Clean, bright, and slightly oiled

We have had another week of Tony as houseman, which, again, has gone very well. There was no point in doing the sitting room, drawing room and so forth since nobody has entered them since last week, so he was invited to apply the military mind to the linen cupboard. This was rather a success. Towels, duvet covers, flat sheets, fitted sheets, pillow cases, square pillow cases and oddments have all been successfully sorted out; spare pillows (usable) distinguished from old pillows (destined for the dump), and so on. It’s all unbelievably tidy, squared off and generally organised. One result of the whole enterprise was the emergence of a Log Cabin quilt of respectable age we had entirely forgotten the existence of – it’s not so much a quilt as a quilt top just backed onto a sheet, and neither of us can remember where, or when, we bought it. But it’s lovely; the prevailing tones are indigo blue, light coffee brown, and white. Our current duvet cover is palest café au lait and white stripes, and the old quilt looks very nice over it: if we only had blue mocha-ware mugs on the mantlepiece rather than horrid silver candlesticks and a nautilus shell, we would justabout qualify for a page in Mr P---'s book. Miss Kit looks very nice as part of the ensemble too, being reddish-brown, but we have had to explain to her that she is not Artless because, basically, pedigree cats aren’t.  Artless cats, I suspect, are grey and black tabbies, or ginger. Miss Dog, meanwhile, has a grievance of more substantial dimensions – she was dragged upstairs by the collar this evening and forced into the bath. The Labrodoric natural oils had got well out of hand: she was horrid, and has been horrid for some time, to the extent that a penumbra of odour has preceded her into the room. Washing is very wounding to the canine spirit, alas, but she has her ways of getting her own back. And it has to be said, quite a lot of leftover pasta has gone a fair way to reconciling her to her  lot.

Little things, little minds

I have invented a new dog game: Bottle Battle. Though we have so far escaped the snow, the wind outside has a knifelike edge that even the dog thinks it’s a bit much, so she is staying inside, and bored, especially since the Professor is still in the south. A bottle battle is highly hilarious. She’s always had a taste for empty mineral water bottles, which make a wonderful amount of noise if you run round the house with one. What a battle consists of is squaring up to the dog with a bottle. You then try and bat her on one flank or the other with the bottle, while she tries to evade. When you are bored or she is overexcited, you toss her the bottle, which has thus become The Enemy and therefore a delightful object to be galloped about the house with, jumped on, and chewed. Polypropylene seems not to be susceptible to labradors, fortunately.

Ours not to reason why

We have had our first go of Tony as houseman. Some obscure sense of propriety caused him to turn up wearing a tie and to don a striped apron, which worried me a bit, but actually, he’s done a very good job. One has to make allowances for the military mindset: orders issued in a clear, firm voice are obeyed without question, cheerfully, promptly, and in a soldierlike fashion, but there is an absolute lack of initiative. Ours not to reason why, ours but to do the vacuuming without making a fuss, is the principle. Fortunately, I had thought about this in advance, and issued a four page document of the most painful explicitness: Sitting room: Dust, if dust is visible. Mop floor (using a damp rather than wet mop), vacuum rugs, drawing room: Dust, if dust is visible. Mop floor (using a damp rather than wet mop), vacuum rugs, etcetera. He was perfectly happy with this, and beetled about conscientiously, carrying it about and ticking off the jobs one by one. The house is now quite clean, and the ironing has been done. There is still snow, but it’s rather soggy, so all in all things aren’t too bad.

Improvisation

We were slightly at sixes and sevens yesterday because the Professor was organising himself for a week away, the library suddenly demanded a recall which had to be got into the post, it was the Huntly Two’s birthdays (they are three days apart) and they came over to say hello, plus there was the usual stuff of enough dog food, cat food, me food, shampoo, etcetera, to amange for a week when it will be far from easy to get to a shop. It was pretty much inevitable, therefore, that something else would go slightly wrong. I was trying to get the last out of the shampoo bottle (yes, I did remember to buy some more), gave it a vigorous shake, and inadvertently hit myself in the eye with its base – not hard, but it knocked out my contact lens, which ended up somewhere in the bath. They do pick their moments: the last time I lost one we were just about to go on holiday. However, I was not in a mood for being messed about: we put a coffee filter in the plughole and left the bath draining with infinite slowness – in the morning, there was my lens, sitting on the bottom. I have a pair of beta lenses which I’m wearing today while the one which got in the bath has a thorough soak and clean, but all seems to be well. Meanwhile, another improvisation is about to reach the launch pad. Olga is no longer well enough to work, but Tony the gardener happened to be in for a cuppa when we were having a crisis about it, and offered us an unorthodox solution. He used to be in the army and  is perfectly familiar with keeping the mess down in an officers’ mess. Mrs Tony is in theory willing to help, but her father isn’t well so she’s in England. For the time being, Tony will become a houseman, with the thought that as the year goes on, they might both come, and either Mrs Tony will do house while he does garden, or they can work together on one then t’other. Well, who knows. It might work.

More than oriental splendour

The Godparents returned from the tropics, and we saw them in Edinburgh. They returned, as usual, with lovely and thoughtful presents, and also with a commission from the Professor, who now has the most beautiful dressing gown in the Western hemisphere. This splendid object is in the Bhutanese Gustavian style. You saw it here first. Many years ago and in another country, we bought a Bhutanese robe of considerable age which he used as a dressing gown for quite some time, though the lining, which was coarse cotton, was falling to bits. Eventually it got intolerably ratty-looking and was retired, since when he has made do with a fleece one, also now pretty well past mark of mouth. What the Godparents did was to get one of their ingenious friends to copy the old Bhutanese robe, but in grey striped cotton, lined with plain grey. Like its original, it’s very warm, and it looks wonderful. The animals were left in the care of Emma the vet nurse, and were fine, though Miss Dog was of the opinion that she was a bit judgmental about treats and extras.I’m relieved to report that we didn’t come back to major snow; a little bit, but nothing you can’t live with. There were some alarmist weather reports while we were away, which were worrying and distracting to no particular purpose, so it was with some relief that we came home to no worse than a light icing-sugar dusting. It’s been warmer today, so most of it is now clear.

Strange and serendipitous

Since we have an old and valued friend staying, we went out yesterday for a jolly. The goal was one of the better cheap antique shops, and, she being a historian, we went by a winding and circuitous route through various dark corners of the land; hidden glens presided over by the castles of obstinately Catholic lairds and Jacobite mauvais sujets. It was all looking quite beautiful, with a light dusting of snow on higher ground, just enough to reveal contours, very Eric Ravilious. We were, to some extent, on a mission. Godmama mentioned his desire to restyle the bedroom he uses when they’re here: the Lesbian toile de jouy curtains can stay, but he wants to move the bed through ninety degrees. This implies removing an item known as ‘the coon proof chest’ – an ordinary 19^th century pine chest, which was so called by a somewhat backwoods American grad student who lived with us more than twenty years ago, for which there will not be room. It is now painted grey, with the entwined Sapphists from the toile de jouy painted on the lid, but, though I can testify that in all that time, no raccoon has ever effected an entry, it will be banished to the attic. The other problem is that the bed is quite high, though it's a good bed in its way with a good mattress, and the coon proof chest is not, so one can’t read in bed comfortably. However, that meant we found ourselves in need of a suitable bedside table, and were looking out for one. Godpapa is also getting an update. He sleeps in the room full of angels with patchwork tartan curtains. There is a third patchwork tartan curtain, which once hung behind the fourposter and it occurred to us that if we got a very cheap headboard from B&Q or wherever, this could be covered with tartan patchwork, which (again) would make it comfier to read in bed, and would look rather nice, if a touch surreal. Leftover tartan could then become a pelmet. We were considering this, and I said that with all that tartan about, what the room, which does not at present have a hook on the back of the door for one’s dressing gown, needed was not a hook per se, but a pair of very small antlers, just prongs really. They’d have to be very small ones so as not to bang on the wall when you opened the door, but the effect would be striking, if not, perhaps, tasteful. Given that the room contains tartan curtains, six pictures of angels, four pictures of saints, and a Bugger’s Baroque mirror, the issue of taste did not in itself seem to present a problem, so the next question was whether anyone anywhere would have got around to mounting pathetic little antlers. Anyway, via Catholic castles, small and secret airfields, Pictish forts, and the varied pleasures of backwoods Aberdeenshire, we got ourselves to the antique shop. There we found ourselves completely surrounded by antlers of all shapes and sizes. The proprietors, they explained, had bought a collection. I siezed upon the smallest, in truth, just a pair of two-inch prongs; one really feels that the sportsperson in question shouldn’t have bothered. Then, further into the maze, there was a small, and amazingly cheap, oval tilt-top table. So that was all very good, but I was rummaging about, as one does, and found a slim, straight, piece of horn. Rather beautiful, and I thought it might be some kind of a ruler, but realised, on looking at it more closely, that it was a real shoe-horn, made of real horn, with quite a bit of age on it. An attractive object, nice to handle. Then I caught it in a slanting light, and realised that there was a name scratched on it in a neat copperplate hand: J. Keir Hardie. The  proprietrix threw it in free with the table and antlers; I’m afraid I didn’t mention the name. I’m rather pro Keir Hardie as a great supporter of votes for women, but we made a slightly surprising friend the other week, who’s a retired Glasgow Labout councillor, so I will probably give it to her in due course. Keir Hardie actually represented Merthyr Tydfil, but he was brought up in Glasgow. One wonders how it got up here, but of course it’s just the kind of thing people to keep as a memento.

Small visitor

We had a highly hilarious time this afternoon due to a visit from an infant West Highland Terrier. A bouncing ball of wiry white fur, basically. Miss Dog was enchanted. The visitor came up to her knees or thereabouts, which seemed to offer nothing but entertainment to both parties. They frolicked on the lawn most prettily, then everyone came in  so that the human element could have a cup of coffee. Here things got a bit more difficult. Quite fortunately we acquired a larger, heavier, and fiercer fireguard only the other week, because the first thing the puppy did on entering the room was to come within inches of careening into the fire. Guard was promptly deployed. Miss Dog, who is both sizeable and powerful, then took over the enteraintment of the young: unfortunately, her idea of absolute hilarity is to pelt in circles as fast as she can, as if she were a greyhound (though, alas, she does not have the sticking power). In the context of the sitting room, this meant three rag rugs, a wine table and a standard lamp all went crashing and skidding off in different directions as she hurtled under the piano and rounded the sofa, while the puppy, delighted, hid under a chair and egged her on. No harm was done, and the dogs (hastily put out into the garden to work off some more energy) had a wonderful time. Miss Cat, who was snoozing on her hot spot in my study, was hastily shut in – apart from the wear and tear on her nerves, my room is hideously well provided with electric cable, and the puppy apparently has a taste for electricity. All was well. The Protector of All Small Beasts was keeping an eye out. It’s always rather touching watching a big dog playing with a small one; not so much Dignity and Impudence as Miss Dog chanelling her inner puppy.

Embarking on a lengthy journey

What started this particular culinary meander was finding, in quick succession, that one of the supermarkets sells liquid glucose for culinary purposes, and some enormous oranges which, we were assured by the farm shop, weren’t that big really but had very thick peel. The Professor is partial to candied peel, and I had a sort of dim awareness that glucose is essential to doing it properly. Various candied peel has been made over the years, and apart from the first ever, which benefited from that curious phenomenon, beginner’s luck, it has not been wonderful. But from time to time,  I’ve said, contemplating some leathery orange objects, I think you need glucose. Now glucose is to be had, doubtless a side-effect of some grisly TV cookshow or another. The World Wide Interwob then provided a recipe, for quick candied peel, and proper candied peel. The latter takes a week (a ‘boil for ten minutes and leave aside for 24 hours’ week, not day and night  cossetting), and in a moment of madness, we have launched ourselves upon the higher peel-candying. It’s all right so far, so let’s hope it works out.