A tale of three toasters

For about ten years we have shared various abodes with a 1960s Japanese toaster that I acquired from Le Bon Coin - incredibly useful recycling site from which we buy just about everything other than food. 

The toaster has recently become a little surreal in its toasting, carbonising the odd corner, small bits of metal becoming loose; generally a geriatric toaster but still doing its job. I like the simplicity of it - the clicky clockwork wheel which counts down the toasting time, its smart chrome and teal blue livery, solid; and it's called Tornado. Interesting. Not sure if the 60s Japanese design team/marketing outfit thought it through very thoroughly, Sunrise, perhaps, or Summer Breeze Rippled Corn Field - bit clunky, but something evoking bread, breakfast, etc. Or maybe in Japan toast is only eaten in fear as severe weather conditions loom.

For some reason it was agreed in our household that perhaps it was time to update the bread grilling experience, and maybe buy A New Toaster! What?? NEW? Maybe it was the fact that we had actually acquired a new electric kettle a few months back after genning up on the most fuel efficient ones, the gas stove and old stainless steel kettle situation not being ideal . . .

I relegated - a tad tearfully - the old toaster to the dump pile, and Mark enthusiastically unwrapped and installed the new 'vintage' Russell Hobbs, cream and chrome (plastic) interloper. We tested it over a couple of breakfasts all arriving to the same conclusion: it warmed the bread efficiently, but actual toasting . . . nope. Even on the max setting. Maybe it was faulty; the one that had escaped the no-doubt rigorous testing stages in whatever Chinese factory it had been expelled from. Mark repackaged it and off it went to hopefully not join instant landfill via Uncle Amazon. We perused other models after not finding anything suitably 'vintage' on the bon coin other than SMEG which hold their scary price very well on the second hand market. 

The second cream and chrome toaster arrived - a little more like a 50s car, rounded, more knobs, dials and even a little red light to indicate ON. But, the same issue: light warming of the bread, nothing more. Ezra pointed out that the electric elements are spaced much further apart than those of the Tornado. To accommodate fatter slices of bread, or perhaps the machines are calibrated to white flabby bread only, not home made rustic slabs; or maybe it's some paranoid decree over heat levels to stop people burning toast, setting fire to themselves, the house or neighbourhood.

The new model was re-packed and sent back, and the Tornado reinstalled after a major clean of its real metal and chrome.

The Tornado

I've noted recently the rise of 'repair cafés'. What a great idea. I'd love to know that I could actually extend the life of one of our mouldering household appliances when their time would normally be deemed to be up.

                                                     Think I'd rather like this fancy 20s one...

London wanderings, Number . . . I've forgotten.

There have been many recorded on this blog, and here's one from this June. At the end of a round UK trip of a couple of weeks visiting lovely friends and family I rounded it off with a three night stop in my home city, and the best B and B I can honestly remember - an elegant semi in south London stuffed with art, lovely objects, incredible garden, and run by marvellous hosts.

I'm currently working on paintings based on sketches in London - mainly from train windows, and so now how have a good stock built up, mainly from around Greenwich, east London and Highgate - the areas I was doing most of my wanderings, as ever exploring and marvelling over how many undiscovered-by-me places this fascinating city holds even after living there for years, and all the trips since. 

                                    Wig world and carpet corner - new to me bits of South and North London

Lewisham

Greenwich - somewhat different skyline from when I last visited about 30 years ago

Finds from Thames mud near London Bridge

Any problem solved . . . including removal of evil spirits

I would have brought one back . . . just a tad too heavy

but can wear tuxedos?

A very scary clothes shop somewhere on the Strand - I think

The Golden Hind - near Borough Market

 

I enjoyed a gawp-trip into Selfridges

The stupidest bag - ever (reduced to 690 quid )

The ugliest and most expensive training shoe (s) - presume you get two for over 1,000 pounds

The most ludicrous food product - the smallest gold tin of caviar, 900 quid

The most bemused people - other than me - a group of Tibetan monks who had been 'let out' for a day, according their diminutive female minder, from somewhere in Woking - not an average Best Western I imagine

People who should be celebrated nationally

I'll do a long post on Jean-Paul one day soon but I just loved this photo of him washing his just-picked fennel. He's our local producer of beautiful organic vegetables, largely unsupported by the government, and surrounded by industrial farming which benefits in all ways from being supported by said government.

He works tirelessly, never takes a holiday - difficult when he's the one overseeing his non-intensive, biodiverse, and lovingly cared-for vegetable enterprise. Often when I go to get our veg it's an interesting process of having to find him, and if he's not ready due to sorting his market supplies, he'll suggest I pull my own carrots, cut lettuce etc. And I do with pleasure; there's not many things more satisfying than arriving home two minutes later with a bunch of sandy carrots, huge cabbage, coriander, potatoes et all, and then constructing a supper around his wonderful produce.

Our non-environmentally aware 'governors' need to wake up and realise the value of small farm producers like Jean-Paul, rather than blindly supporting the massive firms like the one next to us who turn the soil into sand; and now, (thanks to the government relaxing the laws on glyphosate), sand laced with dying pesticide-coated crops that have been part abandoned after whichever supermarket's quota has been filled.

I will rant further soon on this subject but here's a photo of our hedge compared to the 'soil' on the other side of it.

Painting revisited

Recently, two visitors kindly remarked on a few of my languishing works of art dotted around the house; kindly, and with genuine interest on subject. technique etc. I felt the faint awakening of interest in paint applied to canvass - or rather wood in my case. I had partly stopped painting as writing had taken over, but also as I felt unsettled about using so much plastic - in the form of acrylic - the paint, plastic tubes et al. I'd vaguely thought about using earth, naturally made colour - onion skin, beetroot etc but writing was my key interest leaving little other time for paint experimentation. I've kept sketching, mainly when in cities - especially London, so have a good backlog of stuff to work from. 

So, thought I'd leap in between narrating the Londonia audiobook (nearly finished...) and running our B and B. This time I'm using only old board - mainly abandoned pictures found in our local recycling place, and 'second hand' paint - from online old stuff selling sites, or paint donated to said recycling place; stuff that would end up dried out and heading towards landfill. My pictures might too one day but I'd like to have a chance at selling a few. It's all tied in with the Londonia project so who knows . . . audiobook, art expo, film deal . . . :0)

  work in progress - train window London sketch

London sketch from 2011

From a sketch done in 2023 - Muswell Hill (Mossy Well)

Further, further proof that we are seriously not aware of how stupid we are - as a race.

On strolling around our local pet store place recently - in order to buy two goldfish to keep the mozzies down in our pond - I was struck with the fact that 'anima-fishing' appeared to be selling small feline IRM scan machines. On closer inspection the large, white plastic donut affair was in fact a rotating, self-cleaning cat litter tray. I stared for quite a long time, first at the price - a snip sale price of 370 euros rather than 419; then at the sheer ugliness and cumbersome-ness of the thing. 

I am a dog person: dogs' expressions, dogs' delight at your return home, the walking; the general all round feeling that you are all part of a pack. Cats . . . many people love them and find them to be wonderful companions. Our various cats in the past were mainly bird destroyers, rather than rodent destroyers; aloof, observing us as food providers and not much more. There were moments of great joy but on the whole our cat-enthusiasm wained, mainly from the point that we found 'Bronzino' our old bruiser marmalade cat had decided a great New Year's present would be a crap IN our bed . . .

pampered but useful greyhound on her favourite sofa...

So, I can speak with experience on the non-joys of cat litter trays. But then, it's no great deal . . . small plastic spade, take out the wee-clumps and poo, into a bag, into the rubbish or cat poo recycling box if you live in a particularly organised area ( don't think this exists - yet). Or you can get one with a top so the cat can crap in privacy, and or the smell is reduced.  Or don't have a cat. Or have one if you have a garden - then there's the treading in the particularly stenchy cat-effluent, and the bird-depletion problem. Yep. Goldfish or dog. Sorry, you millions of cat-adorers.

Back to the IRM machine. Why would anyone want to spend 400 euros on a bulbous piece of future landfill? I can imagine the average life of one of these things would be similar to the always-soon-to-be-extinct home printer. Then to fix it? Ha-ha. Ever heard of Built In Obsolescence? I had Quick Look online and there are many different shapes of future land-fill cat toilets. Surely the plastic consumed would be better used for actual IRM machines? We seriously need to Wake UP.

Dog walk story.

A cautionary dog walk story inspired by a podcast I heard this morning. 

 Six minutes 

© Kate A Hardy 2024

The military aide paced the few feet from his room to the president's, legs jittery, and an overwhelming urge to piss crowding out his terrifyingly black thoughts. He knocked; no reply, just the faint murmur of voices. Sweaty hand gripping the door handle he entered the shadowy room illuminated by flickering forms on the enormous flat screen TV. For a brief moment the reason why he stood in this room shrank away as he observed Charles Ingalls standing next to his wooden prairie house grasping a long, rectangular Amazon package. Then the enormity of this current moment in time screeched back to him like feedback. He approached the bed.

"Mr President, Sir . . .  Sir?" He stepped closer and observed the slumbering figure lying amongst rumpled satin sheets, the curious coppery hair wisped across baggy face-skin. A spent MacDonald's box rose and fell with the president's breathing, a few chips splaying onto his chest. "SIR! You must wake up NOW!"

The form stirred, a line of spittle staining the satin fabric as the face left the pillow. "Whaat?" 

As the aide searched for the million-times-rehearsed-words a scream threatened to escape. "Sir - there's been a launch!"

"Of whaat? My new yacht?  . . . is it OK?

"A nuclear attack, Sir. I have the football - you have to act now!"

The president shuffled up against the velour headrest with some difficulty, and scrabbled around in his bedding. "Where's the fucking remote - gotta turn that down . . . and get me some couwfee."

"There isn't time, Sir. We have . . ." the aide glanced fearfully at his watch -"Six minutes."

The president whacked away a piece of burger bun adhered to his temple. "I said, get couwfy - can't think about anything till I get my first cup."

The aide feverishly searched out a number on his phone and waited, sweat dribbling into his eyes.  . . "Mallory - get coffee up here in ten seconds!"

The president seemed transfixed by the flat screen images. "Seen this, Paul?'

"It's Martin, and no, Sir."

"S'great! AI mashup of Little House on the Prairie and Horny Redhead's Gang-bang Fiesta."

The aide turned his fevered gaze to the screen as Charles Ingalls drew a long pink plastic phallus from its Amazon casing. "No-no-no . . ." this must not be the last thing he saw before his eyeballs melted. A rapping on the door interrupted his manic search for the remote amongst pizza boxes and tissues.

Mallory walked in with a cafetière on a tray, and placed it onto the night table, eyes averted from the rumpled president. His arm appeared in a practised way; an index finger and thumb tweaked her arse.

"Sir! Please!"

He sniggered. Then his expression clouded. "Hey, what's this shiiet - I said Starbucks!"

Mallory stepped back, noting the aide's fearful air. She harsh-whispered. "What's happening?"

The aide gulped in air. Nuclear strike - real . . . Mr President . . . I must tell you that we now have only three minutes!"

Mallory felt her bowels contract. "Aren't we supposed to lie down . . . eat plain yogurt, or something?"

" . . . I don't know . . . maybe." He placed the case on the bed and tapped the president on the arm. "Sir, we really have no time - for coffee, or anything."

The president groped a hand towards the cafetière. Martin felt his arm rise. He smashed the tray to the floor. The action appeared to wake the president.

"Really - they sending nukes? . . . Who?"

"We don't know, Sir. It's a submarine strike. It is your decision. Yours alone on our retaliation. We have two minutes."

" . . . Okay. Where are my glasses? Holy Fuck . . . where? . . . ah - here. Shit there's mayo . . ."

The aide grabbed the glasses, wiped them on the gold satin sheet and shoved them on the president's nose. They ran through the procedure.

The president peered at the menu.  " . . . Shall I just do eeny-meeny? or just blow all the fuckers away?"

The aide suddenly stood up. It was happening. Nothing could stop it. The president's burger-greasy fingers had ordered destruction - after a last second query about golf courses. The aide traversed the carpet and drew back the heavy curtains revealing a blue sky day. Not a cloud. Although there soon would be. 

Mallory sobbed quietly. Charles ingalls whispered obscenities about his amazon purchase. The president shouted into his non-cooperating phone.

The aide looked out at the trees. 

He didn't know the name of the trees, or the birds hopping about in their branches unaware of their coming extinction. He wished he had pursued the dream that his daughter had mentioned; that he had laughed at. A small wooden house, near a lake, far from everything. Her dear face swam before him. He slipped his phone from his pocket and dialled her number. 

The podcast: Youtube: Diary of a CEO, episode: Annie Jacobsen, nuclear War expert talks about her discoveries, her predictions, and her books. Fascinating, and worrying....

Beaux jours

The lovely days. 

It's worth all the cutting back, mowing, strimming, and all the other months of garden taming (attempted) to enjoy the first days of mid spring/early summer? - very advanced this year after loads of rain, periods of full on heat and very little frost. The roses are spectacular as is all other blossom; and as the 'normal' Saint Glace period (a few days around the 15th May) seems to be rainy rather than icy, we should have mountains of peaches.

We also had super helpful people staying in the form of nephew and partner who built a small greenhouse/lean-to with found windows and stone blocks, plus mowing and weeding, The Son planted early veg plants and I, fuelled with such help - what a difference team work makes! - got a load of other overdue outside jobs done.

A few pictures of the garden in its manic glory before everything heat-shrivels in real summer.