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Should you ask for a miracle when you’ve been given a brain?

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Let me set the scene for you: The church service has finished, and people are shuffling their chairs into small circles, ready to take communion. There are small round tables in strategic positions, and someone is quietly walking around, placing silver dishes of bread and small glass cups of wine on each one. (Actually, to be strictly factual, I believe the small glass cups are cocktail dishes, designed for jellies or ice-cream sundaes. And the ‘wine’ is indefinable fruit juice, because this is a Baptist church and they don’t have alcoholic wine for communion.) The bread is gluten free, so that everyone can share from the same loaf.

I sit, in my circle, and look at the other people. This is a mistake—perhaps my head should be bowed in prayer, and I should be oblivious to the people I am about to share a cup with, but I’m not. I notice that at least four people in my group have colds, one lady is stuffing a tissue up her sleeve while we wait, others have red noses and watery eyes and hoarse coughs. I find this stimulates me to pray, but again, not perhaps the prayer I should be praying. I am not praying for my fellow worshippers, not asking God to heal their illnesses, to give them comfort from the sore noses and uncomfortable throats. Nope, I am asking for a miracle. I am asking that could I please, please, be protected from the germs that are about to be shared along with the indefinable fruit juice in the glass cup/jelly dish. Because I have a really busy week coming up, with a book sale, and three different occasions when we’re having a number of people for dinner and I need to cook, and a rather nice event with my family which I don’t want to miss, so please God, please protect me from the cold germs and the flu virus, and anything else that is about to be consumed in the indefinable fruit juice.

Then, as I prayed (my rather selfish prayer) I realised that God had given me a brain and a dollop of common sense. My brain told me that sharing a cup (of indefinable fruit juice) with a bunch of people who were clearly suffering from one lurgy or another, was plain stupid; especially at the start of a particularly busy week. I did not need a miracle (ie to be protected from the germs which I would certainly consume with the drink) I needed instead to use my brain, and not drink it. Perhaps being given a brain was the miracle (brains are after all rather wonderful, with their grey sludge and electrical currents that control every part of us).

And so, dear reader, I did not share the communion cup. I truly hope that I didn’t offend anyone by passing it along the line, I hope that no one felt I was being aloof, or setting myself apart, because I wasn’t. I simply decided to use my brain and not risk catching a germ that I don’t have time to fight.

What, I wonder, would you have done?

Thank you for reading.
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I wrote this several months ago, before I was even aware of Coronavirus. I didn’t post it at the time, thinking I would save it for later. It now seems so poignant, I decided to share it.

Victoria and Albert Museum: Fun without a Deadline

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One of my Christmas gift vouchers was a trip to a London museum/gallery and lunch, with Jay. We went on Saturday.

We caught the train to Victoria, which was one of my favourite bits of the day—because I was alone with my son and we chatted, and mothers love this sort of thing when their children are grown-up. (It was sometimes fun when they were little, but less reliably, as the stress of tiny bladders and possible tantrums tended to cloud things a little.) We then walked to Rocca in South Kensington for lunch. Jay chose the route, and suggested that we nip across the road, ignoring the lights, a few times, and I wondered how this trait could possibly be inherited and told him he reminded me of his father (not in a good way).

Rocca turned out to be a very nice little Italian cafe. I had a very tasty lasagna, with a slightly old salad, and drank fizzy water and a coffee. It was very pleasant, with the other tables filled with families (a few mothers struggling with the whole tiny bladder/tantrum stage of parenthood) and students. Our waiter was nice and smiley, and it was a lovely relaxed meal.

We walked to the V&A museum, which you might remember I visited last year with Husband (who compared it to a jumble sale full of tat). I rather liked the eclectic mix of stuff, and was keen to visit again. I also wanted to check if people wore gloves in 1760. I am writing (very slowly) a story set in 1760, and gloves were a key element, but I wasn’t sure when they became fashionable. The V&A is good for these kinds of facts.

The map showed the 1760s displays were on the third floor. We walked up some stairs to the first floor, where the stairs stopped. We wandered through the displays, looking for an upward staircase. This was fun with no deadline, so we weren’t trying too hard. We saw lots of fancy religious icons, and some very elaborate tankards and lots of silver. One artefact was a silver ‘coffin’ (not called a coffin) where they think the remains of Simeon (old man who saw baby Jesus in the temple) were placed. People were big on things like that once upon a time. There was also a wonderful library, which we could peer at from the doorway but we weren’t allowed inside. But no stairs. It seemed impossible to reach the third floor from this section. We retraced our steps.

The ground floor had some cool statues (why are they always naked?) We found some different steps, and started to go up. The second floor had some 1760 displays, so I stopped to look at those, and managed to find evidence that people did wear gloves. I photographed some of the other clothes, and looked at a reconstructed room from 1760. There were also interactive displays, where you could design patterns, or tie a cravat, or wear a hooped skirt. Jay tested them out, but wasn’t impressed (I think they were aimed at 10 year olds).

We went up to the third floor. There were no displays from 1760. I think they must have hidden them. We saw a model of the Crystal Palace (which apparently was in Hyde Park, not Crystal Palace—is that correct? I had my doubts about the reliability of the museum and locations/maps).

We left, and discussed whether to walk back to Victoria, or take the underground, or catch a bus. Jay checked bus times on his phone (my children are so clever, who knew such a thing was possible!) and told me we needed the C bus. We waited at the stop, and Jay checked I had ‘something to tap’ because apparently you cannot pay with real money on buses anymore.

The bus arrived. Jay tapped his phone, I tapped my credit card. Absolutely no idea on the cost, or how the bus knew where we wanted to go—all very future world. We then worried that perhaps we were supposed to ‘tap-out’ when we left (because apparently this is a thing) so we decided to watch the other passengers. None ‘tapped-out’.

The bus stopped outside Victoria Station 3 minutes before our train left. We ran. We caught the train. It was a nice day.

I hope you have a nice day too. Take care.
Love, Anne x

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Train to Jūrmala, Latvia

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Train to Jūrmala

Last week, we were in Riga, Latvia.


I had read that Jūrmala was a good place to visit from Riga, and we had a day when Husband wasn’t working, so I persuaded him that he would like to go. We walked to the station, which is on the edge of the Old Town, near the zeppelin hangers that house the central market. The weather was dry but cold.

At the station we found a ticket booth where the woman spoke a little English, and we managed to mime that we wanted return tickets to Majori. Jūrmala is the Latvian for ‘seaside‘ and there are several stations along the coast, with Majori being in the middle. I used my phone to photograph the timetable (because I have seen my children do this sort of thing). Finding the correct platform was more complicated, but we found a timetable that showed platforms, and then followed signposts to platform 3. If they had announced a change of platform over the tannoy, we’d have been stumped, and possibly ended up in Russia. But the sign on the platform showed we were at least travelling in the right direction, so we climbed the steep narrow steps up into the carriage, and sat down. A doorbell sound announced the doors were shutting, and we eased away from the station.

I like catching trains in foreign countries, watching the changing scenes through the window. I used my photographed timetable to check the stations we passed through, so we would know when to get off. As we left Riga, we saw many apartment blocks, small industries, red-brick factories. The houses varied, some must once have been grand, with towers and pillars, but all were faded now, the painted plaster cracked, weeds filling the dried gardens. Every wall we passed was decorated with graffiti, none of it clever. Tall brick chimneys piercing the blue sky and modern warehouses swept past the window.

Then we plunged into woods of pine trees, and out the other side. The land was flat, not a hill in sight. As we drew near to Majori there were more forests, and large houses nestled amongst the pine trees.

Majori station is next to a flooded river. One side of the platform is a road, the other is the river. You could see the railway as it curved away from the town, past the tall bulrushes and the fishermen. We left the station, and walked into town.

The town has echoes of the Jersey shore in the US, with painted houses and little shops, and a sandy beach with a long boardwalk. We had a quick lunch in a cafe (De Gusto—a pretty little cafe with nice pastries and good coffee). The walk to the beach was signed, and we set off along the boardwalk.

The beach was sandy, the sea calm, the wind cold. To our left were houses, right up to the weeds that lined the beach. They were large, ugly 1950’s constructions, and mostly deserted, with peeling plaster and boarded windows and brambles growing up to the doorstep. I decided they were Russian-owned holiday homes, abandoned in 1991 when the Latvians defended their land against invasion, the Russians refusing to sell them in the belief that one day they would return. Husband informed me they were more likely owned by a developer, who was waiting for them to become completely derelict so that renovation was impossible and he would get planning permission to demolish them and build modern holiday homes and hotels. I prefer my version.

Among the ugly buildings was an ugly look-out tower with radio masts and a high window and speakers for broadcasting instructions. This was the police station, and a man in the window was guarding the safety of everyone on the beach. There was also a cubed building, right on the sand, with a large picture window facing the sea. It was a cafe, large extractor fans whooshing the smell of fried potatoes onto the beach, the steamy windows showing hazy images of tourists huddled inside with mugs of coffee. But the best part was the position, which was below the tide mark, so at high tide, the people inside would be trapped, and they would have to sit there, watching in horror as the sea swept up the beach, past the door, trapping them inside for a couple of hours until the tide went out again. It would, I felt, be great fun to come back at high tide, and watch them as they gradually realised their mistake—but perhaps that’s a little mean of me.

We went back to the main street and walked along it, peering into gift shops and cafes and windows displaying knitted goods and thick coats. At the end of the street was an ornate church, gleaming in the sunshine and looking for all the world as if it had been flown there from Disney Land. We walked back to the same cafe we had lunched in, as they had the freshest cakes. We had tea, and I chose a rather too sickly white chocolate eclair, and Husband chose a completely delicious apple cinnamon tart (why does he always choose better food than me?) Then we walked back to the little station, and watched the train as it wound its way back along the curve of the river, until it reached Majori, and we clambered aboard, ready to return to Riga.

I hope you go somewhere nice this week too. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

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St. Peter’s Church, Riga

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 St Peter’s Church, Riga

One of the landmarks of Riga Old Town is St. Peter’s Church; the multi-layered barrel-shaped spire can be seen from almost anywhere. This makes it hugely useful for lost tourists trying to find their bearings, and I have often been grateful to the church for its distinctive hugeness. But I have never ventured inside. The weather was dry but cold, and I had at least an hour before Husband finished at the office, so I decided to join the few woolly-hatted tourists through the heavy doors, into the church.

The door is not particularly welcoming, as it is very heavy and very determined to remain closed, but I managed to struggle inside. The signs (in various languages) and the woman behind the desk (in determined Latvian) were also not terribly welcoming, but having defeated the door, I was not to be dissuaded. I paid my €3 and was allowed through the glass barrier into the main sanctuary. Another woman called me over, insisting on inspecting my ticket. There was clearly a lot of angst over non-paying tourists visiting this church. Guess they have big overheads.

 Inside, there are a few things to look at, plus a tower to climb (if you pay extra). I was content to simply be inside and wandered around. Brick pillars hold up the high arching roof, and organ music hummed from speakers. It was a peaceful place to be (maybe noisy tourists object to paying for entry, or are dissuaded from visiting by the two grumpy ladies and the spiteful door).

There was a display showing a massive bell, the Peace Bell, which is a feature of a multi-national festival of competing choirs. Next to the giant bell is a giant rooster, which was once the weather-vane on the steeple, but now shelters inside. (It was made in 1690, so has earned a rest from the elements.)

The main sanctuary had various paintings and sculptures, of people who looked religious but I’d never heard of them so possibly not. A local artist, Laine Kainaize, had an exhibition of paintings. They were simplistic in style, and full of colour and I liked them (but not in my house).

The rear of the church was dominated by a statue of Roland. I don’t know who Roland is, and reading the plaque, I’m not sure anyone else does either! A copy of his statue stands outside one of the guilds, like a lucky charm; but like the ancient rooster, he has been retired to the shelter of the church. He stands with a heap of rubble, which I think are bits of the church which have fallen off.

The question that always begs an answer in a church is: does anyone pray here? Did the sanctuary feel holy? The high ceiling and warm architecture do inspire a feeling of holiness/prayer, but the atmosphere is rather shattered by the grumpy money ladies gossiping at the back. Perhaps, in days gone by, this was a place where people honestly sought God’s will. Today, I’m not so sure—but how much can a mere building convey anyway? Surely a church—any church—is the people who attend, and I wasn’t there for a service, so I cannot comment.

If you have €3 and an hour to spend, there are worse things you could do.

Thanks for reading. I hope you find somewhere to pray today.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

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A Cafe in Riga

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I am writing this in a cafe in Riga. Going to a cafe on my own and buying a coffee is fairly high on my scary list, so I am feeling somewhat tense, but there were no real options. Husband was at work all morning, and has returned to make phone calls and I know from past experience that these will be very loud/shouty and the chance of being able to concentrate and write to you is tiny. So I left, and found a cafe that looked empty and might not mind a lonely blogger making a coffee last an hour while they type. And I am very keen to write this, because I want to tell you about my morning. I was brave this morning too.

I walked to Modes Muzeja Kafejnica, which is the fashion museum and cafe tucked away behind St Peter’s Church. This is the first cafe in Riga that I have dared to visit on my own (at some point this will be normal) and I had passed it yesterday. It looked so pretty, I was determined to go in. As soon as I stepped inside a lady in an old-fashioned apron and cap welcomed me and showed me to a round wooden table and sofa. I was given a multi-lingual menu; old-time dance music was playing and I felt like I had stepped back in time and should have been wearing a long skirt and lacey blouse with a fat broach at the collar. But I wasn’t. I was wearing jeans and boots and a thick ski jacket that I folded onto the seat next to me and opened the menu. The cafe served drinks and cakes—this was so my kind of place.

I ordered at the counter: a filter coffee which customers pour themselves, and an eclair. There were several types of eclair and I chose one dusted with icing sugar and oozing with cream and strawberry conserve. It was delicious.

Pictures of fashion throughout the ages were strung from the ceiling, reminding me of pictures in books from my mother’s childhood—little girls holding puppies, suited gentlemen with cigarettes, while the women fluttered fans and eye-lashes over their pearls. It was all wonderfully art deco 1920’s. It even smelt 1920’s, with a sort of fruity floral undercurrent.

There is a discount if you buy a museum ticket, so when I had finished my coffee and daydream, I paid for both at the desk. The girl suggested I could leave my jacket on a peg in the cafe, but I am too foreign to trust things like that, so I thanked her and left, hugging my bulky jacket with gloves and hat to my overheated body like some sort of nervous sweating snail.

The entrance to the museum was slightly confusing, with a man who seemed to be shouting at a woman in a ticket booth—but he may not have been shouting, Latvian tends to sound cross. I waved my receipt over his shoulder, so the woman could see I had paid. The woman checked it, and offered to hang my jacket in the wardrobe (I’m not sure if I had pushed in, I hope not. It’s easy to be rude by mistake when you’re foreign).

I walked into the museum (still clutching coat and gloves and hat) and was greeted by glass display cases of dresses. They were long with bouffant skirts and the little girl in me wanted to try them on and twirl. Especially as dance music was playing—ideal for twirling in flowing skirts.

An old movie was showing on a television. Screens projected images of clothes. Glass cases displayed gloves and fans and shoes. There was a tiny carved table holding a sewing basket, and velvet drapes covered the walls (Oh! I so wanted to twirl!) I wandered along the row of dresses, staring at the tiny waists and tight sleeves and laced necklines.

Then I realised there was a corner where you could dress up in crinoline, and I wanted to. But no one was with me to take a photo and laugh with me, and I had already been brave by having coffee alone. Maybe next time.

The next room held more dresses—mainly from England, France and America. I didn’t see any Latvian clothes. Why?

It was all so pretty, the air smelt of lily-of-the-valley, music was playing, and I wanted to go into the glass cases and touch the silk and lace and velvet. They sort of lured you to touch them. Which is perhaps why they are displayed in glass cases.

The next room was a dark cellar. I began to search for a light switch, and a helpful lady told me to just wait, and look. (She said it in Latvian, but I think that’s what she said.) The display cases all lit up individually, in time to conversation and music. Each one was a miniature drama, the manikins placed so the words and music told a story, each one in the language of the country where the clothes originated from, with accompanying music by a composer from that country. One display showed traditional Latvian dress—a much simpler peasant outfit in coloured cloth. I still don’t know what the rich women in Latvia wore, maybe they imported their clothes from England or France.

I took some last photographs, and left. I loved this museum. I am also sort of glad that Husband was at work (not saying that he would have spoilt it or anything, but I think his interest in floaty dresses is probably less than mine.) If you have a 10-year-old daughter, or played dressing-up games for hours when young, then you must come to Riga and visit this museum. It is like eating smooth chocolate.

The cafe I am now in is also nice, but very different. It is modern, with hard seats, and instead of soft music it is playing loud radio that’s difficult to ignore. Especially as it sounds just like Terry Wogan, but speaking Latvian! I will finish my coffee and leave. Thank you for reading.

I hope you see something lovely today.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

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Return Trip to Riga

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Return Trip to Riga

Last week, Husband had another work trip to Riga, Latvia, so I decided to tag along. (The wonderful thing about writing is that you can do it pretty much anywhere. At least, anywhere that’s not ugly. I cannot write in ugly places.)

The taxi took us to Gatwick, and we found the airBaltic desk and then waited a very long time for the staff to arrive so we could drop our bags. We had breakfast in Pret (I don’t especially like Pret, but Husband has bit of an addiction, so we found a Pret and I didn’t make too many comments). We also bought sandwiches for lunch, to avoid having to eat aeroplane food.

The flight was quite fast due a tail wind from Storm Dennis, and it took less than the three hours I was expecting. The airport is fairly small, so going through customs and collecting our bags was very quick. I wonder if that will change after the EU transition period has ended. We walked to the taxi rank, and remembered to check the prices on the back door of each taxi (see the blog I wrote last summer—the price of a taxi varies a HUGE amount, but the price is displayed on the back door. In Riga, you do not have to take the first taxi in the line, which is likely to be the most expensive one and shunned by locals).

We stayed at the Pullman hotel, which is situated in the old part of Riga. The hotel is modern, with a horse theme (not sure why). We were met by a life-sized horse statue in the lobby, and horse art is displayed in all the corridors and rooms. Some of it is quite nice. Everything else is grey and white. It’s clean, but not especially welcoming.

We found a restaurant on TripAdvisor and walked through the cobbled streets of Old Town, past the 13th century St. Peter’s Church, to Petergailis restaurant. It was only 6.30pm (4.30pm in the UK) but it felt much later. The sky was properly dark, the shops were mostly closed, and there were very few people on the streets. The air was cold and crisp, though there was no snow (which I had been hoping for). I was glad of my thick jacket, gloves and hat—and my flat shoes, because walking on cobbled streets is fairly brutal on heels. As we walked, I began to remember Riga. In my mind, it has become entangled with Krakow, as we visited both fairly close together, and they share cobbled streets and pretty buildings, interesting markets and a sad history. Gradually Riga emerged in my memory, I recalled the beautiful guild halls, and the striking churches, and the house with a cat on top which has themed most of the souvenirs.

Petergailis restaurant was perfect. It has a cockerel theme, and we had coffee on the terrace last summer, but the terrace has gone now, only marks on the wall remain. Inside was cosy but not too hot and as we were eating relatively early, it wasn’t too crowded. The menu was full of interesting foods I’d never tried, but not so unfamiliar as to be scary. They brought us breads with flavoured butter, and tiny glasses of pumpkin soup to taste. We chose different dishes and shared, so could taste each other’s food (this turned out to be a good idea, because Husband chose better than me). I drank a single gin and tonic, and lusted after the huge glasses of red wine on the next table, but knew that after a flight and a long day I’d have a migraine if I drank it. We left feeling full.

The following day, Husband went to the office after breakfast, and I wrote and explored the city. But I’ll tell you about that in another blog. Thanks for reading. I hope you eat some lovely food too today.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

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I Don’t Iron Things

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One rather exciting piece of news this week—this will really amaze you—I bought a new iron. This is a rare occurrence. In fact, I have never ever bought an iron before, because the iron my brother gave me in 1988 when I got married, works perfectly well, despite being dropped a few times. To be fair, I don’t iron things. Not unless I really have to. It feels like a waste of time when they just get crumpled again when you wear them, and so my iron has had fairly light use. But the cables are beginning to get worn, and to be honest, I don’t trust it to not electrocute me, so I decided it was time, and took the plunge, and visited a hardware store. I bet your week hasn’t been anywhere near as exciting, has it?

We also went shopping for a new car. I’m not sure if this is the correct verb, as we often go to look at new cars, and we never buy one, but it’s quite a fun thing to do. This time we were looking at the Land Rover Discovery Sport and comparable models. I rather like the Discovery Sport, though compared to the Discovery it feels very small, and the extra two seats in the back are extremely cramped and almost impossible to climb into. I felt that I should try them out, so asked the sales assistant to help me. He politely moved the middle-row seat forwards so I could climb in, and offered to hold my handbag. I then hoisted myself up, almost fell on top of the sales assistant whilst trying to find somewhere to put my feet, bent double trying to fit under the low ceiling, whilst very aware how completely inelegant I looked with my bottom sticking up and my back bent, and my legs sort of stuck with one on one side of the back seat and the other jammed somewhere near the door. But I managed it. The sales assistant went off for a coffee to recover and I sat there, on a little seat in the very back of the car, wondering if I was ever going to get out again. This makes it an ideal car to buy if you have elderly relatives who you don’t especially like: help them into the rear seats, and leave them there for the rest of the day.

We were offered a test drive, so took it for a spin, with the sales assistant (who seemed to have recovered) sitting in the back (not the very back of course, he knows about those seats). Off we went, Husband driving, me offering helpful advice.

I asked the sales man if he had ever been kidnapped on a test drive. He said no, but his father had also been a car salesman, and one day he took an elderly couple on a test drive, and after about 20 minutes, they drove into a driveway, both got out, locked the car (with the salesman still sitting in the back) and went into the house. Apparently, they had forgotten they were on a test drive, and had driven home!

We drove along the lanes, and it happened to have rained, so there were puddles. Husband has a thing about puddles, and driving right through them so the water splashes over the whole car and you can’t see for a second and the car gets covered in dirty water. He managed to restrain himself, but I was very tense the whole way in case he lost control and decided to plunge the very shiny car through a pond-sized puddle. However, we managed the whole drive with no puddle driving, except right at the end, when there was a large muddy expanse of water and Husband sort of veered almost round it, but not quite. We left the car at the garage looking rather less shiny than when we’d started (but not as muddy as our own car, which is, I think, the absolutely dirtiest car in the country). I’m not sure the sales assistant was terribly sad to see us leave.

We looked at a few other cars that were similar to the Discovery Sport. I can tell you that BMW make beautiful cars but they are very expensive (and the rear seats are no easier to get into). Toyota doesn’t keep a comparable car in its showroom. Audi makes very uncomfortable cars, and when you look at them, there are no helpful sales assistants to be found. But maybe the Land Rover man had phoned ahead and warned them to hide.

I hope you have a good week and don’t get stuck anywhere. Take care.
Love, Anne x

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Fortnum and Mason — Bit of a Treat

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My Monday was great fun. It began with breakfast near Fortnum and Mason. Have you ever been? The best place for breakfast (I think) is not one of the restaurants inside the actual shop, but at the restaurant hidden at the back, 45 Jermyn Street. It has orange awnings, and a rotating door, with a man who stands outside to greet you. Inside, there are comfy orange seats (I do like a comfy seat!) and a desk where they take your coat and show you to the table.

The menu is nice—not too big so you don’t spend hours looking at a book trying to decide, and I don’t think they change it very often because it always seems to be the same when I visit. The prices are high, but not super high, not for London, and not as much as you might expect for somewhere rather lovely. The service is efficient and unobtrusive, and everything is very clean.

I chose what I always order—buckwheat pancakes, with caramelised pineapple and coconut yogurt. I don’t much like pineapple, but it’s so sweet, it’s easy to ignore. The coffee is delicious, and the orange juice is freshly squeezed. (Though do be careful, the drinks aren’t priced on the menu, and they add a lot to the final bill!)

The washrooms are behind a door marked: ‘Leeks and Peas’ (confused me for a moment!)

It really is a lovely place for breakfast, and it’s full of people in dark suits, so don’t arrive in your ripped jeans.

 Afterwards, we went into Fortnum and Mason. I have never properly explored the shop before, so we started at the very top (which was bit of a waste of time, as there were only restaurants up there!) On every floor, the staff greeted us, and asked if we wanted any help—but not in a condescending snooty manner (like in some posh shops). They seemed friendly, and willing to help. Even when we were looking at the hampers, and Husband (always to be relied upon for helpful comment) told the assistant they were a ridiculous price, she simply smiled, and said we would probably find the same products at a cheaper price in the rest of the shop.

The hampers were interesting. Some were themed, so you could order them for a wedding, or a birth, or a special occasion, like the Chinese New Year (this year is the year of the Rat, and everything was decorated with rats, which wouldn’t be my choice of decoration for a food hamper!) There were even hampers for animals (lots I could say here, but I won’t because I assume they give pleasure to the owner, even if the dog would be unimpressed).

I walked around taking photographs, and no one seemed to mind. On one floor there was a display of teapots, with signs explaining their origins. A shop assistant told us they were preparing to do a tea-tasting, and if we came back in a few minutes we could try some tea. (We didn’t, but it was nice of her.)

 It’s a nice shop to browse. The lighting is bright, but never harsh, and the displays are beautiful and full of colour.

We skimmed the ground floor, which was full of tins of shortbread with chocolate chips in (always wrong) and chocolates in fancy boxes—all aimed at tourists, who were pushing through the ground floor in their masses. Instead, we went down to the basement.

The basement is full of food, and I had a voucher. There was a golden tree, surrounded by citrus fruits. I love pomelo (which look like giant grapefruit) but I first discovered them in Morrisons, and these were triple the price and not ripe. A chocolate orange was also tempting—brown-skinned and grown in Valencia, the sign said it was very sweet.

The bakery was full of bread and cake and tarts, all looking delicious, but all unwrapped (and therefore potentially sneezed on by tourists, which I found off-putting).

In the end, I chose a tiny jar of fish eggs (sort of pretend caviar, but rather cheaper than the £400 price tag I saw for the real thing!) A man was cutting thin slices of salmon, and he chatted to us for a while, and offered us a blini—a tiny pancake topped with salmon and cream cheese. Behind him, there was a blini-making machine, and we watched it while we chatted. Really, the staff were very friendly.

I also bought some sour dough bread (I found some that was wrapped, and safe from stranger-sneezes!) and a china pot of Welsh rarebit, four miniature puddings, a pat of black garlic butter, a packet of blinis, and a tiny pot of pesto.

We carried everything home, and had a sort of picnic in front of the fire, drinking some prosecco that we were given at Christmas time. What a lovely treat!

I hope you have some treats this week too. Take care.
Love, Anne x

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If you fancy a treat, why not read my latest book? A feel-good family saga, set on a farm that will make you smile.

Sowing Promises
by Anne E. Thompson
Available from an Amazon near you today.

UK link: Here

US link: Here

 

Coronavirus: How Do We Know What to Believe?

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Are you feeling muddled about the facts of the Coronavirus? I know that I am. This is partly due to conflicting messages in the media, and let’s face it, it is so very difficult these days to know whether what we read in the media is true. It seems increasingly common to read a ‘shock’ headline, which turns out to have no basis in truth at all. For example, the headline: “Black’s Bank Investigated for Fraud” turns out to be a story about a routine investigation, which all banks undergo routinely every year, and which includes a check for fraud. But what we remember, is the link between the fraud and the bank—even though there never was one.

This is dangerous. This results in the media becoming little more than entertaining gossip, so we stop taking it seriously, and the hugely important function of keeping us informed, of keeping our leaders accountable, of spreading useful information, becomes obsolete. We need a media that we can trust.

Now, back to Coronavirus, how do we know what to believe? We are told that it is similar to seasonal flu, and it can be dangerous for the elderly and vulnerable. We are told how many new cases there are, on a daily basis, and how many people have died from the virus.

But have none of those patients recovered? Why are we not hearing about the thousands of people who have contracted the disease, been mildly ill, and now are well again? Why are we not hearing about the progress of a possible vaccine, and when scientists hope it might be available? Are they even working on a vaccine—I assume they are, but I have heard nothing about it. The news has been full of new hospitals being built, and increased risk, and new laws. Nothing on a vaccine or cure.

We are told it originated in China, and this seems to have provoked a stream of racism against Asian people, which reminds me of the very worst parts of our history, when we refused to learn anything about other cultures and anything different was deemed inferior. Undoubtedly some cultural differences are inferior—but others are incredibly superior. We focus less on those.

For example, the wearing of face masks. All the Asian people who I know (and I know a lot) tell me that people wear face masks to protect other people. If a Chinese person has a nasty cold, when they are shopping, or using public transport, they will wear a face mask to protect others. This seems to be beyond the scope of most English people, who automatically assume that a face mask is to protect the wearer. If you want to buy a face mask on Amazon, the write-up is all about whether the mask will protect the wearer, absolutely nothing about whether it will stop the spread of germs from the wearer to others. This is the sort of point that the media could highlight. But it doesn’t.

I have no idea what to expect from the spread of Coronavirus. I don’t know whether to prepare to catch it, or assume it will have died out this time next week. But I do know that I would like the media to change, and for it to start giving us actual facts and unbiassed information, and less sensational reports; because then we can start to make informed decisions.

Thanks for reading.
Anne x

 

If you do happen to be ill, confined to bed, and need entertaining, the ideal book to read is:

Sowing Promises
by Anne E. Thompson
Available from an Amazon near you today.

UK link: Here

US link: Here

1917: I was probably not their target audience.

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Some very classy actors each appeared for about 3 minutes.

I have just returned from watching 1917 at the cinema. Have you seen it? We had a free afternoon (old sort-of-retired couple) and I had heard good reviews, and so I dragged Husband away from his desk. We had slightly weird seats right at the back, at the top of the stairs. They would be good for short people, as no one is in front of you. But we are not short, so it just felt weird.

We watched 27 hours of adverts, as per usual at the cinema, and then the film started. It has some very classy actors, who each appear for about 3 minutes. The scenery is spectacularly realistic, and the story is gripping. Within the first 10 minutes I realised that I do not like war films.

I am an author, my ‘job’ is all about empathy, getting inside someone else’s head, understanding how they feel in different situations—in fact, more than that, it is about actually feeling what they would feel. Which makes watching a war film pretty traumatic. I hid under my coat and wished I had a fast-forward button.

Now, 1917 is an exceptionally well made film. It is all about (no big spoilers) a soldier being given a mission that will save hundreds of lives, and how he overcomes huge odds trying to accomplish this mission. We watch scenes which I assume are very realistic, see people dying as they would have died, see the bodies left to rot, see the ugly destruction of nature and property and people that is the result of war. And the soldiers were so young. The death of boys is always horrible.

 I found I spent the whole film trying to detach myself from the horror I was watching! I told myself, “listen to the music, try to identify the instruments being played, think about the orchestra” or “imagine being the person who put this set together, which things would they have made and what was here naturally” –anything in fact to distract myself from the film. I was probably not their target audience.

I think everyone should see one, excellently made war film in their life. They will then realise how awful and destructive and traumatic war is. This film is certainly worth seeing if you have not seen such a film. I remember the first such film that I saw, it was Platoon, when I was a student, and in a couple of hours I went from utter ignorance about the Vietnam war to shuddering whenever I heard it mentioned. I did not enjoy the experience, but I think it was probably good for my naïve young self to watch it.

If you like war films, or have never seen a decently made one, then I suggest you watch 1917. However, if you want a relaxing afternoon, I believe Little Women is still in cinemas.

Thanks for reading. I hope nothing in your week is traumatic. Take care.

Love, Anne x

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