Inside is what counts

Diafani diary 2. Other than the sea, the arid surrounding mountains and (by far the most important) the people, Diafani lacks facilities. It is definitely not a resort. Yet visitors return.

One welcome returner was Dr Ljiljana Blagojević, associate professor with Belgrade University’s architecture faculty, who lived in London for eight years. This year I asked her for examples of good modern architecture I might be familiar with.

Her first – and immediate – choice was the Festival Hall. What a pity RFH is so close to the ugly National Theatre, I said. Oh no, the NT is also well-designed.

Then I realised that unlike most architects Dr Blagojević was talking internals rather than externals and evoking Le Corbusier’s “machine for living” or its variant “machine for enjoying leisure activities”. This recalled my Wisteria Paradox - the disparity between time spent looking at and (we hope!) admiring the outside of our houses compared with the time spent using and appreciating their inner features.

A disparity born out of a visit to a friend’s 400-year-old Wiltshire cottage: beautiful to look at outside but a nightmare of electrical compromises from installing wiring systems on and around impenetrable walls a metre thick.

Our present house is ten years old and its appearance is functional (see inset). Yet it is the most comfortable and practical home we have occupied. It could look nicer but I feel sure we’d pay a price for this inside. Not something we’d willingly accept.

Nations united by footwear

Diafani diary 1. Technology at its lowest – and it failed. Carrying fins, mask and snorkel I saw the strap had broken on one of my flip-flops which I need to cross stony beaches. My feet, cossetted by a decade of wearing trainers, are now as soft as a baby’s bottom. No solution in Diafani: the general store sells bottles of Scotch, postcards and detergent.

Outside a bar six healthy young people were loading up two rental cars, suggesting they would shortly be off to some location with wider retail potential. At my wife’s suggestion I offered a proposition. If anyone was prepared to sell me flip-flops I would hand over sufficient cash to pay for the most luxurious replacement pair.

This generated much good humour. Broken straps on flip-flop are universal. One young women was wearing an odd pair, one – in pink, decorated with a plastic flower. Not my style but, as my grannie used to say, needs must when the devil drives. I was asked if I was in the habit of clothing myself this way. I said I depended heavily on the kindness of strangers and the allusion was picked up.

Finally Ronel Spies, key account manager with Mix Telematics Mobile Information Exchange of Stellenbosch, SA, (I have her card) kicked off her flips and handed them over. My cash was refused. The only payment was that I photograph the footwear in situ and post the result. Which I do (the new acquisition is on the left) grateful for her generosity and for ten minutes of lively, laughing conversation.

Note 1: The face apparently covered in cotton wool is mine. There is no way this post would be enhanced by the reality the bogus mask conceals.

Note 2. The monk seal (see August 31) did not materialise.

What would David Attenborough do?

Diafani is technology-poor; you have to take your own. These are some of the things that will shortly go into the suitcase.

When I chose the flippers, snorkel and mask some years ago, like most men I opted for subfusc colours. But the diving shop man recommended day-glo. Just in case things fell into the sea unattached.

One thing is missing and is problematic: a weapon. My normal swim is about a mile down the coast to a lonely inlet. I am told a monk seal now occupies a cave along the route. There is, my informant says, no record of monk seals attacking humans but I am urged to check with Gorgos, fount of all marine knowledge. Given its name I conclude the animal is at least celibate. I would prefer to go unarmed if possible.

The inflatable ring is from the Chad Valley “Giggle and Grow” system for users aged 2 – 6 years and was reduced to £1 in Woolies. It will be attached to my waist with 12 m of light nylon rope and will remind boat users that their engine propellors are harder than my flesh.

Bonelli eagles operate over Diafani, hence the binocs. The Creative Zen MP3 player carries over a thousand tracks varying in length from “Big Yellow Taxi” to the fourth movement of Bruckner’s Romantic symphony (22 min 54 sec). For re-reading I am taking a novel by a Frenchman famous for his long sentences and whose name I am becoming less and less inclined to flaunt.

Rawlplugs and curried eggs

While waiting for my wife to retire I did freelance journalism and cooked five Monday - Friday evening meals a week. But not the cooking Plutarch and Lucy regale their readers with. No touch-of-oregano moments. This was deterministic, alles im Ordnung cuisine run on DIY rules.

I created a repertoire: fourteen dishes in sequence so we ate each twice a month. For two years! Rule two: no deviation from the recipe. My wife made a casual suggestion for soup (two leeks, two carrots, two sticks of celery, stock from two Maggi Pot au Feu cubes, heated, blended) and that became the immutable – and only – prescription. A dangerous tactic since those stock cubes were only available in France at the time.

I ran into trouble. In converting a roux into white sauce I risked a nervous breakdown – every time. The possibility of lumps was the spectral equivalent of Original Sin. As a result my first four lasagnes were short of the interstitial white stuff. “Make more than you could ever imagine using,” I told myself even though it deviated from what was written.

The corned-beef hash called for allspice, a name that worried me. Was “all” everything or just one? An honour system required me to eschew curry powder and mix turmeric with all the rest. With widely varying results.

Just before my wife resumed her rightful position I added undesignated shrimps to the mashed potato of the fish pie. My only bid for improvisation. I am now retired twice over.

Patrons late in life

If assuming a mortgage is an intimation of mortality (see "Welcome to the fall-off rule"), paying a mortgage off is uncharted territory. In our case, it meant having the resources to buy original art. Beyond that is the even more esoteric experience of commissioning original art.

This ciment fondue piece represents two of our grandchildren twelve years ago and I apologise for the ropy photo. I tried hard with the Aldi cheapo and all were duds. I should have dusted off the Pentax and fiddled with the aperture/depth-of-field ratios. But blogging discourages patience.

However it’s the technological procedures I’m interested in. The children ran riot in the sculptor’s garden and a huge number of 35 mm shots were taken. Despite the mound of prints the final choice – this sinuously interwoven pose – announced itself. We had only one request. My wife and I detest sentimentality and asked that the work should be non-representational.

Luckily the sculptor knew better. Some weeks later at her studio we were left alone to contemplate two 10 cm high maquettes. One was a précis of the linked shapes, the other was demonstrably the children. Not a hint of mawkishness; we chose the latter. Knowing the sculptor as we did (and do) perhaps it was wrong to make even that one request.

We had intended to install the work in our garden but our growing affection for it and the fact that our Kingston-on-Thames house (12 miles SW of London) had been burgled four times meant it has stayed indoors ever since.

One route to euphoria

Can’t pretend I know much about washing machines. The control on our Bosch offers odd options, at random and with inconsistent typography. For instance: Delicates, Wool and Cotton are self-explanatory but why is Easy Care labelled as if it were a further, related choice to these three? Jeans is listed in a different typeface but aren’t jeans made of cotton? And why is Intensive Stains related – typographically, at least – to Jeans?

I am not proud of this ignorance, the result of never having operated this device or its ancestors.

I offer this defence. When we were very poor a pool of water developed under our inexpensive Indesit. I disconnected the power, took the back off, discovered a burst pipe and replaced it. A year later it was evident water wasn’t making it into the drum. The pump was easily identifiable. I removed the front cover, found that one of the three rubber impeller blades had sheared off (someone – let’s not say who – had left a UScent1 piece in their jeans pocket), bought a new impeller, and installed it.

These days I get a man to do this sort of work. Which is a shame. These were very simple tasks, but never mind. Successful DIY repairs create a sense of euphoria, of being ahead of the game and of outwitting large interests. The experience is worth more than rubies. Material comfort is no substitute.

TECHNO-WONDER. Yesterday was my birthday (thanks for your good wishes Marja-Leena). This morning I checked my profile and Blogger has added another year to my listed age. Clever!

Time off to unwrap prezzies

Recent holes in the blog are attributable to my birthday, prematurely celebrated over the past bank-holiday weekend. Today being the real thing I sit at the keyboard and wonder whether Blogger has automatically ratcheted up my age in the profile.

So, the technology of birthdays. One key item is of course the corkscrew. I once bought a £75 corkscrew that had been generously reduced to a mere £50. The design converted a simple act of leverage into a screwing action. Ingenious but not thought through. The forces were enormous and both the screw and the helical slot it engaged with quickly wore out. Strength is what’s needed, especially with non-cork corks.

Birthdays involve the accommodation of grandson Zach whose cot is erected in my atelier, denying me my computer. He, however, is well supplied with advanced technology. His mic/speaker not only communicates with the saloon bar downstairs but also plays Wiegenlied. Another device projects a rotating pattern of stars on the ceiling. He rarely troubles us as the corks pop.

The evening after, with Zach at his other grandparents, we left in a seven-seater cab for one of the county’s many gastropubs. Most Herefordshire taxi-drivers have satnavs but ours claimed not to need one and proved his point by approaching the pub by an unknown narrow road with grass growing in the middle and solid hedges that provided a tunnel-like effect through the windscreen. Hedges are sacred in this part of England and one is taken to the pillory for damaging them

Welcome to the fall-off rule

Remember the demo in physics? Bunsen burner standing on its base (stable equilibrium), on its nozzle (unstable equilibrium), on its side (neutral equilibrium). With a motorbike only the latter state is available without assistance and a bike on its side is no use to anyone.

Working for a weekly newspaper I used to call on the town's men of the cloth. Father Michael O’Sullivan noticed my parked bike. “I see yiz ride a bike. I did win I was a young priest. Niver had a cold. But yiz'll fall off once ivery year and a haf.” The transition from a temporary form of (often very) unstable equilibrium into neutral.

Fr. O’Sullivan was right about the fall-off rate. Once my friend and I were riding Indian file on our bikes and a dog darted out. My friend swerved and I did too, but a microsecond too late. My clutch lever (on the left-hand side of the handlebar) caught his raincoat, swung the forks round on full lock and I was tossed on to the tarmac. People at a bus-stop nearby watched with interest but none moved to my aid. They would have lost their place in the queue. The adamantine West Riding.

A subsequent event contributing to my fall-off quota occurred when a car pulled out into a steepish hill down which I was travelling. No escape. The bike hit the car amidships and I somersaulted over the car and landed some yards (we were still Imperial then) down the road. Tucked into my raincoat was a box containing my complete LP collection, perhaps 25 discs. None was harmed.

Young people believe they are immortal. The assumption of a mortgage tells them they are not.