The Cap Of Maintenance

Last Wednesday it was forecast to be 34 degrees in London, which is 93 point something. We had planned to go and see the diary exhibition at Somerset House (and did actually go the next day - very interesting) but then we suddenly thought: we are free agents; we don't need to go anywhere; we can just stay in the flat with all the windows open. (Poor Daughter 2 had to go to work, but fortunately she can walk there.)

So that's what we did. We lounged around and read our books and watched a bit of television. These are the husband's feet, not mine. It was actually very pleasant and peaceful.


What was on television was the State Opening Of Parliament, which I've never watched before, having been a working woman and then a retired woman with better things to do. But actually it was riveting in a way - the slightly hilarious way of thinking: what on earth must other nations think of us, with all that pageantry and silly cloaks and hats and things IN 34 DEGREES??? Velvet! Ermine! Wigs! Crown! (though the Queen didn't actually wear the Crown; she had a flowery hat).

Here's the throne on which in due course she sat, with Prince Charles by her side, to read out The Queen's Speech, which was all about what "my government" plans to do. I must say, she's in good nick for 91. She wouldn't exactly get a place in the Royal Shakespeare Company for the excitingness of her delivery, but she managed it all without faltering and never turned over two pages of her little booklet at once.

The best bit, however, was when things were processed in: the Crown (ok), the Sword (well, I suppose it's traditional) and then the Cap Of Maintenance.


The Cap Of Maintenance? Why had I never heard of the Cap Of Maintenance? It's a velvet and ermine sort of pudding basin, originally given to Henry VII by the Pope. I can't believe that this is the original one - it looks too pristine. Anyway, here it is, being borne in on a stick and solemnly handed from one chap to another.

And here it is, having done its duty of... sitting on a stick... being reverently taken out afterwards to its private car.


Why do I not have a Cap Of Maintenance? Wouldn't it improve life (on cooler days)? You'd heave the vacuum cleaner out of the cupboard to do a bit of cleaning, first popping on your Cap Of Maintenance, and the happy hours of Maintaining would fly past. Then, when appropriate, you'd pass it on to your husband to do a spot of DIY. So useful. (Actually, since his retirement, I've passed on the vacuuming to Mr L; he hasn't reciprocated with the DIY. Wisely.)

Daughter 2's husband has been in Toronto for some weeks with his theatre group, Showstopper. This bit of her mantelpiece shows a slice of their lives: a scan of the future Granddaughter-the-Youngest; a Showstopper leaflet; a little house (she's an architect);  my parents' silver (plated) teapot and a plant.

Art

While in London, we visited the Summer Exhibition, which was as usual full of works of art which bewildered us - as well as others which we enjoyed. This, for example, I liked - I admired the sentiment (you just have to go on, don't you?) though I've just discovered that it's a quote from a Beckett novel, so it's not original to the artist. The background is very intricately painted: it looks like tiny rolled-up pieces of coloured paper stuck together, but it's not. So I admire the neatness and the industry. Would I, however, pay £35,000 for it? Hmm.

This looks, as Son-in-Law 1 said when I sent its photo, like Grandson's blackboard when he's rubbed out what he's written. It's just as blurred as it looks here. It's called "Ancestor Worship" and could be yours for £128,000. I have no idea what it's about.

This one was beautifully painted, so I admire it, though wouldn't want it in my sitting room.

It seems to feature lots of Mickey Mouses. Mice. I can't remember what it cost, but this one...

called "Red Over Black In Charred Frames", was £24,000. It didn't seem universally popular among the visitors.

This was a tiny and (to my mind) beautiful woodcut.

I love the way this is painted though don't understand it.

And these faces - now, that's my sort of art.

This was interesting: lots of actual buildings put in an imaginary landscape. I think it's beautiful and strange. It was in a lightbox, which does give it an arresting luminosity, though again it would look odd in my hallway.

I do wonder what future generations will make of some of the art produced at the moment. But then I also wonder if I may be missing something. Can all these experts really be completely wrong in an emperor's-new-clothes fashion? What are they seeing that I don't see?

Sweltering

We used to have a gift for arriving in places just as they were hit by a heatwave. I thought we'd managed to shake off this unwanted talent. But no. This week we've been in London, visiting Daughter 2.

On Wednesday it got up to 34 degrees, which is 93.2 Fahrenheit. This, let me remind you, is in a country which generally doesn't have - usually doesn't need - air conditioning. Not in houses, not in most workplaces, not in buses and I've no idea about underground railways but they're all sorts of temperatures, usually HOT.

We do not like hot.

However, we got to see her and the new, slightly unfinished, studio, where she is now working.

To be continued.

Ways to spend time

It's amazing how busy retirement can be; not that I'm complaining. The garden is blooming - including the weeds. I like weeding. It's a meditative occupation. I wish plants would just grow to the right size and then stop, though. Instead, they pause for a year or two and then, just as you're congratulating yourself on your mastery of your little bit of heaven, they make a sudden bid to take over the whole garden. And I don't like digging things up. It's hard work and seems a bit mean.

I had a peaceful coffee at Portobello beach the other day. Sometimes the weather is like this.

I drew a circle and Granddaughter-the-Elder made it into a face, including the pupils. She's growing up.

We took the children to Silverknowes beach. As you can see, it was a typical Scottish summer's day... . Actually, it was mild and they soon took off more clothes.

Children have such fun with sand, rock pools, spades and imagination.

And today we went to visit Son and the beautiful UnBloggable Baby. She's growing up too!

But we won't see her again for a bit, alas.

Bunnies

"Can you draw a bunny for me?"

"Can you draw its baby bunny?"

"Now a whole family of bunnies?"

He's so old and competent in her eyes: nearly 6, which is a great age for one's big bruvver. (Excuse his apparently filthy thumb nail. It's cherry juice - very staining.)

Big sigh

In the direness of the news, what is there to be done but look at all these streptocarpus plants at the garden show at the weekend...?

And admire these mecanopsis and peonies.

And my beautiful clematis - with flowers as big as a hand.

And watch the little ones as they diligently paint the paving slabs with water.

And try not to despair at the state of the world.

Hail Macbeth

We took ourselves up north for a two-day mini-holiday to visit some places that we've always meant to go to. First we went to Scone (pronounced "Scoon") Palace, the home of the Earl of Mansfield. The main part of the building isn't particularly old, dating from the early 1800s, but there are bits of the mediaeval house - in which lots of historic things happened - inside it. It's a lovely house and, as with many stately homes these days, is still lived in by the family but is also used for weddings and corporate events.

Their lands are very extensive and they have pleasant gardens, with better lupins that I can manage at the moment. Clearly the Earl doesn't have my slug problem.

This is one of his Highland cows - pleasantly fluffy to keep it warm in the cold Scottish winter.


Then we went on to Branklyn, a lovely garden with lots of mecanopsis (beautiful!)

and primulas and rhododendron. I never manage to keep mecanopsis for long, I think because they get smothered by other things. My garden isn't big enough. Unlike the Earl's.

The next day we visited Glamis (pronounced "Glams") Castle (as in "Hail, Macbeth, thane of Glamis"), the childhood home of the Queen Mother. Here she is with her mother, we assume, on one side and - well, who knows? a sister? on the other. She came from a big family. This portrait, which isn't actually blurred as in my photo, hangs in the kitchen, which is now the café.

Like most old buildings, it's had lots of bits added over the years. The main part dates from the 14th century, so as Macbeth lived in the 11th century he was never actually in this version of the castle.

We rather liked this guinea pig's headstone, though weren't very keen on the Earl of Strathmore's use of inverted commas.

He too has a pleasant garden. He's in his 30s and unmarried, so I imagine is going to be a good catch for someone.

And then we went on to an antiques centre, where I nobly didn't buy anything, and after that we came home again. Two-day holidays are the way forward, I feel. You don't have to pack much and not too many weeds grow in your absence.

Octopus

It's been very warm, and yesterday Son-in-Law 1 and I took the little ones to the beach. They had a lovely time. Slightly unusually, Granddaughter-the-Elder and I took part in an octopus rescue.

Pardon my ignorance, but I didn't know we had octopuses here. Now I know that we do. This one was small - only about a foot long, I'd think, if it were extended - and orange, with the standard eight tentacles. It was amazingly like the sort of octopus you'd expect to see in some Pixar animation. The tide was coming in and it had been washed into the shallows beside the groyne that you can see to the right of the photo.

Grandson, Granddaughter and I found it first, but Grandson, having enquired if it was alive (yes) soon decided that it was scary and retreated back to his dad. Granddaughter is made of sterner stuff. First we tried to return it to the sea by scooping it with her seaside spade, but it soon washed in again. It was wiggling its tentacles in what I assume was a frantic fashion, and whoofing with its top bit. You'd have thought it was gasping for air but presumably it wasn't exactly doing this.

By this time other people had appeared and one youngish woman suggested putting it in a bucket and taking it into deeper water, which seemed a good idea. It wasn't exactly keen. She scooped it in and it promptly tried to escape, leg by wriggling leg. Then it desisted, presumably preferring the bucket to the wider world. She nobly decided to walk along the horizontal bar of the groyne to get to a greater depth. The bar was about six or eight inches wide and the water wasn't more than about six feet deep (I imagine), so it wasn't a death-defying exploit, but walking along a bar just above ground level is one thing. Doing it - carrying a bucket full of a squirmy thing of which you are slightly afraid - fully dressed, above cold Scottish water, with (by now) a large interested audience, is quite another.

She got some distance without incident but then reached a young couple who were sitting on the groyne. She couldn't get past them so asked them if they would tip the octopus into the water - an easier feat from a seated position than a standing one. They agreed, but when they tried to do so, it resisted and tried to climb out of the bucket. The girl screamed and shoved the bucket back to the woman, who nobly took it. Then she screamed too - too many legs, I imagine - but got a grip on herself and upturned the bucket. The octopus hung on for grim life for a few seconds and then succumbed to gravity and fell into the water. And the woman returned safely to dry land and cheers. What a heroine.

Unfortunately I had left my phone on the rug with Son-in-Law so I have no photographic evidence of this valiant deed. You'll just have to believe me.

Greenbank

On Monday we went through to the west to visit friends, who took us to Greenbank House in Clarkston, where there was a little Embroiderers' Guild exhibition. My friend B is a member of her local branch. Some of the items were for sale, but not this one, which is just as well since a) it would have had to be sold for about £10,000, considering the length of time it must have taken to make and b) B and I both wanted it. My phone photos of it are seriously poor, but it comprises 48 squares of about four inches, all different, in black and grey embroidery with black sashing. It looks as if it's done on faintly patterned fabric but if you look closely, you can see that all the background pattern, like these paisley shapes above, is actually embroidered. (Though I didn't photograph the whole thing (why not? I ask myself) I know there are 48 squares because I said, "There must be about 50 of them," and Mr L said sternly, "No, there are 48" - which in my view is "about 50", but I suppose if you marry an accountant you have to expect him to audit you.)

Anyway, it was seriously impressive and I can see why the maker wouldn't want to sell it.

The house, which now belongs to the National Trust, looks very attractive (it wasn't open) and as B remarked, you could just about imagine yourself living there - it's not a vast super-stately home. And the gardens were lovely. It was built in the 1760s by a chap who traded in tobacco and slaves, but his business was disrupted by the American War of Independence (well disrupted, Americans) and he went bankrupt and had to sell it.

It had rained heavily the previous day - unlike in Edinburgh, where it hasn't rained apart from the odd spot for weeks now - so the grass was slightly muddy.

B's husband D suggested that this was a statue of me doing my Zumba class. Yes, there's a striking resemblance... though I wear more clothes.

Look at that! A grandchild-free post!