Jubilee Frenzee

Fig. 1

It was the Belligerently Optimistic Flatmate's birthday recently. Off galavanting in Dusseldorf, I could not be there, so I've been trying to make up for it with the provision of treats. 

Happily, this doubles as an opportunity to cram the Pad with Jubilee baubles. I've been cultivating a bit of a habit. This means that if I see something with the Queen's face or a Union Jack on, or (even better) some combination of the two, I buy it. Anyone in the UK at the moment will recognise that, with three weeks until Flotilla Day, this could lead to personal financial catastrophe. Shops are rammed with the stuff.

Fig. 2

And it started so well. Union Jack-flavoured Body Wash [Fig. 2] and Jubilee Marmite [Fig. 3] are - I'm sure you'll agree - perfectly useful items. Not to mention that there's a recession on: it's our duty to spend ourselves to safety. But how much shortbread can a small household of two realistically consume? Even if it does come in a tin with Grenadier Guards [Fig. 1] emblazoned upon it.


BOF, as you might expect, is very much on board with the flag-fest. He's spent the past three weeks trying to instigate compulsory bunting on his desk at work, to no avail. It's almost as if his colleagues are becoming hostile to the whole event.


Such domestic support makes my themed oniomania even harder to restrain. It's also vicarious. We don't need to actually own the tat to take pleasure in it. Much better to force it on other people.

Fig. 3

It goes like this:

BOF: Do you know I saw the most amazing Union Jack luggage the other day.

KITC: You should probably get it.

BOF: Yes! No. I'm saving for school fees.

KITC: (downcast) OK.

BOF: Is there anyone we know with a birthday coming up?

KITC: No.

BOF: My mum could probably do with some more Union Jack crockery - let's get that.

KITC: And we'll need another Grenadier Guard tin to put it in. 

BOF: Good thinking.

It was as I found myself, all Jubilee-Special-Carrie-Mathison, being gently removed from the picnic section in Waitrose by a concerned BOF, grasping for 'Royal' Moet as I passed, that I realised it's becoming a problem. There is just not enough money in the world or space in the Pad for this.

But then - it'll all be over in 22 days. Bring on the bunting.

BOF and the Most Efficient Holiday

Belligerently Optimistic Flatmate had a week off recently. He used it wisely, as a springboard for money-saving initiatives. I'm not sure if this is normal. Back at university, whole weeks could slip by without the achievement of a single task. Now that we're grownups, every hour not spent in useful activity is an hour wasted. 

Case in point: last year, my friend Sam (Surprisingly A Mother) had a baby. On the first day of maternity leave from her cut-throat shiny-happy job, she tweeted: 'So much free time! What shall I do with myself?'

Being green is sexy

Oh Sam. How can this be? Was it so long ago that we were students applauding ourselves each time we produced a sentence? We spent whole weeks in Topshop; hours on Facebook; days walking to and from the library in a nonchalant fashion. Not to mention all that time playing quiz machine. The very act of tweeting bespeaks an unhealthily efficient attitude to social media. 

To return to BOF, now investigating insulation. The first step was the acquisition of meters. As I understand it, the council provides such things for free on request. Apparently, our saving on electricity may amount to almost a whole pound per month. The downside is that the cold water no longer runs. How very green.

But Project Efficiency did not end here. Next came the world's most thorough washing-up episode. Pans, spoons, unused tea-pots: nothing was forgotten. It was great. BOF even took the thin vases in hand (fret not money-saving mavens, the retail orgy* that produced them took place in IKEA). They are impossible to clean: but he did have a good go at getting a sponge stuck inside one with a wooden spoon.

I should take some responsibility for the money-saving madness. I performed a devious act a few weeks back. I discovered the bargain that is Sainsbury's own brand tea. 

'Bring back the PG' begs BOF

27p! Eighty tea bags! Surely they couldn't be twelve times worse than your average PG Tip? 

They are. The tangy taste of dust puts a real downer on your day. What I want to do is bin them. But we've renounced waste, so we muscle through. 


BOF thinks I haven't noticed that he has been surreptitiously buying new tea and adding it to the top of the 27p box. One day, we will stumble across our Basics Tea again, decomposed to compost at the bottom of the cupboard, a small tea tree growing from it. 

We shall use it for a window box! The greenest of city activities. Equilibrium restored.

*That will play havoc with my keyword search. I've already had 'horny cockroach' bring someone to the Kate in the Countryside homepage this week. What a disappointment that must have been.

Sports and Sabotage

I was concerned to learn what a festive sports bout was planned for Christmas this year. True, the Christmas Day Run with Daddy Mason (DM) has long been a fixture in Kate in the Countryside festivities, but I could not have known that Mother Dearest (MD) would be adding to the sporting burden. The rents, it seems, cared little that such dashing about would interrupt the murder mystery watching and compulsive eating that really ought to characterise Christmas. 

Footie: days of yore

Of late a rabidly enthusiastic football fan, MD has taken her support for 'The Wolves' to the level of kick-about participation. So I was surprised to learn on my return home that Boxing Day was to be football day in The Countryside. Some public-spirited teacher had arranged a scurry of teams (largely composed of tiny children and old-ish women) for a high-stakes tournament. 

Team MD was a motley crew. Though Mother Dearest had cannily kidnapped two chaps to uphold our footballing honour, Dogface the dog was not allowed to participate. As a result, these almost adolescent ringers were fairly vital: the rest of the team comprised a non-moving man in goal as well as three tiny children. Though enthusiastic, the children frequently disappeared off the pitch whenever Dogface (mascot) was being particularly entertaining. 

'I shall be captain,' announced the younger of the two kidnapped children, Harry, adorned in full Premiership football fan attire. 

'But, Ced, I want to be captain!'
Tale as old as time itself

'No you won't!' said MD, ruffling his hair so as not to appear patronising. 

The captaincy was to go to our other ringer: blonder, charming and older. The Cedric to our Harry. Harry became sullen. So much for team bonding. 

The first match began. It wasn't long before all such tiffs were forgotten at the sight of MD moving with miraculous speed towards one of our (tiny) opponents. There was a clash that drew gasps and - seconds later - a yowling infant hit the deck. Amazed at the (for her) unusual experience of being the taller, MD raced on triumphantly, ball in possession.

Our second game saw Team MD extend our dominance. MD's assassination tactics on those half her size continued contentious. When a girl with pigtails scuttled towards me - her body almost concealed behind the ball, so small was she - I was terrified of going anywhere near her. Not so MD. 

Another child was floored, and the ref had had enough: 'Yellow Card! MD! If I see that again - you'll be off.' 

That was the end of MD's star footballing career I'm afraid. Fearful of the Red Card, she managed to stay out of trouble, but the aggressive flair was gone. However, Team MD won the tournament, so a managerial career might be more her style.

The Hunt for the Christmas Tree

To keep the festive spirit going strong into the new year (and Christmas Tree Death Day), Kate in the Countryside brings you a happy tale of Christmas Tree hunting in urban sprawl. 

BOF and I have been excited about acquiring our tree since last Christmas. Back then, pre-Pad, it seemed a little bold to acquire a festive shrub when we had nowhere to house it. So I spent my time wandering the snowy streets of London gazing jealously at window dressing to a soundtrack of James Blunt through frostbitten homeless ears.

This year all has changed. Firstly, no snow. Secondly, I am housed. Thirdly, I am in the process of becoming a grown up. Symptoms of this include (but are not limited to): negotiating rent with landlord; fixing internet so it no longer dies every time BOF and I youtube a song; wrapping presents in advance of Christmas day. And achieving The Christmas Tree before Christmas.

Friendly Giant
looked nothing like this

So, on the day allotted Tree Day, defying torrential rain, BOF and I met to hunt a Tree. This could not wait. Never mind that, post walk from work, I was already as drowned as a rat at swimming class. On the Titanic.

Rousing ourselves with carols, we scurried to Battersea Park to find (thanks Twitter) a charmingly ramshackle tree operation in the car park. Staffed by two men in kilts, one of whom was jumper-less and giant, the shop looked like an example of amateur entrepreneurship from a worthy Battersea resident. The tree chaperone was more rained on than I, this Friendly Giant, and looked positively gleeful. Only a true tree enthusiast could muster that much cheer in the face of such soggy adversity.

Poor BOF didn't know what he was getting himself into on the tree decision.

KITC: 'I want this one.'

Other Tree Man (OTM): 'That one is 52 pounds.'

KITC: 'What?? (teary) But I love it! And we can't afford that much. It's Christmas! How about … ten pounds?

OTM: This isn't really a bartering situation. We're a franchise.

BOF: Fifty-two pounds you say? Fine! Good! OK. Actually that is a lot why don't we find another tree? Maybe a shorter one? They might be cheaper you know.

KITC (lip wobbling): NO! I want this tree. It's the best tree by far. Can't you tell it's the best BOF?

BOF: We could get a littler one and put it on the table? Maybe?

OTM (gently - concerned I may be a child): OK how about I throw in some holly? And a stand?

Tree! Also Wellies. 

Finally everything was organised to our (my) satisfaction. A marginally smaller tree at a deeply superior price was purchased. And dead holly into the bargain! I was delighted. 

I carried the holly, BOF carried the tree. As we passed other soggy folk on the bridge I called 'Merry Christmas' to them all with levels of cheer that bordered on the hysterical. It was bloody brilliant. 

But, dear readers, next year I resolve to get the bigger one.

NB. It should be recorded that BOF carried the tree by himself all the way to the Pimlico Pad. From Battersea. Fan-mail should be directed to his agent (KITC in this instance) by postcard. Or in comment form below. Or Twitter (@kvlmason). Thanks.

Paradise and Pigs: One Year On

Trips to the Bahamas to see Daddy Mason have been frequently reported here. One of the earliest episodes of Kate in the Countryside saw me duped into a race with some swimming pigs. This week I'm back on Paradise Island with the luminous Americans and their burgers, determined not to repeat that debacle.

Oundle Pig

[True, the Caribbean is not The Countryside, as many followers of Kate in the Countryside have somewhat pedantically observed. However, since even in Oundle the pigs cannot swim we will overlook this for now.] 

In a trip riddled with sporting activity as usual, DM and I started the week with an extremely curious run. It was with a group of people (ranging from youthful to extremely aged) who do jogs interspersed with beer stops. To give you some idea, the running group is sponsored by Sands, the local Bahamian beer. Apparently these Hash House running things take place all over the world. They even  have  a song. This week's run bafflingly took us through rotting rubbish and snakes in one of the most beautiful places in the world. 

But afterwards there was singing and beers on benches in the darkness. It felt like university - though with old people and warm weather. It was brilliant. 

And yes, we did return to Staniel Cay to catch up with the Swimming Pigs and their offspring. Shoot the breeze, admire their athletic physique, that sort of thing. This time last year, the Pig Leaders were first to the boat, pounding the waves with earnest desire for food, while their sweet little piglet chums (see above) paced the shallows, dreaming of when they'd be allowed on the waves.

Feed me Seymour: Bahamian Swimming Pig

I'm afraid to report that on our return this year there were only four pigs to be seen. No piglets. A passing American told us he'd heard there used to be fifty Swimming Pigs on the island. Perhaps they were all resting?

'Where are the piglets?' wailed KITC (devastated).

'I imagine someone's eaten them for supper,' said DM.

Last time their efficiency at swimming / eating / fighting seemed pleasingly noble. Over the past year they have become more terrifying than you could possibly imagine. Hungrily scrabbling at the sides of our boat, they nearly managed to launch themselves in and topple us out.

'Hit them!' advised DM, eagerly taking pictures.

I tapped one with the scraps bucket, which only seemed to exacerbate the problem. 

An American turned up and fed his bacon sandwich to one of the marauding beasts:

'Hah! Look at that y'all - he's eatin PIG!'

We left, trying hard not to think of the implications of this for the missing 46.

Zurich and the Zoo

Clearly the product of a country
that knows how to enjoy itself... 

Zurich might seem an odd place for a holiday. Efficiency and high prices seldom make for the best jaunts. But when an old bandcamp friend, Maestro-in-Training (MiT), moved out there, a visit was planned. And this is how I found myself in the wilds of urban Zurich last weekend with Pegson in tow.

MiT's encyclopaedic knowledge of Zurich was such that, if the conducting thing goes to pot, a fallback guided tour career awaits.

After local architecture, interesting geographical features and places of worship had been covered, we took a tram to the zoo. There are only four topics of conversation possible at any zoo. As follows:

1. Levels of liveliness of favoured beasts. Subtitled: 'Is it dead?'

2. Enclosure size. A certain space meets layman understanding of what is  appropriate for [large-ish animal] to live in. All others declared cruel.

3. Security of dangerous beast enclosures. Subtitled: 'That tiger could absolutely get out of there if it tried'. (Taking into account moats, electric wiring etc.)

4. Physical similarity of beasts to mutual friends. (This should really be at 1. My oft-remarked facial similarity to a monkey makes zoo trips endlessly hilarious. I love it, obviously.)

Passing the Chimp Enclosure for the fourth time that day, I finally dragged Pegson and MiT into another enclosure - the Seal House. They were still chortling about the monkey thing when a seal slid down the window and lay on its back on the tank floor not moving. At that moment a parent carrying its child pushed in front of us to get a closer look at the cute seals.

For Reference: A live seal

Fearful that seal death would scar the child for life, we knew we should intervene. 

'Right.' [whispered]

'So…'

'Is it dead?'

The seal just lay there. On its back. Not moving.

'Did we just see a seal … die?' I ventured. 

Roaming meant googling 'how do seals sleep?' was out. The silence of death came upon the Seal House. Even the neighbouring months-old child had started to stare.

Other seals slipped by: their cheerful swimming highlighting more and more the stationary dead-ness of our floored friend. 

'Let's hit the gorillas!' Pegson said, gratefully seizing the opportunity for more monkey-based gags.

Nothing to be done. We scuttled past the forlorn seal-loving crowd. The Dead Seal opened one eye. He waggled a fin. Relief broke across the city.

Racisme and French Lessons (MD in Morocco II)

Yesterday we went on a ramble round Marrakech to hunt out the train station. We'd been told it was 90 minutes by rail to Casablanca, so thought this would be an entertaining trip. 

Extent of my French skills

What we found instead was the bus station, though it was many minutes before we realised our mistake. As is their wont, when we entered the mysterious station, a number of burly-ish, drunk-ish Moroccan men started hassling us. My GCSE French gets rustier by the hour and MD (though a dab hand with cockroaches) is similarly limited on the Gallic front. You'll be amazed to learn she can't even speak Arabic. 

'TRAIN?' we bellowed to them, in a French accent, hoping to achieve some understanding. 

Nothing.

So we ignored the madding crowd and decided to explore the station - trying to make sense of it ourselves. We found something that went to Casablanca, though this confusingly appeared to be a bus.

A small quite sweet chap came over and addressed us in English:

'You want bus to Casablanca? Number 5. Here.'

At this, we understood where we'd gone wrong. But by now the burly crowd was upon us. One in particular was waving and aggressing with fists and face: 'You want ticket from him now? Not me? [Thrusting ticket book at us] I have ticket!'

MD looks fairly put out. Enough to make most sensible beings scuttle away in fright, but not Bolshy Bus Man, Oh no.

'See! [Again with the ticket thrusting in face thing] Ticket! You! You RACISTE!'

'Excuse me?' [From MD. Kate cowers. A passing bug flees in opposite direction.]

'Raciste! Raciste! Raciste!'

At this point it looked a little as though MD was considering whether to punch BBM in the face or depart. I stood back aghast, mumbling mildly rude things at the man under my breath ('No fat man - YOU raciste' etc).

But, taking the higher moral ground, MD turned her back and walked away, me at her side. BBM proved a surprisingly persistent persecutor of 'racisme' in tourist form, but he wasn't great at keeping up with us in the sunshine. We headed for the nearest taxi, and finally made it to the Train Station.

Turns out Casablanca is actually a six hour round trip. We ended up on an hour long jaunt to an air base instead. Of which more later.

Mother Dearest in Morocco

To Morocco with MD this week. A chance to observe her in an alien habitat (away from Oundle and The Countryside), it has already been an inspiring sight.

It was five minutes into the Departures area at Heathrow Terminal 1 when I remembered that MD-on-Holiday is a different creature to the one familiar to readers of Kate in the Countryside. 

We walked past Curry's (looting activity limited thanks to airport security).

She's got one (probably)

'I really need a laptop,' she observed, 'or something to carry around anyway - all I've got is that monster desktop thing.'

'How about an iPad 2?' I mooted, without much commitment. Technology and MD usually spend most of their time fighting.

'Are they good then?' she asked, stopping to look at a particularly shiny one.

'Yes! So much fun - and think how cool you'd look clutching one of those under your arm at school.' [MD is a teacher. A good teacher. Ignore the picture.] 

'OK. I think I'll get one. If you think it's a good idea?'

Amazed, I fell silent as MD proceeded to checkout, completing her purchase in thirty casual seconds, before scurrying out looking as though she might have done something rather daring. 

MD is someone who would normally rather eat Dogface [our dog] than listen to my opinions on which type of ham to buy from the Co-op, let alone be advised on the purchase of a frivolous piece of gadgetry.

It didn't stop there. Since our arrival in Morocco, she has killed four mighty cockroaches with her flip-flop of doom, haggled some poor bloke in the Djemaa el-Fna half to death for suntan lotion and - most impressively - learnt to use said iPad with such ease that she's now conducting witty exchanges from beside the pool, and plans to graduate to Facetime tomorrow.

MD?

Yesterday we took a bus into the centre of Marrakech. As we loitered, waiting to get on, the bus driver looked as though he was tempted to pull off. No chance with MD the roach-splatter about. She dived forward and bashed relentlessly on his window while he looked on in awe. He won't be doing that again, I can tell you.

For my part, I have befriended a cat (largely in hopes that he will eat the squashed cockroaches with which MD has littered the room) and spent much of the rest of the time cowering from beasts behind MD's mighty frame. Incidentally, she recently revealed that she has now achieved the dizzy heights of 5 foot 1, leaving her (as far as I can tell real size) of 5ft for dust. 

Forget Green Giant dear reader. What you need is couscous.