Category Archives: life/style

The Windsor Knot

The world’s greatest love story? Not really. The world’s greatest demonstration of what co-dependency means, more like.

I had gone with the Windsor’s to bed with Anne Sebba’s book “That Woman”. Sebba makes it clear that Wallis didn’t want to marry an ex-King, but was happy to be connected to a King, but she doesn’t resolve the riddle of why Edward, an emotionally stunted middle-aged man (Wallis refers to him as Peter Pan in her letters) became hopelessly besotted with a tough woman who publicly bullied and humiliated him. Yet to untie the Windsor knot it’s only necessary to look at Edward’s childhood.

Sebba makes the point that Wallis was determined to marry a rich man because she’d had a trying childhood with not enough money. Well, there are plenty of us in that boat. But many others would have different goals and don’t all want to marry for status and the entree to the best parties. In some ways, Wallis was a classic Southern belle, having learned to listen and please men, dress to perfection and revel in parties – Scarlett O’Hara to the life.

Sebba also suggests that since many aspects of Wallis’s appearance were so masculine, including the lack of breasts, the broad shoulders, big ugly hands, strong mannish jaw, and an apparent in-ability to have children, she suffered from a form of Dis-order of Sexual Development. This, Sebba felt, would have been the unconscious mainspring behind the desire for what Wallis saw as feminine perfection. Whatever the reason, Wallis’s life seemed to be dominated by the desire for status,with expensive jewels, exquisite clothes, immaculate hair-do’s, the best parties, and liaisons flirtatious or otherwise, with rich fashionable people. And these things were what Edward was able to give her.

He already had all this stuff in spades. What he also had was a much worse childhood than Wallis, who had always been beloved. For the first three years of his life he was cared for by a sadistic dominating nanny. When she took him down to the drawing-room for the normal half an hour with the parents that rich Edwardian children enjoyed, she pinched him till it hurt outside the door, so that he entered the room crying. His un-maternal mother Queen Mary, and irascible father, King George promptly sent him out again, as they didn’t know what to do with a crying toddler.

So Edward’s childhood was dominated by a cold distant mother and by the cruel nanny, who finally had a nervous breakdown when he was three, and it was discovered she had never had a day off in three years. It’s a psychological truism that the experiences with parents or carers before the age of three, shape the relationships that we have with our significant others for the rest of our lives. So Edward was simply replicating his childhood and endlessly trying to please a rather cruel and dominating woman who was just like his nanny. The treadmill of of an unresolved childhood.

In psychological jargon, the Windsors had an interlocking racket, and since neither of them changed in all their years together, neither did the racket change. That, it seems to me is the real story of their marriage, not that it was a great love-story, but an enduring saga of co-dependency.

Last night I went to a seminar on the benefits of juicing. So fired with enthusiasm, I’ve decided to give up carbohydrates (as a foodie this deprivation may not last). But before I do, I’m having one last fling with carbs- a freshly baked loaf. This recipe has No kneading or proving in a warm cupboard. It’s simplicity itself.  Just three cups of self-raising flour, a pinch of salt and a bottle of beer made up to 400mls with water. Mix them all together, put in a greased loaf-tin in a medium to hot oven, and cook for about an hour or until it sounds hollow when you tap it. Delicious hot or cold with lashings of real butter.

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Definitely NOT Birdbrained

Savouring a flat white and a muffin in the coffee-shop court-yard, I turned my head to watch some children peering into the goldfish pond. When I turned back to my coffee a ring of sparrows had silently hopped onto the table and up to the muffin. The clever  things knew that when I turned my head, I couldn’t see them.

I used to feed the little rascals at home. All nine or ten of them. Not actually at home. Under a tree outside the garden where I could watch them from the sitting room window. That way less danger from the cat (now deceased)

I also fed the dozen or so minahs, a little way down from the tree so they wouldn’t frighten off the smaller birds. Moist bread for the minahs, wheat and birdseed, and when I ran out, porridge flakes for the others. They loved it all. They told their friends. Within a couple of weeks I had at least a hundred sparrows, four or five doves, some itinerant blackbirds, the odd chaffinch and an occasional thrush.

They had also worked out where this largesse came from. They waited in the plum tree outside the kitchen window and watched me until I came out with their breakfast. And for a couple of hours they sat and barracked me from the plum tree and the garage roof in the afternoon, until I sallied forth with afternoon tea – theirs.

A great whoosh of wings accompanied me to the tree. Then I had to make sure that the neighbour’s ancient lonely dog was not hovering in hope of a dog biscuit. If she was, I had to return with the bird food, and dig out a biscuit and walk her down the road with it, away from the bird food which she would have gobbled up. Dog distracted, back to the birds.

If I was out, they would be waiting for me at the bottom of the road. They recognised my white car, and swooped from telegraph pole to telegraph pole all the way down the street with the car. They’d then hover round the garage yelling “she’s back, she’s back” till I came out. If I went for a walk, they’d fly down the road with me, and wait on the corner.

Finally the worm turned. There were so many birds I couldn’t keep up with them, and was buying a large sack of wheat from the farmers shop each week, as well as extra bread for the greedy minahs – money I could ill-afford. The garden was becoming white with droppings, and I was back to the chaos of when I’d had a bird table. The sparrows could probably have made a pot of tea themselves, they’d watched me so intently through the kitchen window for so long.

A short holiday in Melbourne solved the problem. They gave up waiting. I felt guilty but relieved. They didn’t need the food out here in the country. It was just my hobby which had got out of hand.

But I now have a hearty respect for the intelligence of bird brains.

Feeling a cold coming on, I shall treat myself to a comforting pick-me-up – a tot of Stone’s ginger wine, the juice of an orange, a spoonful of honey and some hot water. It goes straight to the cockles of the heart, and also warms up the chest, and helps a cough.

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Ladies who lunch

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Lunch is for ladies! Yesterday Friend and I went out for lunch, going first to the new strawberry place run by immigrants from New Caledonia. Friend was saying their drawback was that their English was so poor. “But she speaks French”, I replied. So no sooner had we walked in than Friend greeted her in French, and in a low voice began a conversation in flowing, beautifully modulated French. I had never realised how beguiling French could sound, so courtly and courteous, and also intimate.

Later, at the cafe having Eggs Benedict and a glass of wine, after covering the usual topic – the rigours of caring for frail and elderly husbands, and their growing domestic blindness and latest foibles – we discussed the coarseness of the Windsor men, a propos the latest incident with the Duke of York, and harking back to other incidents with all the Queen’s sons. I introduced Friend to Sir Charles Petrie’s theory about the Hanoverians  – the three types – one, the brutal Duke of Cumberland type, then the extravagant and self-indulgent Prince Regent model, and lastly, the Coburg strain, good and conscientious  –  she was fascinated, and found no difficulty in fitting  the various members of each generation into those categories. We ended lunch by telling each other some of our husband’s jokes. This was a long and laborious process, since neither of us had the gift for timing or even for remembering the punch line, so we struggled with the right words and the sequences, finally muddling our way to the end, and laughing just for the hell of it.

I scored a hit with an ancient joke from the Guardian, some graffiti in a loo, which read: “I love screwing grils”. Someone added the next line: “don’t you mean girls?” and the last line read : “what about us poor grils”, a phrase which has remained in regular use in this family for the last thirty years at least..

The gents stayed home with bread and cheese and chutney and tomatoes. The unkindest cut of all was that we were both so full from our delicious and nutritious lunch that neither of us felt like slaving over a hot stove for them in the evening… They also serve who only stand and wait!.

My man was lucky. There was a chocolate mousse in the fridge left over from yesterday’s lunch for the grandchildren. 

So easy, cheap and nutritious.  Take one egg per person, six squares of black chocolate, a walnut-sized knob of butter, and a teaspoon of orange juide, black coffee, sherry or brandy, depending what flavour you fancy. Slowly melt the butter, chocolate and joices. Separate the eggs. Whip the egg whites till stiff. Stir the yolks into the chocolate mixture until smooth, then gently fold into the egg whites. Pour into glasses – wine glasses  or ramakins, and chill in the fridge.

If I ever felt the meal was rather light on protein, I made these for the children, then at least they’d had an egg. They never complained!

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Goodbye Cat

Today I finally picked up the saucer and washed it. It’s a pretty one, green and pink, the Indian tree pattern, quite a large one, so it held plenty of milk.

It belonged to the cat. She wasn’t allowed to have milk, because it disagreed with her, but after putting herself on a pure diet of fresh chicken and salmon, her delicate digestion appeared to be able to stomach milk. Whatever the vet said, her persistence wore me done, so when I had a cup of tea, she had her milk.

She died two months ago. I still see her sitting outside the french windows on the verandah waiting to be let in. I still hear the rattle of the cat door at night, and expect to feel a soft thud as she lands on the bed, and strides purposefully up to my pillow to stand on it and reach my drink of fresh water on the bed-side table. She had her own, both on the bedside table, and elsewhere, but she always thought my water must be better than hers. And she wouldn’t touch a drop until she’d seen me change her water bowl first thing in the morning. I constantly see the flick of her black tail out of the corner of my eye.

I heard a radio programme about bereaved cat owners. They all say the same thing. The cat stays around. All my dogs loved me devotedly and unconditionally. Why was it different with the cat. Why was I so grateful when she showed she did love me?  Why did I put up with being bossed around? 

After three days of not eating I finally took her to the vet, knowing the cancer had brought us to the end. I came home to have a good weep on the verandah, where she’d been snoozing before I put her in the cat box for her last journey. There had always been a cabbage tree just by the verandah, which from the day we moved here six years ago she had used as a ladder, scrambling up to the top, and leaping from it onto the verandah seat. It was looking old and rotten, and I used to look at it and think I’d have to put up a ladder when it had gone.

As I sat down I realised the tree wasn’t there any more. It had keeled over and fallen while cat and I were at the vet. Some say how spooky. Not for me. The universe had sent a signal. This was indeed the end. Nothing to reproach myself with. The timing was not mine but hers. But it still hurts. Requiescat in pace.

And now I ‘m going to make some supper on a cold winter’s night. Not much in the house, so we’ll have some comfort food with just three ingredients -a simple potato hotpot:

Peel and slice some potatoes, chop some onions, and chop up some bacon – the more you can afford, the better. Make plenty of white sauce, using butter and if you add a little cream, all the better. Then layer the potatoes, onions and bacon in a casserole or oven-proof dish, finishing with a layer of  potatoes. Pour the white sauce over it, letting it seep down through the layers. Cook in a moderate oven for one and a half to two hours, testing to see the potatoes are soft. Eat with some green vegetables or a green salad. Cheap as, delicious, and filling.

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