Frivolous Friday: An English Obsession . . . Antique Roadshows

One of the most fascinating things about moving to a new country is learning the foibles and idiosyncrasies of one's hosts. And trust me, the English have plenty of those. But one of the quaintest I've discovered is the obsession with antique fairs, roadshows and TV programmes about antique roadshows and fairs. 

Now, in all truth, I never watch TV – it cuts into valuable reading/blogging/writing time – but I admit to being a little captivated by the box when we first arrived in the UK. (In my defence, it was winter . . .) 

So imagine my surprise when I discovered that just about every channel had at least one antique-hunting-buying-selling programme. I was enthralled for a time. 

The kids rolled their eyes every time they walked into the lounge to see me – the mother they thought they knew – watching yet another couple of bargain hunters scratching through piles of junk at an antique flea market.

Then our very own antique flea market came to town and Andrew and I couldn't resist a visit. 

Elbowing pasts at least two camera crews filming eagle-eyed bargain hunters sporting t-shirts displaying the TV programme they represented, we carved a path through miles and miles and miles (did I mention it was miles?) of bric-a-brac. 

After the first hall I was satiated. I've never seen so many tin boxes, kitsch porcelains, glitzy costume jewelry and child-worn toys under one roof. And this was just the start.

Andrew had to keep reorientating me as we left one hall and stumbled to the next. I was like one of those whales who loses its sonar and ends up beached in the shallows. I kept wanting to go back the way I came . . . I swear, every thing just looked the same and my senses were jangling.

The visit did serve one useful purpose, though . . . it cured my obsession for antique auctioneering programmes on TV. With nothing left to watch, I now do what I was designed to do – read. So much more satisfying.

Who would actually pay good money for this stuff?

Coffin brasses?
Yup. The seller assure me they'd never actually been used . . . 

Who still collects printer's trays?
Or thimbles?

The final word in kitch?

Happy weekend all from a gloriously sunny Lincolnshire. Long may the sunshine last!

Cheers
Gwynn

P.S. Comments always appreciated. 
P.P.S They stop me feeling as if I'm writing into the great void. . . 

Frivolous Friday: Just When I thought I'd Died And Gone To Heaven . . .

The churchyard at St Firmin's church in Thurlby

About two weeks ago we had summer. It was fantastic. The days were balmy – a magnificent 20 degrees C – without a cloud in the sky. Not a breath of wind. Idyllic. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.

And then there were the nights . . .  

As I wrestled with my sheets, I was reminded of my grandmother's mantra: Ladies do not sweat, they glow. Men apparently perspire. It's left to horses and other beasts of burden to actually drip salty water. Or something like that. 

Anyway – despite my brother's evil prognostications that it couldn't last – the weather was so blissful, I actually packed away my winter pyjamas – the ones with the colourful sheep on that I love so much. 

I even pulled out all my summer gear – shorts and t-shirts – and went so far as to wash them. Clothes tend to get musty, crumpled for nine months in storage boxes. 

(Is it really so long ago that the sun generated enough heat to be discernable on this soggy patch of planet Earth? Ah, well, let us not dwell on such gloomy thoughts . . .)

During that glorious interlude of sunshine and warmth, I actually managed to glow onto two pairs of shorts and two t-shirts. 

And then?

Rain.

Rain. 

Rain.

Incessant bloody rain. 

Piddling down like there's no tomorrow. 

All it needs is a howling gale and this could be Cape Town in mid-winter. 

Sigh. 

They – the eternally optimistic English (did I mention how irritating all that positiveness can be?) – tell me all is not lost and we may still get another couple of warm days before Autumn set in . . . in September. 

I'm not holding my breath. All Hail The English Summer!

So, wherever you are, enjoy what the elements are flinging at you. It cannot be worse than the deluge we're having.


Cheers
Gwynn

PS. Don't be shy to comment. Despite my acerbic humour, I don't bite. Much.

Frivolous Friday: The British Obsession With The Weather: Careful, It's Catchy

I come from a country with a reputation for year round sunshine. In fact, I grew up to the strains of a radio commercial (we didn't have TV back in South Africa then) that went like this: "We love braaivleis (barbecued meat), rugby, sunny skies and Chevrolet.

Then I moved to Cape Town and all that changed. But Cape Town is in South Africa, I hear you say.

Windmill: Taken by Andrew White

True. But Cape Town has the worst climate in Africa. No contest. It's so bad that us Capetonians often claim that our beloved Mother City doesn't actually have climate. It has weather. Often four different types in one day.

When you add a winter of howling gales, horizontal rain, and miserable cold that starts in May and petters out at the end of November into the mix, you begin to understand why Capetonians don't boast about the weather. Much. You see, even in winter we do get the occasional  - and I do mean occasional - perfect, windless, sunny day that makes us forgive the other 240 miserable ones. That's when we really start bragging.

Come summer, the gloating stops because now Cape Town is at its magnificent worst. December brings more wind: Chilling gales that come howling off the Southern Atlantic, keeping everything decidedly cold. They also make a trip to the beach an exercise in endurance, dodging sandstorms. But by the beginning of January all that changes with temperatures now soaring deep into the 90s and often topping the 100s. Then, just when we think we will expire, Autumn comes, bringing March and April, two perfect months. And the whole cycle starts again.

But in all the years I lived there, I never had a weather app on my phone. (Okay, one comes standard on the iPhone, but I never used it) I also never hung out with people to whom the vagaries of the weather are the primary topic of every conversation.

Cape Town: The Mother City

So imagine my surprise when I arrived in England to discover that every conversation - whether on the radio, in the supermarket, at a friend's house, at church, anywhere - is proceeded by a loooong discussion on the weather. And being England - another country with positively foul weather - you can imagine how depressing those discussion can be. And the English absolutely relish it. I swear, nothing gives the weatherman more pleasure than to announce that: "It will be a dull day, with ice to start, gales by lunchtime, rain by tea, and, oh yes, don't forget to cover the plants because air frost will follow."

Worse even than that, my weather app now has scuff marks from the number of times I look at it a day. It's like the bodysnatchers came past, taking Capetonian me with them, leaving this weather obsessed shadow behind.

Ah, dear me, brain rot. I've been here way to long.

Have a fun weekend.

Cheers
Gwynn


PS: My husband Andrew jokes that it's highly possible that the mapmakers got the shape of England wrong . . . Who can tell? There are so few clear days on which to check.

Frivolous Friday: Are we defined by what we eat?

Definitely. Food, that all important stuff not only keeps us alive, but it defines us too.  Huh. You maybe, but not me, I hear you think. Well, imagine this: An Indian without curry. Or the English without roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. The mind barely goes there. Even us South Africans have our favourites. What would life be without koeksisters, boerewors, bunny chow and All Gold Tomato Sauce? In a word: MISERABLE. And I don't even like boerewors. But there, I've said it: life is miserable without them because food is part of what defines us, telling us how to see ourselves. It provides us with home from which we then build our homes. Deep stuff. 

But as an aside, in case you think I'm being literal, I don't see really myself as a stukkie wors, exactly. (Translated from Afrikaans, a stukkie wors is piece of boerewors sausage. See glossary below. For the uninitiated, boerewors is a South African institution a bit like sunshine, rugby and Nelson Mandela. It's total sacrilege to admit to not liking it. People have been stoned for less.)

But, I digress.

Before I came to England, I had no idea how important food and shopping for food was. In the past, I would sally down to my local supermarket, grab a trolley (shopping cart, for my American readers), and breeze down the aisles, chucking in familiar products as I went. An entire monthly grocery shop for a family of five would be done in twenty minutes. Half an hour tops. I admit, I'm a very predictable shopper with a list in my head that I hardly ever deviate from. My world would collapse if they ever dared rearrange the supermarket shelves . . .

And that was the main problem when I arrived in England.

Picture Aladdin stumbling into the robbers' cave.
See his expression.
Hear his whoop of delight.
Then freeze the frame.
Now tell him he has twenty minutes to fill his trolley with everything he thinks he needs for a month. Sure, he'll just grab at the brightest, sparkliest bling. Who wouldn't? 
Fast forward to him getting home, parking his magic carpet in the garage, and unpacking his haul. Watch his delight turn to consternation.
Hear him gasp, "How in heaven's name am I supposed to live - feed a family - on this lot? Where's the pre-chopped butternut squash we eat once a week? Or those really useful packs of pre-made chicken ala king sauce that are always so handy when I'm in a rush?" 
Feel the slap from the cold hand of reality. 
Gone. All of them. 

Nothing in Tescos, or Sainsbury's or any of the UK stores look ANYTHING like what I used to buy back in South Africa. Even the Cadbury's chocolate tastes different. So now a twenty minute shop has become an epic - almost like trying to find the Holy Grail. 

In the beginning, I actually cleared my diary for shopping day. And then there's the humiliation . . . yes, the humiliation of standing for ten minutes staring at the peanut butter, wondering which tasted anywhere near as good as Yum Yum. The other shoppers would look at me like I was some kind of peanut butter pervert. I shudder to imagine what they were thinking exactly . . . 

When I shared my shopping nightmare with my sister-in-law, Kaz, she told me of a South Africa woman she knew who actually broke down and cried at the tomato sauce aisle in a store in Perth, Australia. I feel for you, sister! By the way, like half the rest of South Africa, Kaz and my bother moved to Perth, Australia a few years ago. 

But months on, I have to admit, it's not all bad.

We didn't have Bakewell tarts back home, or easily accessible Doctor Pepper, or really cheap Terry's Chocolate Orange. 

Bakewell Tarts. A very good reason for moving to England

I guess one must count one's blessings. Or, as as those people filled with annoyingly positive optimism would say:  Bloom where you're planted. 

My roots are still a little on the fragile side, but I'm getting there.

Enjoy the weekend. And for my South African readers - have a braai for me!
Cheers
Gwynn


Glossary of Terms
koeksister: An amazingly delicious, super-sweet, deep-fried, plated doughnut dunked in syrup. Served chilled. To die for.

Boerewors: A greasy, highly spiced sausage, often barbecued - or as we say in South Africa, braaied - and usually served in a hot dog roll. The smell of braaiing boerie hangs heavy in the air over the suburbs of South Africa, especially over weekends.

Bunny chow: Another food designed to slam your arteries shut. Usually bought as takeout, bunny chow consists of a hollowed-out half loaf of bread - usually white - filled with vegetable or meat curry. Nothing beats coming back from a really long camping trip in the bush, stopping at the first take-away, (usually reeking of rancid cooking oil) buying a bunny chow and plunking down on the pavement to eat it with your fingers. Now that's civilization.

All Gold Tomato Sauce: The best brand of tomato sauce - ketchup - in the universe. No exaggeration.

Yum Yum: See comment above about All Gold Tomato sauce, only here it applies to peanut butter.

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Frivolous Friday - Everything from chewing gum to giant leeks!

Happy Friday all! 

It's been a hectic week so I'm pretty glad the weekend is upon us. Part of what I've been doing has been checking out the local shops, trying to get my head around the concept of high street shopping.

Back in South Africa, shopping tends to be divided along wealth lines. Those with cash tend to shop in plush indoor malls where the stores are very specialized. There, you are highly unlikely to find garden tools and hardware in the kitchen shop, like I've seen at a gorgeous store in Bourne, my closest town here in England.

And as for the high streets in most South African towns . . . well, they have largely been given over to open air street vendors, (know locally as spaza shops) catering to the poorer folk where you can buy anything from chewing gum to airtime to deodorant. So it has been quite an adjustment getting used to shopping here in England.

But one of the things that really struck me this week as I trawled the stores were the snippets of conversations I overhead. It seems harvest festivals are uppermost in people's mind. I guess that makes sense with it being Autumn and all. So, getting into the spirit of things, I decided to share some pics I took a few years ago when I came to England on holiday and visited a small town harvest festival with my brother Tom (long before living here had even hit the radar screen).

Some of the veggies had to be seen to be believed, like this giant leek, held by Tom, or the onions, almost as big as his hand . . .

How they get them that size is anybody's guess, although I'm told the recipes are highly guarded, almost subject to the special secrets act. I think it highly unlikely I'll ever need the info, but who knows? Stranger things have happened. You might just find me of an afternoon, digging over my allotment, tending giant cabbages . . .

It's never going to happen!

Have a great weekend everyone.

Cheers
Gwynn