A View (Miles Away) From The Greenhouse…The Reform Conundrum

I recently spent a long weekend in Llanberis celebrating my eldest daughters birthday, she chose the area because she wanted to climb Snowdon, which she did along with six of the other guests. I had a more leisurely time of it, including doing no cooking, and contented myself with several walks alongside the body of water which was adjacent to the digs, and is known as Llyn Padarn in the local vernacular. A very pretty place with a historical connection (more of which later) to the struggle for workers rights. We had fish and chip for supper on the Sunday, unremarkable apart from the fact that cod, chips and peas cost the princely sum of £11 per head. When I were nowt but a lad, the same feed could be had for between 1/9d and 2/-. An 110 fold increase. In 1960 the average wage for a manual worker was IRO £25 a week, now it’s around £600. A 24 fold increase. Everything costs too much money.

Although I did have a couple of takers for my “spare” tomato plants I was left with a dozen quite sorry looking specimens Any road up, I found an uncultivated patch of ground and planted what I thought were the best six. I have no idea what breed they are, apart from two that had labels declaring them to be “large” but, as the saying goes, nothing ventured, nothing gained. There’s now a total of 46 tomato plants, all of which seem viable. The recovery from “the flood” hasn’t really materialised though and I’m wondering now if any lingering herbicide may have been woken up by all the water. Whatever the cause of the dry, curling leaves (it could well be stress)  and the less than abundant fruit, I’m not starting again.

Given the potato patch was also under water for more than several hours I’m quite pleased with what’s now being harvested. I’d never come across the phenomenon before, but several of the larger ones were cracked when I lifted them, although it hasn’t taken away from the flavour at all (there’s very little to compare to a freshly dig new potato, flavour wise). It’s  simply a symptom of rapid tuber growth, caused by too much water. I’d already guess as much, but Google was happy to confirm. Knowing how Google is these days, I’m surprised it didn’t tell me my spuds were “transitioning”

Given the increased workload, what with the outside area and all the tomatoes, I decided to look for someone to lend me a hand on an “ad-hoc, as and when required” basis. It wasn’t easy but just when I thought I’d never find the right candidate I got a call from a friend of a friend, who knew somebody that he thought would be perfect for the job. Meet my new “employee”, an itinerant labourer come farmhand with a penchant for standing perfectly still in the same place for a very long time, whist looking like he knows what he’s doing. I explained about the changeable weather but he didn’t see it as a problem and he dressed accordingly. Initially I thought he had a screw loose, and he had, if you look closely it’s now tightened up and is holding his cap in place. Although a bit of a loner with poor eyesight, I’ve never yet seen him without a smile on his face. He’s extremely reliable, too. He’s there when I leave in the afternoon and he always beats me to work, no matter what time I turn up in the morning. We’ve yet to discuss pay, he’s currently on a six week trial, but whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll be money well spent. As an added bonus, I haven’t seen a pigeon (or a crow) since he started!

I’d considered, on more than one occasion, simply chucking the compost away & washing the original corm off in the hope of at least getting a grating for my morning porridge with stewed fruit, but, me being me, I just left it to one side, drying out and gathering moss. Turns out, that was exactly the right way to approach the situation, as we have ginger! This one’s on me, instead of looking up how to get it started (that would have been too easy) I just kept watering it. It’s in the ground now, with a bed of stones under it to aid drainage. Lesson (for now) learned.

The presentation night for the 2019-2020 domino season took place recently, along with the traditional (much delayed) end of season cash knockout competition. The last one I took part in was held in a large function room in town and was attended by over seventy pairs, with a 1st prize of £140. As only 14 pairs attended this time around it looks increasingly likely (though not yet certain) that this most social of pastimes is all but finished as an organised event and, apart from the odd “Christmas do” the phenomenon that was the local 5’s & 3’s league is defunct. The response to “Covid” has much to answer for and this may seem small beer to some, but it was something more for many, offering a break from the humdrum day to day grind and a chance to meet friends otherwise rarely seen, especially for those who live in a rural backwater. Very sad.

I generally only grow courgettes for use as a natural thickener in tomato soup, although I have made other use of them over the years and, although they’re a bland vegetable, they do carry flavour well. I settled on the yellow hybrid “Shooting Star” some years ago and had only two seeds left (plant by spring 2022) this time around. Both of them germinated, so naturally I put both of them in, one either side of the greenhouse, working on the theory that at least one of them would survive (if not both). I’ve managed to break off the growing heads on both plants, within two days. It’s too late to start again this year, but I’ve left them in the ground hoping for a “side shoot”. If not, I’ll probably have to buy some, if I even have enough toms to make any soup!

Some tomato action at long last (the Tigrellas are a bit further on). I’m not too sure of the breed, beyond the fact it’s a cherry tomato, but it does have a nice shape. A couple of weeks of sun now and we may yet make something of this season. I’m still waiting for the “global boiling, Klimate Katastrophe, heat dome of destruction” we’ve been promised, as I type, it’s currently a flesh searing 21degrees C.

I took a trip down into Lancashire for an MRI scan (on the Sunday) followed by an inter-hip cortisone/steroid injection on the Monday. The MRI, although undertaken in hospital environs, was carried out by a private company. I’m assuming it rents the space and then charges by the scan. Charges for this service range from around £300 to over £1,000, dependent on how much body is being scanned, but I’m guessing the NHS gets a discount. Any road up, it all went swimmingly and to time, without any faff. On the Monday I attended another clinic at the same hospital, which proudly declared its commitment to the zeitgeist. I was asked how I preferred to be addressed, my one word answer? Colin. That was that. I was asked several more questions and I found this little exchange amusing; “Did you bring your list of medications” I was asked “I don’t take anything, apart from a 75g aspirin and a glass of organic beetroot juice with cider vinegar every morning. I also drink a pint of nettle tea every day”. The woman questioning me turned to he colleague and said “Oh, he’s one of them” (you probably had to be there! The procedure followed; it took the senior nurse practitioner four goes to get the needle into the hip joint, which hurt quite a bit, but she was full of apologies for hitting a nerve on the way in (which also hurt quite a bit) causing my thigh and buttock muscles to spasm. I didn’t ask her (or her three colleagues) what their preferred pronouns were, maybe, on reflection, that would have been the wiser move.

By Llyn Padarn stands an ancient monolith known as “Craig Yr Undeb” (rock of the union) which marks the meeting place of quarry workers who were in the process of forming a union. The story (which I won’t relate here) is one of the working mans endeavours to receive a fair days pay for a fair days work. A laudable sentiment and something I’m happy to endorse. The Labour Party came into being primarily because of such happenings. How times change. Like many, I’m faced with making a decision on the 4th of July that may well have long lasting ramifications for the whole nation. A seismic the political ripple effect, as it were. I grew up in a Labour family (although my maternal grandfather was a small business owner) and, until the 1990’s, I wouldn’t have contemplated voting for any other party. Tony Bliar, Peter Mandleson, Gordon Broon and their Incubus Big Al Campbell cured me of that predilection. I became a reluctant Tory and, when the chance came to vote to Leave the corrupt and sclerotic EU I took it with both hands. I always considered “Brexit” to be a “blue collar” movement and many “old school” Labour stalwarts would have agreed with me, but Labour’s now the party of the entitled “middle classes”. The party of media “talking heads”, ac-tors, “moderate” Islamist’s, feckless, workshy benefit scroungers and middle management public sector functionaries. What it isn’t is the party of the “aspirational working class”, accordingly and in all conscience, it won’t be getting my vote.

The Tories have hastened their own demise, and they deserve a proper shoeing; not just because of the failure to properly resolve immigration, they’ve taken their eye off the ball in a great many areas. As I said earlier, everything costs too much money, “net-zero” is a farce and “Brexit”, which should have been done and properly dusted a long time ago, still causes angst amongst the wets and die-hard Remainiacs within the party. It’s a shambles of a government, with some low grade people in very senior positions. It needn’t have been this way, but here we are.

Forget the LibDems and the Greens, they’re mostly sandal wearing eco-zealots, men larping as women, or a combination of both. What about Reform I hear you cry (in unison). Here’s the rub. My natural instinct (I had originally thought to deface my ballot) is to vote Reform as a protest against the current political narrative, knowing full well that to do so is to (probably, on a local level) allow Tim Farron a free run at the Westmorland & Furness constituency (only a Tory has any chance of beating him) and nationally to allow Labour, with all its baggage, it’s inability to define womanhood, it’s kowtowing to every half-baked political “fad”, its embracing of Islamism and its voracious appetite for other peoples money, to achieve a majority large enough to allow it 10 years in government. The damage it will almost certainly do in that time is incalculable, but I know it’ll cost be me, my children, my wider family, and the rest of the country dearly. Furthermore, although I’m not convinced the Tories won’t renege on “Brexit” at some future time, I’m convinced Labour most definitely will, given half a chance. So there’s the conundrum, follow my conscience and vote Reform (their “manifesto” works for me), hoping beyond hope for a political upheaval akin to June 2016, or swallow my pride, hold my nose and put an X in the Tory box? Maybe I’ll just draw a knob on the ballot paper and watch from the sidelines as the nation, under the tutelage of Angela Rayner, Wes Streeting and (probably) Sadiq Khan, disappears up its own backside, wrapped in an LGBTPQRSTUV flag!
 

© Colin Cross 2024