Christopher Wren + RATM "Occupy" my head..

I do not have any strong opinions regarding the recent "Occupy..." protests.

The odd thought pops into my brain, such as:

- Rich v poor has been going on for centuries e.g. Peasants Revolt 1381

- When faced with legal eviction notices, why didn't the protesters at St Pauls, claim Sanctuary

- Ironically they accepted help from The Church of England, one of the wealthiest landowners in the UK

- I thought the whole premise of The American Dream, was that you start with nothing and end up with everything

- Rage Against the Machine managed to shut down Wall Street in a day

Like I said, just odd thoughts.

What I do find annoying, is that whenever the protests are reported on, the following poem pops into my head and stays there.

Christopher Wren by Hugh Chesterman (1928)

Clever men like Christopher Wren 
Only occur just now & then.

No one expects, in perpetuity

Architects of his ingenuity.

No, never a cleverer dipped his pen

Than clever Sir Christopher - Christopher Wren.
With his chaste designs on classical lines.

His elegant curves and neat inclines.

For all day long he'd measure and limn

Till the ink gave out or the light grew dim:
And if plan seemed rather Baroque or too "Queen Anne"

(As plans well may).

He'd take a look at his pattern Book

And do it again in a different way.
Every day of the week was filled

With a church to mend or a church to build

And never an hour went by but when

London needed Christopher Wren.

"Brides in Fleet Street lacks a spire,"

“Mary-le-Bow a nave and a choir"

"Please to send the plans complete

For a new St Stephen's, Coleman Street"

"Pewterers' Hall is far too tall

Kindly lower the North West wall".

"Salisbury Square - decidedly bare,

Can you put one of your churches there?"

"Dome of St Paul's is not yet done.

Dean's been waiting since half-past one."

London Calling, from ten to ten

London calling, Christopher Wren.

11/11/11

Why the poppy?

Scarlet corn poppies (papaver rhoeas) grow naturally in disturbed earth throughout Western Europe and were the only plants that grew in the battle-scarred fields of Northern France and Flanders during and after WW1 

In May 1915, John McCrae wrote a poem to commemorate his fallen comrades Click Here

In Flanders Field

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields

In 1918, this poem inspired an American professor and humanitarian, Moina Michael to write a poetic response and to start raising funds for ex-soldiers by selling silk poppies. 

We Shall keep the faith

Oh! you who sleep in Flanders Fields,

Sleep sweet - to rise anew!

We caught the torch you threw

And holding high, we keep the Faith

With All who died.

We cherish, too, the poppy red

That grows on fields where valor led;

It seems to signal to the skies

That blood of heroes never dies,

But lends a lustre to the red

Of the flower that blooms above the dead

In Flanders Fields.

And now the Torch and Poppy Red

We wear in honor of our dead.

Fear not that ye have died for naught;

We'll teach the lesson that ye wroughtIn Flanders Fields.

In Flanders Fields we fought

by Moina Michael, November 1918 Click Here

The poppy became the US national emblem of remembrance in 1920, and 1921 in the UK. 
In the UK, "The Poppy Appeal" is run by The Royal British Legion http://www.poppy.org.uk/

Last year the appeal raised £36million.  This year the target is £40million

"Well you can criticise your country but you should at least be grateful that you live in a country that allows you to do so. Buy a poppy".....Ricky Gervais (Twitter 6th Nov 2011)

Show your gratitude, show some respect. Buy a Poppy, it's not going to kill you

Internet Interpretation

A graphical interpretation of the internet.

Obviously designed to look like synapsing nerves,

but a beautiful design

Be careful what you Wish for....

Throughout my working life, it has always been a standing joke amongst my colleagues, that once we reach a certain age, we would all hope to develop some ailment which would enable us to retire early.....

On April Fools Day, I was diagnosed with M.S.

Multiple Sclerosis was not an illnes that had ever been on my personal radar.
Thyroid problems, due to family history or Type 2 Diabetes with age or, as a smoker, the certainty of Lung Cancer. These had all lurked in my brain as possibilities.
But never M.S.
The ”Grieving Process” kicked in.
Shock, anger, disbelief and acceptance, I’ve been through them all in a very short space of time.  I’m still going through the stages, fluctuating between disbelief and acceptance, which is odd, as they’re so opposite each other.
But everything at the moment, is odd.
The past year has been odd and getting more surreal as time goes by.
There’s so much going through my mind I need to write it down.
Maybe then everything will make sense or form a pattern or at least, the jumble of thoughts will leave my head, once they are expressed. 

The emotional side of me still thinks the Neuro Team have got it wrong.
The logical side of me knows they didn’t.
Hence the disbelief and acceptance.  I’ve seen the MRI result and had all the white blotches explained.  I’ve had the pain and transient blindness of Optic Neuritis associated with MS.  I get constant vertigo due to my Balance Centre now being nothing more than the largest of the white blotches.  And my right leg doesn’t feel or behave as if it still belongs to me.
Yet I can lie in bed, awake at silly o’clock, and create all sorts of reasons and explanations for these symptoms and the abnormal MRI scan.
At the same time, I feel relief to have an actual diagnosis that explains why I haven’t felt well for the past 18 months and that it’s not my fault.
Strangely, I feel comforted by the fact that this illnes was not caused by anything I’ve done or not done.

When I was sick and lay abed

Recently, I haven't been well.  I haven't been able to work.  
The novelty of having loads of spare time, wears off and 

boredom rears it's ugly head.

As the normal daily routines have disappeared, my body 

clock has gone haywire. 
Enforced daytime rests have resulted in sleepless nights, 
when it becomes all too easy to slip into the depths
of self pity.

In an attempt to ward off maudlin thoughts, I try to dredge  

my mind for happy memories.


From the age of 6, I was given elocution lessons, at school.
Every week I would have to memorise a poem and then recite

it to my tutor. 
Miss Cox managed to turn, what sounds like an arduous task,

into one of joy and enthusiasm.
I would look forward to the lessons.
As I lie awake at night, I can still remember the poems.
This one seems apt.


                 

The Land of Counterpane 

When I was sick and lay abed,
I had two pillows at my head,
And all my toys beside me lay
To keep me happy all the day.

And sometimes for an hour or so
I watched my leaden soldiers go,
With different uniforms and drills,
Among the bedclothes, though the hills;

And sometimes sent my ships in fleets
All up and down among the sheets;
Or brought my trees and houses out,
And planted cities all about.

I was the giant great and still
That sits upon the pillow-hill,
And sees before him, dale and plain,
The pleasant Land of Counterpane. 

 Robert Louis Stevenson (1850–1894).  A Child’s Garden of Verses 

Making Plum Jam

Jam Adventure

I have somehow managed to acquire a second allotment. It's a long story which I might bore everybody with at some point.

This new allotment has a plethora of fruit trees. Apples, Pears, Damsons and Plums.

As you walk around the garden you hear a frequent thudding noise, as the fruit drops to the ground. A terrible waste.

So I decided to pick and use as much as possible.

The apples and pears are consumed quite readily by the family.

Only problem being that there are 3 Plum trees, each yielding 10-12lb of fruit, all ripe at the same time.

You can only give away so many plums, before people start to avoid you and there is only so much Plum wine you can make with 3 demijohns.

Which led me the possibility of making Jam!

I studied Latin at school instead of Cookery.

So I know that Plums are called Prunus but I've never made jam.

I did the Google thing and found 2,890,000 results for Plum Jam recipes.

Dream on!! I wasn't going to read through all of those trying to decipher which was a good usable recipe and which was utter nonsense and was about to give up, when I discovered THE BOOK

It belonged to my mother and it's called:

"Preserves and Preserving" by Olive Odell (published by Macdonald Educational)

Copyrighted by WI Books Ltd 1978

I'm probably wrong, but in my mind the Women's Institute and Jam are synonymous.

This book proves me right. It is a wonderful book. Easy to follow recipes, lovely photos, metric and imperial measures....and it tells you how much stuff you're likely to end up with!

It also explains to Jam Virgins, like me, all about Pectin and Setting Points and why you need all the different sugars and paraphernalia.

In addition, the book contains useful tips for entering produce into shows and competitions - I don't think so!

The Plum Jam recipe looked simple enough, so I had a go.

Most of the equipment needed, I already had - an aluminium Preserving Pan (courtesy of my Mum), Scales, Measuring Jug, Wooden Spoon,+ Slotted Steel Spoon.

I reckoned I could live without a Sugar Thermometer and a wide-necked Funnel.

Big Problem!! No Jam Jars!

God Bless Ikea, is all I can say.

I halved the quantities, as I didn't think I could cope with 10lb of jam, especially if it was a disaster. In fact there might have been less than half of everything, who knows.

I have a somewhat Cavalier Attitude in the kitchen and am renown for functioning on "ish"

I did kind of follow the recipe.

I used:

3lb (1.5kg) Plums

3lb (1.5kg) Preserving Sugar

1/2 pint (300ml) Water

This is what I did:

Removed the stones from the plums - you're supposed to half them, but by the time I got the stones out, they were in bits anyway

Put them in a pan with the water and simmered until the fruit was soft. At this point I took out as many skins as possible as I loathe jam with skins in.

I took the pan off the heat and then stirred in the sugar, until it dissolved.

Returned it to the heat and brought it to the boil and let it boil until the Setting Point was reached. I skimmed off any scum with the slotted spoon.

Put the jam into warmed jam jars. I had scolded out the jars with boiling water, which was hazardous.

I didn't use those funny little waxed paper disks on top of the jam because the jars I bought had proper screw lids

The Setting Point thing freaked me out at first. The easiest way to judge it, according to the book, is to put a teaspoon of the boiling jam onto a cold saucer, wait 1 minute for it to cool, then push the surface of the blob with your finger. If the surface wrinkles, then the Setting Point has been reached. Very scientific.

The Pectin is the stuff in fruit which makes the jam set - the sticky stuff. Some fruit has more Pectin than others. Plums have loads.

My children won't touch any jam unless it's shop bought Strawberry.

I made my Plum jam 3 days ago and it's all been eaten.

WooooHoooo!!

The Way Through the Woods

The Way through the Woods

THEY shut the road through the woods Seventy years ago. Weather and rain have undone it again, And now you would never know There was once a road through the woods Before they planted the trees. It is underneath the coppice and heath, And the thin anemones. Only the keeper sees That, where the ring-dove broods, And the badgers roll at ease, There was once a road through the woods. Yet, if you enter the woods Of a summer evening late, When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools Where the otter whistles his mate, (They fear not men in the woods, Because they see so few.) You will hear the beat of a horse's feet, And the swish of a skirt in the dew, Steadily cantering through The misty solitudes, As though they perfectly knew The old lost road through the woods. But there is no road through the woods.