Board game, never boring.....

Christmas is a time for families, so they say, and during the season, every family finds its inner board game, and suffers the attendant yawns. This year proved to be a game changer for me, when Younger Niece introduced me to the most deranged activity since It's a Royal Knockout; I am talking about Bugs in the Kitchen. No arena for the slow and meditative types this, the chief characters of this game by Ravensburger are a pair of electronic bugs, ingenious little gadgets that when switched on, charge head-on through a morph-able labyrinth of knives, spoons and forks. The aim of the game is to capture the little buggers into one of four "dens" each presided over by an individual player. In turn, each player rolls a die to determine what part of the labyrinth to gain permission to alter, thus modifying the progress of the charging bugs and increasing his or her chances of netting a bug in his or her den. Each entry by either of the bugs into whatever den wins the player a token, and the player with the most tokens at the end of each game is the winner. Sounds daft? It is, and gloriously so, affording Christmas revelers, weary with food, booze and seasonal bonhomie a post-seasonal rush of adrenalin. Believe me, this innocuous game reduces otherwise sane and hungover adults to nearly-hysterical ciphers begging and pleading the little plastic pests to move in their direction. Friend, these electronic amis will light your fire and ring your bell and fill you with such conviviality towards the insect world that you will never again swat away a fly or try to murder a wasp. Somewhere, out there in the wider universe, I'll bet that BITK groups are forming leagues and holding heats and championships, alight with joy as the bugs charge about the labyrinth. Sadly, I won't be joining them. Come 2019, I'll be returning to sober normality - well, normal for me. A happy New Year to all.

Crumpets, Kermit and A Christmas Carol

One day, a few short weeks ago – possibly because of the newly-fledged bite of the colder weather - visions of hot, buttered crumpets danced in my head. That night, to my delight, I witnessed an advertisement for Warburton’s version of the same, presented by the finest bunch of troupers that twentieth-century puppeteers ever spawned. Friend, I hesitate not to inform you that I LOVE the Muppets. I have always had a soft spot for Miss Piggy and Fozzy and above all, Kermit the frog – and there they were, my favourite puppets – Fuppets? – extolling the virtues of my bonne bouche of choice. Needless to say, I went out the next day and added liberally to the pensions of the Warburton shareholders, and have been doing so since. It is impossible to mention the Muppets at this time of year, of course, without throwing in a credit for their movie interpretation of that Christmas story by Charles Dickens. Ah, how the Inimitable would have approved of the Muppet's A Christmas Carol! How he would laughed at Gonzo masquerading as himself, the author of the tale, alongside of Rizzo Rat, and to see popular actors and cartoon characters bring home the story of redeemed greed to today’s audiences. And how he would have lauded the understated performance of the unassuming Kermit in the role of the beaten-down Bob Cratchit. And I’ve no doubt that Dickens would rage to discover that, 160 years following its publication, the message of A Christmas Carol is at least as relevant as in the Victorian environment of inequality and exploitation. On that note, I’ll finish this frog-blog and wish all readers a happy Christmas and in the words of the immortal Tiny Tim, say “bless us, everyone”.

Night and Day

If you have ever fantasised about spending an afternoon in a 1930’s pastel paradise, with guys in dapper suits and gals in flapper dresses partying to the strains of the saxophone, then the Night and Day: 1930’s Fashion and Photographs exhibition, current at the Fashion and Textile Museum (83 Bermondsey Street) is for you. The items of clothing are organised into themed tableaux bearing sumptuous names like “Happy Days are Here Again” and “Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries”, followed up by “Thirty from the 1930’s”, that is, thirty photos of Cecil Beaton’s fashion creations. Really, your eyes will pop and your mouth water at the line-up of frothy, frilly day dresses and luxuriant evening gowns in the understated styles of the 1930’s. And the curators haven’t shied away from showing the darker side of life back then. In the Smaller Gallery, Brother Can You Spare a Dime is a rolling film montage showing the rise of fascism and revealing the shocking social inequality of the time. But hurry: you have only got till January 20, 2019, to see this exhibition.

To 100 and Beyond – with Rachel’s Greek Yoghurt

Crunchy, creamy, munchy, dreamy, mouth-watering – it is difficult to describe Rachel’s Greek Yoghurt without descending into clichés. Yet, this product has compelled me to contribute sound bites that express satisfaction with this - confection? – dessert? – treat? – truly, Rachel’s Greek Yoghurt defies classification. My only awareness is that when my upper oral part cries for a snack that is NOT laden with excess fat, salt or sugar, yet is a delight on the tongue and in the tum, then Rachel’s is the one. From start to finish, I thrill to the entire gastronomic experience, peeling aside the metal foil of the top tier to reveal the semi-sweet granules of granola, and then mixing these munchy bits gently with the softer, creamier stuff that lies beneath, followed by the indescribable pleasure of eating the crunchy, creamy, munchy, dreamy, mouth-watering, tongue-licky but never icky-sticky sensation that is Rachel’s Greek Yoghurt. Not being a clinician, I cannot verify the health benefits. But I do say that if healthy food always tasted as good as this, then – ye gods! We’d all live to 100 – and beyond. Single pots of Rachel’s Greek Yoghurt retail for about £1 – hurry, while stocks last….

The Vanguard of Feminine Footwear

Readers of this column will be aware of my high regard for feminine shoes with low heels. Just the same, to remind those of you in the know and to inform those of you who are not, I am in constant notional warfare with a manufacturing base that has failed to recognize that the feminine foot does not differ greatly in structure from that of the male ped. And that the working day of the average female runs – mostly - in parallel to that of her male counterpart. Yet, instead of wearing similar, comfortable and high-quality shoes as the boys, those of us in possession of the XX chromosome are bound to attach bizarre, ornamental appendages to our lower extremities, all in the name of fashion. Worse again, us double-exers who refuse to toe the line stand in danger of being excluded from polite and professional society – we haven’t forgotten you, Nicola Thorp. With this in mind, it was a nice surprise to stumble upon these bright, wearable foot vehicles. Retailing at £59.99 and bearing the Van label, available colours include pink and black. The soft, suede effect uppers are in endearing contrast with the white, chunky sole. Said heels are finished appropriately with the red-lip Van logo, and tied up with Van signature laces. Teaming perfectly with skirts and leggings, shorts and full-length trousers – even peeping cutely from underneath evening dresses - what is not to love?

Why life is a beach...

On the afternoon of THAT day, I filled the bath with warm water, bathed and towelled up. But I did not unplug the bath; no, I left the scented pool in situ, and I spent the evening dipping in and out, refreshing and relaxing as the fancy took me, between taskes on the settee, sipping iced water and contemplating pages of print. I had dissed off other options - beaches, parks, squares - as involving merciless sun and murderous public transport. With the kitchen nearby, and a ready supply of teabags and milk, bread and salad, drinks and snacks were ever at hand. Take one couch, a tower fan and jug of warer - why, life is a beach, and I love to lie upon it....

Sofology so good

My ad of the moment is Sofology, you know, the one with the cute blond guy extolling the virtues of all things sofa – and home – and do I agree with him? My favourite outside of work pastime involves floating in domestic space on an upholstered surface, with drinks on tap – I think they call it the kitchen – and NO commuting afterwards – aaah! My guy is right; home is incredible… Which is why I read with concern of how a number of top bosses are installing sleep pods to enable workers to catch bouts of shut-eye between takes. Since I have never experienced a sleep pod, I cannot comment on the extent of their comfort, or otherwise. What I found slightly disconcerting in Andre Spicer’s report (Should we be allowed to sleep at work? Guardian newspaper) is that he reports one subject as saying that, with access to a sleep pod: “there is no need to go home”. Eh?
Never to leave the office behind, following a long day’s slog?
Never to hop on train, bus or automobile and presently, put the key in the front door lock?
Never to enjoy warm shower before slipping into jammies and slippers, and partaking of hot supper in front of animated television screen?
And never to lie in one’s own bed and – gasp – sleep in it?
Quelle horreur!
Even if you totally love your occupation – and who does not want to – surely you have to leave the office behind sometime?
Even if, like me, such leaving off involves moving a mere few yards from self-assembled executive chair and computer stand, to the nearby couch?
Feel free to enlighten me, but even with the most comfortable sleep pod in the world, surely..?

The end of furniture fascism

It was the joy of our household and dominated it for two decades, a classical artefact nestled within a very nondescript piece of architecture (our family house!), the sacrificial altar that was the sideboard. The elephant in the dining room, there it sat brooding darkly and majestically, overlooking every nuance of our little lives. Only the best was good enough for that piece of Victoriana, lace runners and crystal bowls and family photos and ornaments. The pair of doors on its sturdy pedestal fronted a trove of damask table linens, and best and second-best crockery and cutlery – ye gods, the Penates had nothing on this! The sideboard was actually hewn from a fine piece of wood, but its classical references demanded a symmetry of arrangement on top and all about it that our chaotic lives simply could not live up to. As I grew older, I hated the thing more and more.
You are not perfect, it seemed to glower at every turn. You are not ordered, symmetrical, classically lovely or harmoniously beautiful. Nor was I – thank heavens then for modernism, an Enlightenment that heralded lighter and more rational furniture. No more domineering artefacts; no symmetry, centring or classical gravity sucking everything into its black hole. In my now modernistic realm, the family of five Billy bookcases is beholden to me.
I am the master of my furniture, not its miserable servant. I can reorganise my Billys at a whim, reconfigure the shelves to my dictat, push the bookcases together or move them apart. In summary, the shelves morph in accordance with my ever-changing needs. The shelves are all at one a showcase for my essays into conceptual art, a resting place for my executive toys and a safe harbour for my literary volumes – in short, my furniture shows the world who I am. (to be continued)

Fishies

In the Zen garden....swimming silently by.....rippling water.....flicking fins....reflected leaves....the fair....the redhead.......watch out for the dark one.....

Trafalgar Square

Ain't the winter days long and dreary? Come and join this mini-tour of Trafalgar Square at its summer best....crowds of people...fountains playing....pigeons....National Gallery....trees....Neslon's Column....St Martin's Church....!

The most wonderful herbs....

Herbs for health and beauty and superb dining and sweet scents and lovely gardens and many other uses......

Beside the sea

Enjoy this meditative montage of seaside imagery, the perfect antidote to this January weather.....

A Good Night....

Research by the National Heart, Blood and Lung Institute has revealed that between 7-19 per cent of adults in the US do not get enough sleep. Illnesses caused by lack of sleep include obesity, diabetes and heart disease, while up to 1.2 million work days are lost every year, costing the economy about 2% of GDP. In the UK, the economic loss from lack of sleep hits a similar figure. In addition, experts reckon that lack of sleep is behind numerous driving accidents and heinous mistakes at work. Left unchecked, a chronically sleepy subject is prone to a number of mental disorders, including depression. If you think that you need to catch up on sleep, the only remedy is to – that’s right. The key to a healthy mind is not, it seems, sitting on top of an Asian mountain, drinking yak’s milk as bells ring and monks chant mantras. Nope; you simply (a) switch off light, (b) put head on pillow and (c) close eyes, all as a prelude to eight hours in the land of nod - and not just occasionally, but every night. If you have trouble getting enough sleep, follow my getting to sleep guide, just published on Hub Pages. Sweet dreams.

Dublin Botanic Gardens

The world over, gardens are beautiful, scented and uplifting places, which is why I have created this montage of photos and anecdotes about Dublin's Botanic Gardens. To join the trail, follow the link....