Wednesday

For supper Ann had made what our grandchildren refer to as 'spagblog' (spaghetti Bolognese), see above photo.


Now I've got to backtrack a little to about five p.m. when Ann called me up from my cellar to partake of a cuppa. I was also surprised to be presented with the below illustrated profiterole, of which Ann had just made a batch. She hadn't made these for some years, but with the aid of an old notebook had remembered the recipe perfectly.

Now back to supper - pudding was two of the profiteroles with orange segments arranged in a fan round them- I'm afraid I'd eaten one of the profiteroles and some of the orange before I remembered to photograph them - but I'm sure you get the idea.

Been an interesting day. Up early for morning service at which I read the first lesson (by request of Crowbard this was from the first chapter of the epistle of Saint James, v. 19 to the end).

 Earlier in the week I'd been dragooned (by the Dean's wife) into manning the Church this afternoon. As it's half term she expected an influx of teenager lads who play pool (part of the Porch Project), and who have recently come up with the sport of riding up and down the aisle on their scooters (this has caused a good deal of damage to the early tiled floor at the end of the nave). I was told off to ban all bicycle, skate board, and scooter riding.
Also, as the weather is now a little warmer we were expecting a few tourists in the Church. I wasn't too certain about the first part of my duties - Ann suggested I tell the teenagers to get off their scooters, and if they didn't do so instantly to shout at them. This worked far better than I'd anticipated, partly I suspect, because I'm blessed with a particularly raucous below of rage, and fairly colourful phraseology when necessary, although I should perhaps say that it's been a good many years since I've had to use either of these talents. It turns out that today's teenage yob is a fairly sensitive creature who doesn't at all like to be shouted at. Of the dozen or so who turned up (all on scooters) only one of them (and he the youngest - about twelve I'd think) had the temerity to say "Why?".  The answer to this, of course,  was  "Because I %&**£" well say so" with the volume notched up a decibel or so.   I then called up all the rest and told them why - damage to an ancient floor.  The only problem with this was that I'd also been acting as guide to the only three tourists who'd turned up - all elderly (well, about my vintage) English gentlewomen, to whom I'd just previously been cooing in the approved turtle dove tones one uses to tourists who may, with luck eventually stick a quid or so in the old oak chest near the door.    It turned out that I needn't have worried. Elderly English gentlewomen are much better at coping with roars of rage that teenage lads. In fact they seemed to thoroughly approve of my treatment of teenage yobs in church  on scooters. The phrase "That's the stuff to give the troops, well that sort of yobbo anyway" about summed up their attitude together with nods of approval. Later on in the afternoon I met the Dean and warned him that he'd better be expecting complaints from the lads  of having been given earache by yours truly.
Oh well,  as they used to tell me, variety's the spice of life.......

Good night all.