I was appalled to read a report that 60% of all marmalade
sold in the UK went to people aged over 65 and only 1% to those under 28. I am
very partial to marmalade (tawny orange from Wilkin & Sons of Tiptree,
please) and I resent the implication of my senility in the report, but most of
all I grieve for all those young people going to work without even a spoonful
of this glorious preserve to sustain them through their long working day.
I do not feel ancient but perhaps my lifestyle betrays my
crusty old age. I am retired, comfortably billeted in sunny Folkestone, so I do
not need to jump out of bed at the beckoning of an alarm clock. I will get out
of my restful bed at 9 o’clock, shuffle on my slippers and join my early-rising
wife for a cup of coffee with hot croissants
or slices of toast, liberally embellished with delicious marmalade, of course.
We often complete The Guardian quick
crossword – the only good thing to come out of that treasonable organ against
whose entire ethic I regularly fulminate.
 |
| The Perfect start to a Day |
A leisurely warm bath (so much more relaxing than a shower),
a few puffs of aromatic luxury and an electric shave (I have never had a wet
shave in my life). I don my casual clothes, a warm cotton shirt, a cashmere
pullover and (goodness, I am modern!) a pair of blue jeans. I will switch on my
laptop and catch up with the news on the internet, absorbing the distilled
wisdom of the Daily Telegraph with
its talented writers Charles Moore, Ambrose Evans-Pritchard, Con Coughlin et al expounding solid Tory views on the
great issues of the day. Admirable Norman Tebbit still weighs in, aged 85.
I will scan my Inbox
for communications from my small but select circle of friends but I often
retire disappointed when the cupboard is bare, though gratifying messages
surprise and greatly refresh me. I do my bit by sending out my frank
observations on past and present events or personalities, but my gems do
occasionally fall on stony ground and languish unread. I think my views are
sensibly libertarian but others rank me somewhere between Mussolini and Ivan
the Terrible, when both were suffering toothache.
We may need to do some supermarket shopping and we usually
patronise our local Sainsbury. The store is well-stocked but shopping has
become a soulless occupation. Aisle after weary aisle with bewildering choices
– do I need 100 bread possibilities or 40 types of cracker?- nobody much to
talk to and the cash-till staff seem disobliging to me as you now have to find
your own plastic bags (and of course pay for them). Customers are till-fodder,
“service” a quaint anachronism. On our way home we stop at our local, Keppel’s – so-named in honour of Edward
VII’s comely mistress -under The Grand at Folkestone where I drink a pint of
English ale – Fullers’ London Pride
my tipple – and a glass of Côte du Rhone for Betty. I deplore gassy
old lager as drunk by our European cousins, inflating their waistlines and probably
monstrous egos too.
 |
| A much-needed regular tonic |
Our cultural life is somewhat muted in Folkestone; while
there is a theatre/concert venue taking secondary touring companies, the
nearest dedicated theatre is really in Canterbury. A local retro-cinema screens
the latest and classic movies. We find it fatally easy to stay at home watching
mindless TV (though I was gripped by Tom Hardy’s violent Taboo serial with its villainous East India Company) thus avoiding
the rigours of dark winter excursions – we must blow away the cobwebs in the
Springtime and not just confine ourselves to gentle strolls down the Prom at
The Leas.
The problem with living in any English town is as ever
“other people”. The dulcet tones of “Estuary English” echo through Folkestone
as many residents are London overspill. Heavy tattoos and obese tummies abound,
and that is just the womenfolk. The men often have a maritime, not to say
piratical air and the children career around on supermarket trollies, almost as
brat-like as their American equivalents.
The great redeeming feature is that Folkestone voted solidly
in favour of Brexit. These people are the salt of the earth, impervious to
outside interference and patriots to their roots, our Hearts of Oak, as British
as steak and kidney pie, proud victors of Trafalgar and Waterloo, brave
fighters at Jutland, Dunkirk and The Falklands………….Oh, do shut up, Sidney, you
are quite clearly going ga-ga!
SMD
08.03.17
Text Copyright © Sidney Donald 2017
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