New Glasses

I still need two pairs of glasses. One pair for reading and another for driving and watching the television. I don't need glasses for walking about - yet. But the prescriptions are getting closer so I reckon in two years time when I have my eye test they'll tell me I need one pair with graduated lenses. That's OK because this 'buy one set of designer frames and get one free' will mean I can have a pair of prescription sunglasses as well so that I can read, drive and walk about wearing shades. And have a glass of wine in the pub during the day wearing shades because I need to see.

I love my new red glasses. They match my lipstick.

I thought I'd focus on the children who live in the villages along the Mekong Delta. They live in bamboo  houses built on stilts. At high tide and during the rainy season their houses are at water level so they step out of their front doors directly into their boats. During the dry season and at low tide they walk down the wooden steps onto dry land.  They are very poor. The river is their life. They fish, they dredge, they harvest silt, sand and wait for tourists to disembark from their luxury Colonial River Cruisers and sell them stuff. These children are irresistible. 

"Hello. You have dollar? You buy my scarf?"

I bought seven scarves for twenty dollars. I asked our guide if they were made locally. She said

 "Mostly"

Back on the boat a fellow passenger said she'd bought identical scarves in TopShop and they were made in China. 

These little boys were selling a tray of six homemade cakes for One Dollar. I said I wasn't hungry.

"You not hungry? I'm hungry. Baby hungry. Buy my cakes. One dollar"

I didn't buy their cakes but I gave them five dollars.

I didn't buy their cakes because there was a sign at the entrance to their water village on the Mekong saying

"Do not buy cakes from the children because they are made with out of date ingredients and you will get colic if you eat them"

I did give them five dollars because my youngest grandson is about the same age as the oldest little boy in this photo. This Christmas my grandson bought himself an electric guitar with his Christmas money. It cost him £175. He still has to learn how to play it. 

This little boy has nothing. He's trying to sell me cakes that could hospitalise me. He, and his sisters, is likely to be sent away to work in textile factories in Cambodian cities. Sent away to work in a tourist hotel in Ankar Wat. To clean hotel rooms. In the kitchens. They are children. I try to imagine my grandsons being sent away from home at this tender age to work in a factory. I can't visage this without hurting.

These two pretty little girls were eating raw sugar cane for their afternoon snack. They are poor. As we approached their village they ran up to the men in our group, all aged over fifty, and asked them if they could teach them English and "Have you got a wife?"

The men felt uncomfortable. Understandably. 

The Killing Fields

If I had been told in the 1970s that one day I'd be travelling through Vietnam and Cambodia on a luxury river boat I would have said this was madness. May as well tell me I'd be holidaying on the moon. So throughout this trip I had to keep telling myself this was real. I was there. Although I have titled this The Killing Fields I don't feel ready to write about this experience yet. I've been to Auschwitz and Birchenau death camps and thought I was prepared for the horrors the gentle, warm and friendly Cambodian people went through- but I wasn't. Instead, here's a picture of me resting under a palm tree near Phnom Penh, shading myself from the intense heat and humidity. The Killing Fields must wait.

This is the boat, the RV Tonle Pandaw, that was our home for eight days on the Mekong Delta. This was the best river boat we've ever been on as it was a replica of the colonial steamers developed in Scotland by the Irrawaddy Flotilla Company in the early part of the last century, yet all built in the last ten years in Rangoon and Saigon. There were just thirty cabins on two decks with a mixture of passengers of all nationalities including Australians, Dutch, French, German, Canadians and Americans. Over half of the forty passengers were from the UK. We all seemed to be intent on spending what we've got and enjoying it rather than saving for that rainy day. We journeyed 565 miles upstream from Saigon in Vietnam to Siem Reap in Cambodia, making side trips in small boats through back-waters and wetlands, where we disembarked and spent three days visiting the temples at Angkor Wat.

The boat was superbly fitted out in varnished teak and brass. The cabins were very comfortable with divine air conditioning as well as perfect showers. The upper observation sun-deck served tea, coffee, soft drinks, local beer and gin, whiskey, rum and brandy from six in the morning until whenever. All free. This was a very pleasant surprise as we usually run up a hefty bar bill at the end of our river cruises so it was a first for us - drinks included. I was a bit wary of the Local Gin until I tasted my first one and it was as good as a Gordons.

More to come.

This Is Not My Hand

There is so much to say about our wonderful two week trip to Vietnam and Cambodia, including one week cruising up the Mekong Delta in a Paddlesteamer, so I thought I'd begin with the spiders. And this isn't my hand. I couldn't do that. Never. We are in a Spider Market in Cambodia. That huge spider is about to be deep fried and served with fresh garlic and then eaten.

This is a bucket full of deep fried spiders. And they aren't my pink Crocs or floral pants either. Several Brave Brits actually nibbled on the deep fried spiders. Just the legs and declared it was like eating garlic flavoured matchsticks. Not one of them was bold enough to eat the body. Can you imagine that? Soft and squishy spider body.

I suppose if I was hungry enough. No. I'd rather eat the pink Crocs. Which reminds me. I did eat Crocodile Tail for dinner in Cambodia and guess what? It tasted just like chicken.

View Through a Glass Bathroom

Look closely at the image above. Yes, its a hotel bedroom. The Continental Forum Hotel in Sibiu, a beautiful medieval city in Transylvania, where we stayed for two nights in September 2008 as part of our Tour of Romania. 

See that glass apparition  on the right? That is the glass bathroom.   Can you see the lavatory on the left? Sort of hanging with no visible means of support.

This was our third hotel as we travelled through Romania, Transylvania and Moldavia. The previous hotels had been Stalinist Soviet Cement Blocks, Romantic Castles once belonging to Aristocratic Romanian Gentry and a converted post office in Bucharest. Quite a variety, all charming and comfortable, but we were looking forward to a couple of nights in a prestigious modern hotel for the contrast. 

First impressions as we entered our room were great. The room was large, clean and very comfortable looking with good lighting and mirrors everywhere - and then we saw the bathroom. The bathroom was made of glass. Some of the glass walls were slightly frosted, but not all of them. What were the architects thinking of?

We were a group of sixteen. When we met the others in the hotel lobby bar before dinner the main topic of chat was The Glass Bathroom. The two elderly gays who'd been a couple since the 1960s were distressed at the lack of privacy. Two blokey mates said they thought they knew everything about each other until then. The couple who'd been married for forty years didn't like the concept even after all thsoe years of sharing.

One man travelling on his own had his glass bathroom situated in the centre of his single room and because of all the walled mirrors  could see himself from all angles as he sat there and was grateful for travelling alone.

Modesty and Morty aren't usually words used in the same sentence but that night after dinner as he ventured into the Glass Lavvy even he said 'Don't look!'

I tried not to look but wherever I settled my eyes there were mirror images all reflecting images of personal ablutions. I hated it. I imagined this being our first travelling experience together; charged with the secrecy and excitement of getting to know each other intimately. No chance of that in a Glass Bathroom. There were no secrets.

Nothing To Do With George

I'll drink cheap wine all the time. Although I would prefer to drink expensive wine all the time. But I won't drink cheap coffee. Maybe because after the first couple of glasses of cheap wine I don't notice the taste? But cheap coffee tastes nasty down to the last drop doesn't it?

I have a graveyard of coffee machines and coffee makers. Even the stainless steel cafetiere let me down. Took ages to push the plunger down and more than once hot coffee shot out and burnt my hand. My Bialletti Stove Top Espresso was great to start but eventually made coffee that tasted like mud. Plus it wouldn't unscrew for pouring without a struggle and I've burnt worktops with the scalding base -perhaps after drinking cheap wine.

Filter coffee makers are full of promise but who wants stewed coffee kept warm on a hotplate? Percolated coffee is grim. And all of them leave me with used ground coffee to get rid of. I don't have a compost heap so they had to go down the kitchen sink. Not keen on all that.

We were waiting for  our car to be serviced at a main dealer and had a complimentary coffee from their self service coffee machine. I expected it to be ghastly. They usually are from machines. It was wonderful. It was a Nespresso. I watched one of the staff open the top of the machine and fill it with what I thought were individual milk capsules. No, they were Nespresso coffee pods. Just like George advertises. So we bought a Nespresso and the coffee is divine.

As well as the neat and funky coffee maker, included in the price was a Nespresso Aeroccino, a stainless steel cordless jug for heating and frothing milk for Latte and Cappuccino. 

I won't go into detail about how it works but for 25p a coffee pod I can now have the perfect cup of coffee at home. There's no mess. The coffee is as good as any I've paid three pounds for in Speciality High Street Coffee Houses. 

 

The coffee pods are only available at the moment from the Nespresso website  

I ordered fifty pods and they arrived two days later. There's a fine variety of coffees to choose from. If we are supposed to be staying At Home during The Recession then cheap wine and good coffee makes it a lot more inviting.

But that's daft. We're both old enough to have lived through Recessions in the 70s, 80s, 90s and done our share of staying in and economising. In the 1970s I even stopped ladders in my tights with clear nail polish so I look presentable for work. I've cooked enough Scrag End of Lamb Stews. Made a chicken last a whole week. Roasted- cold cuts-a pie-then boiled the carcass and made soup. Stripped the bones for a chicken curry. Saved sixpences in a Dimple Whiskey Bottle until there was enough in it for a night out. Worn cardigans and thick socks to bed to keep warm and save on heating bills. Survived power cuts, three day weeks, 19% interest, soaring inflation, raging Bank Managers without pausing for breath. 

So no saving money here. What for? We must spend it and support local high street shops, buy tickets for local entertainment venues. Do Pub Quizzes and buy a few pints and drink expensive (cheap wine) wine that costs as much for a glass as a Supermarket bottle. Shop online for Nespresso Coffee Pods. 

Here's to cheap wine, excellent coffee and no Scrag End of Lamb.

Jamie's Italian

The streets of Bath were deserted on Sunday evening. We strolled from our hotel in Queen Street, the beautiful Haringtons Hotel, into Milsom Place for a meal at Jamie's Italian.

And we hit a queue! We joined it. This queue was for a table at Jamie's Italian on a freezing cold night. Jamie's Italian can seat over two hundred people - and there was a queue. Could the hype be true?

In seconds a staff member came outside and took names, number of expectant diners and told us it would be ten minutes before there would be a table free in the bar and a further forty minutes before we could expect to be shown to a table. Normally we'd walk away from a situation like this. There are hundreds of restaurants in Bath. But we stayed.

Within ten minutes we were sitting in the bar area with drinks. I was in awe of the place. The decor, ambience and buzz were overwhelming. I felt as if we'd walked off the street onto another planet. One sip of our drinks and on the move again to our table passing cooking areas, hanging hams, cheeses and what seemed to be hundreds of chefs, waiting staff and other diners. Electrifying.

Menus were instant (have a look and be impressed) So were the carafes of wine. The menu was laid out in such a way it was very easy to order. So we started with bread, olives and salted roasted almonds while we chose our main courses, bypassing the Antipasta courses.

Above is my main course of lamb with mint pesto. It was the most delicious lamb I have ever eaten in my whole life. The first picture is of crispy polento chips. Historic. In the picture are chick peas.

Above are just some of the in-house breads.

There are the olives on ice cubes with music bread - more like matzas - and the almonds. Tap water on the table without having to ask. Every mouthful was memorable. The prices are Cheap. Service is Perfect. The decor and lighting is like something from a film set.

Go. Go to Bath. Stay at Haringtons. Walk round the corner to Jamie's and wish you had one in your town. I wish restuaraters in my town paid a visit to Jamie's to see how it can be done and came back to give us the benefit of their experience. It's all so simple really.

And it isn't a hype - it's all true.

Loss

Six months ago my family lost a precious family member. This loss was unexpected because they hadn't been ill and they were young. Since then we've wept together, held each other, laughed together and are rebuilding our lives. I spoke at the Humanist Celebration of their life. I spoke of happy times, of their funny ways, of our relationship, of his life. I didn't cry throughout. I looked nobody in the eye as I stood on the rostrum. I stayed strong for everyone else. How I managed this I will never know.

The above photo of myself and a new friend was taken last week at the Wake of another young man. He was in his early fifties and left a widow and two young sons. I had never met him. He was an old friend of Morty's and over five hundred people attended the service. I look happy don't I?

That's because I cried all the way through this stranger's service. All my tears, emotions and heart wrenching pain was for the man who died six months ago - my son-in-law. He also left a widow and two young sons; my daughter and my two young grandsons. Releasing my previously controlled emotions in a place full of people I didn't know and will never meet again was cathartic. My sense of relief was dramatic.

So I smiled and circulated at this stranger's wake. I said appropriate words to his widow. I spoke to his two young sons. Perhaps I was one of the few mourners among the many hundreds honouring this young man's life who knew exactly how this family feel. How they will face the future without their husband and father. How his two young sons will look after their Mum - just as my two young grandsons are looking after theirs.

Sid's Back

Sid's back. And I am in a state of shock. This time he's slithered in through the back door and nestled into my black living room rug. To get him out of my house, and my life, I had to get him up and over the back door step. This is yards and yards away. I got a hooked stick and tried to lift him forwards but he leapt into the air wriggling, squirming, glistening and landed further into the room.

I am yelling in fright and screaming at him to 'Get out!'

Then it got worse. As I lunged at him with my stick his tail fell off - and there were two of them. Sid and his separated tail both wriggling at the same time. Perfectly synchronised. Oh this is a nightmare.

I eventually hooked Sid and got him out through the door and threw him with such force he's halfway up the garden now. But the tail was losing strength. I now know that Sid wrenched his own tail off as a distraction while he hoped to make his escape. It wriggled independently for a while, weakened, then flopped right outside the back door and went still.

I am shaking now. I can hardly type.

Such a lovely day and I was about to sit outside in the May sunshine but I can't. He's there. Him and his tail. Waiting for me.

Not Welcome

Sid The Slow Worm has obviously found alternative accommodation and I wish him well. Now, Will The Wasp has moved in. He's on my inside window sill. He was there all day yesterday just staring at me. But we got on alright. He doesn't move at all. He was still there in the same position this morning. There's no way this photo shows his size but he is huge. Is this a wasp? Surely it's too early for a wasp

Get him out? I can't. This window doesn't open meaning I'd have to scoop him up into something and take the risk, moving acroos the room to a door or a window that open and give him a chance to survive in the fresh air.

He's still there. I know Will is alive because we make eye contact. If he was dead he'd crumple in a heap and wither.

If he isn't in the same place tomorrow morning I shall worry. That will mean he is still here - in a nook or a cranny in this old cottage.

Is it a Wasp?

Sidney the Slow Worm

This is Sydney the Slow Worm. Last week he appeared from a hole in the stone wall underneath my back door, got caught in the wrought iron door mat and before my eyes shed his tail enabling him to escape and wriggle back into the hole in the stone, leaving his tail behind him. I was beside myself with fear. I knew he wouldn't hurt me but they do slither, wriggle and do look like snakes. I know they are lizards with ears and eyelids but they are big and I don't want one as a lodger. I know they are a protected species.

My carpenter arrived on Saturday to hang a new back door. I warned him about the Slow Worm and as he took the old frame out the Slow Worm leapt out of the hole so the carpenter threw it over a huge hedge into the next door field.


This morning as I went to open my front door there was Sydney the Slow Worm inside the porch. I heroically lifted him out with a stick and threw him onto the front path. It is the same Slow Worm because half of him is in my back garden and this one has the blunt end where his tail used to be. He found his way home across a field, over gardens and pathways and predators.

I'm proud of his determination. I am talking to him and offering him a hole in my stone wall on a permanent basis on the condition that he doesn't come indoors.

Imagine him twice that length?

The Smell Of Money

My Dad was a Fishmonger and this is him on the right posing in front of his wet fish shop in a South London market street in the 1970s. This was before plastic bags and after fishmongers could no longer wrap the fresh fish in newspaper as it was a health hazard. Customers would bring their old newspapers into the shop in bundles and one of my Saturday jobs as a schoolgirl in the 60s was to tear the old newspaper sheets in half and pile them up for wrapping the fish sold from the slab.

My hands would be black from the print-ink and when I got on the bus to go home after work I whiffed of fish, my hands were black but I had a ten bob note in my pocket and I'd earned it. I didn't mind what I smelt like or what I looked like.

Once Dad had to pay for clean white paper to wrap the fish in he started to charge for carrier bags. On the original photo the sign hanging between the heads of the the two young blokes says Carrier Bags 3p Each. The other market traders in the street pulled his leg and called him Mean but over thirty years later he wasn't far wrong was he?

I love this photo because Dad's white overall is smeared with fish guts and blood but he would drive home, after his long day beginning in Billingsgate Fish Market at dawn and ending when he put the shutters down at six in the evening, in his ancient Rolls Bentley still wearing this overall and his Fishy Rubber Boots. He often got stopped by the police on his way to Billingsgate at four in the morning as he looked like a very suspicious character dressed like that but he enjoyed telling everyone that he'd paid less for this aged motor than he would have for a brand new Ford.


Sometimes he'd let my brother and I count the day's takings on the kitchen table. Or at least put the notes and cash into appropriate heaps because it was a screwed up mess in a heavy cotton money bag. The money was covered in fish scales and smelt of fish. One evening I flounced telling him I didn't want to touch it as it smelled nasty.

He said,

"You should ever have this much money and complain about how it smells!"

Thanks Dad. For teaching me the work ethic.

Fischer's Baslow Hall

Morty surprised me for my birthday and booked us into Baslow Hall in Derbshire for one night and dinner in Fischer's, their Michelin Restaurant. It was indeed a surprise because the Chef was one of the competing chefs in The Great British Menu 2008 and I'd seen him cook on the television.

Above are the hot and cold canapes served before dinner. I have eaten Foam now. All modern chefs Do Foam now. The tastes are extremely intense, yet light and delicious.

Above are our deserts, a selection from the dinner menu. Ice creams, souffle, fruit and thin biscuits and chocolate.

Above are the petit fours and lollipops served with divine coffee. A totally wonderful eating experience and my first ever meal sampling Great British Cooking. It was a privilidge. Our room with a canopied bed was utter luxury. Baslow Hall is set in gracious, landscaped gardens and we were made to feel very welcome.

We shall return.

Great British Menu

Hot and cold Canapes

Lyme Bay Crab and Coconut

Pork. Cheek. Loin. Fillet.

Surprise?

The Excuse

I wake up suddenly and lie still. Something has disturbed my sleep. It's dark in my bedroom. I distinguish my kidney shaped dressing table, cluttered with teenage girl necessaries. There's that noise again. A persistent plopping, like a tap dripping; Dad will be cross if I haven't turned the tap off on my hand-basin. I peer at my alarm. It's four thirty in the morning. A relief; he left for work at four so no chance of him finding out.

I try to go back to sleep. It's a long journey to work and back every day, leaving my parent's period house in this quiet Surrey village at seven thirty to arrive in London at nine and not getting back until seven thirty in the evening. A bus to the station, a train, then another bus, each stage of my commute tightly synchronised with no room for error; a long day for a fifteen year old probationary apprentice hairdresser, keen to impress her boss; but I can't drift off. The unrelenting plopping is gathering speed and volume.


I light my bedside lamp, place my naked feet on the parquet floor, gaze around my cosy bedroom. The chintz curtains are tightly closed over the leaded-light windows. I hear the click of the heating system as it automatically switches on. I turn my eyes towards the dark green tiled fireplace at the foot of my bed. The persistent plopping is coming from that direction. I pad barefoot to the fireplace and I am unable to scream, too revolted to move; rooted to the spot!


Maggots! Thousands of them! Plump, white maggots marching up and down the grouting of the tiled hearth like a regimental platoon. As the existing troops uniformly wriggle along they are rapidly joined by more foot soldiers, free-falling down the chimney breast, landing with the haunting 'Plop' onto the cold, green tiles, joining the swelling military ranks on the straight white lines as if under orders from a barking Sergeant Major. I am mesmerised but move quickly as the new arrivals, finding no room in the hearth, edge their way over the shiny brass fender to create a splinter group, within seconds finding the patterns on the wooden flooring and a second squad of squirming, writhing maggots occupying their new parade ground.


But the door to freedom is on the other side of the fireplace and its grisly inhabitants. I have to get past the invaders to escape. Choosing the alternative, I leap back to the comparative protection of the bed. Mum's bedroom is next door. Will she hear me screaming? No matter! I shriek and screech. She hears - comes rushing in.

'What are you screaming at for goodness sake?' as she clutches her dressing-gown around herself with one hand and pats her head full of spongy rollers with the other.

'Maggots - millions of them,' ' I'm blubbering.

Her face is white 'What?'


The marching maggots have reached legion proportions. She disappears, returning with a galvanised bucket brimming with steaming water, strong smelling disinfectant and a wooden handled mop; sloshing the contents over the wooden flooring and tiled fireplace. Things worsen as the tidal wave of boiling water sweeps the maggots along the floor, entirely surrounding my bed - proving maggots can swim. I am trapped, sobbing, shaking and already late for work.

'Get out of bed.' she ordered.


Mum may be as horrified as me by the gory sight, but at least she is wearing slippers, at the other side of the fireplace, near the door and a hasty exit.


'I'm not putting my feet on that floor,' as I bury myself in the pillows 'I can feel them crawling all over me! Get me some Wellington boots and dad's big waterproof mackintosh. Otherwise I'm not moving - ever!'


The scene in my bedroom is sheer desolation. Lifeless maggots, fat on dead, decaying bird, are stranded on my pretty hand-woven rug, like grains of cold boiled rice. Some maggots are making feeble efforts to escape to higher ground away from the avalanche of water by slithering into my work-shoes. Others are trapped in the tiled hearth, floating on the surface, joined by naive maggots plopping down the chimney to a certain death by drowning. Mum comes back with the waterproofs and the wellies; I escape the bedlam and collapse in a frenzied heap on the landing floor.


I get to work very late that day. I explain my valid reasons. My boss doesn't believe me. It's the most inventive excuse he's ever heard.

Headless Ostrich

Ostriches were once farmed purely for their feathers creating much wealth for the Feather Barons who built ornate Feather Palaces. Many of these remain in South Africa. They've been restored and are luxurious tourist accomodation. We visited an Ostrich Farm and found the Ostriches rather funny. They are exactly like Rod Hull's Emu. Cross, bad tempered and get too close to one and it'll have your hat, camera and your face.

Then I felt sorry for them. Place a paper bag on their head and they become motionless. The one above is about to be sat on by a tourist and a photo opportunity. I'd be a cross bird if somebody put a paper bag on my head.

Here the guide has exposed the prize white feathers used for Feather Boas and the Folies Bergere.

These Ostrich are racing. The can run at 60 mph. Considering they can't fly I suppose this is how they survived their predators. We were assured that as soon as they reach the finishing line the jockeys put a paper bag over their heads and they stop dead. I was standing at the finishing line but didn't believe them so my photo is rubbish because I leapt out of the way.

Then we ate Ostrich for lunch and browsed the Ostrich shop. A very useful bird. The eggs are made into lamps, there are feather dusters, feather boas and well crafted Ostrich leather goods. I was very taken with an Ostrich handbag but it was two hundred pounds. I didn't buy anything. They are far more expensive to buy here as very similar bags retail online for several hundred pounds.

I shall buy Ostrich meat though. It is delicious and healthy.

Design Fault? Update

I loved my last Finepix Digital camera but it broke after two years constant use. Something wrong with the Zoom Feature. Not that I ever Zoomed. I loved it because it didn't have sticky-out bits like lenses. It nestled in my handbag or pocket along with my lipstick. It also had a dock for recharging the whole camera without removing batteries.

Above is the replacement camera bought one month ago. Again, no sticky-out bits like lenses but instead of a camera dock for recharging the whole thing it has a battery charger. I successfully charged the battery as soon as I got the Finepix Z10fd. This meant removing it, charging it and then replacing it. This worked fine. I had a happy month taking pictures and then the battery needed recharging. I removed it, sat it in the recharger, red light went off, charging over, so I put it back into the camera - the wrong way round.

I've replaced many batteries into many technological things the wrong way round, realised this, removed them and replaced them the right way round. Not this one. Jammed. Stuck. Broken nails trying to shift it. Sweating. Perplexed.

I re-read the information leaflets supplied with the camera. There are several slips separate from the main booklet with Cautionary Warnings such as If Battery Replaced The wrong Way Do Not Attempt To Force Removal. I have a sinking feeling.

If Battery Replaced The Wrong Way Round go to your main FujiFilm FinePix Dealer. I go to my High Street dealer. Roger disappears into his workshop with my camera for many minutes. He returns, perplexed.

'Can't understand this' he says 'Usually when a battery's put in the wrong way round it's easy to take it out and do it right'.

Roger 'phones Finepix.

'Oh yes' say Finepix 'This is a common problem. Send it back to us'.

So FujiFilm are selling a product with a known design fault?

Hopefully this will just cost me postage and insurance. Meanwhile I don't have a camera and I miss it. I need to photograph food and shoes.

UpDate:

Finepix replaced my camera with a new one within a week. Well done Fuji. The new camera included updated and clearer illustrated cautions about how to replace the battery. If I'd had these in the first camera I would never had put the battery back the wrong way round.

Suggestive Food

We spent two nights at The Grand Hotel in Torquay to include Valentine's. Above is my first course. It's Asparagus Spears wrapped in something meaty with Quail Eggs and a creamy Hollondaise. It does look Phallic and it tasted delicious.

Above is my main course. It's Duck Breast with a Pear poached in red wine. Unfortunately, the kitchen was under pressure - Not Enough Cooks - and we'd finished our wine by the time the main courses arrived and I can't remember what that large food object is laid across the top of the breast. That's why I'm glad I took a picture because on reflection it looks Phallic too.

Those umbrellas on the terrace certainly look Phallic.

The Grand is a lovely hotel to stay in for a short break. This was our third visit. The interior has splendid Art Deco features, polite staff and our Slovakian head waiter won't be there next time we go because he's spent the last six years studying with the Open University while working at The Grand. He is accepting his Degree this year and will be taking a post as a Translator so he won't have to pound the restaurant floor for seven hours a night. That's dedication.