Month: July 2017

St Mary Harefield, Part II

It doesn’t look much from the outside, does it? There are, at least, two interesting things outside as it happens but I wanted to see the inside and the church was locked. Lucky me that a gardener was strimming and let me in.

St Mary Harefield, Part I

Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park are crammed with dogs. Why are there no dogs in the Green Park, that has a dog fountain, or St James’s Park? This is one of life’s unsolved mysteries. Another is why a gem like St Mary, Harefield is “undiscovered”.

Memories of Malcolm House, Batsford

It’s always worth popping into Oxfam on Kensington High Street and this week I was rewarded with a paperback copy of Wait For Me!

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Categorised as Family

Heritage

Heritage used to mean something; 1. property that is or may be inherited; an inheritance 2. a special or individual possession; an allotted portion. Now it’s a tomato or a beetroot. Well, maybe language does evolve, so I’ve been drinking an heritage gin and tonic.

West Horsley Revisited

One Sunday in October last year I went to look around the house and grounds at West Horsley (So you want to put on an Opera?). It is a Tudor house that the Gascoignes inherited and where Wasfi Kani OBE, of Grange Park Opera, was building an opera house. I went back on Saturday afternoon… Continue reading West Horsley Revisited

Grenfell Tower

The Grenfell Tower tragedy shocked everyone. Like 9/11 I feel so horrified that I have come to terms with it by not thinking about it too much. How would I have coped if this block of flats, close to the back of my house, had burned down?

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Categorised as Psychology

Come-to-Good

In a recent post, More Jottings, I mentioned joining the National Churches Trust. It turns out to be rather a bargain. The minimum subscription is £30 and when you join you receive this 192 page hardback coffee table filler that sells for £20.

Razzle Dazzle

It’s about two years since I was made redundant and, you’ll be pleased to know, that there’s not much to reflect on. Oh yes there is, just one thing.

A Postcard from Cheltenham

No, no, no I’m not in Cheltenham but I got this postcard sent from there. To slip in a quick digression, Gustav Holst was born there in 1874. Fancy that. I’d thought he was German and indeed on his father’s side he is a Latvian, Swedish, German mongrel.

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Categorised as Sculpture