The good emperor

No-one else could hold a candle to him

There was once an emperor who lived in a fine Victorian castle on a cliff above the sea. He was a kind, good tempered ruler, and therefore not rich. His beautiful wife, who was always on diet, was of a similar happy disposition and never nagged or scolded, which is quite surprising considering she was always dieting. They had four beautiful children, all grown and seeking their own adventures and fortunes out in the world.

You might have guessed that an emperor such as he would be entirely contented, however, he was not. For some time he had been a little perturbed – and it had nothing to do with the lack of delicious food in the castle larder of late…

“Darling,” he began saying to his wife over breakfast one morning, “I don’t like those curtains up in the guest suite. I think they let our place down.”

“But they were very expensive curtains Your Highness,” she answered, digging her heels in mildly (which is why she called him “Your Highness” sarcastically).

“I know, I know, but they don’t hang straight. Surely, my dear, don’t they bother you? And the curtain rails are far from smooth and gliding,” insisted the unusually vexed Emperor.

At the earliest opportunity the royal couple, accompanied by the Emperor’s dowager mother-in-law, sought out the purveyors of the finest curtains at the best price (they were not going to sell the crown jewels in order to buy the curtains). Upon seeing the perfect curtains in colour, quality and size, the Dowager purchased the correct quantity of cream bundles of silken fabric. The Emperor found five metres of new curtain track for under five pounds. Back at the castle the Emperor’s wife wondered at the cheap curtain track.

“Master,” she began, “would it not be better to spend a little more and acquire a rail that includes cords so that guests may simply open the curtains in one easy movement?”

Soon the Emperor found the Swishest curtain rail available that would not cost a king’s ransom, but which had the desired cords. The Emperor took off his best crown and donned a fake gold party piece of little worth; he put his bejeweled orb on the table, climbed a ladder and set to work. After a week or two he beckoned his wife upstairs to give her opinion on the new curtains on the new rails.

“The curtains look lovely,” said the good wife.

“What about the curtain rails?” the Emperor looked at her intently.

His wife studied the rails, which protruded six inches past the window frames on either side of the bay window, and she could not help but notice the strange and prominent metal brackets that supported the white plastic rail three inches in from each end. The ends still went down.

“They might be alright if you painted those metal things. They look like….um….” she couldn’t say it, not after all the Emperor’s hard work.

“Scaffolding!” helped the Emperor. “And, incidentally, those rails are exactly the same as the ones that I just took down. And they still don’t pull smoothly, and look at how high the cords are up the wall!” And they burst out laughing.

A week or so later the Emperor and his wife stood back to admire his new curtains. Each beautifully hanging, creamy, dreamy curtain glided smoothly back and forth like skaters on ice – by hand, of course. No Swishing. The cheap curtain rails, practically hidden by the new curtains, needed no “scaffolding”. The crown jewels are safe and now the Emperor is completely happy. The Emperor’s wife is vastly relieved and amused. On a whole she’s rather glad that the curtain episode has been drawn to a satisfactory close.

The “ups and downs” in an emperor’s life.

So glad I went to Specsavers!

I had a feeling that Specsavers would ask me for a review after my visits for new glasses recently – they were extremely helpful and friendly – so I wasn’t surprised when the email came in last week. I set to the task immediately as, if I don’t do something straight away, it might never see the light of day again. Hence, I was not expecting to receive the same request from Specsavers this morning. Perhaps I hadn’t submitted my review correctly, I wondered, so I dutifully wrote another, less wordy review – “Excellent glasses and great service!” (well, I had done it all before!).

Now, at the same time, I remembered that I’d promised to go to Tripadvisor and write a rave review for our favourite fish and chip at Newton Abbot. After much ado installing Tripadvisor onto my mobile phone, and having to spend a lot of time trying to find the “Jacksons Fish and Chips” entry on the site, I had become rather unenthusiastic about carrying out my promise; so when at last I made it into the ratings section I was terse yet flattering. “Great fish and chips!” I wrote and left it at that, hoping no-one would notice that I was actually fed-up.

A short while ago an email came in with the heading, “Your review of Specsavers.co.uk has just been published.” Well I thought I’d check it out this time, seeing as I hadn’t done so previously. I’ve been chuckling to myself – I don’t know how the confusion came about… My Specsaver review read, “Grey fish and chips!” On that basis, I thought I’d give a grey wolf eel fish a nice new pair of specs.

And here are the before and after photographs of a much-loved Porch family photo that had seen better days. I am the startled baby.

“Are you married? I asked the pretty blonde receptionist at the Leisure Centre.

“No, divorced,” said Sarah, “nowadays I’m a cat-woman – there are five of them – and I’m very happy.”

“Oh no, ” I reproached, “that’s far too many, and they’ll make your house smell.”

“No they don’t – my cats don’t wee inside – and my house doesn’t smell!”

“What about the cat food? That stinks,” I said, remembering the smell of tinned cat food from personal experience.

“Gourmet cat food and disposable plates!” Sarah got me there. (Why didn’t I ever think of that?)

“Well you don’t want to frighten off all the nice men and end up an eccentric old cat-woman,” I suggested.

“I hope no-one would put me in that CATegory,” she laughed.

And well Sarah might laugh for she looks more akin to the Catwoman of film and fantasy than the stereotypical versions of eccentric ladies who love their cats more than people. Besides, what are five cats compared to the sixteen of self-confessed “Cat Lady Hannah Davis” (pictured below)? They do look cute – don’t they?

Catwoman – a fantasy and a reality.

Any room for a man?

He might be here somewhere…

Chris and I are in accord about many subjects. We think alike. I don’t know if that was part of the attraction when Cupid struck over twenty years ago, or could it be the two decades together which have made us so thoroughly interwoven that we think as one? Of course the latter isn’t entirely true; an occasional bad Hera* day on my part may make Chris unusually Mercurial, if not Saturnine, and then it seems like I’m from Venus and he’s from Mars… But we agree on most things, especially when it comes to food.

We’re both a bit cagey about meat these days; we don’t like it too meaty in flavour or too tough and chewy, and no fat please (we are not Mr and Mrs Jack Sprat either). In fact I’ve been decidedly worried since I learnt that mother cows, after a lifetime of service giving birth to calves and providing milk for the public, give the ultimate sacrifice and end up on people’s plates. I don’t know why it should be so but somehow it seems less barbaric to eat a young steer brought into the world for that purpose (and he would be nice and tender!).

Funnily enough, only this morning I was talking to Adonis Brian at the Leisure Centre about meat and, in particular, the difference between the quality of produce from Australia compared to England. In case you think that is an odd topic of conversation to have with a gorgeous man in the gym… well, it has nothing to do with either of us being epicureans, rather, we were talking about our respective recent trips to Australia and the notable differences between the two countries. We agreed that it is far better to have a small amount of something good than large amounts of inferior food.

Upon arriving home from the gym, having burnt off about 350 calories, I was starving. Sensing this (being so like-minded we have little need for words these days) Chris asked:

“How do fancy some of that fillet steak we bought on Saturday? Then we won’t need to cook later.”

It was an exceptionally small piece of steak – under four ounces (my name is not Edesia*)- and cost the princely sum of four pounds; at that price it had to be good!

Whilst observing the six tiny fillet medallions flash-frying in the grill pan I had my suspicions. They didn’t look unctuous and inviting. Did I see some sinew running through the meat? Sinew is rather akin to gristle – isn’t it? I tasted the smallest piece, which I had earmarked for myself anyway, and I decided not to say anything to Chris lest it should put him off the tasty morsels he had been looking forward to (my husband is very susceptible to any dubious comments from me).

Well the lunch looked nice on the table…

“Umm, I’ve been relishing the idea of this!” said Chris picking up his knife and fork.

“Oh no,” I thought but didn’t express outwardly. “Bon appetit!” I said with a smile.

“The mushroom sauce is delicious as usual,” Chris began.

“That’s good,” I answered, wondering if he had actually tried the fillet steak yet.

“Oh…” he said disappointedly after his fork’s first foray into the tiny territory of meat.

“Yes Darling?” I looked at him in apparent surprise. Of course I knew what he was thinking – we are so in-tune after twenty years together – but I think it’s good to let him express himself, otherwise we might lose the art of conversation… (Such as it is after all this time.)

“Is the meat rather tough and gristly?” Chris asked searchingly. And he chewed on the subject for a long time.

At last the meal was finished. Everything was gone except for two and a half little medallions on Chris’s plate and one and a half on mine (I had kindly given Chris the lion’s share).

“Thank goodness for your delicious mushroom sauce!” exclaimed Chris. (He’s not too crazy on boiled cauliflower without the cheese – one little point where we differ.) “But,” he added, “It won’t be wasted – I think I know of three nice dogs on Rosie’s farm who’ll be pleased to chew on the leftovers…”

“Yes,” I laughed, “‘Food of the dogs!'”

Ah Ambrosia… What, no meat?

* Hera – the Greek goddess of marriage.

* Edesia – the Roman goddess of feasting (not to be confused with Obesia!).

We didn’t expect to see Martin Clunes or any of the cast of “Doc Martin” when we went to “Port Wenn” (otherwise known as Port Isaac) and we didn’t see him. They don’t film in winter. Nevertheless, we have been staying so close on our mini-break in Cornwall that it would be a shame not to see the picturesque village where our favourite British comedy series is set. It was a bit colder and more misty than it ever looks on “Doc Martin” but we recognised the place all the same.

Our first port of call was “Doc Martin’s” surgery up the hill. What do you know? A little dog ran out to greet us! Not the usual little dog – the scruffy one that loves the doctor – but a dog attached by a lead to a very plain man, and an ugly gurning woman (obviously the middle-aged bachelor’s mother – well he couldn’t be married!). The man smiled and approached with his mum in tow.

“Do you live here?” I asked.

“Oh no, but we come here quite often,” he began, “and I’m just showing my mum around. She loves ‘Doc Martin’ too. I’ve met all the cast, of course…”

“Are they nice?” I humoured.

“Well, I must say I had to put Martin in his place more than once,” he said.

“Why was that?” I wondered.

“He’s a bit high and mighty, he is, that one,” the plain man tilted his fat chin.

“Oh dear,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, “but Eric (Ian McNeice) is a very nice man. He’ll let you have a photo with him for a pound and he’ll give it to the life boats. They asked me if I’d like to be an extra – you know they clear out the town for filming – but I don’t want to do it, even though I’m a big fan, because you have to be here at seven in the morning. But they pay eighty pounds.”

“Eighty pounds a day…” I weighed it up (thinking of myself – being such a fan) “no, I don’t think I could manage it from Dawlish, even for eighty pounds.”

Before parting I didn’t tell the man and his gurning mother that I used to do “extra” work myself years ago and was in the remake film of “Poldark” in the nineties – I didn’t like him that much.

“Eighty pounds a day…” I pondered.

And Chris and I went to “The Golden Lion” for a coffee and cheesy chips where we were served by a young man with a Welsh accent. The lad was having a try out day working at the pub – it was his first day so he didn’t know that the village was famous for “Doc Martin”.

“Cold, isn’t it?” I asked by means of making conversation (and excusing my runny nose).

“But not as cold as Wales,” he laughed, “nowhere is as cold as Wales.”

“Aren’t you Welsh?” I asked.

“No, I’m not,” he said in his Welsh accent, “but I know it’s the coldest place in the world.”

I hope he gets his job.

Today we went to Poldark territory. Yes, I’m something of a fan.