As Tory As ...

I am waiting for the 132 bus loaded down with really good cooking apples and a huge marrow, courtesy of the Salvation Army Harvest Festival, where everything does, indeed, seem to have been safely gathered in. 

George was in a foul mood on account of a letter he has received from Gloucestershire County Council pointing out to him that he must pay the maximum for his adult social care because... Well I'm not sure why, but it boils down to George not cooperating with the assessment of his liability. I tell George he can stay on his high Zimmer Frame and be invoiced every month ( which he won't pay) or he can eat humble pie and play nice. 

Which made him madder, from which he obtained some relief. 

George insists he isn't getting any care, and I believe him. That doesn't mean that he won't be invoiced for it, however. They won't play nice either.

Interesting ... I learn from reading from George's summons to be reasonable, that  Gloucestershire has 'partnered with' 'payingforsocialcare.ltd' to provide services for George and his ilk. I guess 'carers'rus.ltd' weren't awarded the contract! Laugh, I nearly wet myself. 

My rightward-leaning friends might think me sloppily opposed to such a brash upfrontedness on the 'paymefirstlovemelater' front. But No! Far better to know that your care provider's first priority is to ensure that  they get paid for doing it,  than labour under the illusion that anyone gives a shit. 

Clever people, like me, made sure that we got to this stage of our lives without assets. As 'The Anti- Social Revolution ' is happening all around us, I dare say the Treasury is on to us, and it will soon be mandatory to give nothing away, ever. I bet the Technology is already available... 

You've spotted my darkest secret haven't you? When it comes to hanging on to what's mine, I'm as Tory as the rest of you!

:) 

The 132 Bus

A Story Goes With It

There was this tipster see. And I think his name was Harry The Horse, or it might have been Spanish John, or perhaps, Nicely-Nicely Jones ... Well, anyway, were you so inclined, you could slip this character a couple  of bucks for which he would, in return, recommend for you the name of a horse on which you might then bet your life's savings and be certain to kiss them goodbye.  

Naturally, you would only do this once, having only one set of life's savings, except that you would be drawn back again and again because,  as Damon Runyon (our author and creator the unsavoury crew named above) would have it, ' a story goes with it'. And what a story! One of such pathos and persuasion that it seemed the horse could not lose, and to fail to place a bet on it was a very foolish act indeed. You may read these stories for yourself. I recommend them.

Horses, however, have never been my thing, though I did once win £35 on a mare, 'Chasing The Bride' on my 35th Wedding Anniversary. She hauled up from last place in the final furlong to the astonishment of all, especially me. No, horses have never been my thing, I'm more into cake.

I love baking cakes, but because they sit on my waist and refuse to budge, I do not do so as often as I would wish. But when I do - they are spectacular. I specialise in cakes with names. Proper names with Capital Letters and if you eat cake with me, whether you wish it or no, you will learn the cake's name and history.

I have another, what might safely be called 'conceit' in that if I'm making dessert for American friends, I leave Betty Crocker on the shelf and get stuck into a Victoria Sandwich, a Sally Lunn or an Eton Mess. If I have no story on hand, I will make one up. The one I am about to tell you, is, however, true.

My uncle Bill was the last Banbury Pitt. He died having sired only daughters, so it being the way of things in those days, the title 'Banbury Pitt' died with him. I'm sad, because this bit of family history is likely to vanish, unless my daughters, on reading this, will think it worth the retelling. Uncle Bill was, as was every William Pitt before him ( we speak of artisan bakers here, not Prime Ministers, by the way) named after a pastry. 

Once upon a time (I swear) a family of Romany Gypsies, by the name of Pitti, landed up in the town of Banbury, in Oxfordshire, on route to God knows where, but let's say, Gloucester, where they sold the recipe for a sweet and curranty delight which is today known as a Banbury Cake. The Pittis became Pitts and settled down in Tredworth, In Gloucester. Where they continued to ply their trade as bakers, until bankrupted during a smallpox epidemic in the mid nineteenth century. That much at least is true. The Pitt Baker Ancestor hung himself in his shop, I have read the report in the Gloucester Citizen. I don't usually tell the bit about the suicide, because, I don't know what you think, but I reckon it rather dampens the spirits and makes cake- eating seem a little inappropriate, somehow. I include it here, for the record.

That's the Americans sorted. My English friends and cake aficionados will be treated to the mighty Williamsburg Orange Cake, the delicate Lady Baltimore Cake, fruity Johnny Appleseed cake, or, my personal favourite, the grand Waldorf Astoria Red Cake. 

I paid two dollars for the recipe for the Waldorf Astoria Red Cake back in 1971. I was a student teacher at the Elementary School on the US Army Base at Menwith Hill in Yorkshire. This is, I admit, a very long way from the prestigious and eponymous New York hotel, but that, I think. serves to make this cake story even more interesting. 

My 'Master Teacher' Ann Bamburger, told me the history of the cake: I have googled it and found it to be true. Her aunt, who could obviously afford to do so, took tea at The Waldorf Astoria, where she sampled The Cake. She was so impressed, that she sent a note down to the kitchens complimenting the chef, and requesting the recipe, which duly arrived with a bill  for $200.  Ann's aunt paid up, and  subsequently sold the recipe on, for a dollar or two, to anyone who wanted it, giving the proceeds to charity.

(Ann was a respectable and serious-minded woman, who would not have made the cake-eating aunt up. She is, I believe, the real source of the Legend of the Red Cake!) 

Taking Tea With Death

I am listening to Garrison Keiller's, ' Writer's Almanac', a daily podcast that is a small delight, which  I recommend to you. From today's programme, I learn that it's F Scott Fitzgerald's birthday. Or would be, if he weren't dead. I think about being dead sometimes. I allow the delicious abstraction of non-existence to grapple with distaste at the prospect. I find non-striving rather an attractive idea, but can't stand the thought of not being able to interfere in other people's lives any more. 

Heaven might be interesting, if it turns up as advertised, but I rather fancy a spell in an ante-room so that I can listen-in on what people are saying about me in my absence. I'm sure the technology is possible for a spell of other-worldly eavesdropping. I am thinking there is a huge entrepreneurial opportunity for dragging tapping tables and ouija boards into the twenty-first century. The big problem with these communication systems from the viewpoint of the deceased, is the expectation that they, the deceased, should want to speak to the seekers after post-life enlightenment. No. I, as a prospective post-lifer, am far more interested in hearing what the living have to say about me.

I admit it, I am indecently egotistical. 

I remember an episode of 'Friends' when news of Ross' death was posted by Chandlar as a joke, and Ross, as egotistical as me, organised a wake just to see who turned up. He hid in the bathroom to hear what the mourners said about him. Brilliant! He lost the girl, of course, because he always did. 

I am not about to go to that extreme... . 

I enjoy my life far more than I have a right to expect: I believe my occasional death-conscious moments are life-enhancing. I am not against doing the mundane and ordinary stuff that keeps body, soul and society together,  not at all - but I do encourage you all to remember, once in a while, to duck beneath the radar, take your shoes off and run barefoot in the grass... Just because you can. While you can. 

DEATH Cafe

Face down death over tea and cake and plan your exit event so that those you love aren't left puzzling over you whether you wanted Bach or The Beatles... 

This Saturday 28th September. 

www.llansor.org to book ... 

I'll be there. In the flesh. 

Must Try Harder!

I met Dave two years ago, when I first started volunteering for the Salvation Army Lunch Programme. 

Dave is a success story, he turned his life around, and now volunteers alongside me. Today. He was pretty upset. His Jobseekers Allowance has been stopped because it's been decided that he isn't trying hard enough to find work.

He's done everything asked of him. He's attending a computer course to learn how to fill in the Application Forms, which is just as it should be, but he's stuck, because he can't access the email account he was given, and he hasn't the literacy skills necessary to fill the forms in. 

You'd have thought someone would have taken these two things into account before leaving him penniless. Wouldn't you? To compound the problem, Dave has coeliac's disease, and the kind of food you can scrounge when you have no money to buy any, is going to make him sick.

Then there's the anxiety. He's off his head with worry. 

Think of it - insufficient literacy skills to apply for a job. Poisoned by foods his body can't tolerate, driven into depression by a system that has taken no account of his personal circumstances ... 

What chance of Dave getting a job with these burdens to carry? 

Who, I wonder, 'Isn't trying hard enough?' 

I tell you, I'm getting pretty mad. I hope that this makes you uncomfortable too. It's not enough though. On Wednesday I'm taking down Dave's story, gathering the evidence on his behalf, and arranging to take  him to see his MP. I think I might ask a journalist to come with us. You never know.

Using hunger and anxiety as 'nudges' to try to make the weakest and most vulnerable members of our society conform to standards they can't meet, is inhumane. Those in power need to see how the policies they pursue impact on the lives of good people like Dave. I still have sufficient faith in our democracy to think it might make a difference.