. Acres of twirly, snowy landscape, floating on a sea of fluffy cream, with little brown crusty bits just waiting to be tweaked off and nibbled as antipasti.
The perfect meringue will not be bleached white like the disappointing ones in bakers’ shops, but homely off white/taupe/ecru etc (can’t get away from Adrian Mole’s socks these days, sorry), with crunchy outers and slightly gooey innards.
There is nothing akin to the joy of the diabetic coma inducing sweetness and cloud like fluffiness of the meringue.
All hail the meringue!
Some creative culinary types make them into splendid pavlovas. I know why they’re called pavlovas too, because you start salivating at the very thought. Acres of twirly, snowy landscape, floating on a sea of fluffy cream, with little brown crusty bits just waiting to be tweaked off and nibbled as antipasti.
The perfect meringue will not be bleached white like the disappointing ones in bakers’ shops, but homely off white/taupe/ecru etc (can’t get away from Adrian Mole’s socks these days, sorry), with crunchy outers and slightly gooey innards.
There is nothing akin to the joy of the diabetic coma inducing sweetness and cloud like fluffiness of the meringue.
All hail the meringue!
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