Quality Street - A Part of Christmas

Many of us have Christmas traditions. Most are fairly common ones like leaving out a carrot and some booze for the nocturnal white-bearded visitor although mine are somewhat more esoteric like driving 50 miles on Christmas morning trying to find a shop because some dickbrain bought the kids something electrical and forgot the batteries and you just know that 50 miles is nothing compared to whingeing kids for the rest of the day. Naturally though, as times change,  a lot of traditions die out due to changes of circumstance like, for example,  retirement means I can no longer participate in the great tradition of embarrassing myself totally at the office Christmas party.

I was pretty good at that one  and always knew I had reached the alcoholic point of no return when, every year without fail, I would tuck some mistletoe into my belt and wander round asking who would like to kiss me under the mistletoe? It did sort of work once although I had no recollection of the event: all I found was a load of lipstick on my trouser front the next morning. Oh, the hours I spent subsequently, gazing at the female staff and trying to work out who wore a similar shade!

As I say, traditions come and go but one will never change and I wonder just how this might resonate with any of my adoring readers? It concerns a sweet (or for those who cannot speak English, candy) assortment which goes under the name of Quality Street. These are they: a veritable cornucopeia of rainbow-wrapped sweets ranging from caramel to toffee to coconut, predominantly enrobed in chocolate

When I was young  and indeed,  even when I was an adult on fairly low wage with a wife, cat, children and a large piece of mistletoe to support, a tin of these at Christmas was considered a luxury. One could purchase smaller boxes but they tended to be used throughout the year as gifts for ageing relatives and schoolteachers. The tin was the Holy Grail and one of the first things one put on the Christmas list. One purchased it and, after you had peeled away the sticky tape sealing the lid, inhaled the aroma of chocolate and dwelt on the delightful prospect of all that calorific gratification,  this was where the tradition kicked in .............. they had to be sorted out!!! It's not an OCD thing, it just has to be done. The contents lovingly and carefully separated with the growing piles of noisette paté, toffee penny, caramel swirl etc forming a psychedelic pattern on the table. Naturally, when one had finished separating them, you had to count how many you had of each and this is where the first disappointment set in. 

Over the years, I must have sorted a good few tins of QS and, without fail, the varieties that always come out top of the quantity table are the creams. I HATE BLOODY CREAMS! I detest, abhor and loathe strawberry creams. I cannot abide orange creams. They are the arsehole of the chocolate world yet, every year, they are there in an abundance to boggle the imagination. Even worse, with one notable exception (who is mad as a box of frogs anyway *waves at Kitty*) nobody else I have ever known likes them either. We all lust for the crunch of a hazelnut, or the pleasure of getting bits of toffee out of your teeth for hours but do we see those glorious purple wrappers proliferate?  Do we fu ......... dge. Nestlé, the manufacturers even do giant versions of the most popular ones which are sold individually although strangely enough, not one of those larger offerings includes a cream. Hmmmm.

Now I think about it, the only cream of which I vaguely approved was a coffee cream and guess what? They withdrew it! In fact, for the aficionados and those of a more advanced age who might remember them, all of these have disappeared over the years:

• Purple One (the original 'Purple One' with Brazil nut, replaced with hazelnut version)
• Chocolate Toffee Cup (now replaced with Caramel Swirl)
• Hazelnut Cracknell (red wrapper)
• Hazelnut Eclair
• Chocolate Nut Toffee Cream
• Malt Toffee (replaced with toffee deluxe as a "new" flavour)
• Milk Chocolate Round (now replaced with Milk Choc Block in green wrapper)
• Peanut Cracknell (blue wrapper)
• Coffee Cream (brown wrapper, same size and shape as the strawberry cream)
• Gooseberry Cream (green wrapper light green fondant with a touch of Gooseberry Preserve covered in milk chocolate)
• Apricot Delight (blue wrapper, square chunk, apricot flavoured jelly covered in milk chocolate)
• Toffee Square (metallic pink wrapper, a small square of very hard toffee)
• Chocolate Truffle (brown wrapper, square chunk, a soft truffle filling covered in milk chocolate)
• Montelimar Nougat

Quality Street ( as well as their younger rivals like Roses and Celebrations) also seem to have this ability to transcend gluttony. By this, I mean that moment after one has finished Christmas lunch when you roll to the nearest comfy chair ready to snooze away the afternoon. You sit there groaning, more stuffed than the turkey currently residing in your stomach, and swearing that you wont eat again for about a week and then realise you need a wee. Slowly, with much gasping and puffing, you manage to lift your swollen, turgid and bloated body from the chair and wobble off to the bathroom. Then the magic of Quality Street kicks in when you return as, without even thinking, your hand reaches out and grabs one - they are irresistible!!!

Right, other QS traditions: it's obligatory to make earrings out of the wrappers as well as peel off the cellophane and look at the world through all the different colours. It's also obligatory, assuming you value your life to refrain from the green triangular ones as they are MINE!! I use the plural there in the vain hope that I might find a second one under the 382 strawberry sodding creams.

OK, Christmas is almost over. Most of the tree is now on the carpet and the only reminder of the mountain of food consumed over the festive period is having to pay for it all when the credit card bill arrives mid-January.  On the table which only a few short days ago was filled with nuts, nibbles, turkish delight, dates and all the other Yule-time comestibles sits a sad, almost empty tin. It no longer has a lid as Auntie Betty sat on that and it now resembles a reject Frisbee and all that remains of the contents are yes, you guessed it, a few creams. Eventually, even these disappear as their appeal grows relative to the disappearance of all the other food - proof of the adage "owt's better than nowt". 

So Christmas and Quality Street gradually fade away for another year apart from one final tradition - the ceremony of the retention of the tin. It goes something like this:-

Shall I chuck this empty tin?

No, it'll come in useful for something or other.

But you say that every year and then we finally get rid of it in November because we're sick of tripping over the damn' thing.

Look, it seems such a waste. Give it to me and I'll use it to put some odds and ends in when I tidy the garage.

Sardonic smirk

No, really, I AM going to tidy the garage

Other half retreats making sotto voce remarks about storing the flying pigs in it

I hope some of this struck a chord with you. 

Happy Christmas!

Aegon International 2012

One of the great joys about living in Eastbourne is its programme of public events throughout the year and, as   an amateur photographer, I'm provided with a constant source of subjects and inspiration. June sees one of the jewels in the Eastbourne crown when we play host to some of the world's top tennis players as a precursor to Wimbledon and it's a week that sees me practically living in Devonshire Park as I have been fortunate enough to obtain media accreditation as a photographer. This is my story of the Eastbourne Aegon International 2012.

Day 1 (Saturday)

At last, the week I so enjoy is here and today is 'pick up photo ID and generally wander round orientating myself' day. It's a day where the public can get in for nothing and generally sets the scene for the week to come. As I wandered in, I saw a few faces I recognised from last year and, more amazingly, they recognised me as well. Despite this, I was allowed in and duly approached the Accreditation Desk to collect my badge. Last year, they took the ID photo there and then which was not the most flattering. This year, however, I was a tad more canny and forwarded one I already had to the Lawn Tennis Association so expected my badge to be all ready for collection. Silly me! They had record of me but no photo so once more it was time for the photographer to suffer the agonies usually inflicted upon others! I stood against a wall whilst the young man pointed a camera at me and a myriad thoughts flashed through my brain: Shall I look mean and professional? Shall I smile in a winning but winsome way? Is my hair OK seeing as there was a very strong wind out there? As it transpired, all this trauma was unnecessary as the final shot was blurred and bore little resemblance to me anyway but at least the moment was done and dusted.

Now Eastbourne Tennis Week has a great record weather-wise but, given this years climatic calamities thus far, visitors were swathed in a variety of jackets, jumpers and determinedly clutching their umbrellas. After all, we're British, a few feet of rain aren't going to stop us enjoying ourselves. Matches were in progress on the outer courts and the various trade stands were attracting visitors a'plenty. As I gazed at the various young, lean, fit sportspeople strolling round, I was warmed by the thought that I was more than twice the person they were. More than twice the age, more than twice the weight, more than twice the size .......... you get the idea. 

One of the initial problems as a snapper of such people is that one isn't necessarily sure who's who at first. The top players I hopefully recognise but one is never quite sure of some of the others. It's a bit like when, as a kid, I would haunt the players' entrance at my local football team on match day and thrust my autograph book at anybody who entered or emerged who looked vaguely player-like. We would then hopefully decipher signatures and see who we'd got (I seem to recall an awful lot of players called Mickey Mouse!). Anyway, I digress, but hopefully, my copy of the WTA Media Guide will yield up information as to who is whom.

Sadly, I wasn't able to spend too much time there today due to other commitments but I wanted to go onto Centre Court and get some shots. Naturally, the pro cameramen tend to gather on the premier court and, as I slipped in during a break in the match, I was reminded that I am but a minnow in the  great pond of photography. It wasn't just the world-weary look, the focused attention or even the laid-back attitude of total comfort in their craft. These I fully accept and have rationalised. The worst part of being an amateur photographer is that dreaded feeling known as lens envy! Please don't get me wrong, I have some very nice kit and it does the job pretty well. My Canon 70-200mm L IS USM is perfect for such an occasion but ............... Let's just say that when the guy sitting next to you court-side has a lens which could double as a Saturn 5 rocket or a handy shelter from the rain if you removed the glass then inadequacy rears its ugly head. I tried to comfort myself with thoughts such as " ... why would you want a close-up of his left nostril?" but nope, it didn't really help. I was somewhat comforted by the slight stagger as he left the court under the weight of this beast but I'd give anything for a little play with it.

Really, any reasonable shots today were a bonus as it was predominantly just an exercise in checking out light, angles and re-familiarising myself with the environment. I did actually get a few but then the heavens opened and we got a downpour which delayed matters. By the time play resumed, it was time for me to go and so I said farewell until Monday when my shooting starts in earnest.

As I left, the sun was shining brightly and people were picnicking on the lawns and generally having a good time. The Pimms tent was beginning to do a brisk business and the punnets of strawberries were starting to disappear. All was right with the world and there was an air of genteel excitement at what was to come.

Ghost Writing

I came across this in my "Things I've Written" folder on my PC just now. I really remember very little about writing it. Perhaps I've tried to forget it or perhaps I've tried to remember? Who knows? Anyway, this is another bit of me. Not the silly, funny Bertie who acts the fool and always says "No problem" but the Graham who sometimes weeps inside, just like everybody else and, just occasionally, writes seriously. I'll leave you to decide just how much of this is Me.

Once upon a time there was a boy. He had a childhood of, what he thought, normality but it was only much later that he found out that it was a stifled childhood. A childhood that didn’t have a lot of love, just a lot of being made to feel guilty if he wanted to be a child and make the mistakes that a child makes. A childhood where he was always told to put others first, to be seen and not heard and that he should be grateful for even the smallest concession to his naivety and lack of experience of life.

He was always told that his best was not good enough, that he could do more and that he was letting everyone down by his selfishness in wanting to be a person in his own right.

That set the pattern for the rest of his life. He was always able to go so far and then something else took over. Call it Fate or coincidence or whatever, but whatever it was he would get so far and then the rug would be pulled out from under him. Maybe it was self-sabotage because he knew that something would go wrong eventually and he wanted to get it over with. Maybe it was a punishment for all the things that he had done wrong in his life. Maybe it was just ……..Life? Anyway, he reached a point where he realised that he was the wrong side of the right age and that he could never get those years back again.

He started to think about those lost years and the mistakes that he had made. He started to get bitter about the way others had treated him and about how stupid that he himself had been. He had spent his adult life just like his childhood - allowing others to control it and being too much of a coward to change things. His brain was strong but his emotions were weak and he sank lower and lower.

His self-esteem disappeared and, with it, the strength to pull himself out of the pit he was in. He was told to make an effort to get himself together but he couldn’t do it on his own. Drugs didn’t help. This was more an illness of the soul than of the mind. He had people that liked him and were willing to help to some degree but, sadly, he couldn’t accept that he was worth their effort. More importantly, they were not people who could touch his soul. He was like a blind man who was being offered a helping hand by other blind people. They couldn’t lead him to where he was going because they themselves couldn’t see the destination.

There was one in particular who wanted to lead him. She was not blind but previous experience had given her a distorted view and she did not necessarily trust what she was seeing. Because she was unable to trust the evidence of her own eyes, the man was unable to trust her leadership in his time of trouble. They got to a slim cliff path on the way to his destination and she tried to pull him along with her. He doubted her motives and therefore dug in his heels. She had two choices. She could have won his trust or she could have shamed/bullied/coerced him into following her. Neither worked, he was too scared of what lay ahead and, being unable to see, made him even more so.

They battled. Because she was sighted, she did not realise the terror that blindness gave. Because she had others who could reach her soul, she did not realise his loneliness. Because she had purpose, she did not realise the effect that failure had upon him. She remembered a recent failure of her own and her reaction to it. How she had felt that her world had ended and that she was no longer able to do her job and that everyone was pointing a finger at her.

He tried to explain to her that, if she felt like that, could she not in some way understand how he felt a failure in the biggest exam of all - life. And, most importantly, there was no retake.

He had lost her. She spent her time telling him all the things that he did wrong, making him feel guilty and really reliving his childhood all over again. He didn’t blame her for all of it. He deserved some criticism but he felt that whilst he was able to admit to his mistakes and human frailty she did not. Maybe she could not. Maybe she couldn’t allow herself to admit to being human also.

Anyway, there they were on this cliff path. She couldn’t guide him so she gave up and tried to push him. Even he wasn’t that stupid! Who wants to feel their way forward knowing that one false move means the end. So there he stood. Alone, unable to move backwards, incapable of moving forward.

He is at a standstill and there we must leave him.

Perhaps one day he will find the person or the courage or the motivation to take those first tentative steps. If he does, he might still fall but at least he will have tried. But then, he had tried before ….

Pier Pressure

I guess it's fair to say that I became a grumpy old man at a very early age. Most things annoy me if I really put my mind to it and I have always been able to extract a negative from most situations and get annoyed accordingly. 

Since the move to Eastbourne however, I have become calmness and rationality personified. I smile sweetly at 93 year old invalid car drivers who seem to think they're in the Ben Hur chariot race as they race through the Arndale Centre en route to Greggs, I gaze benignly at the small children running amok through the supermarket as their mothers place their trollies exactly in the optimally inconvenient place and thus totally block the aisle as they discuss who Jordan is marrying this week. I don't even mind the noisy, indolent, rude and seemingly immovable groups of foreign students which clog up most of the larger coffee shops whilst one of their number purchases a bottle of water which therefore entitles their number to fall across every comfy seat in the aforesaid emporia! You see, my temperament has, up to now been transformed into a combination of Mother Teresa and the best bits of Roy Cropper from Corrie.

However ..................................

Tonight I went out on a photoshoot along the seafront. For once, not amidst the balmy evening airs for which our lovely town is so renowned but in a chilly, misty and damp atmosphere. Being a sort of ageing Bear Grylls type, I was stoical and had a jolly nice time trying to be creative and snapping away merrily at, amongst other things, our wonderful pier. It was then that I noticed the dome feature was featuring a distinct lack of light bulbs (click pic to enlarge).

See what I mean? A crowning glory which, if I was still in grumpy old man mode, personifies all that is wrong with Society. I am very tempted (as appears to be the current trend) to occupy the pier until such time as this deplorable state of affairs is remedied but they close at night and I'd get lonely. I am therefore entreating all of you to take to the streets until such times as this blight is corrected. It really does spoil the look of what should be a symbol of the best seaside town in Britain and is hardly that difficult to put right.

On to further matters: namely the singular lack of evening tea establishments in the town centre. I mention this as a continuation of my Bear Grylls comment earlier but there is only so much discomfort one can take before the Great Tea God calls. We walked from the pier right through the centre of town peering at all the establishments serving food and/or booze but not one could  proffer the cured aromatic leaves of the Camellia sinensis as a cure for my onset hyperthermia and raging thirst. I have drunk tea in many places in the world: from the fresh tea of the Sri Lanka plantations to the strangely unsatisfying brew that our American cousins prefer to drink but the one place I could not satisfy my craving was in my own dear, lovely , wonderful Eastbourne!!! Even the bloody French sell it!!

I fully accept that it's the wrong time of the year and I also fully accept that there are probably numerous places which fit the bill but of which I am unaware. That's Life innit .......................

........... See, I almost justified it and went back to placid mode !!!! Not this time, baby, this time it's for real. 

Whadda we want? Tea and bulbs. When do we want them? NOW!!!

Dear Mr Pier Boss, As a pier of the realm, watt do you think about some Spring bulbs? To me, this would be a fulfilament of a dream and would prove nobody could hold a candle to your ability to fix things. Yours, Bertie xxx