My dear family & friends
Have you heard of Darren Whackhead Simpson? I hadn’t until our neighbour, who is a military policeman in the British Army, brought a CD called “Serial Prankster” around to us this weekend. I think his daughter’s boyfriend brought it back from South Africa – something like that anyway. Darren Simpson is a morning presenter on Radio Highveld (94.7 Highveld Stereo in modern parlance) in Johannesburg. His speciality is telephone pranks, and many of them are hysterically funny if somewhat un-PC. You can pick up a lot of them on Youtube. (http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=darren+whackhead+simpson.) The Zimbabwean border post gag had me struggling to breathe, as did the Indian trying to join the AWB.
I’ve had quite an eventful week. On Thursday I drove to Peterborough to visit Andreas, Michelle and their daughter (my goddaughter) Natasha. The journey was made necessary by a new addition to their family – a 12-week-old Tibetan Terrier called Oscar. (You can see the pictures at http://picasaweb.google.co.uk/llewellynijones as usual.) The journey there was an experience in itself when I was caught in a deluge on the A14. I think most people would find it difficult to see a change in the rain ahead when it’s already raining. So it was that I drove into a cloudburst at 80mph that reduced visibility to zero and turned the motorway into a river. I just took my foot off the accelerator and tried best to steer the car based on the dim glow of the few tail lights ahead of me that I could see. Even more frightening were the few cars that continued to whizz past at speed – real death wish artists. And then, just as suddenly, it stopped raining altogether, and a couple of miles further on the sun was shining.
I took the dogs with me to help socialise Oscar. Well, certainly Hazel helped. Edgar’s been a bit iffy with smaller dogs ever since a Cocker Spaniel bit a hole clean through his ear at the Deer Park Cafe in Cape Town when he was a teenager. He slunk away with a low growl every time the new bundle of joy came close. Hazel, on the other hand, played with Oscar more-or-less non-stop. Andreas, an anaesthetist, worked an early shift, so he was home by midday and we walked to the village pub for lunch. Back at their home, we spent a lazy afternoon gathered around the patio table passing the time of day. Oh, and I mustn’t forget the delicious chocolate cake that Michelle baked.
Lucia and I had a busy weekend – that’s why I’m only writing this letter today. We had thought of spending the day at Ironbridge on Saturday, but the weather forecast didn’t look good and we weren’t sure how busy the town would be on a Saturday in the middle of school summer holidays. Instead we drove down to Chipping Camden, an ancient market town, which is about a half an hour away just on the edge of the Cotswolds. We covered the town on foot amid a fairly persistent drizzle. We stopped for cappuccino and cake in a cafe at an arts and crafts warehouse which welcomed dogs. A sign on the door said: Dogs and children welcome, and sometimes adults too. The cafe roasted its own beans filling the air with a rich aroma of coffee. Lucia and I took it in turns to go upstairs to the silversmith’s workshop where the proprietor plies his trade using traditional techniques.
Afterwards we just drove around to become more acquainted with the area. Our first stop was Hidcote Manor where we signed for membership of the National Trust. This gives us free entry to any of the hundreds of properties owned by the trust for a year. Hidcote has beautiful gardens spanning several hectares; the house and garden where donated to the Trust in the 1940s by Lawrence Johnston who designed and developed the gardens. From Hidcote we drove to Ebrington (pronounced Yubberton by the locals), then to Paxford and Brockely and back to Chipping Camden and then home.
On Sunday morning we decided to take advantage of our new membership of the National Trust and drove to Baddesley Clinton, a moated manor house which is several hundred years old. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baddesley_Clinton). As usual, I tried to imagine what it was like to be born into such privilege and then how the peasants might have felt about it. Probably not too happy. The house was only bought by the National Trust in the late 1970s when it appeared Richard Branson was interested in buying the estate. Afterwards we drove to Solihull, which is only a few more miles up the road, so that Lucia could browse for work clothes at the local mall. The mall was good enough as malls go, but the town centre is a bit drab – not the ideal place for a Sunday afternoon.
Let me leave it there.
Love, light & peace
Llewellyn
