The Cake

I should really have started baking for Christmas some days ago. Stir Up Sunday, the last before Advent, was traditionally the day for making the Christmas pudding and cake,. The name comes from the collect for that day which begins "Stir up, we beseech Thee O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people" All our family took a turn at stirring the mixture!

My mother-in-law, a staunch Presbyterian, was renowned at her church for her baking skills. Her Christmas cake and mince pies were altogether out of this world. On the day of the church fete she really came into her own. Her fruit cake was legendary and won first prize so often that she wondered whether she should keep competing. Her cherry buns were a joy to behold (and to eat). In fact, I still use her bun recipe and it is a black mark for this Grandma if there are no buns when the grandchildren come to call.

On one famous occasion the domestic science teacher from the local Grammar school produced a large, beautifully iced cake. I must say it was much more professionally decorated than any of the other offerings. However it was not for sale, it was to be first prize in the raffle. It was a splendid affair in peach coloured icing decorated with green leaves and red roses. Shells edged the top and bottom and it was altogether a work of art.

Imagine my surprise when I found I had the winning ticket. Mother-in-law said "You won't have to make a cake this year". So I didn't. At teatime on Christmas Day. although everyone was stuffed to the gills with turkey and Christmas pudding, not to speak of dates, nuts and chocolates, nevertheless I thought I would produce my wonderful prize. What a disappointment!! The icing was so hard it nearly broke the knife and when we finally got to the cake it was as dry as desert sand and fell into crumbs as I tried to cut it. Never judge a sausage by its skin. From that day on I have made my own Christmas cakes.

Advice to a Young Man on Matrimony

Sorry folks, the first verse disappeared. Here it is----

My family say it's time I left the nest.
My mother's tired of polishing my shoes.
She says to me "It's time you took a wife"
I quite agree with you I say, "But whose?"

Advice to a Young Man on Matrimony

To continue ------

I'm told that honest men will marry soon
But wise men do not marry, soon or late.
Should I look for a widow who is rich?
Or will young love in a cottage be my fate?

So much advice is given now to me.
When will the best time to get married be?
Marry in Lent, in time you will repent.
Advice I know that's surely kindly meant.
Marry in May and you will rue the day.
The song says love will find a way.

All I desire is a pretty, intelligent girl.O
One who is not too short, nor yet too tall.
The answer that I get from all my friends is
"Don't we all, don't we all".


Sorry about the hiccup. This laptop has a mind of its own!!!

Headlines & Slogans

Journalists love puns. Here are some headlines I saw in a Folkestone paper --

"Missing baby found in Sandwich." "

A smuggler caught-- "Man held in cigarette case."

A family called King and another called Queen in trouble -- "King and Queen in court"

Seen on a dustcart "Satisfaction guaranteed or your rubbish back"
Seen on a handyman's van in Hove "Rent a Hubby".
In the shop window of a laundry "Does your wife wash herself?"
The pen is mightier than the sword (and much easier to write with).
Middle age is when your broad mind and your narrow waist change places.
Old age is a case of mind over matter. If you don't mind it doesn't matter.
Youth is wasted on the young!!

Anniversary

On this day in 1942 Ernest Thirkettle and I were married at Emanuel Church, West Dulwich, London. Church bells had been silent since the beginning of the war, only to be rung if enemy parachutists were seen. But on this day, because after a series of setbacks, we had finally captured El Alamein in the North African campaign permission was given for church bells to sound a peal of rejoicing. So the bells rang out joyfully on our wedding day.

Remembrance Sunday

Today I have been thinking of my nephew, Graham, who is laying a wreath at the Belfast Memorial as the Representative of the Salvation Army in Northern Ireland. No doubt, like me, he will be thinking of Ernie, his uncle, one of the 55,000 men of Bomber Command who were killed in WW2. Soon, I hope, there will be built a memorial in London to honour the sacrifice made by these brave young men whose average age was 22 years. It is so right that for our tomorrows they gave their today.

The Second Fire of London

This month's copy of Saga magazine has a picture like my picture of St. Paul's Cathedral when the City of London was on fire. The raiders came in first with incendiary bombs and the resulting fires were a beacon for the bombers following with high explosive. I might have sounded light-hearted but it was overwhelmingly frightening. The noise went on and on.

The next morning I picked my way to work over piles of broken glass and firemen's hoses which snaked their way across the streets. When I arrived home that evening my mother told me that Jack's father, a fireman, had been killed by a falling wall. This is what war is really like.

Guy Fawkes

The evenings close in and before you know it Bonfire Night has arrived. Why do we still celebrate it? Perhaps because the foiled attempt by Guy Fawkes and his plotters was meant to kill the King as well as destroy the Houses of Parliament. Hitler had a good try and the IRA almost suceeded in killing Mrs. Thatcher and her Cabinet but we are a resilient race. Despite our enemies efforts to undermine us I remain an optimist.