Denis Lipman's Blog

Auntie May in Libya, part 2

Rita’s husband, whose nickname was Fatty, was always charming and treated his mother-in-law most royally whenever she visited Libya. My Auntie May was a happy-go-lucky Cockney, politically unaware and blissfully ignorant of her son-in-law’s standing in the Libyan regime. When she went to Libya, she had a good time. She thought nothing of having first to fly to Switzerland to get a connecting flight to enter the rogue state, sprouting with terrorists. In her own words, Libyan holidays were not too bad at all. Nice and warm and lots and lots of sand.

Aunt May in Libya, part I

Aunt May, another of Mum’s sisters, was telling everyone about her most recent visit to North Africa. Her daughter, my cousin Rita, had eloped with a Libyan student from the London School of Economics. Dissolve thirty years. Rita now lived in a guarded, high-walled estate in Tripoli, and her son-in-law oversaw part of Qaddafi’s nuclear program. They lived well in Libya. Very well. They took holidays in Switzerland and in England, and they had bodyguards. If nothing else, it was safe to assume they lived in fear of their lifestyle.

Tea Time

Mum watched the end of her show and then we ate dinner, now mostly cold. Roast lamb, mint sauce, roast potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, and Brussels sprouts. I complimented Mum, even though I knew Lew had done the cooking. Or most of it. He grunted in reply. This was normal. Evening meals in our house were always eaten in silence. The only sound above the clatter of cutlery was the radio broadcasting the six o'clock news. If anyone spoke during the news, all hell would break loose. Old habits die hard. Even now we ate as if we were mismatched Trappists. Frances, unaware of this mealtime vow of silence, thought someone was upset, so she tried to jolly us all up with cheery comments.

Right up our street and right on cue, it's UK:Cue!

Just discovered a wonderful start-up magazine that’s right up our street. It’s called UK:Cue Magazine and it’s edited by a charming Anglophile and boulevardier of all things British, Larry Jaffee. He’s had the brilliant idea to launch a print and online mag aimed at expats like me, and all chaps and chapesses with a fondness for the Green and Pleasant. UK:Cue will keep us posted about all Brit books, movies, and TV shows heading across the pond. The issue I’m looking at discusses The Iron Lady, the new Dr. Who, BBC America, and even a bit of Shakespeare for the higher-browed among you. Anyway, give it a gander, Larry can say it all a lot better than me so why not follow the link here and check it out! Tell him you’re an EastEnders fan, he’ll like that (my old Mum was a big fan as I mention in the book, had to drag her away from Walford for tea)! Mind you, I’d much rather be tucked up in the snug of the Rovers Return, but that’s another story.

PS: And keep an eye out for the odd Prodigal article in UK:Cue!

It's beginning to feel like Christmas...

My new Christmas pudding is happily imbibing as I write, happily awaiting the big day. Here is a photo of last year's, before we doused it with brandy. And ate it, of course.
If you'd like to try your hand at this traditional taste of Britain, my recipe is posted here.
It takes a bit of effort, but it's worth it...and Tiptree puds are $30 this year!

Day of service, East End style

Until the middle of the twentieth century many East Enders, and those who lived south of the river, in the poorer boroughs of London, went hop-picking every year. It was quite an industry and a practical way to earn a few pennies, enjoy a family vacation, albeit a working one, and breathe clean country air. Of course, the descendants of those hop pickers are now barreling down the motorway in their land cruisers, roaring past those old hop fields and disused kilns without a second glance, as they head to the Channel Tunnel and the promise of warmer, richer pickings on the other side.

Look at the view, Doc, the view!

Prodigal Wife and I have discovered Doc Martin, a quirky Brit show about a surgeon who can't stand the sight of blood so he takes over a small practice in beautiful Cornwall. The villagers aren't exactly warm and friendly, but, oh, the scenery is spectacular!

Dagenham spring

A gnarly old lemon-colored rose tree gripped a rotting trellis, fighting its way clear of the laburnum. The standard roses, of which there were several, had an easier time getting to the sun. Lined up like sentries with bulbous cockades of crinkly white and red petals, Mum's standards stood to attention right along the dividing fence between our home and the next door neighbor's.
"Look at my roses, look at the foxglove! And look, look at my potentilla!"
It was a huge sunburst of yellow.
"And my hydrangea. That'll be out soon!"
Six feet across, covered in green leafy frond-like leaves, Mum's shockingly pink hydrangea flowers would soon dominate the small garden and might even eclipse the potentilla.

The sun does shine over Whitstable

Somerset Maugham renamed Whitstable "Blackstable" in one of his first novels. He had grown up there and hated the place. I sort of, understand, visiting a seaside place is nothing like living in it year round. And the sea around the British coastline is mostly mackerel gray, which in summer can be offset by the occasional bluish sky but in the fall and winter or in a rainy spring the grayness is omnipresent, inescapable. But as you can see from this lovely photo we found at twinisles.com, the sun does occasionally shine on Whitstable, which is not without its charms. And, indeed, we very much enjoyed our day in the coastal town.

Hard times at Buck House

"Oh, Philip, are you sure there's no other way to pay for this wedding? And, really, couldn't I at least go to the other one, you know, the royal one?"