Jelly-tot pasta

 

My daughter, Jenny, completed a practice weekend for her Duke of Edinburgh silver medal this weekend.  The threatened rain, thank goodness, held off, and my beloved child had a great time with her friends, camping, walking and cooking for herself.  Now, I must admit most of the cooking involved not such much rubbing sticks together to produce a flame to toast sausages as ripping the tops off ready-meals from Tescos.  Toasted sausages are all very well, but the chances are most of the camp would go down with food-poisoning.  She did, however, get to grips with pasta. 

It’s a miracle pasta ever caught on in Britain.  Pasta needs to be cooked in briskly boiling water.  Most Britons, presented with a boiling pan, start back in horror and turn down the heat. Traditional British cooking means stewing things. For hours and hours.  A stew boiled, as the saying goes, is a stew spoiled.  Boiling things, we think, deep in our unconscious, is Wrong. 

Well, there wasn’t much chance of boiling this pasta. Not on an open camping stove in the middle of the Pennines.  No way.  There was a sort of gloopy mess which Jenny and her team ate anyway – they’d cooked it after all -  and, to make it a bit more fun, they mixed it up with jelly-tots. It was, she said, interesting. Bless. Those kids must have the digestion of an ostrich.

There was a touch of the jelly-tot pasta about some advice I read in a writing magazine. It was a column designed to liven up the would-be writer, to get them thinking about not only what they could write, but also about what would sell.  The columnist advised genre-busting. Pasta and jelly-tots, in fact.

You know the sort of thing – yes, it’s a crime story but it also has supernatural elements.  Yes, it’s a Western, but it’s a crime story too. Okay, why not? The farming soap and British institution The Archers could be tied up with the Silence of the Lambs, for instance   (after all, there’s sheep in both!)  and Five on a Treasure Island would take an unexpected turn if Julian, Dick, George, Anne and Timmy the dog were abducted by aliens. 

 

Now, I don’t know as I can blame the columnist particularly; after all, we all have to live and to dispense immortal wisdom, pithy remarks and sound advice at the rate of 300 words a month come rain or shine must be a taxing prospect, but I’m not at all sure about genre-busting.

 Some years ago, I read a breathlessly excited piece about a crime story, set in the 1920’s, which would “Blow the genre apart”.  It more or boiled down to putting a very hard-edged serial killer into an Agatha Christie-type story.  That seems to me a version of neither having your cake or eating it.  If you want to read about serial killers, with the emphasis on the killing, then you don’t pick up an Agatha Christie and Agatha Christie’s talents of fiendish plotting and wry charm aren’t best served if we’re close-up on the crook and not only know Whodunnit but watch them in the act.

More than that though, it’s a question of mood.  Agatha Christie brings a certain sort of pleasure which is not the sort of pleasure obtained from the sort of books where body-parts are collected in bin-bags and jigsawed together.  And, in this case, the Vice is not versa. 

What can be productive, though, is using the strengths of one genre to compliment another.  Harry Potter, for instance, gains enormously because it’s a traditional school-story, with all the form and conventions of all the boarding-school stories from Jennings to Billy Bunter and a million variants in between.  A school story gets rid of the parents – always a plus in children’s stories because it means the hero or heroine has to take decisions – and replaces them with an institution which can be flouted at will without running the risk of your youthful hero/ine being seen as a juvenile delinquent. There’s a group of friends, a firm, restraining structure (the school) and fixed conventions such as prep, nutty teachers, bells, tuckboxes and uniforms.  Now, this is such an old-fashioned genre that it’s probably not possible to catch an editor’s interest with Mallory Towers 2009.   But make it a story about Magic…. Well, then the very old-fashioned nature of Hogwarts becomes a plus. We expect a school for young wizards to be old-fashioned and JK Rowling has enormous fun with how Hogwarts works.  

The columnist waxed lyrical about a genre-buster he’d come across which was a Regency Romance.  There were, as far as I could make out, all the elements; Jane Austen meets Georgette Heyer and they all get together with the Scarlet Pimpernel.  Only – and he liked this – the hero was gay and the young ladies he rescued fluttered their eyelashes at him in vain.

 For heavens sake!!!  It’s a Romance, for God’s sake, designed to be brought and read by girls, not blokes. It’s meant to take you out of everyday life, to whisk you away to a place which is slightly more enjoyable than our own two-up-two-down or semi-detached lives.  There are times – this is in the real world around us – where every dashing, personable, good-mannered, well-groomed and deeply, deeply attractive bloke seems to be ruddy well gay.  (If they wear Regency spray-on trousers, you can sort of get an idea from that, too.) If you can find a dashing, personable, good-mannered, well-groomed and deeply, deeply attractive bloke who’s straight, then for pete’s sake, don’t tell anyone but move in fast.  They’re like hen’s teeth. 

So yes, mix up the genres if the story calls for it.  But arbitrarily putting one genre with another won’t necessarily produce a good story; unless you’re careful you’re more liable to get jelly-tot pasta than spag bol.

Brooklands Babe

I’ve been reading Barbara Cartland’s book on Etiquette this week. And why not. It might not be the done thing to admit it, but I’ve got a soft spot for Barbara Cartland.   Oddly enough, it’s not because I’m a secret Romance reader or anything.  I mean, I love some of Georgette Heyer’s books (Friday’s Child and The Talisman Ring are particular favourites) but that’s mainly because they’re funny and exciting rather than knee-trembling romances.  I’ve tried, on occasion, to read Mills and Boon  - usually when trapped in a hospital and all other resources have failed – but, reluctantly, I have to admit they’re not really my cup of tea.  So why this soft spot for The Queen of Romance?

Well, as anyone who’s devoted time to Mad About The Boy? (and what possible better use of time could there be?) will know Malcolm Smith-Fennimore, the gorgeous, glamorous Malcolm, is, as well as being rich, handsome, intelligent, an aviator and a racing-driver.  (Gosh:  I really went for it with Malcolm:  phew – pass me the smelling salts, someone!)

Now, in the 1920’s we’re not talking about Formula 1 with a theme tune from Fleetwood Mac, endless discussion of wet, dry and intermediate tyres, and how quickly Lewis Hamilton can manage his pit-stop.  Nor, as this is England, am I trying to summon up the roaring boards of the American Indy Car racing.  No, Malcolm’s spiritual home is Brooklands.

I’ve been to Brooklands twice (it costs seven quid to get in and is money well spent) once with my friend Liz Whitbourne, an archaeology teacher, who took me round what’s left of the track, virtually on hands and knees, obsessing about concrete, and once with the family, bless them.  They are terribly patient on occasion.  Brooklands was the first purpose-built motor-racing track anywhere in the world ever.  It opened in 1907 with a ground-breaking banked concrete track covering large bits of Surrey. Although you wouldn’t guess as much from the official Brooklands Guide, which waxes lyrical about Brookland’s (considerable) contribution to aviation, those Magnificent Men In Their Flying Machines were admitted only reluctantly.  Malcolm, the lucky beggar, “has a hanger at Brooklands”.  A.V. Roe, who was the first person really to have a hanger at Brooklands, wasn’t permitted a hanger as such; it was more a hut.  As it was only 20 feet wide, his biplane, with a wingspan of 36 feet had to go in sideways!

A.V. Roe's aeroplane, although it couldn't quite fit in the shed, at least looked as if it could get off the ground.

 

 

 

 

 

Unlike, the hilarious but perhaps ill-conceived multi-plane...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes, I know it was early days, but it looks as if someone was trying to fly the shed, and a shed modelled on the inside of a football terrace at that.  Some things you can just sort of see will never work...   However, aviation moved on to the post-scaffolding part of its development, giving rise to, amongst other things, Jack Haldean and Malcolm Smith-Fennimore.

Brooklands, with its Clubhouse became one of the most glamorous places in England.   Although the glory has departed, you can still get a whiff of it and the Clubhouse has been restored.  Wandering through, making Gosh, Wow, Look at that noises, I was startled to come across the Barbara Cartland room.  It’s painted pink (natch) but what’s it doing there at all?  Well, BC took part in a Ladies’ Race for the benefit of the Press and also had some very bright ideas about gliders.  I think I’m right in saying that she designed The Ladies Reading Room.  Okay, so it’s very pink, but it’s there.  And so was she.

The Etiquette Book is quite handy, should you ever want to meet the Queen or know how to behave in Denmark (“Do not make rude remarks about the bed-coverings, which are blankets buttoned into clean sheets, making a kind of eiderdown”) says Dame B, for the benefit of Brits in those pre-duvet days and, actually, rather like Dame B herself, contains hard nuggets of sense.  Yes, even in a book on etiquette, she’s a bit too given to saying how many proposals of marriage she’s had , but no-one’s perfect.  And she did sell over a thousand million books.  Strewth.

Egging them on

And so it’s Easter.  I love Easter.  The weather’s improved out of all recognition so – and this is probably bad for my figure – we can have the back door open and Barney and Lucky (canines) and Snooker and Arthur (felines) can come and go without all the carry-on of barking, scratching and meowing to get out followed by barking, scratching and meowing to get in.  Yours Truly seems to act as an animals’ janitor from October onwards to April or thereabouts. Not that means the animals in question are particularly pleased with life; when they’re in they want to be out and when they’re out they want to be in and when the door’s left open they fuss about the draught. 

The other thing is that, now Lent’s over, I can drink red wine with a clear conscience once more.  I usually try and give it up for Lent, spurred on by the incredulity of my family that I can do any such thing (not that I’ve got a problem or anything, it’s just that I love the stuff).  This year my Lenten abstinence was pretty spotty, even by my elastic standards.  It wasn’t I gave it up particularly, but I did whinge about it.

However, what with books to write and decorating to do, to say nothing of the Other Half being away for large lumps of March, I thought I had enough to be going on with without giving the elbow to the true, the blushful hippocrene, with beaded bubbles winking at the rim, as Keats, who obviously liked a couple as well, called it.  Keats was spotted as toper, I recall, by the Monty Python bunch in their immortal words:  Aristotle, Aristotle was a bugger for the bottle and Keats was fond of a dram…

And then there’s eggs; lots and lots of choccy eggs.  I’m not that bothered about chocolate but I’d feel aggrieved if the celebration wasn’t marked with a certain amount of solidified cocoa-butter and the junior members of the family would feel as if the sky had fallen in. 

Our Easter-egg giving had to be postponed – it’s usually first thing in the morning - as the Children’s Group at church was doing the Easter Garden and I was a prime mover.

 A couple of years ago, moved by some obscure impulse or other, I decided that an Easter Garden would be nice.  Like any average guardian of the young, I spent years being covered in a mixture of PVA glue and water and clouds of flour as I made play-dough.  Once the taste for PVA glue gets into your system, it never really leaves.  I like making things and painting, and it’s always nice to have an excuse to do a bit. Anyway, a six-foot junk model of a more or less desert landscape backed up with a six-foot painting of a Jerusalem-ish place was the result, complete with miniature things, such as a spear (clay modelled on a skewer) and a Holy Grail (that’s a chalice, not Mary Magdalene!) and a little donkey nicked from the crib set.  The kids from the Children’s Group take it in turn to put the objects into the garden whilst other kids describe what’s going on to the congregation.  It always seems to work well, but it’s actually fairly loosely organized chaos.  Just like life, really.  Happy Easter, everyone – I hope you have an egg-xiting time!

Here's what the completed garden looked like.  There's another picture at the top of the blog.  It should be down here, but I got it in the wrong place - ah well! Now where's my chocolate....

 

And they’re off!

 

It was Grand National weekend and that means, for a time, that everyone – but absolutely everyone – who’s in shouting distance of Liverpool turns into an expert on all things horsy.  Irishmen – I can’t believe there’s any Irish left in Ireland on Grand National weekend – buttonhole you in bars, by the bookies, on the train, to assure you that Name Your Horse Here can’t fail to win and then, later, sink slowly into pools of sadness and Guinness.

The atmosphere at Aintree is terrific.  The course is massive, a circle of grass track broken up by jumps set on the flat Liverpool plain.  It usually looks nice enough on the telly, but, believe you me, the wind that comes slicing across makes you think longingly of Damarts and woolly vests. By gum, though, there’s some stalwart souls in Liverpool!  Especially the distaff side of the population.  Girls with thin dresses, bare arms, bare backs and high heels a stilt-walker could practice on, teeter around teeter round looking goose-pimply, cold and determined.  There’s brass bands, big screens (because Aintree is so big, the horses vanish from view in no seconds flat) and loads of shops selling horsey things.  Indiana Jones hats, green caps, lots of things in tweed, brass ditto with horses on them and big bags from the Argentine, made by the simple expedient of removing the natural covering from a cow and sowing round the edges.  Apparently a bag isn’t a bag in the Argentine unless you can fit three gauchos and a pampas plant inside.

Peter’s company is in the centre of Liverpool and they always take a box for the National. I know, I know.  Life’s tough, but someone has to do it…

These corporate hospitality boxes are amazing.  Strictly speaking, they’re tents, but have nothing to do with Happy Campers, burnt sausages or tripping over guy-ropes.  They’re three stories high, with massive steel poles, floors, ceilings, staircases, carpets, dining tables and – for us race-goers need to keep our strength up – lots of food and drink.  There’s a copy of The Racing Post and a form guide on every seat and, instead of the usual small talk over a luke-warm martini with a solitary olive and a paper umbrella floating in it, everyone talks about Horses. 

The girl who had a pet pony and riding lessons in her extreme youth is regarded as a Sage and Johnny (Irish, of course: the English always assume the Irish have a mystical affinity with horses and the Irish don’t dissuade them) who follows The Form and knows about stuff like Prancing Lad out of You Must Be Joking who didn’t win Cheltenham because of bad light/stewards’ decision/strained fetlock/morning-after head/R in the month is hailed as a Daniel Come To Judgement. 

It’s unlike any other corporate dinner I’ve ever been to.  There aren’t any speeches and, at the slightest sign of movement on the course outside, the entire room gets up, charges onto the balcony, and yell like maniacs as the horses thunder past.  The Chosen Ones gleefully collect their winnings and the rest of us shamble back to our seats.

My plan for the race was simple enough; I backed ten horses at a couple of quid a time in the hope that, as I’d backed a quarter of the field, one of the wretched quadrupeds would come home.  The bloke in the little Tote office looked at me in a puzzled sort of way. “They can’t all win,” he said, breaking it to me gently. I smiled in a sort of bear with me way.  “I’m not very decisive,” I demurred apologetically, and I wasn’t.

 The Sage, The All-Knowing, The Irish and the Can’t Lose had all given different tips and they sounded so knowledgeable.  Gosh, it sounded good. I knew it was a triumph of hope over experience, but I might as well listen, because my original observations amounted to the fact that horses have a leg at each corner and, not to put too fine a point on it, seem dumb.

Horses circle round, back into fences, run very fast in the wrong direction and generally seem to have no notion that the object of the exercise is to stand, nose pointing east, behind a line and then go like the clappers.  I did wonder, too, if the Knowledgeable are as wise as they’re cracked up to be.  “Doctor David’s digging his toes in,” the bloke on the PA remarked as the animal in question refused to face the front.  I mean, if the poor creature had been issued with toes instead of hooves, I’m not surprised he was shy.

Well, the painful truth is out.  The Sage, The All-Knowing etc’s opinions were, in the end, as valuable as mine.

I don’t know who did back Mon Mome at a 100 to 1 – the trainer’s mother and anyone who’d drawn it in the office sweepstake, I presume – but I wasn’t one of them. 

We were, however, in the presence of greatness.  The table next to mine (and I could have been at that table – it was a sheer fluke I wasn’t) put an accumulator bet on at the start of the day.  They won £29,000.  Yes, that’s right, Twenty nine thousand quid shared between ten people.  The money came in plastic bags and looked as if someone had gone shopping for a Premier League football team and decided to pay in ready cash.  I looked at my pal Anne-Marie as she lovingly held 145 twenty-pound notes.  “What are you going to do with that lot?” I asked.  “Shoes and bags, Dolores,” she said with a dreamy expression.  “Shoes and bags.”  Love it!