No Trace Remains

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Some years ago my best friend and I walked sections of the Pembrokeshire Coastal Path and very lovely it was.

She was map-reader in chief and my role was to enliven our walk with snippets from a guide book.

‘As you rise steeply from the beach you will be passing the site of XX Castle – of which no trace remains,’

Now, there were a lot of similar sentences in that book and whilst I am prepared to believe that there were a lot of castles on the coast of Wales, for so many to have left so few traces is rather suspicious.

It is not as if the stone has been used for local dwellings which is often the case with under-used castles, because the local dwellings are usually pebble-dashed bungalows and I for one, am not convinced they have a strong layer of castle stone underneath all those pebbles.

Anyway, I was reminded of this ‘no trace remains’ phrase when we were recently in Stratford-Upon Avon, home of the bard.

Of course there are loads of references to Shakespeare – every second shop is Shakespeare’s bakery or bookshop or something- but not much of a real trace remains.

Yes I know,there is the house where he was born with several engaging guides dressed in appropriate costumes who can point to gloves like those which Shakespeare senior might have made in this workshop and painted wall-hangings like those his mum might have brought as part of her dowry.

And there is a child’s sized bed which pulls out from under the adults’ and its base is a criss-cross of rope with a device to pull the strings taught – from which comes the phrase ‘sleep tight.’ Which is interesting but no one has the faintest idea if Shakespeare slept on something similar.

And then there is the place where the house he once owned stood – now it is a garden, unimpressive very small museum, and of course, expensive gift shop.

But all in all, not much of a trace remains.

Which, of course, is not putting off the millions of tourists which go there to see the merest sniff of a trace magnified into various ‘attractions.’

We stayed in the White Swan which was all very nice and old and cosy etc etc. (As far as I am aware it has no real connection whatsoever with Shakespeare.)

Above the mantlepiece there was a quote written in suitably Olde Englishe script and it said, ‘I would give all my fame for a pot of ale and safety. Henry Vactz. ‘

‘ Well,’ I said to my best beloved, ‘ At least half of that  quote worked. I have never heard of him. Looks like he might have been Czech though.’

‘What?’ he said, ‘ That’s Henry V Act 3.’

The Archers & Game of Thrones

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I am probably not the only middle-aged woman in Deepest Sussex who is a very keen consumer of The Archers and Game of Thrones, probably…

An Oxfam colleague and I came across a whole heap of the George R R Martin books in the bottom of a box and, rather to my surprise, he said/admitted he and his wife were addicted to both the books and the television series.

He encouraged me to take the first in the series and said he was sure I would be a happy reader. Yes, dear reader, I was.

I am not about to go into a critical analysis of the books but suffice it to say there is a lot of historical allusions and I rather like that in my fantasy book, between lots of gory violence and no mean amount of sex.

The best beloved thought about buying me the box set of the first series but then realised he could get it all from LoveFilm.

Now we spend many a happy evening ploughing through them and I have learned to stop saying,’Oh but it’s not like that in the book. They …..’ It doesn’t go down all that well.

(After long and stressful days, we have been known to resort to an episode or two of Doc Martin but we try not to admit that in public.

But now we salivate over the nest series of Game of Thrones. I do realise they are different genres and Martin Clunes might find himself adrift in Westeros.)

Game of Thrones allusions have been making their way into our conversations.

Up on the Malvern Hills the other day we were pretty sure that the wildings would be living on the Herefordshire side and our friend with the small holding near Bromyard should be on the lookout.

I do realise this won’t mean much to anyone who has never bothered with the series so instead of amusing you with even more conversational allusions, I will desist.

Except to say that a regular comment on any aspect of the news these days is ‘Winter is Coming!’

The Archers of course are one long box set, running year after year, after year after year stretching back in my case to my early twenties. (At least now I am in the proper, ageing, Radio 4 demographic.)

I find it mildly amusing to know that I share a hairdresser with Shula, who lives nearby shacked up with Brian. I know, I know, you didn’t think that was happening did you…

The best beloved has worked rather hard to tune out of The Archers for all the years I have known him but of course, even he, did get into the Helen and Rob story line.

It is surprising who you meet who are Archers fans – the most unlikely of people sometimes, and of course it is part of the fabric of Radio 4 – and I am an unashamed wall-to-wall Radio 4 listener.

Way back, on Radio 4 I first heard The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and raved about it to my fellow students – as you can imagine a Radio 4 listening, bread baking, dog owning, mostly non-drinking student as I was, was viewed as odd but then as I had found the only centrally-heated flat for miles around, I was indulged.

I like Desert Island Discs, I love I Am Sorry I haven’t a Clue and am even willing to tolerate Money Box and Poetry Please. The trouble is that Radio 4 does a lot of repeats then a weekly round up of the best of the output so you can hear the same thing quite a lot of times.

(In a spirit of full confession and in the sure knowledge not many people will read this, I have to admit that I am not a huge fan of the Shipping Forecast.

I’d like to be, and I understand why people do like it but for me, I am happy when it is over and The World Service kicks in and I can hear about revolutionary sheep farming in Nigeria or whatever.)

But then you do hear stuff on Radio 4 that is quite marvellous. Just last week, for example, there was the story of two people who had both been wrongfully jailed for many years – him in Northern Ireland and her in America. They had met at an Amnesty International Conference and ended up together.

They bought a place in the quiet countryside and set up a refuge, half-way house whatever you might call it, for other people who got out after years of being locked up for something they never did.

Listening to them and the people they had helped was just fascinating.

So, though I realise Radio 4 is made for me – lefty, liberal, middle-aged and thus it feeds my own world view, I am not giving up and challenging myself to anything new – except of course another episode of Game of Thrones which is not really my world.

Honesty Bars

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It may of course be because this is the beginning of dry January, but I’ve been thinking about honesty bars I have known.

There was the one at the Solar Do Castelo which, just in case you don’t know, is a lovely boutique hotel built into the castle walls in Lisbon.

When my best beloved was a man who was collected from the airport and driven with blue flashing lights and motorbike outriders, we stayed there as guests of the Portuguese government.

He was assigned a bodyguard which impressed me no end. The man was rather small, no taller than me, but no doubt he could have killed with his bare hands.

One of the many charming features of the hotel – apart from the tinkling fountain, peacocks, gorgeous room, great view and, of course, the honesty bar – was the fact that it was inaccessible by car.

You had to walk about 100 metres up a cobbled lane and into the nicely lit courtyard and entrance.

When we had done the official dinner, and the official fado ‘session’ which had most of the other guests wiping a tear from their eyes, we at last, got to go back to the hotel.

Getting out of the official car at the foot of the cobbled lane, I said to the bodyguard that it was late and we didn’t need him any more ( not that we really needed him at all – Lisbon not being all that threatening) and he smartly replied that he was not on duty to protect me so basically I could do what I liked, but he was seeing the BB to the door.

On a trip to Yorkshire, my BB went with my brother in law to see Featherstone Rovers in action. Being brought up in the south, with a firm grinding/grounding in rugby union, this was an eye opener all round.

( If not for the delightful nature of Yorkshire men, he could probably have done with a bodyguard more then, speaking as he was with a posh southern English voice, than he ever needed in Lisbon.

That night, by way of contrast, we went to stay at The Star at Harome.

It is a Michelin starred pub that, over the lane, has a converted barn with bedrooms, and accepts dogs, and it had an honesty bar. What’s not to like?

(We ate in the restaurant and, I would like to point out dear reader, that this is not usual. We don’t do this very often. Before. At all.

And, all round, should have eaten in the friendly and a lot less posh, bar.)

Anyway, then we and the dog, adjourned to the circular sitting room in the barn where they had left a fire lit, an honesty bar – did I mention that before? – and a load of games and books.

We three were the only guests.

So, we played a long series of backgammon games and were scrupulous in writing down what we drank. Honestly.

The dog was rubbish at backgammon.

But, the honesty bar I remember most fondly was in a bed and breakfast outside Nottingham.

It is rather a long story, so feel free to skip yet more honesty.

This was a time when I worked for a trade union and part of my patch was the East Midlands.

Most meetings, for obvious reasons, were held in the evening so there was always a search for somewhere nice to stay.

( I got fed up with hotels and hotel bars and hotel food and always tried to find somewhere more interesting/devoid of lecherous men.)

I found this place in a book called Off the Beaten Track – and it was indeed.

It was a former vicarage inherited by an woman who was an artist and general eccentric and she was happy to have me arrive at 10 at night, save me some soup and bread and a good glass of wine, and we would chat.

Given that it was near Nottingham, there used to be people who were working at Boots headquarters for stints, or there for meetings or whatever, and some became regulars like me – but they tended to arrive at usual hours, so I rarely met them – but every now and then I made it at civilised hour.

There were also one-off visitors too, there for weddings, on trips, etc etc and, on the rare occasions when I arrived at a civilised hour, I was enrolled as host.

She didn’t believe in small tables for two or four so everyone ate at one table – all very Wagamama now, but in those days it was nothing if not revolutionary.

And, if I was there or one of the other regulars, we were expected to make conversation and generally ensure, the rather surprised, other guests had a good evening.

The honesty bar was in the kitchen and it was a perk of being a regular. Quite often we would bring bottles and add them to the stash and anyway, generally no one could ever find the honesty note pad so it all kind of equalled out in the end.

The owner and I am ashamed to say, I have forgotten her name, took honesty to greater lengths than most B&Bs.

Once when I went there and said when I needed to come next, she airily told me that she had been invited for a few weeks to the South of France but she didn’t want to let her regulars down.

The key, she explained, would be under the geranium pot, there would be food in the freezer and the regulars could come and go as they liked and oh yes, she said, if you find the notepad, let me know what you owe.

Yes, dear reader, we regulars did.

The Past Returning

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My life seems to have a habit of throwing up things from the past at the moment.

We have a new volunteer at Oxfam who works full time so can only do Saturdays. I  take my hat off to her for wanting to volunteer for half of her weekend.

She has moved to the area and wants to find ways to integrate and luckily for us, she has chosen the bookshop.

She works for the Environment Agency and many, many years ago, I did too, though it was so long ago that is was then the National Rivers Authority.

I moved to Yorkshire to take up the job and learned the geography of the area via its rivers – a nice way to learn anywhere.

I loved that job – one of the best times at work and yes I can bore for England with stories of the droughts, floods, a bitter lemon spillage from the Schweppes factory which killed a lot of fish in the River Aire and more.

An aside: my best friend was once at a dinner party with people we had known years before and there was some catching up to do. She was asked what I was doing and she said I was working for the NRA. They looked rather shocked and someone said they had no idea I had taken my politics that far. They thought she had said I was working for the IRA.

Anyway, the new volunteer and I can chat happily about pollution incidents we have known as we cull the craft shelves or re-arrange the history books.

(And, before I go on, I will give you a quick Oxfam update: in the week up to Christmas Eve we took more than £3,500 which is by way of a bit of a record for us.

So thank you to all those people who bought armfuls of books and especially to the two lads who were bribed into buying the joke toupee I found in the bottom of a donation and agreed to take it off our hands in return for some home-made mince pies.)

So, change of subject, my sister invited my Best Beloved to speak at a course she runs called Crucible.

I invented that course more than a decade ago.

My involvement eventually stopped but the course kept going and through a long a circuitous route my sister got involved in running it.

And the venue for this running of the course was the same hotel I used to stay in as part of the NRA’s management team planning meetings.

It seemed strange that I was at home with the dog, doing Oxfam stuff whilst they had time with exceptionally interesting young scientists.

Did I feel left out, slightly resentful that I wasn’t involved, pleased that my invention had such a long and successful life, happy that my BB did a good ‘turn’ and enjoyed his time with them, wistful for my productive working life, cross with myself for not doing more with my life, wondering if I could do something like that again….

All those things.

I guess that is what happens when your past arrives in your present, looking so much more glamorous than your life today.

Winter Lunch

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I may have mentioned before, dear reader, that we have an annual winter lunch to which we invite a crowd of friends.

We have been doing this in various locations for many years now and it is now, unsurprisingly, considered a tradition.

The first year we did it in Deepest Sussex we were in a tiny rented cottage so borrowed a barn and told everyone to wear very warm clothes – it worked in a kind of ‘we’re all in this together and really have to make the best of it’ way.

The first year we did it in this part of Deepest Sussex, I had sent the email invitation out on one email address but (stupidly, it must be noted,) checked for replies on my other email address.

Thinking no one who I had not invited personally and who had said yes, was coming, I panicked and invited anyone I could think of at the last minute – some that morning.

I was therefore surprised when all those other people turned up and though in the habit of catering enough to feed a small and hungry African nation, I did set about adding anything I could find in the pantry which didn’t need major cooking, to the table.

We haven’t got a big house and so now – with more friends – we rely on good weather (yes, it is in December) to allow hardy souls to eat at the garden table.

A very nice farmer friend, who likes sitting down with his food on a table in front of him, with cutlery, and none of this standing up and chasing stuff around his plate with a fork, leads the way – I rely on him quite a lot.

Last year, I may have mentioned this before, I got a bit stressed because a well-known chef said he was coming, at the last minute.

My best-beloved is not a man who delights in holding such events and was not used not me getting my knickers in quite such a twist.

 So, this year, I planned an easy menu, the chef couldn’t come, and I assured the best beloved when he asked, that no, of course I had not invited too many people.

Twenty, he reckons, is the ideal.

I had checked my emails and what seemed like lots of people had said they were busy and so, I thought, it will be fine – a more ‘intimate’ gathering of about 20.

 Then I totted up the replies properly and, of course dear reader, there were more than 30.

I have to tell you, I quite like cooking before I go on to tell you that making pastry and filling for pies to satisfy more than 30 people is not really an issue if you plan ahead.

And I did. But the rolling out and baking blind and etc etc does take a toll on a girl.

 (Can I bore you with the whole menu?

Various canapés – including the surprise best-seller which was red lentils cooked to a pate/paste with garlic and cumin in a little crispy cup thing bought from Waitress, with a dollop of mango chutney on the top.

 Cheese and leek pies – did I mention the pastry issue?  And there was a lot left over so I sent people home with doggy bags of pie.

Artichoke, sundried tomatoes with preserved lemons and garlic

Sausages with sage – no, of course I didn’t make them

Roasted new potatoes

Rosewater cream pudding – from one of my favourite old cooks books, a Balkan recipe should you be in the slightest intrigued

A delicious sticky toffee pudding with sauce – made by a good friend

Various sweet things I had bought from Lidl.)

 In the pub tonight, someone who had been at the lunch suggested that instead of making such a fuss about the pastry making, I should buy some puff pastry and use that.

 It was a generous thing to say, but it misses the point.

 Darling, I cried in my best Sussex Housewife voice (no, I didn’t really) I can’t make the same food next year ( I did say that though.)

No one would mind she said.

 But she’s wrong.

Firstly, I would be horrified at the thought of the same food year on year but secondly, I am asked by several regulars what the menu is this year – I know that sounds so pretentious but if you can’t be pretentious in your own blog, where can you be?

I have a sneaking admiration for the simplicity of the Jeffrey Archer cottage pie and champagne take on his annual event – the only possible sneaking admiration I can have for him as it certainly does not extend to his books.

But just think, dear reader, of all that potato mashing….

So, this is a bit of an aide memoire for next year:

No homemade pastry, don’t panic about any visiting chefs, create a large pot of something delicious and pray for good weather.

 

 

 

 

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Christmas Eve Parties

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You know when you mishear something?

Well, I was at my upholstery class and we were chatting in a Sussex Housewife sort of a way when I mentioned that I was thinking of having a poker party on Christmas Eve.

Someone said, ‘Blimey that’s rather retro and risqué ‘

‘Not unless it is the strip version,’ I said.

‘Well, there’s not much to strip,’ she said.

‘What?’ I said.

‘You’d just unwind it,’ she said.

‘Unwind what?’ I said.

‘Well the sheet, the tablecloth, whatever,’ she said.

‘What??’ I said.

‘The toga,’ she said.

Now I had not thought about a toga party for a long time – and it did bring back a range of memories…..

Two days later, I was in a charity shop as is my wont, and I was looking for a pair of curtains (unsuccessfully as it turns out, but charity shopping is always a lottery.)

Another woman was also rootling around looking at a large white sheet/tablecloth/duvet cover and we got chatting.

‘I’m going to a toga party,’ she said.

‘Really?’ I said.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘ We do it every Christmas Eve.’

Blue Trousers

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‘By the way, it’s a black tie event,’ said my best beloved as he headed off to somewhere in Bulgaria leaving me with a very busy week – and nothing appropriate to wear.

I had just sold on eBay the only dress I had which could have passed muster at a black tie event and now had three days before the event and really no time to go shopping.

As you may recall, dear reader, I am a dedicated charity shopper and the thought of paying money for a posh new frock I would not have just cause to wear for the next ten years, seemed just silly.

But one of the first rules of charity shopping is that you cannot go looking for something specific, in your size, in your style, and available on that day – it just doesn’t work like that.

But, optimist that I am, I thought I would find something.

As I mentioned, I did not have a lot of time – book sorting, dog walking, refugee good cause meetings etc etc take up time, even for a Sussex Housewife.

So, I raced around the charity shops of Petersfield and took stock, as it were.

That looked nice, but not on me. That was nice too, but sadly wouldn’t go over my shoulders or pulled the other way, past my bum. That was a nice colour, but that was all that was nice about it. That looked like something my gran would have thought nice. And so on.

In the end I went back to my wardrobe and rootled out a rather lovely garment that I had worn for a friend’s wedding evening do.

It is a bright green turquoise with yellow embroidery – bear with me, dear reader, it is striking, but not garish. It is long and has what we used to call, in my youth, a Mandarin collar – do they still call it that?

Anyway, it is long with buttons from throat to nearly the floor but it also had slits up the side from nearly the floor to nearly the hips. I am not Elizabeth Hurley.

On the previous occasion, I had worn it with jeans and rather liked that jeans-with-posh look but even I know that jeans at a black tie occasion at an Oxford College celebrating its bicentennial was probably a step too outrageous for me to carry off.

Never mind, I thought, as a speed-dash around the charity shops again failed to provide me with navy skinny trousers, we can get to Oxford in good time and I will find something there.

I guess you have an inkling where this is heading.

I could not find navy skinny trousers in Oxford for love nor money.

Well actually, in panic, I did find them, for (a lot of) money.

Suffice it to say, L K Bennett, not even in a sale.

And they are glorified leggings.

( Very, very good leggings and a delight to wear but even so, dear god, what a price shock to the person not used to paying more than £5.50 for a good-label item.

I am now wearing them at every possible opportunity. There’s that thing that if you wear them more often then each wear has cost you less, and eventually they feel like a bargain – I am not, dear reader, at that stage yet.)

That night, I put them on and my striking Mandarin collared ‘dress’ and went down to the pre-dinner drinks.

I did a head count to find fewer than ten other women in the room and not one was wearing anything different than you would wear to an office meeting with your immediate boss. I have dresses like that!

Was I gutted? well yes and no. I did feel the best dressed woman there – and though was wearing bloody expensive posh leggings I needn’t have bought, I also had a very stylish charity shop find on too  – and I will bet no one else in that room could have said that.

Leviticus and Box Sets

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French telly is a lot of men in black polo-necked sweaters either in films where they smoke Gitanes and then strip off to ‘delight’ young women, or they keep their sweaters on in news programmes to talk ‘meaningfully’ about the issues of the day.

Or at least that was my experience, and what is more, they spoke so fast my fledgling French understanding couldn’t keep up.

So, there was the time when I thought someone was complaining about almond croissants and was infact talking about feeding growth hormones to cattle – hormone de croissance.

So, instead of French tv, we watched box sets on our very small television.

( The television was bought some years before in Brussels as a stop gap until we got something bigger which we never got round to buying. And, when the remote got lost in the move and I thought it was a chance to buy something just a little bit bigger, the Best Beloved sent to North Korea or somewhere nearby, to get a replacement – and it turned up….)

There were two stand-out favourites: The West Wing and The Wire.

( The Wire, in case you don’t know was the parallel lives of drugs dealers and the police and we spent quite a lot of time leaning forward and saying to each other, ‘What did he say?’ After all, a very small television with poor sound does not help with black Baltimore ‘patois’ for two middle aged white people.

The drug dealer did a qualification in business and the police went out and got drunk – but of courser, dear reader there is much more to it than than that and I highly recommend you find yourself some wet-winter-time to settle down and watch it.)

Friends of ours in similar situations used to ration themselves to one episode a night – or in some puritanical households, to one a week.

But the BB and I are greedy and used to egg each other one for ‘just another.’

We watched The West Wing – all through, all seven series, several times.

Good Lord, I wish Jed Bartlett was the current president of the US and Josh and Toby were in charge and C.J was handling the press corps, but we have what we have.

There is one scene when Jed who, in case you don’t know is the President, is doing a press conference and one journalist doesn’t stand when he walks into the room because she is against his liberal policy on gay rights.

Here it is: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1T9vmN62wf8

After that, dear reader, you shouldn’t be back here reading this, you should be out buying the brilliant West Wing box set.

(And in case you want more ammunition here are some others you can use http://www.tickld.com/x/the-next-time-someone-uses-the-bible-to-say-homosexuality-is-a-sin)

 

 

 

Cockroaches and Balls

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The other day seemed to be one of those when the strangest donations come to light in the Oxfam bookshop.

A lot of our donations are repetitive and can I say, just sometimes a little boring, but now and then you find something interesting and odd in many senses of the word.

I am sure there is a book about any and every subject out there somewhere and many seem to find a (hopefully, temporary) home in Deepest Sussex.

Before now, I have found a book on making your own horse-riding equipment and one on how to chop and stack wood the Norwegian way.

So, the other day I found a coffee table book on Anatolian Vernacular Architecture. Not a usual find and one that is, perhaps surprisingly, worth a bit and now is listed, should your heart be beating a little faster, on Oxfam Online.

And then I came across a collection of old Spurs books. I am not a football fan but I was rather taken with the delightful History of Tottenham Hotspur FC 1882 – 1946. Spurs was referred to as the Hotspur Athletic Club – how charming is that?

And then, my cup runneth over when I found this:

img_3081

 

Now isn’t that splendid?

And if that wasn’t enough, I found this book which was the answer any anyone’s Christmas book present dilemma. It is the book, I thought, that anyone would want in their stocking. This is it:

img_3083

I tweeted to that effect and it got a few likes and re-tweeted gently around the Oxfam network, and it made me laugh.

Low and behold, I was at home this afternoon when my Oxfam manager rang me and said, ‘I’ve had someone on the phone – something about social media and cockroaches – is that anything to do with you? ‘

Someone wanted the buy the book! So over the phone, I directed my manager to various alternative possible places where I could have  stashed it.

( You should go behind the scenes at an Oxfam bookshop one day to understand that things are run on stashes, piles, boxes, shelves, bags and things stuffed into all sorts of places.

Every now and then I get round to sorting out an area and find all sorts – the skeleton of a forgotten volunteer, for example.)

Anyway, he found it, we put the price up a bit, and I wait to hear who bought it. If I’d been there with the customer I would have asked for the whole story about who was going to be so delighted on Christmas Day but I guess, I will never know.

 

 

 

Friends and Acquaintances

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There should be a word for the people who fall between friends and acquaintances.

I was talking about this with my hairdresser the other day, and she is a case in point.

I have known her for about six years and she has helped me collect necklaces for the village festivities stall, she has helped recruit Oxfam volunteers from the bored women whose hair she cuts.

(She tells me that she hears lots of stories, confidences and has people telling her stuff they would never tell their friends and she is not their friend.)

Her mum and I dog walk, I know her sister who now and then gives me a pedicure and her other sister who helped the best beloved recuperate from a back operation.

But we never see each other socially.

My fellow Oxfam volunteers are another case in point.

With one or two exceptions, I never see them outside work but I know how their weeks pan out, I know the names of their grandchildren and share recipes, their daughter’s triumph of design for a national trust Christmas extravaganza, cover on the days they want to go up to London to see a show or to Portsmouth for Christmas shopping.

And, the friend/acquaintance thing is a spectrum.

There are those people with whom you share all and everything – well not everything, as sex between consenting adults over a certain age should never be discussed in my view, and neither should be the frequency you check for unwanted facial hair, but you get the general idea.

There are people in your life who you don’t see very often but when you do, it is as if you are just picking up where you left off.

I schlepped over to Lewes this week ( and though in the same county, Lewes is a bit of a schlepp from here) to have lunch with someone who started off as an employee and morphed into a good friend.

We haven’t seen each other for three years ( this was news to me who would have said I saw her a few months ago, but memory works like that ) and it was, as I say, as if we’d seen each other last week.

There are friends who you have known for years and somehow come in and out of each other’s lives and there are a considerable number of those who I currently feel bad about not seeing.

(When I was in Brussels and Paris, I used to make the effort to arrange lunches in London and invite my friends so that I would have chance to keep up with them – sometimes there were three of us who could make it and sometimes there were 15.

Since I have been in Deepest Sussex, I have let that habit lapse and I am ashamed of that.)

At the other end of the spectrum there are people who are barely acquaintances.

Usually I know them from the Oxfam shop and we have a chat when they come in – they are regulars.

I don’t know any of their names.

There is the couple who come in every Friday morning and he looks for books on something he is currently learning – electronics, physics, maths etc and his wife, who I also know because she volunteers for cancer research, looks half-heartedly through the embroidery books.

When I bump into them in town, we always stop and have a chat about the weather or whatnot.

Then there is another customer who comes in looking for all sorts of interesting stuff and I know he goes to the city sometimes in the week. But now, apparently he is going to give it all up for a life in the church.

There is the now retired woman who worked in Waitrose and always talked to my visiting niece and asked when she was visiting what we were going to cook.

There are the women who work in the Boots pharmacy who help me sort out the medicines I collect for a volunteer who has been ‘off work’ for months.

But they are definitely acquaintances or even less than acquaintances – and there is no word for that.

But back to the main issue – what do you call someone who falls between the two stools of friend and acquaintance?

We, as I have mentioned before, have a lunch every now and then called a Lizzie Lunch.

It is because some of those of us who knew and loved her, need to seize the day and not let the business of life stop us getting together – as I failed to do with Lizzie.

There are a couple of women who come who were definitely in Lizzie’s friends category but I don’t know them that well – what would I call them, a friend or acquaintance?

There are people I have done intensive summer schools with over the years but never see in between and if the summer schools no longer happen, will probably never see again – apart from on Facebook.

There are the BB’s old friends from university who I see every now and then but they are not in most cases, my friends.

There are people who I see quite often because I am involved in the Rural Refugee Network and so are they, and we sort out fundraising events and will do the kiss, kiss thing when we meet but I don’t really know them.

The list could go on forever.

So, if anyone knows what you call people who have ( and here comes the I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue purple-prose metaphor) slid down the hillside of aquaintanceship and are languishing in the un-named valley, never to climb up the hill of friendship, please let me know.