Curliness

I have an 8 year old grandson, he's a good lad but he is a very fussy eater.

Going back some years, there were few problems and he would eat a wide variety things. In fact he once swallowed a 20p coin whilst imitating his grandfather's magic trick!

But now, much to his mother's despair he will only eat a small number of food items, mostly consisting of reconstituted chicken in its various guises, such as "Chicken Nuggets" and "Chicken Goujons" (they're chicken nuggets for posh kids). Oh and baked beans.

As far as real vegetables are concerned, offer him anything remotely green on his plate, and you’d  think you had served him the severed head of John the Baptist !

Furthermore, and I know this is absurd, he even winces at that staple of most children’s diets today, chips !!!

But here's an interesting thing. Out there is a particularly strange food commodity, designed less for nutritional value than to make the producers lots of money, called “Curly Fries”. They're basically nothing more than thin curled chips as far as I can see, and my grandson loves them.

So you can take some thin chips, deep fry them, then add a final flurry of curliness and they suddenly become irresistible to him !

I wonder how they do it ? Is it something similar to how you can curl paper by pulling it against a knife edge, or perhaps they pass an electric current through them. Have they used genetically modified potatoes with a curly gene added? I just don’t know.

So would the novelty of curliness work with other things he isn't keen on, I asked myself ?

I know there are curly kales and cabbages, but I don't grow them, so this year I have produced just the thing to try out on him.........

                                              Curly Runner Beans.

Don't ask me why they've grown like this, I haven't clue. Maybe they were too close to the spring onions.

The Invisible Man

Had to take the car in for repair last Monday.  I’d booked an appointment the previous Thursday, but after giving the man at the reception desk my details, he tells me they don’t know anything about me.

“I did ring.....honest.... last Thursday “, I plead.

“Who took your call” ? he snapped.

Well it was a Monday morning, and there was a long queue of demanding people. I’ve been there myself many times, before I retired, so I forgave him.

“It was a girl, but  I didn’t ask her name”, I answered, quite calmly considering.

“Well whoever it was hasn’t booked you in”, he replied, with a thought bubble above his head saying, “You lying old git”.

Was I that insignificant that she’d forgot about me, just seconds after my phone call ?

I suppose she could've just been dumped by her boyfriend, in a text. Or, she’d just done a pregnancy test and it was positive. Or, perhaps she was working her notice and only had the next day left to work, so “bollocks to it”, she’d thought.

Luckily they had a spare slot and could fit me in that afternoon, he told me.

Hooray !!! I do exist and I do have significance in this world after all

“Thank you so much”, I gushed, “ and what’s your name again” ?   

“Charlie”, he replied,  I wasn’t making that mistake again.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Later that same day. and queuing at the same reception desk to pick up my keys, I'd stood back a little to give the bloke in front some privacy with his transaction.

It was obvious to anyone I was waiting in line, but that didn’t stop one young woman, viewing Ipod, walking straight past me to stand nearer the desk than I was.

No......she’s not going to....... is she ?. She must be a member of staff......surely.

But  when the man at reception asked who was next, she cheekily staked her claim, without even looking up.

Not bloody likely !!! I thought, saying quickly, “Sorry, but I think it’s my turn..........I was stood over there and you walked past me”.

There was an audible suction slurp as she slid her eyes from the Ipod, and trained them on me.

“Ooo I’m ever so sorry luv, I didn’t see you there”, she said, with a face like she'd just regurgitated stomach acid.

Yeah right ! I thought, in her speak.

So now I’m invisible as well as insignificant  am I !

High on a hill.

I've found I have a problem with one particular vegetable, and that's Broccoli.

I'll be the first to admit I’m not that successful at growing it. The pigeons devastate the young plants, then aphids get them later and even if they survive to maturity, they usually bolt.

But that's not the problem.

Broccoli also plays havoc with my digestive system, and produces enough wind to be a worry for those concerned about levels of methane getting into the atmosphere.

But that's not the problem either.

It raised its head the other day when Mrs Netall made a batch of broccoli soup, something  she does regularly, and which is usually delicious. Unfortunately on this one occasion it tasted really really strongly of broccoli, so much so that I thought the broccoli was off.

Now as all husband know, criticising their wife’s cooking is not for the faint hearted, but sometimes it has to be done and the best way is to use a little subtlety. I didn’t want to be blunt and say it was too strong, as she would have taken this as a slight on her culinary abilities and used me as target practice for her knife throwing skills.

So what could I say, and how could I say it ?

If the soup had been made of carrot, onion, leek, or any other of the thousands of vegetables that soup can be made of, there would have been absolutely no problem at all.

I could have simply said, “This soups delicious dear, but don’t you think it’s a little more carrot-y, (onion-y, leek-y) than  usual”, and hoped for the best.

But there lay my problem you see, because you just can’t do that with broccoli can you ! Have a go at saying broccoli-y, it sounds like you’re trying to bloody yodel!

So, all together now..."High on a hill there's a lonely goatherd...Broccoli-y, Broccoli-y, Broccoli-y-oo"

In the end I just kept quiet and ate it.

P.S.
As an after thought I think I'd better avoid celery and khorabi soup as well.

Getting a bit philosophical.

In Plato’s theory of Idealism, all objects have an idealised form. Take a table for example, there are many types of table but they all have similarities that make them tables, therefore it could be argued that there is a sort of  “tableness” belonging to them all.

So what about garden hoes, (as opposed to the one third of a Santa’s laugh type of hoes), do they have “hoeness” ? 

If they have, then it would seem that the gods have got the width bit wrong.

Because search as I may, all the ones I’ve found are  too narrow, and inadequate for my war of attrition against returning weeds in the recently cleared areas of the allotment.

Just days after clearing an area, the weeds, especially grass seedlings, are back and a 5 inch wide blade just isn’t big enough for the job.

So at the risk of upsetting all the Platonists out there I have created my own, with extra width, a sort of Superhoe you might say with a 20 inch blade. One push is now equal to 4 shoves with the old one.

Superhoe

Thankfully I have very light soil which lends itself to easy hoeing, and this is what the plot looked like last Friday after giving it a good going over with Superhoe.

The plot

The question is, does it still qualify as a hoe in the Platonic sense ? It has a handle and a blade, but it looks more like it should be used for cutting hay or something. 

If it doesn’t there’s not much I can do about it is there, so hey hoe I’ll just get on with the weeding then and not worry too much about it.

Doppleganger

I do admire all those brave bloggers out there who openly identify themselves on the internet, but unfortunately I’m not one of them. Being a shy person I hide behind a veil of anonymity on this blog, and all I dare give  is a shadowy image for a profile picture.

If you find this disappointing then I’m sorry, but I can assure you  I am real, and these are real happenings on and around a real allotment somewhere in North Yorkshire, England.

However, as a consolation I would like to offer a tantalising glimpse of what I actually look like, and a recent trip to the seaside town of Filey provided just that opportunity.

The day started with a walk through the formal gardens, that had endless bright but boring flower beds.

Then, like a shimmering oasis in a horticultural desert, I spotted an unusual flower bed on one of the grassed areas. Here, someone had created a miniature annual flower meadow full of impressionistic colour, that was a beauty to behold.

 

 

The insects thought so too.

We then strolled along the sea front and had a coffee in one of the cafes, whilst watching the  gulls harrying the holidaymakers. Alas our peace was shattered by a small boy at the next table, who much to his mother’s displeasure was jumping up and down on the said table and chucking his chips everywhere. So we moved on.

But what the hell has this got to do with what he looks like ? I hear you ask.

Well just round the next corner, we happened to pass a very famous television gardening personality who I think looks like a bit like me.

Was it Alan Tichmarsh, who’s waxwork model in Madame Tussauds has to have lipstick wiped off it twice a week? If only.

Or even that epitome of orgasmic organic fertility for some of the ladies, the mighty Monty Don ?

No kind people, it was neither of these, it was the wonderfully ebullient Christine Walkden, coming in the other direction.

Sorry I didn't get a picture, but she was off like a shot being pulled along by a very large dog.