Winter is almost upon us. I shut the greenhouse and conservatory last night for the first time this autumn, just to be on the safe side, and although we didn't have a frost the temperature by late morning hadn't risen above 4 degrees, according to the car thermometer. It doesn't really agree with any of us. The black cat has become very cautious about how he jumps on to chairs, and I think his leg is giving him grief, while the arthritis in the Systems Administrator's fingers has come up in lumps. I have a constant sense of pressure in my ears, and the right one periodically makes a rustling noise as though somebody were scrunching cellophane next to it. It has gone through peculiar phases before and tends to pop when rain's in the offing, though not in the shower for some reason, so unless it does something more exciting than pop and rustle occasionally there's no point in going to the doctor. I asked the SA if it were worth going to the doctor about the arthritis, but the SA said not.
It rained in the morning, so I didn't feel that I was missing out on gardening as I cleaned the kitchen. Even if it hadn't been raining I wouldn't have fancied taking my lurking cold and dodgy ear outside into the raw air. We have friends coming to the supper, which was the immediate catalyst to set me cleaning the kitchen, but it needed doing anyway. The SA lit a fire, partly to have something to sit in front of, and partly to start warming the room up ready for this evening. The Galilean thermometer on the mantelpiece read eighteen degrees, which is a shade chilly even for guests who know that our house is cold in winter and come dressed accordingly. At lunchtime the sun helpfully came out. Thermal gain can add a couple of degrees to the sitting room, which has huge south and west facing windows, if the sun shines at mid-day and for the first part of the afternoon.
Lunch was rather late because the kitchen floor was drying. After lunch the SA began the vacuuming, and discovered that the vacuum cleaner was not working properly. I gathered that something was wrong, as I trotted about tidying various bits of clutter away, because instead of the constant sound of the engine whirring, there were spasmodic bursts of noise interposed with the sight of the SA bent over the opened-out bowels of the machine, poking at it. At quarter to four the SA announced that it was broken, and we needed to buy a new one. I said that there was not time to go and get a vacuum cleaner now, not when the SA was supposed to be cooking roast pork this evening, and didn't we have an old one in the workshop that we could use for this evening, otherwise I had better find a dustpan and brush and a damp cloth. The SA suddenly remembered that we had a second hand Dyson, a present from friends who found it unsuitable because it was so powerful that it sucked their carpets up. It took some time with the pressure jet blowing workshop dust out of the Dyson, but the noises now from the hall are promising.
My share of the preparations for this evening's entertainment is comparatively light, because one of our guests doesn't eat puddings at all, so by long custom we just have cheese. We all like cheese, and it's nice to have room for some, rather than squeezing a tiny piece down because your host is urging you to eat, when you have honestly had enough food already. The normal split of duties is that the SA cooks the main course, and I do the pudding, being quite good at cakes and pastry, and not awfully good at meat cookery, whereas the SA is a whizz at roasts and stews. So unless the emergency Dyson packs up I've done my bit, though I might peel the carrots and make the apple sauce to show willing. It sounds good so far.
Addendum Every so often I sigh with impatience about the folly of young people fixated with the latest in designer trainers, then I remember that I am just as bad, except that the object of my devotion is retro rubber soled canvas shoes, not the hulking great modern ones. This summer I acquired a pair of genuine Plimsolls, which according to the Toast catalogue were made on 1950s machinery with the original moulds, as designed to produce training shoes for the Red Army, giving each shoe a unique and irregular appearance compared to modern brands. They are black with white laces, and the first time I wore them to a Pilates lesson, my teacher looked at them sharply and asked Are those Converse? I am not utterly convinced by Toast's account of their provenance, in that the term 'plimsoll' for canvas shoes seems to go back further than that, but they are certainly very retro.
They replaced a truly ancient pair of navy Supergas, bought well over a decade ago when the Boden catalogue briefly sold branded trainers. I then read in the Evening Standard that Superga were the canvas shoe of choice for younger members of the Royal Family. I went on wearing mine until holes in the soles began picking up gravel. Now I have seen in the fashion pages of the Telegraph that British singer Rita Ora (have truthfully never heard of her) is to replace Alexa Chung as the face of Italian trainer brand Superga after two years, during which the style maven allowed the shoes to enjoy resurgence in popularity, and they have since become the rubber soled sneakers to be seen in (sic). Even I have heard of Alexa Chung, though I had no idea that she was associated with Superga, but I don't see why a shoe brand needs to be associated with a face.
The Plimsolls are not as comfortable as the Superga were, so when I next need some new canvas trainers, in another ten years or so, I might return to my original brand. The Supergas were lovely, and outlived cheap imitations from Lands' End by years. I know exactly when my enthusiasm for canvas shoes began. It was in 1978, when I bought Parallel Lines. Forget Debbie Harry's white dress, though I admire her deeply as an artist, what I coveted was the red sneakers the boys in the band were wearing. I never got any, but fear that I am too old for red Converse high tops now.
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