Today the weather is very temperate.

It is self restrained and composed like the pheasants and stags I am on holiday with. They are truly good people. Adjectives like level-headed, reasonable, stable, warm, agreeable, discreet, modest and disciplined come to mind. They are admirable people, and I am fortunate to be spending time with them.

Particularly, with my friend Nicky Barber, my first friend in England. She embodies these attributes in spade loads. As a result, the Kangaroo is influenced for the better.

Yesterday, Geoff and I went off on a driving tour. I usually get fed up with being in the car. I like to be active, bouncing around here and there and causing havoc. However, the calming effect of my holiday guests has tamed me, temporarily. I feel like I am living in a Jane Austen novel at the moment.

We drove to see two garden attractions, which were similar, but very different. One was brand spanking new, and the other was traditional and old.

The first was Daylesford Organic Farm. It is owned by the hugely wealthy Bamford family, the B in the JCB digger empire. As such, the farm shop, cafe and shopping area are surrounded by modern topiary works-of-art. There is nothing sloppy about this place. It is immaculate and sleek – very Notting Hill.

Then we drove to Hidcote Manor Garden near Chipping Camden. It is a roomed garden made circa 1905. Hedges and topiary ‘walls’ eclipse what is around the corner. You are kept in suspense and then the vista, in all its floral splendour, is revealed. Ta-da, you are impressed.

After we left Barrington and Sarah Burles in Entrecasteaux, Provence, in the early 90s, Geoff and I detoured to Monaco. I adore Princess Caroline of Monaco, and I wanted to be in close proximity to her. I adored her late mother even more, Princess Grace. What poise and elegance! The trip was a must for me.

But the next stop was the Loire Valley, home to the grand mansions and ornate gardens of the French nobility – such as Chenonceau, Villandry and Chambord. The area is reminiscent of the Cotswolds – I connect them in my mind. Its the warm stone and topiary that does it.

However, when we arrived in Tour in the middle of the Loire region, late at night, we discovered, to our horror, that there was a conference in town. There was no room in the inn. Everything was booked. All that was left was a choice between a ludicrously overpriced hotel or a room above the local bistro.

Geoff thought that we should be sensible and stay in the room above the bistro. I threw my toys out of the pram. I wanted to be indulged and spoilt. I threatened to go home. He said that I didn’t have any francs. I waved my credit card at him in response. These were the passionate rows of our early marriage. In the end we made up and went for a nice meal.

The next day we were walking around a chateau and I saw, to my horror, Ghislaine’s brother and his wife across the way. I had puffy eyes from our argument the night before. Of course, he saw me as I ducked behind a pillar. And he came over and outed me. “Why are you hiding?” I told him the truth, and he has teased me ever since.

After Hidcote yesterday, we went looking for lovely houses in small hamlets like Evenlode on the way home. We were not disappointed. We found plenty of exquisite architecture. Wow!

Today, we have are having a BBQ. It will feel a little like Oz.

I dreamt last night of the Aussie sea. I was swimming in pounding surf. Even though I was under the frothy water, and the waves were crashing overhead, I could hear the sea gulls above. Sailing in the air. Making music.

When I woke up, I remembered that I was in the Cotswolds in Gloucestershire. Landlocked. Even so, when I looked out of the window, the gentle sunlight of the English morning greeted me with a polite hello. Blue sky with fluffikin clouds. English countryside is subtle – not too much brashness. It’s not pushy.

Yesterday I popped into Chipping Norton to look at the antique centres and pick up some supplies. No one queue barges in the Cotswolds. They politely wait their turn. Nice manners. They patiently wait for you to reverse park if they are behind you in the traffic.

The gentleness of the English countryside is soothing on the soul. It stills your heart. By comparison the Aussie summer at its height is relentless, intense with searing heat and blinding light. It is tiring and makes you restless. You are relieved to be at the beach when temperatures soar.

 

Yesterday, our house party played a lot of tennis, walked in the countryside and later all met up for a delicious afternoon tea of home cooked cakes. Chat was muted, friendly and respectful. There isn’t a lot of teasing, the Aussie style of taking the mickey.

But if you are a kangaroo like me, you occasionally want to shout out and kick your heels. Yell. Scream. Let off steam. Break into a disco move.

You can do that in the surf, but not on an English country holiday with a gaggle of pheasants and stags. If you did, however, let loose, dance a little jig in the middle of a tennis game, the pheasants and stags would just turn to the person next to them and excuse you, saying, “She’s not really crazy. She’s acting like that because she Australian.”

How I let off steam in polite English company is to tell funny stories and make them laugh. It is quite an effort sometimes to weave a yarn, but it is worth it to make them burst out laughing.

Today we are visiting Hidcote Manor with Hugo.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Today the weather is tepid again; weak-tea weather. It leaves you longing for something with a little more intensity. At least it is dry.

Yesterday we drove to Corn Close Cottage, the little house we rented near Moreton in Marsh sixteen years ago. Is nostalgia stronger than reality? Do we freeze-frame happy memories so that over time they increase in potency? Or are some memories so sweet that you bottle them exactly as they were?

Whenever I think of our year at the cottage in Aston Magna my brain whirrs into a haze of sentimentality. When we rented the cottage the children, Anna and Hugo, were six and four years. I was in my late thirties. Life was very sweet indeed. It was a year of the seasons: planting, growing, maturing and harvesting of the crops; followed by a snowy winter where we were landlocked for a few days; to spring full of new life: foals, lambs and calves…snow drops, frost, daffodils and crocuses and then the full symphony of summer again. These stages can be partially eclipsed in a metropolis.

Geoff and I made our way through Moreton in Marsh and turned left off the main road to the back roads to the cottage. So familiar, like an old cashmere jumper. We turned away from Batsford Stud, at the rear of the former Mitford (Nancy Mitford wrote many of my favourite Sloane novels) estate. A horse was in the field with its gangly foal. New life! Stunning views unfolded to the right of the tapestry landscape. We were then on the lane to the cottage. There were ripe wheat fields right up to the road. A farmer was poised to harvest. And then we saw the cottage. My eyes flooded with tears. Here it was – our little slice of heaven.

There was a pretty mother in the garden holding a golden haired little girl. Three handsome small boys were playing with lego at a wooden picnic table. We boldly introduced ourselves, and to our delight “Maria” showed us around the cottage. Lovely additions had been made, and they had increased the garden by buying a slice of the neighbouring field. Maria swooned about how happy they had been there. History repeating itself.

Today, we will walk and drink up the beauty here.

The Cotswolds, today, is a little cooler than Hampshire.

Yesterday, we travelled along the M40 to Chipping Norton, where we are holidaying.

It was the same route we travelled many times in our year of renting Corn Close Cottage in Aston Magna, near Moreton in Marsh, 16 years ago. You turn off at junction 9 and wind through pretty golden/honeyed stone villages. The window frames are often painted a cool lichen or grey, which offsets the warmth of the stone. There is the odd grand house in each town. And the intermittent stone gate or lodge suggests a large country house at the end of a treelined drive.

The countryside is a neat patchwork quilt of green and golden fields. Harvest is taking place right now. We passed fields of golden round wheat bales.

We met up with Barrington and Sarah Burles on arrival, and caught up over a cuppa. Many years ago, they invited us to stay with them at a pretty honey coloured farm house near Entrecasteaux, in the Var region of Provence, in southern France. Barry had holidayed with the British owners as a teenager. And, as a newlywed, he had been lent the house with his beautiful wife, Sarah.

We had a wonderful week eating at local brasseries and soaking up the translucent light of the region, the same light that inspired Cezanne and Van Gogh.

There was a basic local restaurant  run by two handsome French brothers, that Barry had formed a friendship during his first visit. We often ate the simple food there, drinking the local vino. It felt exotic and foreign. The evenings were balmy and hot. It was my first overseas summer holiday, following our honeymoon in Italy.

In truth, I was a little intimidated by the sophistication of it all. I had no mastery of French. “Please” and “thank you”, with an Aussie accent, was the sum of it. Geoff studied French at Uni, so he was able to show off his perfect accent. I tried to take a crash course in French before the trip, but Geoff’s verdict was that I was “linguistically dyslexic.” A sore point even to this day. I have never let him forget his lack of encouragement.

Entracasteaux’s architecture was reminiscent, in my mind, of the Cotswolds’ architecture that I later discovered, but with a French twist. The same warm, golden stone, was utilised. The 16th century castle, which dominated the town up on the hill, gave the town a noble feel.

There is a local manor in the Cotswolds, Chastleton, which is in the middle of nowhere. It is a one of England’s finest Jacobean houses, completed in 1602. It is clearly British, but again the same golden stone.

 

I love that warm stone. It reminds me of sunshine in a cool climate.

Today, we are going to drive to Corn Close Cottage and take a trip down memory lane.

 

I am not as melancholy as I have recently been, as I awoke, this August Monday morning, to a stinking hot summer’s day at the Old Rectory. Geoff could be seen shirtless watering the hydrangeas and roses – at 7am – unheard of.

The weekend was consistently hot and sunny. I swam lengths. I sat in the sun, in a swimsuit. It was bliss. The Kangaroo could relax. The weather certainly put a bounce back in my step.

On Friday I headed to the Petworth estate to take Domino for a decent run around the lake there. The park has the largest herd of deer in England. Petworth is due east of the Old Rectory along the A272 from Petersfield, just beyond Midhurst, where the polo is played at Cowdray Park. You glimpse the South Downs on the right all the way. It is a stunning, scenic drive.

Petworth is a seventeenth century, stately home (completed 1688), once for the sole use of noble families. It is now run by the National Trust, with visitors traipsing through many of its ornate rooms. We took the children there on the way home from a 40th birthday party in West Wittering, on the south coast, eight years ago, so Anna was 14 or thereabouts.

There is one room which has numerous, ancient scenes of the Battle of Waterloo. The descendants of the household fought beside Duke of Wellington to defeat Napoleon at that battle in Belgium, so the room was a tribute to those efforts. There was a guide present to answer questions, and Anna intelligently and knowledgeably engaged him in the history of the period. It would be the subject she later studied at Cambridge, history. He was clearly impressed.

Visiting National Trust properties around Britain is like taking a hot bath. The quiet respect shown by visitors on tours of the house is reassuring. The tea, cakes and scones provided in the tea rooms are invariably delicious and always the same. The people who eat them, often older people midweek, are dressed in neat and tidy apparel on the whole. Chinos and checked shirts for men. Often same for the women. The waterproof resting on the chair behind in case of a shower. Good sensible shoes to walk in the house, but also in the grounds, which set off the house to perfection. There is a timelessness about such visits. The world may be imploding. But these houses are testament to something solid and good.

I am sitting in one of the two reception rooms at the Old Rectory, once the abode of clergymen. The previous owner told me that Queen Mary, grandmother to the Queen, used to come and admire the dolls’ house that was stationed in this room. The house was used for Sunday school. Bottles of milk were delivered to the larder at the rear at the for the youngsters. There are lovely old servants bells in some of the rooms. Sadly the days of staff  are long gone. Geoff and I are the servants. Still, there is a history to this house.

 

There was a history to Stone House in Seal, Kent, the former rectory that Geoff was raised in. Clergy, were seen to be part of the gentry, not nobility, like the inhabitants of Petworth.

Many suburban Aussie homes don’t have that same sense of the past.

Yesterday, Geoff dropped Domino off further on from Petworth at the Whippet Hotel near Gatwick. I missed him dreadfully over night. He is the first dog I have had since my last dog Ben as a teenager.

We are off to the Cotswolds to have a week with a number of friends, including Nicky and John Barber and Barrington and Sarah Burles – and their offspring. Hugo is with us. Anna is still in Columbia. We will be a stone’s throw from Blenheim Palace, and not far from the little cottage we rented near Moreton in Marsh, many moons ago.

 

The weather today is sunny, but not very warm.

I have always found August a melancholy month in England. The fresh limey-green of the spring is long gone, and the flowers are on the turn, past their very best. Even the weeds are giving up the ghost and dying down.

You are acutely aware that, very soon, Autumn will be upon us. The leaves will then shed, and the cold will appear. One savours every last drop of sunshine at this time of year.

This was not the case when we visited Bermuda in August, 2002. It was humid and extremely hot. It was vibrant and not in decline, like the British summer. A lot of the islanders depart for less sweaty climes. It didn’t matter at all to us, as we were in the water most of the time.

One of the most surreal experiences of my life time, was a visit to the former home of Robert Stigwood, the big music producer in Bermuda. He produced, amongst many other films, Grease (with my favourite Olivia Newton John) and Saturday Night Fever, the disco film. Apparently, the Bee Gees sketched the hits in the film, starring John Travolta, whilst visiting Stigwood in Bermuda. Stigwood instructed them to get to it, and they did. Stayin Alive was born.

Like me, Stigwood was an Aussie who lived in exile, in Britain, but also Bermuda – a tax haven. When he made megabucks with these hits, he bought and restored an incredible Georgian house in Sandy’s parish, Wreck House. It had a topaz bay to the left before you reached the house on the headland. You can find it on the internet.

By a random chance of fate, I went for the day to swim in the bay. A friend was doing some work for the new owner, Bruce Gordon. She thought that Niki and my children would have fun.

We settled on our sun loungers, and finally the family joined us. We had a long swim as it was too hot to do much more. At lunchtime golf carts brought down pizzas.

Geoff settled out in the shallows with Bruce, an Aussie, would you believe it. They had a long chin wag. He later told me that Bruce owned WIN television. This is the very same regional broadcaster based in the Illawarra, Australia, where the Potts family are settled. What a coincidence. He even owned the Scarborough pub up the road, perched on a cliff high above a fantastic beach, Coalcliff. It was our favourite place to swim one Easter holiday, as there were high winds, and it is sheltered.

Every time I drive past the pub or see the WIN logo flashing up for the 6pm news, I think of our swim at Bruce Gordon’s in Bermuda, an Aussie billionaire.

Today is better weather. But not an inch on a hot summer’s day in Australia. Tepid again. Like weak tea.

Yesterday, I headed to the outdoor pool at the Hurlingham Club, Fulham, for a swim. I was  feeling like a fish out of water. Or even a duck out of water. I needed to be near some water. And to be submerged. The mermaid was feeling landlocked.

It wasn’t that warm I noticed as I laid my towel down on the sun lounger. As I was reading, I heard a “Quack, quack, quack.” One of the pretty ducks from the lake at the club was lost in the pool enclosure. He kept up a racket for a long time. And then I looked up from my book to see him, as if it was his domain, venture into the pool amongst the pheasants and stags.

He confidently glided off the edge and floated amongst the pheasants and stags. He even managed to get into the swimming lane, reserved for those intent on doing crawl up and down the roped off area. And then he popped up at the other end and waddled away. He just shook the water off and didn’t look back. If only I could do that.

It was a metaphor for me. I may look like I belong. But I am really a duck-like creature, amongst the Brits. A kangaroo, trying not to jump above the crowd. But I always do.

I am very proud of my contribution to the outdoor pool construction. I was on the Swimming Pool Committee, with Louise Corrie, when it was being built. I do not normally make a fuss. I like to be liked and to like. I do not like confrontations. But when they were fitting out the pool, they wanted to put a huge flower bed at the sun bathing end.

I protested loudly, reasoning that parents would not be able to see their children as they swam. My main objection was that it would look hideous. And kids would put their hands in and chuck the dirt everywhere. My objections were noted. So I enjoyed an uninterrupted view of the wonderful pool. I won the battle. Some battles are worth fighting. Most are not.

I sort of enjoyed my time by the water’s edge yesterday afternoon. But it was slightly cool. And when the sun went behind the wool-like clouds, it was frankly chilly.

The truth is, I have had the odd mishap in perfect aquatic scenarios. In two out of three perfect climes, Hayman Island in the Great Barrier Reef and Bermuda, it was bordering on disastrous in the glamour stakes.

In Hayman Island, I was recovering from an operation. I was run down. Whilst on the island I developed a large boil on my chin. It started as a spot, but before long it was Vesuvius. I went to the hotel doctor. He prescribed antibiotics, but he said that if worse came to worse, I would need to have it cut open. Thank God it subsided. Geoff joked when we were off to dinner, “Shall the three of us get going?” Ha, ha, ha.

In Bermuda, I was bitten by a mosquito on my neck. On the eventing news they informed islanders that a very deadly strain of mosquito had ventured onto Bermuda. And to be vigilant. Especially if you were near the lighthouse. Like in an Alfred Hitchcock film, I looked out of the window, and, immediately, saw – the lighthouse. That mosquito bite turned into a mountain. I tried to cover it with my hair. I tried lotions and potions. It was not to be conquered. But I did not perish. But it was sore, ouch sore.

So although I have loved a few exotic locations in my time – foremost, Hayman Island, (Australia), Bermuda and Heron Island (Australia) – they have not exactly loved me.

I will tell you about Heron Island, a David Attenborough favourite, another time.

Today, I am off back to the country.

 

 

 

 

Today has started off with a promise of warmer weather later I live in hope.

Yesterday, I headed up to the Hurlingham Club in London, a stone’s throw from where we  live, to book a tennis court for Geoff and Hugo for tonight.

There was a contingent of Americans, with introductory letters from their clubs in America, at the tennis pavilion, signing in to play. They looked like fish out of water. They were limbering up, with lunges and squats. I have never seen a pheasant or stag put themselves through similar paces to get ready for a match.

The Hurlingham Club has reciprocal arrangements with clubs all over the world. We have used the arrangements several times. The best arrangement was with the Coral Beach Club in Bermuda. Niki asked us to Bermuda in 2001 and, again, in 2002, the year of my fortieth birthday.

Bermuda is paradise on Earth. Anna keeps on sending us photos of stunning beaches in Columbia, where she is holidaying, but, as beautiful as they are, they are not a patch on Bermudan beaches, with pink sand (crushed coral from the reef surrounding the island) and turquoise water.

We house-sat for some friends of Niki’s mother and her husband, the Mayor of Bermuda. This entailed looking after a part Doberman. He fell in love with me at first sight and tried to climb into bed every night. Geoff had to take him for a long walk each day. We were near the lighthouse. I clearly remember looking out of the window and seeing this dog drag Geoff, at speed, up the steep steps to the road. Geoff was almost airborne.

We spent time with Niki’s family at their enchanting pink house in Somerset. All Bermudan houses have stepped white roofs, to collect rainwater. The house was perched on a promontory, with coral adorning its craggy waterline. They also had a pontoon perched in the bay to the right of the house. This meant hours of fun in the water. When we were not submerged looking at the kaliedoscope beneath, we were drinking tea and eating banana bread, a staple food. Or playing with their dogs, Hector the Great Dane and Oscar the Terrier.

Occasionally, we headed out on the boat to secluded bays. We snorkelled and ate watermelon in the sea, the salt making it more delicious. The Mayor taught Hugo how to swim. He just threw him in my direction and barked, “Swim!” Hugo obeyed.

 

Alternatively, we were at the Coral Beach Club, enjoying the amenities. We caught the bus there, as it is almost impossible to hire a car. The clubhouse was perched high above the beach, with stunning views out to sea. A decent swim away was the reef. There was  complimentary snorkelling kit if you felt like venturing out. Once I swam to the edge on my own, and the seemingly perilous sea was laid out before me. Deep, deep, fathomless depths.

At 4pm on the dot, tea was served in the pretty, colonial looking drawing room, with a beachy palate. And it was free.

The Duke and Duchess of Kent were guests – the patrons of the club that hosts Wimbledon. They were staying in one of the cottages. I observed that they never muttered a word to each other. Even at lunch, they ate their meal in silence. They swam separately. They were in their own worlds. I have no idea how the dynamics of that relationship worked without language. How can you relate if you don’t converse, ever? Still waters run deep?

Today, I am going to go for a swim at the outdoor pool at the Hurlingham Club. I helped choose the materials for it. And I prevented, in my opinion, a major eyesore.

 

 

 

Oh dear, back to a rainy British summer. But there is a promise of sunshine tomorrow.

Yesterday, the rain teemed down from the heavens. I had paperwork to process, bills, that is what I mean, but I found out that Jane Austen’s last abode was ten minutes away in Hampshire. Strewth, I thought, the greatest female writer of all time, as far as I am concerned, lived a stone’s throw away from the Old Rectory. So I chucked Domino in the car, and off we went to find Jane. Forget the paperwork.

I am not going to regurgitate information that I researched after my visit. I am going to tell you how it really was, as I found it.

Well the weather when I arrived was foul. I was wearing a waterproof. Very unattractive. My hair was damp and dishevelled. Very unattractive. I was wearing flip flops. Very unattractive. I don’t think that Jane would have cared in the least. She was a flipping feminist after all.

I saw her abode across the street from my car. No major carpark and officials managing me to park miles away – like some National Trust properties. I just parked my car on a street nearby, and walked over to her house, which from the outside looked pretty and substantial.

But inside it was very insubstantial. Downstairs, three very basic rooms. Upstairs the same. Out the back, a cookhouse. It was a facade to grandeur, but the inside was modest.

A guide told me that her father was a clergyman. No doubt they didn’t have a lot of cash. A local, childless, gentry family liked the look of them and adopted Jane’s brother Edward, and he became an aristocrat overnight. Like winning the lottery. He took possession of the manor down the road, Chawton Manor.

Jane and Mum and sister lived down the road in a modest dwelling, the cottage which I walked around in three minutes tops. Not a lot to admire. Not like the manor down the road that her brother was given by the Knights that adopted him.

And let’s consider Jane, living there in the last quarter of her life (she died at 41) writing masterpieces in modesty. No wonder she came up with so many stories about women being subordinate to men in practicality,  not of course in reality. Women are, of course, the equal to men. And they have babies. Without women, the human race is extinct. Well without men, the same is true. The truth is they are completely equal.

Murray won Wimbledon for the second time this year. Poor lad, I think he cried because he proved that it wasn’t a fluke. Theresa May is now our second female Prime Minister. She is also not a fluke, but a godsend. Thankfully she didn’t cry. Because she would have been ridiculed. But if she cried, who cares. Both men and women cry. David Cameron almost lost it when he was leaving No. 10. I don’t get the stereotypes. Who is best for the job? That is what matters.

I am worried though, about Jane. Why am I worried. Because, although she was the greatest female novelist that I know of, she was poor. She initially wrote, so the guide told me, under the name of ‘The Lady’. She relied on her ‘lottery’ brother’s good fortune when he was adopted. Thank God he was really. Or Jane would have been destitute possibly.

I am glad that so many lovely films have been made based on her novels. And dear Colin Firth, his career may not have flourished as it has, if he had not emerged from the pond in Pride and Prejudice – where his shirt clung to his chest – the wet t-shirt look.

The nation swooned. But this time it was a man, in a period drama!!!

Today, I think that the weather is rubbish again for the whole day. I hope that this is not the case. But I can’t complain, because every time that Jane had to walk to her lottery brother’s house, she didn’t have Crocs, plastic shoes, but satin shoes that got wrecked. Thank God for progress and non organic shoes, i.e., polymers.

Last Friday, I spent the day chained to the stove. 21 of Geoff’s family were coming for Saturday, as my nephew-in-law was playing at the neighbouring cricket club.

On Saturday morning, I sent Geoff off to Waitrose in Petersfield for some forgotten ingredients. We adore the programme Two Greedy Italians, with Antonio Carluccio. He has many Italian restaurants around Britain, including South Kensington and Cambridge, which we’ve happily eaten at many times. He was in front of Geoff in the checkout queue. Of course, I would have said something to him. Had a good look at what he was buying. Geoff just smiled. Dad looks a lot like Carluccio, which is maybe why I love watching the programme. He has the same mischievous grin and leathery face.

When Geoff and I were first married, it was a novelty to cook and prepare for a dinner party. To set the table, adorn it with flowers and change into something pretty. I loved the occasion of it all. And the formality.

Ghislaine, the Honourable, sorted me out with my first cook book shortly after I was married, and I also added Delia Smith’s bible to my repertoire. I still it use now: especially for scones.

It was hard to switch to British ingredients, as the brands were completely different to those sold by Coles and Woolworths, the Aussie supermarkets of the time. Sainburys, Tescos and Waitrose were new territories to conquer. It took time. The Kangaroo found it all bewildering and foreign! In the first week off the plane, I ventured to Army and Navy in Victoria and ordered two steaks. It cost £30. I was appalled, but I was too embarrassed to reject it. Meat was, by comparison, very expensive in the UK.

I cracked a few recipes, which I wheeled out time and time again: crab and camembert mini quiches, baked asparagus and chicken, lamb in redcurrant sauce, beef wellington, pavlova (an Aussie staple), a cooked cheesecake, a hazelnut and cherry torte …

My sister in law, Wendy, adores to cook. She loves every inch of the process – apart from the cleanup. But then who likes that part! We were often in Oz over Christmas, near Hugo’s birthday, or Easter, Geoff and Mum’s birthday. Wendy, of course, made these occasions magical and delicious. She has great artistic flair, so the food and decorations always looked gorgeous.

My father, Stan the Man, also adored cooking, and they shared that bond until he died. Her requested addition to the eulogy I delivered at his funeral, was to remark on the fresh delicacies he brought her on almost a daily basis: vine ripened tomatoes and ham off the bone. Not the pale toms or the processed ham, all with water added.

 

As Dad repeatedly advised the family, “If the ingredients aren’t up to scratch, then the food will be shocking.” Dad’s views on ingredients has proven a saving grace in my culinary efforts. Tough meat, inedible meal. Unripe fruit, inedible. Past the use by date veg, inedible. Dad taught me how to smell, assess and choose fresh produce wisely. And to detect if water has been added. If the orange skin is bright orange, but spongy, then it will be pumped with water. Better leather like and taut. If the rock melon (our word for the orange melon) is still hard at the tip, then it is still unripe.

Dad managed to cook a large dinner party for my 21st. Clear beef consomme broth, veal layered in mozzarella and tomato, followed by baked cheesecake. All with Aussie sparkling wine. Inspirational really, given that he worked by the sweat of his brow during the week. But on weekends he cooked delicious meals and looked after his delicate orchids, usually with a beer perched nearby. He would spray them with a fine mist of water. He was a paradox in that respect. A bloke’s bloke, but with feminine traits. But to look at you would never have guessed that side of him.