More lovely spring weather.

Had a lovely catchup with The Hon. (she has mega aristocratic credentials) at Gails in Fulham. Gails is one of those new fad “good for you” establishments, serving, e.g., spiralised courgette (zucchini) or quinoa – both wheat substitutes. Everything is whole grain and low sugar. Even so, The Hon. ordered bacon and eggs on sourdough. The upper classes love nursery food, the sort that was served and eaten in the presence of a nanny, whilst the parents were elsewhere preparing for drinks and dinner with staff (think Downton). Comfort food-cottage pie, shepherd’s pie, fish pie, chicken pie (there is a pie theme here), boiled eggs and soldiers, sausages, macaroni cheese, apple crumble and custard. The best description of nursery food is fictionalised in the Cazelet Chronicles, by Elizabeth Jane Howard or Nancy Mitford’s novels. All are like having a soothing warm bath.

We had a lovely supper at the Hurlingham Club with Mr and Mrs Jetset, who live in Chelsea and gad around the world when they can. They have a thirst for travel, seeing and experiencing new places, new people, new vistas. And escaping the cold winters. Stan, my Dad, would have loved Mr Jetset, because of his engineering capabilities. Stan was a genius in that department. And he would have loved Mrs Jetset as she is so glamorous, like The Duchess, my Mum, Bev.

Bev could always wear a good frock and she was a legend at sewing. She could have made Kate Middleton’s wedding dress. She made stunning outfits for me as a kid. People would stop me on the street and say, “Strewth, your mother’s beaut at sewing.” The material of my blouse would line my culottes (skirts that are really shorts). The trim of my neckline would adorn my waistline. Bev loved people complementing her about her creations. She should have been Coco Chanel. 

Stan was a DIY superhero. When I was a toddler he read a book and built a Venetian style speed boat, christened Sandy, in my honour. He built billy carts and tree houses for my brother Shaun and me. Stan was always building something in the garage. His main achievement was kitting out the interior of my grandparents’ holiday house, The Weekender, which was near The Entrance, north of Sydney. 

The Weekender was where I spent a lot of my childhood and teens, weekends and school holidays. It was where the tribe met, Stan’s tribe. The Weekender was made of fibro, a bit like rock solid cardboard. It had two bedrooms, one for my grandparents and in the other were bunk beds for the women. The men slept with the children on mattresses on the lounge room floor. Before bedtime, windows were shut and the place was fumigated with Aeroguard, which was surely toxic, to kill mossies (mosquitoes). 

There was a carport where meals were eaten and the tribe hung out, playing cards, chatting, trying to keep cool in the hot summer months. Stan was in charge of barbequing, always with a tinnie (can) of cold lager in his left hand, while he usually overcooked the meat. Stan was fond of charcoaled meat. Stan was also in charge of activities, which meant going to the beach, prawning in the estuary or fishing on the lake. When we had cabin fever, he would march us out to the car and take us down to the beach. Or get us up at the crack of dawn to fish. Or swing lanterns in pee warm estuary water and wait for the prawns to run – head out of the estuary to the sea – catching them in drag nets.  If you are looking for a fictionalised description of this life by the sea, read the greatest Australian novelist, in my view, Tim Winton.

The Weekender was the poetry of my youth. It was wild and free. I ran around barefoot like a kangaroo and swam like a dolphin. My grandfather, also Stan, Stan Senior, taught me to swim in the sea pool. He would chuck me in near the edge and I would swim a few strokes and then go back and hold the edge, repeat the same. One day he chucked me out much further from the edge, saying, “Go on love, swim…” And suddenly I could dog-paddle, then crawl and once I started, I never stopped. I would spend all day swimming, hair bleached white. In and out of the pool, diving, bombing, holding my breath, floating head down until my lungs almost burst, floating upwards looking at the sky.

Stan, my Dad, taught me how to swim in the surf, so that the waves didn’t pulverise me. He would take my hand and we would dive under the breaking wave to the sea bed where it was calm and wait for the crashing roller to pass overhead. Eventually I let go of his hand. Eventually I went out on my own. Until the day he died, if I was at the beach with Stan, he watched me like a hawk to see if I was okay.

Today, back to Hampshire to the Old Rectory, as I have tennis training.