Marmite

To escape the 40-degree heat in southern France, Hubby and I took refuge in a medieval chateau that boasted a refreshing 32 degrees. It was nice enough in a National Trust kind of way, and the Gothic-style chapel hosted the usual multiple shrines of multiple saints venerated with multiple flickering candles in a Roman Catholic kind of way. Being the pseudo-Protestant girl that I am, and not to be outdone or intimidated by the Papists, I popped a two-euro coin into the box and lit a tall anorexic candle in memory of Mum and Dad, at the shrine of St George of course. No idea what he was doing in France, other than to undermine Europe, which is why he’s our patron saint, of course. Anyhoo, I placed my candle on the highest row between some older ones and, wherever I wandered in the chapel, Mum and Dad’s candle stood tallest and proudest of the lot. Yes I know that pride is one of the seven deadly sins, but I’m guilty of far worse, so let it go. I don’t light a candle for them in every chu

Barnsley. The final frontier. To boldly go where no man or woman has gone before and remained sober. I’ve been four times in the past seven weeks. Don’t judge me. I’ve rented a storage unit to store some stuff – cripes this is riveting – in a tatty warehouse on a tatty trading estate in a tatty part of town. It’s convenient and functional, so job done. Several times a day I’ve driven to the warehouse in my Honda Jazz – the little car that thinks it’s a large Tardis – unloaded the boot and trollied several packed boxes up the ramp, down the corridor and into the unit. Repeat X3 until car is empty. One day was different. When I opened the door to collect the trolley, I could hear the most beautiful organ music. Evocative. Soaring. Not a church organ but an Art Deco theatre organ. I could tell it was ‘live’ and not a recording by the timbre oozing through the buildings’ pores and massaging its sinews. Dad would have loved it. I welled up. Pulling myself together, I finished stacking the b

Apparently, (code for ‘I read it in the Daily Mail ’) Italian Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni is suing someone I’ve never heard of called Brian Molko, lead ‘singer’ (I use that term advisedly) with a band I’m equally clueless about called Placebo. His crime was referring in a public forum to Meloni as a “piece of s**t, fascist and racist”. He spoke in Italian so it probably sounded sexy. According to the Mail , under Italy's criminal code anyone who 'publicly defames the Republic' including the government, parliament, the courts and the army, could face a fine of up to €5,000 (£4,300). Sounds to me like a slam dunk and I’m rooting for her. Given that Meloni leads a party with neo-fascist roots and is considered to be an heir to Benito Mussolini, taking her side is rather dangerous, n’est-ce pas? Or should that be, non è questo? Hey. I frequently blog my admiration for Boris Johnson, profess the hots for Jacob Rees-Mogg, have a picture of Suella Braverman on my wall, am return

The rush to redesign communities as ‘Low Traffic Neighbourhoods’, and the recent pronouncements by Fishy Rishi against them, illustrates much of what is wrong with policymaking in Britain today. LTNs are residential areas that are re-purposed for residents and non-motorised forms of transport by installing some sort of roadblock at the entrances, huge planters are favoured, and maybe traffic calming. Automatic number-plate recognition cameras for enforcement can also be installed. Many LTNs were introduced from 2020, funded by tens of millions of pounds of government money given to local councils. Their intended outcomes are laudable: improve air quality, reduce greenhouse gas emissions and noise pollution, reduce accidents, encourage walking and cycling and reduce street crime, including muggings and sexual assaults. What's not to like?