Hiding from Birds

The whole world of bird watching is foreign to me. Like many hobbies, birders have their own language. For example, Vivien and I went into the 'bird hide': a little wooden hut with a large window overlooking a collection of bird feeders. This particular one also had benches, shelves, a white board for children to indicate what they'd seen, some reference books and even a pair of binoculars.  The only other hide I've been to was a concrete structure with a long window-shaped hole overlooking a nature reserve. Wallington Hall obviously does it in style.

Gold Finch

To be honest, I've always thought British birds a bit boring. I grew up with bright red cardinals flashing through the back garden and being dive bombed by enormous blue jays protecting their nests.  Most birds I see on a daily basis are seagulls and pigeons.  Wallington estate, however, is noisy with bird call - actual birds not flying rats or sea and landfill scavengers. I must admit it is a lovely sound.

Green Finch

So, what did we see? Danged if I know. I edited my photos to make the birds more visible and then asked Bill to give me some names. He initially said one was a 'blue tit'; this is a name I've heard many times and it always makes me shake my head. The things Brits say with a straight face, it sometimes amazes me. Then he said maybe it was a 'cold tit'; I said 'excuse me'? He said c-o-a-l tit; OK.  Then he decided it was a Great Tit.  Never in my life did I ever think I would Google British Tit Birds.  I'm not much the wiser but I'll go along with Great Tit.  (Do you think this is why there are so many bird fanciers here in Britain, so they can talk about all the lovely tits they've seen?) Bill says that Tit is based on a Scandinavian word meaning 'small'. 

Great Tit!

These two lovelies had Vivien enthralled. I think she said they were chaffinches gold finches. They certainly had more variety of colour than any birds I've seen outside of Australia.

And Bill said one of these was a goldfinch. I'll take his word for it. I can sort of see what appeals to bird watchers, though I doubt I'll be indulging in this hobby on a serious level anytime soon. (Thanks to Vivien for correcting my labels!)

Mother's Day

Today is Mother's Day in the U.S.  If you come here regularly you might remember that this occasion falls in March here in Britain and they call it Mothering Sunday.  I don't do much about commemorating either one, my mom being gone now for nearly 25 years. Besides there's not a day goes by I'm not thinking about her on some level.

I remember a conversation with Mom one year when I had sent her roses on Mother's Day. I think I must have sent white ones, those being my personal favourite, and she explained that 'technically' (in Southern parlance) white roses weren't appropriate, because they meant one's mother had passed on. I never had heard that before or since, though Sanda from Halcyon Days knew about this tradition (living in the South and all).

For some weird reason while reading Abroad this thought about white roses came to mind, so I looked it up.   When reading Abroad (link), for some reason this came to mind, so I looked it up. It would have been better had I given Mom red or yellow roses.  

The meaning behind colours of roses doesn't always apply just to Mother's Day, however.  According to this source

White roses are sometimes call the "flower of light" and are the bride's flower. They symbolize unity, sincerity, loyalty, purity, and a love stronger than death. White flowers can be mixed with red to emphasize the meaning of love, while white buds are an appropriate gift to a young girl from her father.

This might explain why the inside of Mom's wedding ring (now my wedding ring) says '14K White Rose'.  I didn't inherit a lot from Mom that I would have liked to: 

she was naturally skinny, having a lanky build and long legs; 
she had endless patience;
she was wonderfully artistic, able to do fashion sketches, oil colours, photographic colouring, sculpting and every kind of needlework;
she had beautiful hands

I did inherit her eyes. I'm working on the patience...





And I grow white roses in my garden, though they haven't bloomed yet this year. When they do, I will look at them and remember that "love is stronger than death".

Mothering Sunday

Today is the British version of Mother's Day, only they call it Mothering Sunday. The name alone makes me think of old fashioned prams and lacy Victorian blouses. Turns out it wasn't always to do with mothers, but with one's Mother Church, initially being a Christian rather than a Secular holiday.




I'm positive that had I not been writing this post, I would never have learned about the history of Mothering Sunday. Though not particularly religious myself, I'm thrilled to bits to learn that this observance didn't originate with the marketers at Hallmark.

Joanne's Strawberry Pie

Today is my friend Joanne's birthday.  She would have been 69 years old.  I still think of Joanne sometimes when I'm sewing or blogging about something I wish I could share with her. I last saw her in June 2011, a few months before she died; I didn't know she was ill.  I'm not exactly sure of the chronology, but it's possible she didn't know either.

Anyhow, she fed us lunch at her house and there was this incredibly wonderful pie.  I asked for the recipe and she sent it, along with some others.  I've not pursued making any of these because (a) I'm not much on sweets.  We tend to have sliced fruit for dessert; (b) this is full of American brands not available here in Britain.  I think I know most of the substitutes, but it's not a sure thing.

Strawberry Pie

Graham cracker crust Pie shell (Digestive biscuits are the closest thing I've found to Graham crackers here in Britain)
4 cup sliced strawberries
4 oz Jello Cook and Serve Vanilla pudding (I think the closest thing to this is called Angel Delight)
4oz strawberry Jello (and this would just be called jelly?  I believe it comes already partially constituted so you just add boiling water)
2 cups water

Clean and slice strawberries. Arrange in pie crust.  Cook pudding with WATER (it is generally made with milk). When it comes to a rolling boil, add strawberry Jello to dissolve.  Allow to cool some, then pour over strawberries. Place in refrigerator overnight, all day or at least 4 hours.  Can be served with whipping cream or Cool Whip.  (I think the substitute is Dream Whip, but it comes in powdered form and has to be made up to serve).

So maybe I should add (c) it's more trouble here in Britain...then again, it was delicious.  

Deuxième Service

I don't think I've ever mentioned having read a book called  Mad World:  Evelyn Waugh and the Secrets of Brideshead, by Paula Byrne. I was lucky enough to buy this for only 99p thanks to a coupon my friend Vivien sent me. From it I learned that Waugh and his friends had visited Highclere Castle (where Downton Abbey is filmed).   They - the Mitford sisters, Waugh and other of his 'set' tended to use a lot of slang of their own invention and and 'Highclere' was their word for anything very fine or elegant. So it's not just me.

If you are interested in the lifestyle of the middle and upper classes during the inter-war period then I would guess Mad World might interest you, as well as Brideshead Revisited, which is considered the best depiction ever written about life at Oxford during that time.

Ever since I read the latter book, about this time last year, I've wanted to immerse myself a bit further into understanding some of the many references it makes to the period.  And not just that, I've wanted to visualise how things looked.   So from time to time, I may share some of what I discover here.

As to the title of this post?  Well, I have to admit I drafted it a while back when I first learned that there would be a second series of Downton Abbey.  You'll understand how exciting that new was!  Also, the phrase deuxième service shows up in BR early on.  It means 'second service' and it refers to the practice of some restaurants of booking an early seating for the evening meal, followed by a stated time at which there will be a second service.  We run into this all the time on board the ferry to Amsterdam, where there seems to be a nearly infinite supply of food, but only a very generous number of tables. 

I never heard this phrase or experienced the concept until I came to Britain.   Just one more of those funny little differences.  Then again, it may be that I just didn't frequent the right sort of places in the U.S.  Then again, perhaps it's not the right sort that does this, as apparently at least one person in Australia wasn't happy about this.

Are you used to booking a table for the evening or for a seating?

Trig Points and Spot Heights

Actually, there is still another party I've not mentioned, mainly because I didn't go.  Bill got together with his friends from the Long Distance Walkers' Association at a pub in Gosforth.  It sounds like it was pretty informal, just a few pints and a quiz about trig points.  It seems one of the ladies in the LDWA collects the things - pictures of them anyhow.

Bill had to explain to me about trig points.  They are markers, generally concrete things on hills, that are used by surveyors to make maps (you know, those old fashioned paper things people used before GPS came along).  I've never seen one, but then I'm not fond of walking to the top of hills like loads of people here are.  I had to laugh that she collected these things (but I'm in awe at her fitness that she can). 

First I learned about 'train spotting' and then 'plane spotting' and now trig point collection.  Actually, it was quite useful to read the train spotting link, as I'd no idea that our local Tyne & Wear Metro prohibits all photography unless one has written permission from the operators, Nexus.  There are a number of photos on this blog that I took on the Metro.    You won't tell on me, will you? 

Although loads of children who grew up along side of Bill aspired to be train drivers, trainspotters are now spoken of in faintly derisory terms that include 'anoraks' ('nerds').  An anorak is the British term for those plastic jackets that in the US we would call 'windbreakers'.  Just you try using that term here in Britain; people will roll on the floor shrieking.  Back to train spotting, I've always found it fascinating how so many Brits can become obsessed with what seems mundane to most of us.  Mind, under that woolen hat his mother knitted, lurks a brain that knows the ins and outs of how a train works, the intricacies of the schedule and the track changes and probably the history of the invention of most things train-related. 

I've decided that growing up and living in a very small place, such as Britain is, it must seem more feasible to know everything there is to know about a subject, because one grows up in a place that is so finite that one can become quite intimate.  Another thing about these hobbies of course is that they don't have to cost much.   There is a sub-set of the population here that is not fighting to keep up with the Jones's, not buying the latest bling, not chasing the bigger and better job.  They are living quiet little lives of relative contentment and they have quirky little hobbies about which they are quite excited.  I've come to admire this.

Bill and I were walking about the other day and noticed a sad old ramshackle house had been sold; I'd never seen it was on offer.  I took all sort of photos of its shabbiness in hopes of eventually being able to share with you some 'after' photos as well.  Whilst waiting for me to finish, Bill spotted noticed a spot height on the stone wall across the road from the house.  A spot height is another surveying tool.  It is a measure of feet or meters above sea level and such marks also appear on maps.  When I googled this term, the top listing has to do with navigation in road rally driving, Bill's former hobby, so it's no surprise he knew about them.  Of course I took a photo to share with you, having learned something new.

Now, I'm world famous around these parts for being a terrible navigator.  I eventually get where I want to be, but rarely by the most direct route.  I'm still a north south east west kinda girl and Brits just don't think in those terms, so that skill is of limited use here where the road maps look like snarled yarn.  What I'm saying here is just because I took ONE photo of a spot height, it doesn't mean I'm going to collect them or navigate by them.  If I do, you'll be the first to know.

Besides that, I'm not nearly clever enough to come up with a quiz question like 'What is a fund's aspiration?'  Answer:  Hedgehope. 

Name That House

When I first moved to England, one of the first things I noticed they did differently was addressing post (not to mention calling it post instead of mail).  I don't think I ever got my head around the punctuation business, putting a comma at the end of each line, or even after the house number.  It didn't take me long before I decided that there must be a correlation between the number of lines in one's address and the prestige of one's address.  For example, an address in the US might be

Ms. Shelley S. House
55 Blogger Street
Google, OT  01234-5678

and you would add USA at the bottom if sending it from abroad.  If I wanted to be posh here in Britain, I'd try to eek it out:

Mrs. Shelley S. House,
The Brick House,
55, Snooty Lane,
Posh Village,
Postal Town,
NE99 0DR,
Great Britain

Actually, I think you lose points if you have to put a house number and street name, but you can probably only get away with this if you live in The Vicarage, The Old Rectory or The Old Post Office in some tiny rural crossroads, in which case you would chock up loads of prestige points for
(a) being rural and (b) having a landmark house.  The post office has rules about all this these days, though.  You can name your house whatever you like but it still has to have a number and a street name. 

Now, if you live in Beechfield Tower, Lauder Grange, Shirley Lodge or the like, I completely understand the house naming business and if you're like me, you could spend days wandering through the listings of this particular real estate business.  I must admit that when I owned two houses in Oklahoma City, I referred to the one on Pennsylvania Avenue as 'Penn House' just for convenience.  (Do you think I could have got more rent if I'd painted the name on the house?)



More frequently, though, the houses here with names are more like The Cottage, or Sunniside, Tyne View or something house, which is particularly boring.  I do think that having an older house with the name engraved on the stonework above the door gives a bit more authority to this convention, but it would never occur to me to get one of those little ceramic plaques for the front wall.



Until now. 

I was doing some filing and realised I was just going to have to remove some material before more could go in.  One of the fatter folders contained the paperwork for my house that the mortgage company handed me when I paid them off.  (Yes, I know it should be in a bank deposit box somewhere, not in my filing cabinet.)  I'd never looked through the file before, but I opened the plastic package and found the original sale of the property by the Duke of Northumberland (I believe it will have been the 8th Duke) and learned the names of the builders.  The early deeds are written on large, folded sheets of stiff paper with fountain pen and give the street and town of the purchasers, ie Mrs. Ellen Purchase, formerly of Saltview, Gateshead, and the like.  The house was built in 1920 as I've always known.  What I didn't know was that it was given a name at birth, so to speak.  It was christened Seaholme.  

'Holme' is apparently a Danish word for 'island'.   Trust me to find a Sea Island in the North Sea.  There is a suburb with this name in Melbourne, AU; also a company in the UK that rents marquees; and we are twinned with a holiday cottage for rent in Rye, on the SE coast of England.  The rest of the internet listings have dropped the final 'e' and I'm just not having it. 

Personally, I want it to be crystal clear to the emergency services precisely where they can find my house if I need them.  However, I've been weighing up whether and where I might display the name, given I have no stone work over my front door.  I've seen some names painted or written in leaded glass work in the window above front doors, but on the whole, I'm leaning towards continuing in anonymity, at least until I get my next set of address labels printed - or maybe I should add it to the name of this blog!?  Yes, I still think naming houses is rather silly, but this is a fun finding anyhow.  Must remember to check with the neighbours about their house names - none are displayed in our immediate vicinity - as I'm pretty certain they will all have been given names when they were built.

If you want to think up a name for your house - where ever it is, here are some tips to get you started.

The Truth about Faeries

Yes, we are still at the Sunderland Museum and Winter Gardens...

The main exhibit at the museum was called The Truth about Faeries.  It was in a large room, with some sort of fairyland hut for the kiddie-winkies to flap about in their faerie wings.  Vivien and I inspected every inch of the room except that particular part, having left our wings at home.  I was frustrated at not being able to take photos, because there were some beautiful things on display.  Instead I got out my notebook and scribbled five pages of names of authors and artists.  I've spent the last few days looking up those names on the Internet, trying to make sense of it all.   I'm not sure I've got there, but I'll share what I learned. 

I did think it was very sweet of Vivien when she, in all seriousness, politely asked me if I believed in faeries.  I actually had the impression that she was prepared to hear me say I did!  It's one of the ways in which I think most Brits are far more courteous than Americans; they generally allow you to have your own view, even if they don't agree at all.   I think that's really lovely and it's one of the nicer things about living here - I get to have my own opinion without having to join the debating society.


However, I had to admit that, no, I don't believe in faeries at all, but I do see why the idea is so attractive to children - and adults - and that the artistic attempts to represent faeries are incredibly beautiful.  She then stated that, being a scientist, she didn't believe in faeries either.  It was originally the pictures that I wanted to share, but as I looked up the names, I found a slightly different story emerged.  I don't think I can tell the story accurately, but perhaps some of this will interest you enough to do some more reading.   In order to present this information to you, I've put the names into chronological order (I definitely am a left-brained person, sadly.  I've always wished for more artistic gifts.)  I found some fun things, or at least they were fun to me!


Edmund Spenser (1552-1599) was an English poet in the time of Elizabeth I.  His most famous work is called The Faerie Queene, a celebration of the Tudors and specifically, Elizabeth.  I would call it long and tedious, but I did find one thing we all know that he wrote because we often use the phrase 'without rhyme or reason'.  It was about asking Elizabeth for payment long overdue: 

I was promis'd on a time,

To have a reason for my rhyme:

But from that time unto this season,

I had neither rhyme or reason.

He got his money!


Shakespeare (1564-1615).  Obviously, I don't need to tell you who this man was or that he wrote a brilliant play about faeries (I'm rather fond of the British spelling, you'll notice) called Midsummer Night's Dream.  If you want to read more about the faeries in this play, this link might interest you.   I can't stand Shakespeare as a rule.  I don't understand what I read or hear, but this play is an exception.  If you've not seen it, I would recommend the film with Michelle Pfeiffer.  I'm sure I've mentioned it before, but if you've not read Bill Bryson's book, Shakespeare: The World as a Stage,  you've missed a treat.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744) was another English poet.  He seems to have specialised in satire which made him somewhat unpopular at times.  His link to faeries isn't immediately obvious.  However, it appears that in his poem, The Rape of the Lock, he makes fun of a squabble between some aristocrats of his day, likening it to a war between the gods; somewhere I read that there is a 'continuum between mythology and fairy tales'.  In this poem he introduces the term, sylph.  Pope was apparently quoted as saying he thought woodland sprites and the like were perhaps dead socialites who didn't want to give up their earthly delights.  This last link gives a reasonable history of the mention of faeries, I believe.  However, they do seem to take their topic far more seriously than I.  Pope, by the way, was the man who gave us 'a little learning is a dangerous thing'...


Charles Perrault (1628-1703) was a French author who took tales from folk lore and created the new literary genre of fairy tales, with a book called the Tales of Mother Goose.    Interestingly, he was friends with a man, Philippe Quinault, who is said to have created the new genre of music, opera.  The Sunderland exhibit said that Perrault wrote
Mother Goose for the royal court.  Whilst he was influential in the court of Louis XIV and did write pieces for specific people earlier in his career, according to Wikipedia, the Mother Goose stories were written for his children after he lost his influential position.  It was lovely to be reminded of  "Little Red Riding Hood" (Le Petit Chaperon Rouge),  "Cinderella" (Cendrillon), Puss in Boots (Le Chat Botté) and   Bluebeard (La Barbe bleue).  Gretchen Rubin, author of The Happiness Project, says she loves reading - and re-reading - children's books.  After investigating all this faerie tale stuff, I'm thinking I need to renew my acquaintance with these stories as well!



"Sleeping Princess" by Viktor Vasnetsov;  Perrault also gave us this story.

William Blake (1757-1827) was a poet, painter and a printmaker (I think that's the same as an engraver, but I'm not certain).  I suspect he was also completely crackers, though he was undeniably creative and gifted.  He had visions all his life.   He seems to have been very religious, but he also believed in 'free love' and incorporated faeries - 'rulers of the vegetable world - into his 'idiosyncratic cosmology'.  I've always known the two lines of his famous poem: "Tyger!  Tyger! burning bright in the forests of the night!"  When I was a kid I thought it was fun to scare myself with this, but on the whole I find Blake as a person altogether too scary for fun.

Oberon, Titania and Puck with Fairies Dancing (1786, William Blake)

Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832), was a Scottish novelist whose name most people have heard.   I was sad to read in the Wikipedia entry that his popularity waned as Jane Austen's rose.  I remember from our visit to the Writers' Museum in Edinburgh that he died fairly broke.   Scott wrote about the 'fairies of popular superstition' in the Tale of Tamlane, part of his Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.  I confess that I, too, would rather read Jane Austen.  It is a shame he died poor, but then he does have that glorious monument in Edinburgh!





Scott's monument is the pointed spire; Bill Bryson says it looks
like a gothic rocketship and I have to agree.

Brothers Grimm - Jacob (1785-1863) Wilhelm (1786-1859) were actually academics in the field of language and cultural research, not just a couple of creepy guys like I thought as a child.  They collected folklore and published the famous Grimm's Fairy Tales in 1812.  When I was given that book at about age 7-8, I read it front to back but never returned.  Some of the stories really frightened me!

In doing all this research, however, I enjoyed being reminded of the stories of  "Cinderella" (Aschenputtel), "The Frog Prince" (Der Froschkönig), "Hansel and Gretel" (Hänsel und Gretel), "Rapunzel", "Rumpelstiltskin"  (Rumpelstilzchen), "Sleeping Beauty" (Dornröschen), and "Snow White" (Schneewittchen).   The thing is, I do find them to all teach little girls to be helpless and wait for a man to come rescue her, or at least to  be sure to marry 'well'.  Also, beware older women, they are often evil witches (you bet we are!)

 
Hans Christian Andersen (1805-1875) is perhaps Denmark's most famous export, author of just classics as "The Steadfast Tin Soldier", "Thumbelina", "The Snow Queen", "The Little Match Girl", "The Ugly Duckling", "The Little Mermaid", "The Emperor's New Clothes", and "The Princess and the Pea".  I must admit to not having read the first one, but Bill remembers it.  However, I think the Princess and the Pea might be my all time favourite fairy tale.  Even more now that I see it acted out several times a week here in Britain. 


I have commented how I find the staff in Tynemouth shops to be quite snooty.  A business transaction can rarely just be about a paying client having an ordinary request fulfilled and then making payment.  The transaction has to be about the staff member - nearly always a woman.  My perception is that she will require me to acknowledge that she is actually far too important for this menial job, that she is my social superior and that I must somehow pay obeisance to this superiority before she will condescend to grant my humble request.   It may well be entirely my imagination, but I see Princesses complaining about Peas in their body language, their attitudes and their studied accents.  I think this 'desperately middle class' hauteur is one of the less attractive aspects of British culture.  I know that the key to dealing with this is simply to be even more arrogant than she and to somehow snub her as a simple shop assistant.  I've seen some horrific snobs talking down to the store clerk or waitress who serves them; it's no wonder service in Britain is appalling.  I'm a fairly demanding customer (it's an American trait, I'm afraid), but this snobbery business is too ugly for me to stomach.  I don't want an obsequious salesperson either, I just want to do a business transaction.

I found it amusing to read the commentary that Andersen himself felt nervous amongst the the 'serene, secure and cultivated Danish bourgeoisie' and saw himself as sensitive enough to feel a pea through twenty mattresses.  Given that I'm the one who remarks on the haughty salesclerks (it's part of the dictionary.com definition!), perhaps I am the princess, after all!

Savings and Expectations

The sewing ladies' group has the routine of going out for lunch together twice a year, in summer and near Christmas.  It's a bit tricky finding a place everyone is happy with from the standpoint of food preferences, transport and price range, but there are loads of places around from which to choose.  I'm generally happy to just go along with the majority, but one thing I don't do is hand over money each week to save it up.





This is a very common British practice.  I saw it at work, where most members of staff gave £1 a week or so to the head secretary to save up for them for their Christmas meal out.  They might also give £1 or so to put on the lottery that week, but that's another habit I've never formed.  I saw this saving for Christmas as part of the running club as well.  Whenever I go to the supermarket they ask if I want to buy savings stamps, which I gather is a similar thing, as the supermarket doesn't pay interest; one just uses the stamps to buy the larger amount of food needed around the holidays.  (That could be a whole other post, why do we spend that much more on food, or the case for taking turns hosting...). 

I'm always amazed when I see grown-ups handing over their pounds - and grown-ups who apparently have quite a bit of disposable income - to someone else to take care of for them.  As though they can't just put the money aside themselves, as though they trust that person more than they trust themselves, as though they won't be able to afford the meal out unless they save up for it.  I'd argue about lost interest, but it's not worth the keystrokes now, is it?

Anyhow, a few months ago we went to an Italian restaurant down on the fish quay where I'd not been before.  Not this one of the chain, anyhow.  It was so inexpensive, it was decided that everyone would just pay rather than draw on their lunch accounts; I always just pay anyhow.  It costing what it did, I didn't have very high expectations of the food, but it's one of the very few occasions when I just didn't think it was worth finishing.  It wasn't awful but on the day I decided it wasn't worth the calories.  Since Italian food is my very favourite, this is a pretty sad comment.



The service was pretty bad, too, even by British standards.  Mind, I cut them some slack because a table of 12-13 is a challenge.  What we all found rather annoying was that the bill presented was practically illegible, with no itemisation to speak of, so we had no way of determining whether we'd been charged fairly and could only estimate what we each owed. 

In their favour, I loved the decor and grabbed several photos which I'm happy to share.  So perhaps I got £7 worth after all. 

Jaw Breaker

There were three final things I wanted to tell you about this last holiday that I didn't manage to fit in elsewhere.  One of them was my sewing project.  This is another.

Much as I loved digging up information in ledgers and libraries or hunting gravestones in badly marked cemeteries, visiting South East Oklahoma was the low point of the trip for me.  I've always had really healthy teeth.  My first cavity came at 27 along with my first grey hair.  My fillings have always been surprises to me, the need indicated by the dentist not by any discomfort on my part; in short, I've never actually had a toothache before.  My mom always made my dental care a financial priority and having seen the record of monthly $25 payments she made for 10 years after I got my braces off, I feel obligated to take care of my teeth. 


That said, I was overdue for a dental check up.  When the discomfort started I thought I was just grinding my teeth more than usual and took to wearing the splint I have again, though it does interfere with sound sleep.   

This didn't really help the problem either.  The first couple of days, I couldn't for quite a while locate the pain into one tooth - they all hurt on that side.  Eventually, though, I knew which one it was.  It didn't seem a good idea to go poking it in polite company, so I did my best to keep my fingers out of my mouth.  Sometimes, though, if I couldn't get it to stop hurting I just needed sometimes to make it hurt different.

By then I was having not just toothaches but headaches such that I was sure the mirror would show me a big splintered hole in my head that an axe must have left.  My cheek was swollen hard and hot to touch, so I knew there was an infection.  I looked all this up on the internet and decided it might be a cracked tooth.  As I said earlier, dentists work part time in South East Oklahoma and they aren't interested in meeting new patients on their days off.

Bill found me some pain tablets in the pharmacy across the road from the Coalgate library and I popped a couple in the bathroom at the Courthouse, not even reading the label.  I had work to do.  Later, back at the motel, the headache was back and I wanted more pain relief.  However the label said no more than 2 in 24 hours.  It would seem that I had a choice between headache relief and a healthy liver.  I really do value my liver; you only have one and replacements are hard to come by.  So, I just moved in and lived with the pain for a while longer, though I'd read that dental infections can invade the blood stream and cause heart disease.  Bill kept telling me that the label warnings were very conservative and I could take more tablets, but I was too frightened not to follow the label to the letter.  My rule following tendencies annoy him and amuse others, I know. 

It scared me to be back in the US, seemingly without access to medical care.  I've always had jobs with health insurance and whilst I didn't take it for granted, I never imagined being without either.  It was like not being a member of the 'club' anymore with no hope of getting in.

On this trip I was pretty sure I could afford whatever treatment would be needed to take care of the problem, but what must it be like for those who can't?  I was thinking about the Dental College in Oklahoma City if I couldn't get in anywhere else, but I still had to get through the weekend.  There was something about being in the 106 degree heat in the back woods of a conservative state that made me feel alone and vulnerable.  I had a good cry both Friday and Saturday evenings, faced with getting through the long nights of hurt  and waiting.

Fortunately, the headaches were transient, if not the infection.  I could go for hours and feel almost normal before the next episode began.  It suggested something to do with nerves, but at that point I didn't really care about the details.  When we pulled into South OKC to Doris and Don's house, Don mentioned that the people across the road had a son who was a dentist.  When I woke up Monday morning, Donald P. was on the phone to the dental office who said I should come in first thing, at 8am.  Don told me he liked the man I was to see, he was a good dentist.  Don said he called him 'Jaw Breaker', so I should, too.

Donald P. is a retired (but still working part time) truck driver with a deep scratchy voice, an outspoken nature and an unexpected turn of phrase.  He doesn't cuss as much as he used to, but I wouldn't cross him all the same.  That said, he's a real teddy bear and I felt really loved when I woke up and heard him talking on the phone in my behalf.  {Thank you, Don.  I love you, too.}

So I went and met Dr. Robert Mars.  I told him I had been instructed to call him 'Jaw Breaker', but if it was alright by him, I'd prefer Dr. Mars.  He laughed and said "That's Don for you."  He had a look and said it was my old-fashioned metal fillings.  One had loosened and allowed bacteria to enter.  I needed a root canal.  Or he could pull the tooth and I could go for a bridge.  He had plastic models to demonstrate these options.  We talked prices.  Because I value my teeth I decided to keep it if I could; besides, bridges sound a right nuisance to me.

There is an old cartoon advert that mentions 'diabolical dentistry'.  I can't pretend to understand the problem other than it's an odd mix of NHS and private dentists over here, often the same dentist.  If you had a choice between treating smelly old NHS patients for a pittance and nice shiny rich ones for private fees, which would you choose?  All I can tell you is that if my dentist were a runner, he could easily break the 4-minute mile.  He's a busy man, rushed to get through all his NHS list so he can get on with making money, but he's very polite while he's rushing, I'll give him that.  He is in no way responsible for my metal fillings, however, they are all American.

Another thing about dentistry came up the other day when Helen and Martin came over for a visit.  Martin is scared to death of dentists; apparently, he's only experienced "butchers".  The description 'American style dentistry' over here refers not as much (I don't think) to Duchess Kate's dazzling whites as it does to 'painless dentistry'.  I am telling you the whole, unvarnished truth when I say I spent two and a half hours in Dr. Mars' chair and nothing he did hurt.  It sometimes seemed as though there was a whole construction crew at work in there, but I didn't even have to hold my mouth open; they have wedges for that these days.  The whole right side of my face was sore and swollen to the point of obstructing my vision for half of the next day, but while he was working, boredom was my very worst problem.  He is a nice man and I highly recommend him if you need a dentist.

I will admit that $1,354 was a bit of an ouch; today, that's in the ball park of £700.   I'll get about £200 back from my travel insurance.  I had £2 million medical cover, but we already know that dentistry is not a high priority in Britain, right? The pain tablets and the antibiotics were another $40.  I did remark to the receptionist when I turned over my credit card that I considered it money well spent.  Looking back now at those numbers, they are a bit staggering, but I've never been any good at negotiating at the best of times and given I could afford international travel I didn't think I had a very strong hand.  Besides which, I was grateful.  He didn't have to see me; he worked me in between his other appointments, not that his office was very busy.  Bill was astonished at the difference between the occasional patient and the full waiting rooms found in Britain.    

One of the thoughts I had whilst having my (painless) root canal was that I'd always heard about women getting crushes on their OB-GYN physicians.  I was thinking I could just about develop a crush on 'Jaw Breaker'.  But don't tell him I said that if you see him, OK?

Shearling Lamb

Have I mentioned that Bill has re-joined the Long Distance Walkers Association?  Given he would go off and do it anyhow, it did make sense to hook up with like-minded folks and have a bit of socialising now and again.  In addition to long walks they sometimes have meetings in pubs and he liked that idea, too.  Only he came home the other night with a big lump of lamb (a shoulder, actually), something I’ve never cooked.

He did know this was a possibility, given they would be addressed by someone about flexi-grazing, a form of nature conservation.  Apparently most lambs raised for food are born in spring.  They are one of the sights to see around here, but photos don’t do them justice.  You have to see them move.  They look so ridiculous the way they bounce around, as if on springs, one can’t help but laugh.  Cute or not, they get the ax at 14 weeks and are traditionally served with mint sauce, or so they say.  I’ve eaten lamb a number of times but never had mint sauce.  Then again, I’ve eaten beef quite a few times and never had chutney with it.  It’s a British thing that’s never grabbed my taste buds.

Anyhow, as Bill reported back, there is another batch of lambs born in September.  They are called shearling lambs and farmers don’t want them because they have to be fed over winter and they aren’t economically viable.  So they are given away.  This reminds me of one of my first trips to the Yorkshire Dales with Bill.  I remarked that all the sheep seemed to have been dabbed or sprayed with some colour of paint:  red, blue, green…  It was too consistent to have been accident or vandals.  He explained  it had to do with their breeding programme; the colour on the ewe indicated which ram she’d mated with and they could note which produced good outcomes.  He referred there after to the ‘sexy sheep’ which gave me one of my first insights into his quirky sense of humour.  [Apparently this is paint is called raddle.] But back to the shearlings.

Apparently farmers don’t like these shearling lambs so much  they give them away to the flexi-graze people who find places for the lambs to live and graze until they are two years old, when they get the ax and are sold for meat.  One doesn’t become mutton until 4 years of age.  (I’m sure there is a corollary for explaining ‘mutton dressed as lamb’.  Perhaps if one is twice as old as one’s 20 year old daughter one should tread cautiously?)  To my knowledge I’ve never eaten mutton, never even seen it for sale, not that I looked.  I’m not a tremendous fan of lamb to start with, but Bill’s story was still quite interesting and I’m certainly not going to waste an £8 lump of meat just because it’s not a t-bone steak. 

Anyhow, it turns out these shearling lambs – also Highland cows and Exmoor ponies, all hearty breeds that can over-winter outdoors without much help – are very useful to nature reserves and the like.  I remember when we had our last Foot and Mouth outbreak (don’t get me started on how idiotic British policy makers were about it – in every bloody state department) when there was concern that the wholesale slaughter of so much livestock would alter the overall appearance of Britain’s countryside.  All those lovely green patchwork fields outlined with stone walls or hedgerows aren’t maintained with Flymo’s or John Deere’s, but by cattle and sheep.

The flexi-graze people have found a way to be the go-between, as I understand it, between farmers who don’t want sheep and nature reserves who need some but it’s not their main business, they just need the grass controlled.  Areas of special scientific interest, nature reserves,  need a way to manage the grasslands to stop the spread of things like heather, stock, birch trees, etc that would encroach on grasslands being managed for the purpose of encouraging wild flowers, insects or birds.  Britain has plenty of woodland and wetland but not so much grassland.  Unmanaged grass will kill off wild flowers (perhaps dandelions aren’t of interest to conservationists).  Unmanaged grassland grows trees, something my renters in Oklahoma City haven’t always understood…

Just as British men love to talk about maps and routes and know every post box and tree branch landmark there is, apparently conservation grazers feel the same about their animals.  Bill must have mentioned we will be helping to marshal a marathon on Druridge Bay this month (I shall definitely take my camera), as the speaker warned us about the Exmoor pony they have placed there. 

He’s very affable and affectionate and will be your best friend if you feed him, unless you stop before he’s ready to stop, in which case he’ll kick you, so don’t start.  I don’t offer food to animals anyhow, not liking the idea of putting my fingers in proximity to teeth or beaks, but it’s good to be warned.

Another gem of info shared over a pint was that some clever chap invented some really good medicine for treating animals for blow fly.  I’ll let you google that if you wish but read Thornbirds - or about any other bodice ripper set in Australia - and you’ll know more about blow fly than you care to.  Anyhow this great invention was a tablet which resulted in long slow release of the insecticide and obviated the need for frequent external treatment.  Only the poison remained in the faeces, which in a nature reserve is useful for encouraging insects, which lay their larvae in such places, and it wasn’t specific only to blow fly, so it wasn’t such a clever thing for the conservationists.  Tricky business, that, eh? 

I just wonder whether Bill bought the lamb shoulder before or after the blow fly story.  Never mind, thankfully least he passed up the half a lamb for £65, good price though it no doubt was.

So, what would you do with a shoulder of lamb?

Reframing Taxes

As of this writing I am still in the throes of completing my income tax return.  Living abroad, I'm not required to file until the 15th of June.  I'm not sure why other than for the fact that the British financial year begins on something like 5 April.  This can sometimes make getting information for the calendar year a bit tricky.  Then again in the US the tax year is Jan-Dec, whereas the 'fiscal year' is Jul-Jun.  Go figure.

I was whinging one day about having to start this process when Bill said, "You know you love it, really."  He wasn't even being sarcastic.  It made me think of Gretchen Rubin's recommendation about 'reframing'.  She talks about this - and her other happiness concepts - fairly often, so you can search the blog for this word and find other examples.  I think of it as a form of lying to oneself, but if it makes me happier, I'm all for it.  So I tried it with taxes:


I hate doing my tax returns.  I really enjoy doing my tax returns.  It forces me to gather information about my financial situation that I am normally too lazy to collate.  It is often good news and when it's not good news I have the picture in front of me so I can make decisions to improve it (ie find a new property manager).  This information gives me a better sense of what I can realistically spend, given my erratic income.  Completing the forms is like working through a complicated puzzle.  I always feel good about having figured it out when I'm finished.  If I'm not thrilled about the bill at the end, well, taxes are the price we pay for living in a civilized society.


It almost works, actually.  I've motored through the process so far, stymied only when I had to go into town to do a face-to-face transaction to get the necessary information about interest on an account.  Some aspect of British finance are still quite archaic.


However, there are some aspects that I think are more advanced than in the US.  Though I think 20% VAT ('value added tax'...I ask you) is scandalous, you pay no sales tax on children's clothing or basic unprocessed foods (which is what we should all be eating anyhow).  A lot of people don't have to fill out an income tax return at all.  Like in the US, UK taxes are taken out of salaries, but unlike in the US, tax at the basic rate (20% after the living allowance of £7,475 / $12,375) is taken out at source from interest bearing accounts.  As long as you are in the 22% income bracket, just under $58,000, or have income from an unusual source, you don't have to bother with it at all.  There are accountant's offices on every corner, seemingly, so they haven't exactly been wiped out by this practice.   Also, with the Inland Revenue (part of Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs), you have the option of giving them all your information and letting them calculate how much you owe, saving another 5 or 6 pages if I recall.  I did it myself the first year (after learning I needed to pay UK tax on my US income - ouch) but have had them do the maths (in Britain it is apparently plural) ever since.  They come up with a similar figure so I let them.


Mind, having rental income I'd probably always have to file anyhow, but were it to change I think I might be quite tempted to sell up and simplify my life.  But I do actually enjoy doing my tax returns...really....  Must work on this one.


Other cartoons to cheer you up about taxes here.