The Farmers Market

Farmers Market or Farmers Markup. Don't get me wrong, I am a fan of any venture which wrestles the consumer from the grasps of the mega supermarkets and provides an outlet for the ugly vegetables, the ones covered in their native soil and resembling parts of celebrities but I have some problems with the overall presentation and concept of such events. I have not yet identified an actual farmer or farming type as stallholder or exhibitor so by definition the Farmers Market brand is being misrepresented. A bit like Uncle Ben who had an allergic reaction to rice or Aunt Bessie whose batter based products were always a bit of a dampener at sunday lunchtimes. The local event is very cosmopolitan. Yorkshire, Lancashire and Italy are all represented on food stalls  with the emphasis on low fat and low cholestrol meats including ostrich burgers and wild boar steaks with both species evidently  running rampant through these parts based on the number of proprietors offering such fare. The presence of a fishmonger is confusing to me also the now ubiquitous £4 per cup cake purveyor. Harvest of the sea just about qualifies for a stand but not an overpriced, over-iced bun in a fancy wrapper?. True to the ethos of a Farmers Market are the stalls selling staples of bacon, sausage, black pudding, pies and pale looking steaks and cuts. We are so conditioned to shrink wrap, vacuum wrap and highly packaged foodstuffs that seeing meat in particular in a real raw state can be a bit disturbing. It's funny that a polythene 'bag for life' dripping with blood from a leaking pack of supermarket meat is not acceptable yet the same through a crumpled paper bag from a Farmers Market is expected and indeed demanded. Did I say the staples, well, there are half a dozen varieties of bacon of different curing and flavouring, sausages with apple, leak, mustard and even non-pork, black pudding of a vegetarian nature, very fancy huntsman, woodsman, stockman and new man pies and bits of animal that the supermarket discard or sell to pet food companies. My favourite stall is the home baking one although again the amount of stock and variety of stock would mean a very early start indeed to the day for the home bakers or full production at a large factory just outside Manchester. I do not stay too long at the market but I do contribute to the rural based or themed economy by purchasing a lemon drizzle cake for £1.95 (Spar Shop £1.45), a ciabatta loaf for £1.70 (Netto's 99p) and an ostrich burger in a bun with onions for £3. (Not available through main retailers). Still, I have had some time out amongst like minded market supporters in a large tarmac surfaced car park next to the Ring Road but I wonder where all the real farmers are.

Coffee Morning

One of the luxuries of life is a cafetiere but only with the time and place to enjoy it. In these days of vending machines, freeze dried sachets, push button choices or the enforced trend that you must in a retail bookshop to enjoy a coffee I find it therapeutic to go through my own ritual to have the first and always the best drink of the day. Not every day though, sunday mornings are the best when it is quiet and the car was loaded up the night before with the bags of garden and household waste to go to the tip. I have two cafetieres, an executionable offence in any marxist regimes, but in my defence one has a broken lid and dangerously sharp plunger spike but it is the better of the two. I base this on the amount of chrome holding in the glass beaker. My reserve cafetiere is one of the common Bodum brand, a bit plasticky and cheap looking. If likened to cars I would have a rather battered but loved Ford Granada and a three wheeler. The choice of coffee is easy. Whatever is on offer or under £2.75. A remarkably wide choice from the supermarket within my price range. Classic French, relaxed Italian, confused Columbian (are you mellow or strong?), emerging Puerto Rican, foothills Kenyan, Fairtrade, supplementing the drugtrade...dismayed. The starting point is the attempt to release the coffee from its vacumm pack without losing too much of the contents or an eye. There can be a satisfying "ploopsch" from insertion of a sharp object and a faint whiff of stale air from the country of origin to set the scene. I transfer the sachet contents to my favourite airtight tin which features  the caricature of a disgruntled donkey animal. I suspect that the tin is not hermetically sound as the contents do seem to degrade over time. Three scoops into the cafetiere using a measurer from Formula Milk (how old is that with my youngest being 16 and where was it hidden for 15 of those?) and pour on the just boiled water. A critical moment in the life of the glass beaker. Can the molecular structure adapt within milliseconds to the change in temperature. Invariably yes, but sometimes there can be a small  explosion of atoms and carnage in the kitchen. After a quick spoon stir, which is a frowned upon act in connoisseur circles, but creates nice swirly patterns, it is time for the plunger to be pressed. I am always surprised at either the ease of plunging or its stiff treacley action-why is that? I resist the usual countdown to the plunge and making muffled explosions from the demolition of a cooling tower or steel works, but do fondly remember Fred Dibnah and his unwitting contribution to the decline of the manufacturing sector in this country- "Hey Fred, are you busy? No Mrs Thatcher. Which northern town are you redeveloping now?" Politics are forgotten with the pouring of the first cup of coffee and all is right with the World, at least every Sunday

Suits me fine

On the way back from the Post Office, having signed for a registered letter, I was both laughing and crying. Not, I assure you a freakish medical condition nor an audition piece for 'embarassing middle aged bodies' but an animalistic response to a thing of pure joy. I am well down in the best dressed league table for my profession, if indeed there is such a thing, but my fake see through Jaeger trousers, crusty shirt underarms and grubby collar are a badge of honour. They shout out, here's a man who takes care not in his appearance but in his duty of care in seeking out those defects in a building could cause anxiety, damage or injury if not relentlessly pursued through the gas cupboards, underfloor voids and loft spaces of the UK housing stock. Why not wear overalls? Well, a valid question but have you seen how unstylish they are, a cross between Hannibal Lecter, an inmate of Guantanimo Bay and Pa Walton. Accordingly, I can only afford to run one good suit at a time, or part suit or no suit at all. My last purchase in the dark two-piece line was for my Fathers funeral and I will keep that one for best or auspicious occasions, such as the Oscars, Best Man duties or for when I have to step into Matthew MacConnaghey's role in adverts. I was juggling a few bits of income to see if a suit could be sourced but just when there is enough to buy the trousers something always comes along to whisk away the jacket budget. This is where God shows his hand. I did not actually offer up a prayer for a suit but I think I may have given an impression of being needy and what happens- I win the National  August monthly prize from Slaters Menswear of £100 in vouchers. Amazing, a small miracle but a miracle nonetheless. Look out you well dressed professionals , I am working my way up to the heady heights of mid table mediocrity and it feels really good, at least a wool/polyester mix.

Wood I lie to you

I have betrayed my ancestors and upbringing and I dare not face my neighbour who is a timber merchant. I had better explain why. My house is of 1920's vintage and will originally have featured a lot of painted woodwork to the exterior. Thanks to The Readers Digest Book of Home Improvements 1974, updated never, some of the warmth of wood was lost to aluminium and brushed steel in the form of replacement windows considered all the rage at that time.  Later, even the space age high tech metalwork was smelted down to make way for UPVC with the benefit of double glazing units. I have managed to retain some attractive timber although lacking access to long ladders and a cure for vertigo much of this fringing the roof at high level is worse for wear. In the 1980's many interior designers got rich on the very paintwork effect now gracing my bargeboards and soffits. I think it was called distressed. The front of my house has a rectangular recess at first floor level with a painted wood balcony which I have just revived after 15 years of occupancy. At least the balustrade is the original and not obviously part of a staircase with some adaptations. Just below the concrete floor of the balcony is a deep supporting timber across a discoloured  UPVC storm porch enclosure and on top of that a very rotten and creased cloaking piece. Having revamped the rail and even tarted up the render around the balcony my DIY intentions now focused on the poor bit of wood. I carefully inserted my crowbar to ease off the 3.5m length. At first, some resistance, then the release of 90 years accumulated dust, spider bodies and cosmic particles before the length of wood overpowered the rusty nails and fell to the ground with an amusing sound but one that cannot be described or replicated to anyone not there at the time. The exposed upper edge of the supporting timber was soft and cubed with wet rot but was prized out easily. I then surveyed what I had done. What a mess. The restoration project began to take shape. I sketched out a grand scheme for a timber facade, measured and marked on the sheet of paper what was required and then transposed this onto a shopping list. 4m length of timber to allow for error, big nails or big screws, primer, undercoat, gloss paint, quadrant mouldings to disguise gaps, battens to infill, diet coke and a chocolate bar. Approximate cost, unknown. (Diet Coke, maximum 79p, Choccy up to £1). At the B&Q megastore I did the usual three to four laps in the pre-purchase stage mentally mapping out the aisle positions for my acquisitions. Hardware, paint and brushes stacked in the main sales hall.Timber at the far end, part open air, large racks of planed, unplaned, tanalised, not tanalised, light, dark, interestingly speckled. I am not an expert on wood. My skill with wood is confined to deciding what would burn with most smoke production to annoy my non-timber merchant neighbour.
I did actually handle some wood at that stage. The smooth warmth of the surface, the resolute soundness of the grain, the true alignment of the required 4m length did all impress. So why was I seduced by the plastic fascia board that now takes pride of place on the front of the house. Okay, it was metre for metre a lot cheaper than timber, I could carry it easily and when strapped to my passenger side wing mirror with a high-viz vest and wedged at the other end against the estate car tailgate I stood a chance of getting it home without 3 points on my driving licence or with a cyclist impaled on the end. The final effect is what I had in my minds eye but I am disappointed by my treachery to, in particular my grandfather who was a skilled carpenter. He would not forgive me for my surrender to oil based extruded products nor, if he knew in the years after his passing, that I had often grossly misused his prized woodworking tools in many DIY applications for which they were never intended.

Obituary for a Squirrel

After the running over and killing of a squirrel on a slip road to the A63 I have had time to put together an Obituary for the poor rodent.

I did not know the victim of my driving but from the sound it made under my Continentals I am sure that he was of good, stout stock.

I will refer to the squirrel as male only because wikipedia say that the females look after the young and if he was out foraging for sustenance for his family then he would be at a higher risk of meeting an unfortunate accident.

I do not know why he was in the middle of the slip road. I suspect that whilst herbivorous he was supplementing his diet with a small vertebrate which was an earlier victim  of a concussive blow by a vehicle.

I did give him a chance to throw himself clear and if I had been on a motorbike then he would now be sitting in a tree at a safe elevation from the highway. He had no chance with a four wheeled estate car in spite of an evasive zig zag manouvre.

What of his achievements? I speculate that he was born, as all members of the sciuridae species, naked and blind and unsure of his sexuality until the end of his first year. Undoubtedly part of a large family he will have survived on his instinct and awareness to his surroundings. In his younger years he will have met and fallen in love to breed twice a year (thanks again wiki-pee).

His offspring will mourn his passing and remember fondly typical character traits of dependability, an ability to crack nuts between his thighs and his impersonation every winter before hibernation of a squirrel feeling a bit sleepy and going into hibernation.

He will have had a dark side including relishing the prospect of chewing through electrical wiring in agricultural buildings and teasing Jack Russell dogs by seemingly pretending not to have seen them yet with a well rehearsed scamper and flourish of the magnificent bushy tail disappearing up a tree trunk leaving the poor dog barking at nothing but bark. 

He did live in fear of a resurgence of Red Squirrels and the soundless swoop of a sparrowhawk but in all had a splendid and rewarding life. He will be missed which is a bit ironic bearing in mind his demise under my wheels.

(yet another re-issue. Another busy day........)

The All Day Breakfast Miracle

£3.75 for an all day breakfast! I am not sure it that is possible. The food was great but I was consumed by fear and concern that the seaside cafe was operating not out of commercial principles but charity. I can imagine the Bank Relationship Manager on the nearby cliff top ready to jump out of exasperation for the irrational business plan. Further along the precipice is Ronald McDonald who at last has found his match for the breakfast meal even though he was fully confident  that day would never come.
I felt it necessary to examine the economic facts of my breakfast meal and carry out a risk assessment on the financial status of the owner/proprietor and the ongoing viability of their livelihood. I did so not want the venture to fail because of me and my compatriot customers. Looking around the dining area I could see that the future prospects for the town were also dependant on the income from the budget breakfast with a group of out of town contractors from the new supermarket site, young mothers with a tangle of laden buggies, two obvious social workers discussing a case , the council street sweeper on a chat-up mission with a lady called Pearl (of a certain age) and with the remainder possibly family members or close relations of the owner and the one member on the staff, my hero the short order cook.
The oval serving plate with a suspiciously familiar Trust House Forte logo on it (therefore nil cost to my exercise), contained, from left to right, 2 mushrooms head side down, a tinned peeled tomato, two nicely thick bacon rashers, a perfectly fried egg, slightly dried sausage (suspected to be quorn) and around 50-60 baked beans of uncertain variety but in decent tomato sauce. In orbit of the main platter, a smaller side plate (no corporate logo) with 4 slices of toast and a separate saucer with a mug of coffee. I would estimate the cost of materials to be around £1.50 but open to challenge if anyone has the actual time to pricecheck. I did not get a tour of the kitchen so I have added a further 20 pence to cover the cost of lard for cooking. Therefore £1.70. Production costs have included a few micro-therms of gas sourced from Russia (conversion rate as per today for roubles to pounds sterling), electric light for the duration of kitchen operations, wages for the cook on a pro-rata basis and a small allowance for depreciation and wear and tear. Say, a figure for these inputs of £1.65 with sub total so far of £3.35. Main overheads have been considered as follows. Business Rates but subject to small business relief, equivalent market rent for the lock up cafe for the duration of my patronage and outgoings for PAYE and national insurance, say 40 pence. Aggregated total to provide the £3.75 all day breakfast- £3.75.
Just as I suspected from the start. The cafe is not a viable business at face value but priceless for service to the community with a menu of compassion, kindness, refuge and friendship. I may find it difficult to find a table next time I am in town.

The Village

The newest residential settlement in East Yorkshire could be the ideal model for the future of rural living. The village has sprung up very quickly, from a greenfield site to fully functional in only a few months. The houses are eco-friendly in timber and with a lightweight roof cladding which can be easily assembled and repaired. The design is classic in its simplicity and symmetry, just shiplap clad walls, a minimum of openings to retain heat yet naturally ventilated to minimise harmful moisture and condensation. The front elevation has a large arched aperture and the buildings through the development are aligned east to west to maximise solar gain.
The internal layout is fully open plan and can easily accommodate a large family in comfort. The interior and exterior are integrated so that a large proportion of time can be spent outside in the generous sized grounds with designated areas for recreation and eating. The site is easily maintained and can cope with normal family activities.It is a common sight for mother to be closely followed by her infants in play and educational learning. There is a special area for parents and offspring to lounge and rest and take advantage of the outdoor rural life. Social interaction with nearest neighbours often involves meeting at the fence. There is no one-upmanship or competition. It is never the case of the grass looks greener on the other side. In fact, the lifestyle and communal spirit has much to be commended representing an ideal long lost in society as a whole.
Everyone mucks in together, but after all they are pigs.