Crumpets

 

Crumpets

JayCee’s post displaying the video of ‘The Elusive Scottish Haggis’ – a real treat and very credible – reminded me of my late brother-in-law.

Mick Burton was a Norfolk man through and through, with a splendid sense of humour and the ability to make people believe black was white. He was one of the most patient men I have ever known, a perfect foil for my late sister’s sometimes fiery temper. She once threw a bag of tomatoes at him, one by one. Every one of them missed and he gently smiled at her throughout, which exasperated her even more, until she saw the funny side. He made her laugh and that is a perfect gift in a marriage.

He had a unique way of deliberately mispronouncing words, putting the emphasis in the wrong place and making gobbledygook of the English language. When he spoke seriously, his words were chosen carefully, his vocabulary extensive and expressive. I don’t think I ever heard him curse or blaspheme. His Norfolk accent made him a pleasure to listen and talk to and his knowledge of music and literature was remarkable. He was also very blunt but somehow, hearing, ‘You’ve put it on a bit,’ or something similar, didn’t sting in the way it might from someone else’s mouth, for there was no malice in him.

One day, many decades ago now, he stopped to chat to an old lady in the village. It was early autumn, and he said, ‘It’ll soon be the start of the crumpet shooting season.’

She looked at him in surprise and said she had never heard of such a thing. Straight-faced, he said, ‘Well, my dear, how do you think the holes get there?’

‘Oh, I didn’t think of that,’ she said, and they parted ways with a smile. I’m sure she later thought about his words and realised how she’d been teased.

It is a measure of the man that when he and my sister met, at a NAAFI dance, they married three weeks later and lived a happy and fulfilling life together until she died, more than forty years later.

No more this year please!

The Frost performs its secret ministry,

Unhelp'd by any wind.

From 'Frost at Midnight' by Samuel Taylor Coleridge 1772 - 1834

On Tuesday Jack Frost painted intricate patterns on our conservatory roof. His mastery of the icy brush is sublime and astonishing.

Before homes were centrally heated, when the one source of heat in the house was a coal fire in the communal sitting room it was fun to toast crumpets on the end of a long toasting fork, roast chestnuts, throw salt on the fire to see the flames flare briefly in a gorgeous show of dazzling greens and blues. It was homely and companionable to sit close to the fire although I knew I risked scorching my legs and developing chilblains on my hands and feet. I tried to hoard the warmth in my body like a storage heater to sustain me as I scurried out into the arctic extremities of the rest of the house, filled my hot water bottle and dashed to bed in my freezing room. The sheets felt glacial as I tucked my feet up inside my nightdress, turning myself into a foetal entity in a cheerless womb. Gradually, the bed became warmer, I relaxed and slept and stretched, to wake hours later to the unpleasant sensation of cold flabby rubber, unless, of course, there was a cosy cover on my hot water bottle.

Now the next challenge faced me. I had to leave my warm, comforting nest and step out onto the cold floor. I would delay the moment as long as possible, the tip of my nose attesting to the extremity of the temperature. Even thus, when I looked at the window panes, I wondered at the beauty I saw etched on the inside of the glass, glittering and glistening in the early morning light. Curiosity would overcome dislike of the cold and I would draw closer to examine the remarkable and transitory works of art.

Those days were long ago and though I certainly do not miss the iciness of an unheated house, the compensations, for a child at least, were not to be understated.

I hope we have seen the last of heavy frosts this year. This week's offering did not touch the grass or the pond – I suppose it was an 'air frost' - the temperature was 1˚Celsius (33.8˚ Fahrenheit) I know that if the pond freezes the frogspawn will be killed. When this happens it turns milky white and then decays and another generation of frogs is lost, to this garden at least.