A Spotted Dick and Nary a Doctor to be Found!

The train from Charing Cross down to the coast is always heaving with passengers at the end of the day. In fact, there are times when it's standing room only for the first two stops of Waterloo Station and London Bridge, where passengers transfer to other destinations.

I could see how exhausted the Tutti Twins were. Luigi’s head was cocked back with his mouth open and there were occasional snorts that broke the silence among the other snoozing passengers. Alfredo had his face flush against the window. But his head was pressed so hard against the glass that his cheek remained stuck like a suction device, causing his left eye to become completely covered by his cheek. His mouth was open as well and there was a small rivulet rolling down his chin onto his shoulder. It was a lovely sight! NOT!

As the train descends the gradient towards the Sussex coastline, discharging passengers along the way, it begins to pick up speed. By the time we leave Stonegate we’re moving along at quite a clip. I phoned our housekeeper, Mrs Higgins, to ask whether I needed to pick anything up from the shops. No, all was ready. Mrs Higgins had prepared one of her signature dishes. ‘Rather than signature, she probably means warrant,’ I thought to myself, - ‘Death Warrant!’

Mrs Higgins is... well... how shall I put this delicately and with all the affection and probity it deserves … She’s a cantankerous, crabby, old goat! That’s not to say I don’t love her to pieces. Indeed I do, but my oh my can she ever cause the walls of a church to bleed! If I say ‘good morning’ to her, Mrs Higgins’ immediate retort is ‘what’s good about it?’ And if I ever dare do anything outside of my heretofore established rules of the house, I’ll be pummelled into a whimpering mass of self-pity. Never-EVER tread on Mrs Higgins’ turf, regardless of how badly it’s done.

She meanders through the vicarage, dust-cloth in hand, mumbling to herself and proffering epithets of varying intensity, usually about my getting in her way. And I finally had to lay down the law about her answering the phone. Her retorts to anyone phoning and asking for me are more suitable for a bar room than a vicarage! Even the venerable Mr Piddles will cast a suspicious eye on Mrs Higgins should she ever attempt to feed him. He’s anxious that she has either dipped into the rat poison or she’s trying to hide yet another one of her culinary disasters and blame him for it! Mr Piddles is a wise little dog!

I think part of the problem is that Mrs Higgins still lives in the kinetic days of the war. Without a doubt it was a terrible time and people went to bed truly not knowing whether they would awaken again. The bombing sorties from Germany came day and night and virtually every Londoner of that era has their own story of fear, bravery, and excitement!

The degree of that excitement had a unique patina to it which in one way or another affected the lives of everyone in this nation. Married at 17, Mrs Higgins kissed her husband of 10 weeks goodbye as he boarded a troop train at Victoria Station, on the 4^th of December 1944 – destination "classified."

Six weeks later a grim cadre of officers arrived at her door to say her husband was missing and presumed to have died on the beaches of Normandy. Mrs Higgins never remarried and openly acknowledges that she always remained in hope that one day he would return. His body, as with so many of the ten thousand allied troops who died or disappeared that day, was never found.

It’s a bit of a mystery as to how Mrs Higgins came to the vicarage. I used to visit her – always with a bit of trepidation. She was (and is) so cantankerous and tetchy that her vitriol is heaped upon anyone who dares fall within her cross-hairs. Just to calm myself  I wrote about her in one of my blogs. (It didn’t help)!
 

A number of years ago Mrs Higgins had a rather nasty fall. It was just before Christmas. On the morning of Christmas Eve I received a call from the nursing station at our local hospital. I was anticipating the call was either going to be that someone had passed away, was about to pass away, or yet another passionate plea for me to come do something about Mrs Higgins, as she had once again traumatised the nursing team.

But this call took the biscuit. The treacle sweet voice at the other end of the phone was calmly enquiring as to what time I was planning to come collect Mrs Higgins. I was certain her doctor had told me she was going to have to stay a few more days, especially as the home visit nursing team were already overbooked. How wrong I was.

Apparently Mrs Higgins had convinced the doctor to discharge her into our care, leading him to believe that all was tickety-boo, and we had already planned to come collect her, and have her as our guests over Christmas week! The nursing staff had packed her things, hauled, or pushed her into a wheelchair and rolled her out of the ward, quicker than placing an order with Jack-in-The-Box. And she was wreaking havoc on the receptionist…oh, and by the way…the doctor left a message saying he had left for Christmas and was unreachable! Mon Dieu. Une telle horreur nous arrive!
 

The problem is that Mrs Higgins never left us. Well, she did eventually go home. But several days later she just arrived unannounced. As I opened the door, she pushed me aside, headed for the kitchen, and jumped into a diatribe of ridicule and denunciations for my failure to empty the dish rack within ten minutes; then it was the tumble dryer – overloaded, then on to the bathroom for a vigorous inspection of our toothbrushes, to make certain the bristles were fresh and firm. And on it went. Like a pernicious rash, despite all our efforts she just keeps coming back. And for this delightful pleasure of self-flagellation we get to pay her.

We’ve come to look at Mrs Higgins’ cooking with the same suspicious eye as her housekeeping skills. She always tells us they’re recipes from the war. But her cooking tastes more as if it were cooked during the war. So we try to avoid it at all costs.

Having been up in London, this time it was inevitable that there would be something prepared. This is the ruse she uses each time she goes on one of her reconnaissance missions in the house. She rummages through everything in search of evidence. I’m not exactly certain what the evidence is that she’s seeking. But I’ve heard her counting our underwear on Fridays, presumably in the hopes that she could spread gossip that we don’t change our underwear every day, or disrupting my sock drawer on her obsessive determination to find love letters she alleges I’ve received from Mrs McGillicutty – the chair of the church flower committee. Mrs McGillicutty is 87 and Mrs Higgins has it on high authority that Mrs McGillicutty is a tart!
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Mrs Higgins accused Mrs McGillicutty of carving rude characters into my butter patty during the Harvest Festival dinner last October. And she is certain that the tragically distasteful event last summer was a direct result of Mrs McGillicutty doing the fandango in the choir room, bumping into Mr Oppenheimer and causing his bag to burst. It’s something no one even cares to remember. But alas, Mrs Higgins is certain I have a secret collection of Elvis Presley 8-track tapes that I play late into the night when no one is watching. And she is convinced Mrs McGillicutty is there as well!

Last summer she put an entire box of starch in the washer containing only my socks and boxer shorts (something I'm sure you needed to know – the vicar wears boxers). There was so much starch that on Sunday, when I escaped from the searing summer heat into the coolness of the church, the starch immediately dried as I sat listening to the choir. But when I stood up I let out a yelp so loud the choir thought I was trying to hit a Haley Westenra High C!

So tonight, whilst I make apologies for having to rearrange my sock drawer, the Tutti Twins are going to enjoy (be subjected to), Mrs Higgins’ Spotted Dick. Another uniquely British concoction; this dish certainly has its renewed roots from the war. It’s actually a steamed pudding made with suet and dried sultanas or raisins.

For the Tutti Twins I only hope there’s a doctor nearby!

Mrs Higgins’ Spotted Dick

What you’ll need: A medium mixing bowl, a mixing jug, a pudding basin (pan) and a steamer basket. Wax paper and some string.

2 3/4 cups of plain sifted flour

1/4 cup of soft butter

3 tsp baking powder

3/4 cup of shredded suet

1/2 cup of caster or extra fine sugar

1/2 cup of currants or raisins

1/3 cup of milk

1/3 cup of double cream or whipping cream

Finely grated zest and juice of 2 lemons

custard or clotted cream as a compliment

1. Soften half the butter and use to grease a 1.4 litre pudding basin.

2. Combine the flour, baking powder, suet, sugar and currants in a large bowl, mixing well.

3. Melt the remaining butter and stir into the flour mixture.

4. Stir in the lemon juice and zest.

5. Combine the milk and cream in a small jug. Slowly stir enough into the mixture to bring it to a dropping consistency.

6. Pour the mixture into the pudding basin. Cover with a double layer of grease-proof (wax) paper (make a small pleat in the middle to allow the pudding to expand), tie the wax paper in place with string around the lip of the pudding pan.

7. Place the basin in a steamer basket set over boiling water. Cover and steam for about 1 - 1 1/2 hours until cooked. Check the water level now and again to make sure the water level stays high, topping it up with boiling water from the kettle.

8. Serve with custard or, if you're feeling wicked, a big dollop of clotted cream.

Rantings:

This is just for the novitiate cook - What is suet? As I mentioned, this is certainly an old war-time recipe. During the war Britain became incredibly creative in the things we used for cooking and baking. Suet is raw beef or mutton fat. Pork fat is called lard. Chicken fat is called schmaltz. In British supermarkets dehydrated suet packets are available. I hope they are in America as well. We also have a vegetarian suet made from palm oil combined with rice flour. It looks quite similar to shredded beef suet.

In addition to wax paper I wrap my pudding in a fresh tea towel. The steam permeates the cloth and it helps retain the moisture of the pudding. This is entirely my personal preference. But I’d catch the ‘wrath of Higgins’ if I were to do such a thing in her presence. So only on her days off! (Long Live Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Weekends!)

More Rantings:

The origins of Spotted Dick are traced back to the early 1800’s. It’s a bit of a challenge to fully follow the etymology of the word but it has appeared to be part of the rhyming Cockney slang from ‘pudding.’ There are many other words using ‘dick’ in a similar way, such as a hard cheese with treacle added, it became treacle dick. Prior to this the recipe began as a pastry rolled onto a flat sheet with pieces of fruit such as plums which gave it the name ‘spotted dog.’ And in Ireland, it began as ‘Railway Bread’ or ‘Spotted Dog’ when it was made with a non-yeast bread. The Irish used baking soda and called the outcome ‘soda bread.’

I have my own opinion as the ones I’ve just shared don’t sound particularly feasible. Personally I believe my idea hold much more credence.

The word ‘dick’ was an abbreviation for ‘dicky’ which in the early 1800’s was a faux shirt front worn by gentlemen. London in particular that it was essential for men to change shirts several times each day. The soot and foul air permeated the city. The dicky (or dickey) was one of the first successful commercial applications of celluloid. The rigid white plastic shirt front even came with miniature onyx buttons, which closely resembled sultanas or raisins. I feel it’s far more logical that the kitchen servants observed that the dessert they prepared resembled those starched shirts with the small dark bits throughout – also similar to the cinder pieces that pelted the white shirts of rail travellers who dared put the windows down. Every shirt would have been pelted with multitudes of small black bits of coal cinders – again offering a logical (IMHO) similarity. But then I’m just a dumb priest!

Nice Pasties You've Got There Ma’am !

You might think Luigi was being a bit cheeky. But he was absolutely right! I smiled at the young girl as she leaned over her counter, smiling down at Luigi. I couldn’t agree more. Her Pasties looked magnificent!.. 
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Nope! You couldn’t deny it - there they were, two warm, firm, inviting, golden mounds of what any hard-working man would just love to get his hands on. A veritable feast for a cold winter’s day.
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Hold on. Now hold on just a second, before any of you start getting all stroppy. I can hear that sharp inhaling breath of disbelief all the way across the Atlantic. You silly beans - I’m not talking about those things women sometimes put on their, …er…um…knee caps. I’m referring to yet another great British Institution called the Pasty, or pasties to be plural. (pronounced ‘pah-stee’). 
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These delectable feasts date back to the reign of King Henry III in the 13^th century. Originally a standard of sustenance among the aristocracy, this simple melange of meat and vegetables, nestled snugly into its own bread casing was the forerunner to the noble sandwich. 
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Just as with so many other things, as soon as the hoi polloi found interest in the simple pasty, the ‘haut monde’ quickly moved on to more ‘exotic’ ideas such as sushi and George Foreman Grills. But for centuries we commoners have stuck with it. Long live the pasty!
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Down in Cornwall, our most southern point on the British Mainland, the perpetually taxed miner’s housewife was constantly challenged over what she could put in her hubby’s lunch box, especially the ones who worked deep-down in the tin mines. These poor chaps faced a myriad of daily challenges. Not only did they have to work hundreds of metres beneath the earth, in hot, dark, wet and dangerous conditions, they had virtually nowhere to wash their hands.
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The work was gruelling and exceptionally dangerous. Children as young as twelve worked along side grown men in an environment where the air was so sparse that many of the miners preferred to blow out their candles and work in the pitch dark. The miners hands became saturated with caustic derivatives such as arsenic, as did their lungs.
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In what I can only describe as the All Recipes version of the 14^th century, called parish-hall gatherings, an innovative wife decided to take one of her fruit pie crusts, place a small part of that evening’s meat and drippings, adding a few vegetables, and placing it in the middle of the crust, then folding the crust over and crimping the edges. Voila! 
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Other housewives quickly caught on and their creativity blossomed. It was soon discovered that not only could their somewhat thicker crusts hold meats and vegetables, but they could accommodate a smattering of gravy as well. There were no lifts or ‘gigs’ to carry the miners back to the surface. They had to ascend and descend ladders hundreds of meters deep. So it was a given that their lunch breaks would often be in the dark deep in the bowels of the earth. 
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The humble pasty became an all-in-one feast and no doubt brought both physical and emotional comfort to the miners. 
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Whilst the crimping styles of each housewife varied, some feeling it was best to crimp their crust on the side, others crimped their pastry on the top as if they were turning the pasty into a vessel. There were often competitions as to who had the best pasty. And a large number of pasties that went down the mines, featured the initials of the miner designed into the crust. 
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This is for one very understandable reason. These hard working young men, who focused on survival and the task at hand, had one other thing that constantly haunted almost every miner’s thoughts. Knockers! 
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Indeed, a tea-break beneath the earth would have included a broad range of discussion topics, but without a doubt the mention of Knockers would always weave its way into the discussion.
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No, this isn’t a crass euphemism for pasties. It’s actually a reference to the mythical imps that haunt the mines. The term knockers relates to the sounds often heard in the mines: the sound of wooden beams used to shore up the tunnels, cracking under the weight of the earth and the sound of cracking stone as an imminent warning that the tunnel is about to collapse.
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Knockers in England, or ‘Bucca’ as the Cornish pronounce it, is the equivalent of an Irish leprechaun or Hawaiian Menehune and are described as mischief creating characters who steal a miners lunch or hides their tools. Having their initials on their pasty helped the miners identify their rightful pasty in case the ‘knockers’ walked away with it. 
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There’s a constant debate over what represents a true Cornish Pasty. To traditionalists and particularly to Cornish traditionalists, it represents a ‘D’ or half moon shaped pastry with the crimping on the side – never anywhere else, with the contents being rough cuts of meat, onion, swede, and pepper, with some optional clotted cream. 
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So adamant are the Cornish people to protect their tradition that in 1993 they sought PGS or Protected Geographical Status from the European Union. PGS protects the brand from being produced elsewhere and represented as an original. 
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I suppose to protect my back I should probably provide you with the precise recipe as published by this venerable organisation. Accordingly, you may find it HERE. 
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I must confess I LOVE pasties. However, in the same breath I must confess I never use Swedes; I love carrots and my creativity in making pasties runs from our house favourite: Creamed Chicken Pasties (Although this description may make some of you gag - just imagine Stouffer’s Creamed Chicken with a few small additions, inside a pasty), my taco pasty, with a soured cream dip, and my Cinnamon Apple Pasty - another house favourite. I tried making a Peach and Creamed Cheese Pasty last summer but have retired further attempts until such time as I either come to my senses or those who ate it recover!
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‘So Luigi,’ I asked, ‘whose pasties are better, mine or those from the girl at Paddington.’ I didn’t understand a word he said. He was now on his third pastie and we were getting concerned we’d never get him out of the dining room!
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I think he’ll be dreaming of both pasties AND knockers tonight!

Father Bill’s Nice Little Pasties

My legal disclaimer: This is MY recipe – no one else’s. I don’t like Cornish pasties, I prefer my own. I love the Swedish but hate swedes, I use carrots instead and I’m constantly experimenting with adding other things in my pasties as well. SO there Cornwall, if you don’t like it – sue me!

What you’ll need: (To make four pasties)

For Your Filling

1 peeled medium potato, about 6 ounces

6 oz finely chopped carrots

15 oz well-marbled steak, cut into small cubes

1 large Vidalia or Chilean sweet onion, finely chopped

White pepper

Soya Sauce or similar

For Your Pastry

2 cups (16oz) 00 grade (or sifted) plain flour

3 ½ oz Danish salted butter, chilled & cut into small ½ cm cubes

3 ½ oz Crisco (pre chilled in fridge & cubed) I know you guys LOVE Crisco!

Milk or beaten egg, to glaze

Small glass of almost frozen water
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After cubing my steak I sprinkle a bit of soy sauce on it and allow it to marinate. I occasionally use Worcestershire sauce or a product called Maggi instead. Not certain whether you can get this in the states. The sauce contributes significantly to the overall flavour of the pasty.
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Make your pastry first. Season and sift your flour into a large bowl. Intersperse adding the butter and lard into the flower with a round-bladed knife until the mixture resembles fine breadcrumbs. Sprinkle with 6-7 tablespoons of the chilled water (or just enough to bind the dough) and draw the mixture together. I use the same knife to do this. (creature of habit and lazy!)
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On a floured surface, knead the dough to bring it together then wrap it in cling film and place in the fridge for a minimum of 30 minutes.
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Once the pasty is chilled divide it into four equal pieces. I always use short strokes, rolling in one direction until my pastry is about as thick as a £1 coin. (I ‘think’ that’s about the same as two american nickels.)I roll the pastry until it’s as round as a tea cup saucer (approximately 20cm or just under 9in). You can save any trimmings for decorations such as adding your initials. 
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Divide up your ingredients into 4 separate groups. Arrange approximately half the potatoes and onions atop the centre of the pastry. Then add the steak and diced carrots then the rest of the potato and onion. Season each layer with pepper to taste. I tend not to use salt very often but feel free to do so to your own taste.
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Lightly brush the edge of the pastry with water then carefully lift up the edges to the centre to cover the filling. Pinch or crimp the pastry edges together. I tend to gently roll the edge over with my thumb and forefinger. Depending on ingredient preferences from family I use initials to identify which pastry contains what.
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Place finished pastries on a baking sheet and pop in fridge for 30-45 minutes.

Preheat oven to Gas mark 7 or 430 F.

While pasties are chilling, preheat oven to Gas mark 7 or 430F.

Remove chilled pasties from fridge and brush with milk or egg as desired.

Place in oven and bake for ten minutes at 430F.

After ten minutes, reduce oven temp to Gas mark 4 or 350F. Cook for an additional 45 minutes.

Rantings: I also like adding several pinches of Herb de Provence (with lavender), but this is not to everyone’s taste. Both the use of salt and the soy sauce I’ve described are personal preferences. If you prefer more gravy consider adding either a small nob of butter or even better – clotted cream. We only use Danish butter in our home. I’m not certain what the equivalent is in the states but the thought is that the whiter the butter the lower the cholesterol potential. We do not use margarines of any sort due to their chemical levels.

My Sweet Thing

For a sweet version make your pastry using 5oz Danish butter and 2oz Crisco (Crisco is not available in the UK so we use Flora white). To the flour mixture add 1oz of Caster or super-fine sugar. For the filling use your standard apple pie filling recipe or my rather confused English/Moldovan recipe of 2 ½ cups of peeled, cored and sliced Bramley apples, distributed evenly among your rolled pastry discs, premix 1oz light brown muscovado sugar, a pinch of ground clove, nutmeg, and a half-teaspoon of cinnamon. After sealing and chilling, cook in a preheated oven at gas mark 4 or 350F for 40 minutes. Serve with clotted cream or ice cream. 
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More Rantings: I prefer to melt a half-tablespoon of butter then add the nutmeg, clove, cinnamon and brown sugar together and drizzle it among the apple slices. However, I realise many people prefer not to have the additional cholesterol so I omitted it from my standard recipe.Posted from Fr Bill's Collection TH

Is it A Heffalump We're Searching For or Something Else?

I’m writing this on the run. It has been a busy start to the day. Before the Tutti Frutti Twins and I, (that’s what I’ve been calling them for the past couple of days), head up to London, I had something important to do.
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Considering what it was, I wrestled with myself overnight trying to decide whether or not I would take them with me.

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After much reflection, interspersed with an equivalent amount of prayer, I made up my mind – not that they were going to be too happy at the thought of waking up with the household alarm. And our household snooze button can be quite jolting on the second round. Some have described it like having a small heart-attack. Actually it’s just a Jack Russell jumping on your chest – same difference I suppose.
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My dear friend Susan died a year ago today. For weeks before she passed she moved back and forth between this life and the shadows. Diagnosed with ovarian cancer, Susan put on her typical brave face, as surgeons did what they could to combat the spread. Finally, after weeks of hope and prayer, we went to hospital to hear what the prognosis would be.
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Susan was her usual chatty self; it was I who was pensive and she picked up on it immediately as I sat there fidgeting like a child. ‘Stop That!’ she demanded. ‘I’m not anxious so why should you be?’ Susan gave me a friendly prod in my ribs with her elbow as I tried to read the words – ANY words on the magazine I had picked up.
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Finally, the doctor opened her door, inviting us in. She got straight to the point; ‘I’m afraid our endeavours have not been very successful.’ Susan asked the obvious; ‘how long?’ Considering all that had occurred, what the latest scans had shown – secondary cancer now in her liver, perhaps three, maybe four months, the doctor told her. 
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We drove out of the hospital car park and into the traffic flow. A few minutes passed in quietness when Susan suddenly shouted out ‘Heffalumps!’ She actually frightened me. I was in the middle of a roundabout and her shouting made me instantly fear someone was about to hit us. We weren’t too far from Heathrow, so I visualised visitors having come off their flights from across the Atlantic, hopping into a hire car and driving straight into a roundabout – the wrong direction! (Believe me, it happens!)
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Still full of adrenaline and trying to regain my composure I replied ‘what?’ with a startled look still on my face. ‘Heffalumps,’ Susan said again, only with slightly lower volume than the first time. ‘We need to go find some Heffalumps.’ I looked at her, fleetingly wondering whether her medications had gone to her mind as well. I drew out my reply ‘Susan, what – are – you – talking – about?’
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She reminded me of one of my (many) stories about Willem & Mary, my children, when they were young. I used to do the school assemblies, which is the equivalent of a mid-week church service. Here in England our faith-based schools are most often attached to the church, as it was in our case. I used to come up with creative, although probably puzzling to some of the older teachers, parables for life that the children would hopefully remember and carry home with them.
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I’ll digress for a second; my daughter is 19. Recently, during a dinner, Mary told me she remembers many of my sermons from when she was five or six. You can’t imagine how absolutely chuffed I was to hear this. Apparently, Mary’s favourite homily was about Sven the wood cutter, but the one that followed close behind was about Heffalumps. Her adamant rule was that I could talk about anything during assemblies, as long as I didn’t call out her name. That was sacrosanct!
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‘Last year your daughter told me about your Heffalump sermon at school and we’re going to go on a hunt To-DAY!’ Crikey, Sue could be demanding at times. But how could I resist. I had finally navigated the car back onto the M-25 heading south. For those of you who don’t know what the M-25 is, think of it as a giant clock where the big hand moves in one direction and the small hand in another, but neither seems to ever move at the right pace and often they get stuck together! That’s our M-25. It’s the Flying Dutchman of circular motorways. We entered at 10 O’clock and hopefully, we’d eventually reach 6 O’clock, where we’d merge onto the M3 down to the coast. 
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‘So where do you want to go on this search for Heffalumps?’ I cautiously asked. ‘Herstmonceux Forest,’ Susan replied without missing a breath. ‘It’s always nice to be with a woman who knows what she wants to do.’ I replied. Considering her state of mind I don’t think I would have been surprised if she said Scotland! We made a brief stop at one of our nation’s Little Chef restaurants for a cup of tea and to empty Susan’s ileostomy bag.
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The drive from the M3 changes as we descend the gradient to the coast. We ascend steep hills or small mountains, then descend into nestled valleys. From the crest of one, as you descend into the valley, you can see thin curls of grey smoke rising from people’s chimneys, making doodle marks across the chalkened skies. It’s a scene that as a child always brought me comfort, as I visualised families in their homes enjoying a roaring fire whilst children played on the floor. 
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As we passed Pevensey Castle, I turned off the roundabout and headed along the lane to Herstmonceux. We pulled up just past the castle and observatories at the place where over the years I’ve worn a well marked path. And off we marched.
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The path was originally a guarded road during the war. There was a military sentinel’s hut and numerous rather curious croppings of rock. Rumour has it there’s still a dry pirate’s and smugglers tunnel which runs all the way from the castle forest to a pub on Boreham Street, 1.1 miles away. And the Venerable Mr Piddles, being the sort of dog that he is, has occasionally disappeared for a bit, deep into the recesses of rock, in search of his own Heffalumps. I’m certain that someday he’s going to come out wearing a bandanna and a patch over his eye and go Baaaarrrrghk!
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‘See any yet?’ I asked as we marched on. ‘No, not yet, keep walking,’ was all Susan said. We came upon one of my favourite spots. On the south side of the path the trees are at their tallest. The forestry is so dense that if it were overcast you might find it challenging to see too far ahead of you. But along the base of the forest floor the sunlight has provided its warm sustenance, nurturing the miracle of life by feeding the seedlings left by the winds and birds.
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On that morning, as far as we could see, there was a never-ending blanket of bluebells. The colours were so brilliant we stood in silence. Such beauty in such an isolated place where very few others would ever see them.
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‘Here.’ Susan said, with a note of finality. ‘Here?’ I asked, waiting for her to explain, still thinking we were searching for Heffalumps. ‘Yes, here.’ She said, ‘This is where I want my cremains spread.’ I looked deep into her eyes. There was no sadness or pensiveness on her face - Just what I would describe as a sense of resolve. ‘One year, to the day. Okay?’ she asked more in a way that she was issuing an instruction. ‘Okay.’ I half spoke – half whispered, feeling my nostrils about to flair before the tears welled in my eyes.
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‘Come on, we don’t have much time.’ Susan grabbed my hand and half-pulled, half guided me further down the hill, deeper into the forest. And off we went in search.
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During one of my Wednesday assemblies, borrowing liberally from A.A. Milne many years ago, (I hoped he didn’t mind), I took the school children on a mini-march around the church, in search of Heffalumps. Up the nave we marched, crossing the south transept, up the steps into the chancel, and past the altar, moving around to the sacristy, then back down, crossing the north transept and through the nave into the narthex. All the while I’d shout out to the children, encouraging them to look high and low and if they saw a Heffalump, to let the others know. ‘Shout it out!’ I’d yell to them. ‘Does anyone see them?’ I’d call out. And so the parade went.
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When all the children gathered back in the narthex, around the Baptismal font, I asked for a show of hands as to how many children actually thought they saw a Heffalump. Numerous hands went up among the smaller children. The older ones just smiled, enjoying the humour.
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‘How many of you believe they’re here?’ I asked. More hands went up. ‘What if we replaced the word Heffalumps with God?’ I asked. ‘More than half of you indicated that you believe the Heffalumps were in here. How many of you, although you can’t directly see, have the same conviction that God is here.’ Those moments when a small child ‘clicks’ with a very small and childish analogy is what I call the ‘Ah Ha’ moment.
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Of course it was a childish analogy and any great theologian would love to pick it and me apart. But its simplicity works for child-like minds. I so vividly remember my children when they were small, as we’d head into the forest for a walk. I’d encourage them to go hunting for Heffalumps. And in our gentle banter I’d tease them asking, how many have you seen? Always the response was that they weren’t exactly sure because it’s hard to tell when it’s actually God, or just a Heffalump. When he was about ten, my son made a small twine bracelet with small beads containing letters on them. He presented one he had made as a gift to me. The letters on the beads were WWHD? It’s a gift I cherish to this day and keep in my memory box.
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And it was that thought that crossed my mind when I made the decision about Luigi and Alfredo at 5 this morning. Susan loved life so very much. She was in a senior role with Social Services and had seen the worst of the worst with trafficked children who arrived at our nation's borders. It was a common bond we shared and often cried about together. 
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But it was also her laughter, her cheekiness, and her never-failing sense of humour that instinctively told me that she would have loved having the Tutti-Frutti twins there today. Over 300 people attended Susan's funeral. But she instructed me, with earnest, that I was not to have anyone attend her strewing. She was a widow, had no surviving relatives, and it was important to her that no one needed to re-visit her after they already had done so at her funeral celebration.
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So this morning, as rays of light began to reach through the moist, dense forest, once again providing warmth to the earth. An ageing priest, a little dog, and two slightly neurotic looking figurines returned the last vestiges of a loved one’s remains to the earth from whence they came.

And I cried. And I laughed at her memory.

Until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes

Our busy world is hushed,

The fever of life is over

and our work is done

Then Lord, in your mercy,

grant us a safe lodging

A Holy rest,

and peace at last

Amen.

Well, Mussolini Drank Tea...

After church yesterday Luigi spent time with his new friend Alfredo. We had lunch together and the guys were clearly hitting it off. I’ve never heard such laughter! All during lunch they kept breaking into Italian. At first I thought it was just a result of their natural effervescence, but after an hour or so of watching them pointing to the food, and then laughing hysterically, I wasn’t too sure.
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Okay, fair enough. I didn’t consider preparing pasta for a Sunday luncheon. I’m not sure that I ever have. But a traditional Sunday roast has never gone awry in our home. I think my mistake was that I offered the lads some wine with their luncheon. As a family we don’t drink, so you can imagine my surprise when I noted that the bottle of a rather nice French Bordeaux was empty, even before anyone had finished their starters. I had planned on offering them tea afterwards, but the look I got from Alfredo suggested that this would be an exercise in futility. It reminded me of one of the local supermarket adverts currently running from Aldi.

In the interest of ‘entente cordiale’ I prepared a Balsamic tricolore salad, ( consisting of tomato, mozzarella, and fresh basil representing the colours of the Italian flag.) The boys happily gobbled it down, in between glasses of Bordeaux. Perhaps I broke social conventions by offering a couple of resolutely Italian chaps a French wine, rather than their beloved nectar from ‘the old country.’ 

During dinner we discussed the difference in cultures between the Italians and the English. Apparently there are many differences in the way we think. Considering the lively banter during the meal, I think I’d have to agree. But whenever things got a bit too warm, I had a secret weapon to use that would bring them back down immediately. All I had to say was ‘Berlusconi’ and instantly the boys would drop their heads in a mixture of pensive reflection and shame. And just to be cruel I would shout it out as if I were sneezing and then there'd be silence. Shame on me – and I’m supposed to be an ambassador for cultural détente. Shame on me indeed!

Little did I know how well these two were going to get along. Alfredo brought with him his personal collection of film discs. Following the dessert I had prepared – a tiramisu in honour of Luigi, which brought on further waves of muffled sniggering and laughter, the boys headed off to the library to watch a film. Our weather was being typically English, which I love, but if you’re not accustomed to it, it can at times be a bit off-putting. Nevertheless it was perfect weather for sitting in front of the fire and watching a film.

Off they went: Avanti staring Jack Lemon and Juliet Mills.. During the film, every time Ms Mills appeared on screen Alfredo would shout out ‘Signorina Piggott - Hai un bel barbone!!’ (whatever that means), And Luigi would double over in laughter.

Then they changed films to Roman Holiday with Audrey Hepburn. The boys sat there with tears streaming down their faces as they watched Audrey Hepburn dance on the float alongside the Tiber River. ‘These lads are homesick,’ I thought.
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I had to go out for a bit and when I returned they were again playing Avanti. And now both Luigi and Alfredo were calling out ‘Miss Piggott - bellissimo barbone!’ I assume they were saying how much they loved her English accent! They kept rewinding the film to the beginning and each time they saw the Alitalia aeroplane Alfredo would shout ‘bere!’ and the two of them would salute the screen with a glass of wine. In my absence they’d found their way into the pantry and hauled out several more bottles of wine. 

 

It’s late in the evening now and considering the state of both of them, I’ve suggested to Alfredo that he stay the night. The other guest room is all prepared so he can just collapse in there. I’ll set out a flannel and toothbrush and hopefully he can find all the other toiletries he needs in the bath. Luigi really does seem quite homesick for his motherland. Oh, and I think I should find a couple of paracetamol for them to take in the morning. I'm sure they're going to have ripping headaches!

As I headed upstairs I heard the two of them singing together. It was the beautifully melodic Senza Fine (Endless), written by Ennio Morricone for Avanti, which is second on my list of all time favourite Billy Wilder films. (who could deny that Some Like it Hot has to be the first?)

We have an early start in the morning. Thankfully Mrs Higgins will be here to prepare breakfast for us all! But I’m sure I’m going to get an earful over all the house guests!

London, here we come!

I wish you all buonanotte

Bees Daggers and Utterly Barking!

It took quite a few minutes for Luigi and I to pry Alfredo out of the phone Box. He had bunkered down refusing to leave and kept asking anyone who passed by for a pen. Finally Luigi shouted towards Alfredo but pointing in the other direction: ‘Look Al! Sophia Lauren going into the Ritz,’ and in a split second Al was at the corner with us. We half pushed – half dragged him the rest of the way down to the next block.
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There it was – The Holy Grail of finery, the Bastion of Britain’s best, the Alpha and Omega of culinary delights so decadent they can only be whispered about in some countries. ‘Take a pic, take a pic, please,’ Luigi implored me as he backed up against one of the magnificent window displays.
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I pulled my trusty Rolleiflex from around my shoulder and took a quick snap. ‘Oh how beautiful this place is.’ Luigi’s voice had risen slightly as he scanned the items on offer; 200 year old port, Perrier-Jouët Fleur de Champagne, wicker hampers overflowing with Wedgwood Singapore Bird china plates, Tiffany & Co English King cutlery, and a cornucopia of mustards, jams, and pastes. And all of this was before we even went in!
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There’s only one place we could be – Fortnum & Masons! Following the Great London Fire of 1666, William Fortnum came to work for Queen Anne as a footman for the Royal Family. With the insistence of Her Majesty that the palace always use fresh candles every evening, William quickly adapted a small trade for himself selling the excess wax. It helped him to pay his rent to his landlord and friend, Mr. Mason. The rest is history. The men began a lucrative business importing the finest goods from around the world – pelts from the Carpathians, spices from India, tea from China – all to satiate the voracious appetite of the Royal Family.
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Today Fortnum & Masons is the world’s finest purveyor of goods. Whether you’re ordering your custom created hamper from specialist staff downstairs, buying teas, spices and chocolates on the ground floor, or as my daughter loves to do – enjoying a cottage pie, Apple Crumble, and a vanilla milkshake – a 'DD' (Daddy-Daughter tradition for the past 19 years), in the Fountain Café, facing on to Jermyn Street, you may rest assured each and every individual who crosses their doorway will be received as an honoured guest.
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It was a bit embarrassing for me as whilst Luigi was fogging up the display window with his panting, Alfredo had nose marks all along the window from his pressing against it so hard. You would have thought Mr Piddles was obsessing over his favourite dish ‘Fricassée de petite chat.’ (Kitty Cat Fricassée).
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‘All Right Gentlemen!’ I bellowed, trying to get their attention. We’re about to go in. But first I will announce some rules for this visit. Top of the list, Alfredo – keep your hands to yourself! (After all these days with Alfredo and Luigi, I’ve pretttty-well sussed these two and what makes them tick.
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Luigi is the epitome of grace and charm during daylight. But at night, get even a dram of spirits or wine in him and he becomes Linda Blair’s arch nemesis! Alfredo is, well, as my daughter describes him…he’s just a naughty little boy! He’s constantly into trouble, he’s most assuredly a womaniser and I suspect there has been more wine through him than the pipes at Paul Masson’s in Santa Clara!
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Whilst Luigi keeps his background a bit close to his chest and remains an international gnome of mystery, Alfredo is more than pleased to talk about everything, even if you don’t want him to! Before he came to our parish Alfredo spent two years in an Abbey – The Order of Sister Ruth on the Rocks, near Brighton, (Well, Hove actually). Apparently he was the cook at the abbey.
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But there were a few rumours emanating from an adjacent parish – Our Lady of Perpetual Guilt and Bingo Centre, that Alfredo had become a bit too fond of one of the novices at the abbey – a Sister Mary Nora Forma.
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I did check with the Abbess, Reverend Mother Immaculata Concepcione. I felt badly having called her as when I mentioned Alfredo’s name down the phone line, it sounded like the Reverend Mother began choking on a cup of tea she must have been enjoying. She wouldn’t say very much about him, other than the fact she didn’t appreciate Alfredo’s culinary artistry, in the way he arranged his home-made Sicilian Cannoli and plum desserts.
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But the Reverend Mother acknowledges that Alfredo is missed by many of the novices, especially Sister Genevieve Gustoso Crostata, who works in the Abbey gardens. In fact, such is her fondness for Alfredo I was told that Sister Crostata has renamed a number of vegetables in his memory.
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‘I’ve arranged for you to meet the queen.’ I watched the Tutti Twins’’ demeanour as they absorbed what I just said. ‘You mean THE QUEEN?’ Luigi asked, his little pencil thin moustache perking up like an antenna. ‘Well, actually, no,’ I told them. I’ve arranged something far more special for two Italian gentlemen.’ Instantly Alfredo piped up ‘Sophia Lauren is here???’ I tried to ignore him but this broad look of hope on his face was almost heartbreaking. I wondered what Sister Mary Nora Forma and Sister Genevieve Gustoso Crostata would think of this little scallywag.
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‘No, Alfredo, something far more exciting and certainly far younger.’ I responded. He instantly started jumping up and down. ‘Lea Michele from Glee! He’s going to introduce me…I mean us, to Lea Michele from Glee!’ Alfredo is almost screaming. ‘This is hopeless.’ I thought to myself. I decided to take them on inside.
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My friend Esther works downstairs in the great food hall but I wasn’t sure I was prepared to subject her to the boys today; Although I instinctively knew she would have rows and rows of fresh Italian delicacies flown in fresh this morning from Milano and Roma; Prosciutto, Salami, Parma, Finocchiona, Pepperoni Picolcini, Mortadella, etc., the list is endless. And that’s just Italy, the counter is overflowing with meats from all four corners of the planet! (Mr Piddles loves their South African Biltong)!
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No, I thought, I’ll spare Esther from them today. I led the boys to the lift and pressed the button to the top floor. ‘That says Executive Offices,‘ Luigi observed. ‘Indeed it does,’ I replied, smiling at Luigi. ‘You’re about to meet the Italian Queen!’
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I asked the boys to think back about all the parks we walked through around Buckingham Palace. London is blessed to be one of the leading cities in the world with more open park space than registered residents can fill. Whilst in truth, the parks are legally ‘private,’ belonging to The Crown, Her Majesty has never once to my knowledge chased anyone off with her broom.
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I explained to the boys that the parks we walked through, enjoying all the fresh air, are all naturally sustained. The water that feeds them comes from natural wells – the same ones that spring forth creating London’s ponds and fountains. And the greenery and foliage is all naturally and environmentally sustained. No pesticides whatsoever are used anywhere in Her Majesty’s gardens and parks. So you’re safe to enjoy a picnic in the park on any day without having to worry about poisoning from the ground water or grass.
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I suspect I sounded a bit too much like a tour guide. But I had a reason to share this. We arrived at the fourth floor and stepped off the lift. I guided the lads to an unmarked door. ‘Are you ready to meet the Italian queen?’ I asked.
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They looked thoroughly confused, but still interested. I opened the door leading to a series of steps up to the rooftop. As we stepped out onto the roof the sounds of Piccadilly Circus were still there but perhaps a bit more gentle now. You could still hear the occasional american down below, asking anyone who would listen, for directions to places that they hadn’t quite pronounced correctly.
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To the South you could see the spires of Southwark Cathedral, the London Eye, and parts of Waterloo Station. Further east you could see the spires of St Paul’s and the Tower of London. Facing north there was little more than hectares of green, all packed in-between Piccadilly and Hyde Park. And to the west you could see the railway line of The Great Western Railway that carries visitors to and from Heathrow to Paddington Station and all the way down to Bristol and Penzance.
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But what stood out most were the four miniature mansions, painted in the familiar ‘eau de nil’ colours of luxury as featured by Fortnum’s, Tiffany’s, and Claridge’s. The mansions were adorned with great spires and gold fennels. They looked like The Queen’s doll house on display at Windsor Castle. But these were different. Amazingly different!
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These extravagant Georgian style palaces are actually Beehives. In residence are approximately a quarter of a million Italian Carnaroli honey bees! And with this queen you most assuredly need no sovereign flying overhead to know that she is in residence!
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The white oak hives, designed by Fortnum’s ‘sweets’ buyer Jonathan Miller, gave each hive its own elegant detailing commensurate with the quality and luxury for which Fortnum’s has stood for over three hundred years. Gothic, Roman, Mughal, and Chinese.
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The Carnaroli bees, world-renown for their uniquely docile characteristics, produce a rare super-sweet honey. The bees sourcing comes directly from Her Majesty’s gardens and Buckingham Palace, as well as St James Palace and Kensington Gardens. And as a final compliment are the thousands of lime and chestnut trees throughout the area. Production estimates are generally eight-hundred half-pound jars per annum, divided over two crops. However, the honey is so unique and delicious it always sells out within a week or so and there are always waiting lists for the pale golden nectar.
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For those of you who are honey aficionados and are aware of the hundreds of varieties we’re blessed with here in the UK, my best description of Fortnum’s honey is that it tastes similar to Acacia, which is probably logical due to the fragrant gardens surrounding the palace. I also detect just the slightest trace of lavender, but my friends say they can’t taste this.
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I was pleased to see that the Tutti Twins were really quite excited over this discovery. It’s one of London’s many secrets I love sharing with my guests when I serve as a Guide for holiday and walking groups. Over the years, to help fund my mission, I serve as the compère, tour guide, host, or slave master – whatever you wish to call it, for a broad variety of groups and individuals who travel to the UK and abroad. It’s an essential key income for the mission and I often have to work my schedule around some of my trips.
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I’ve done Concorde Round-The World trips for executives from an aircraft manufacturing company, physician and spouse events, and couples & ‘POSSLQ’ holidays. ‘No, I’ve not suffered from a temporary moment of cognitive impairment, POSSLQ is a real word invented by the United States Census Bureau in the seventies. It’s an acronym for ‘Persons of the Opposite Sex Sharing Living Quarters.’
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Considering a ‘discreet’ luxury trip I was once requested to compère for a half-dozen millionaire executives and their… er, um,… ‘nieces’ to Little Palm Island, The Ocean Club, and a private yacht up the Orinoco River in Ciudad Guayana, POSSLQ was a lovely new word I was able to use rather than some that crossed my mind!
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Another thing I’ve discovered about Alfredo is that his attention span is about as long as his shoe laces! As soon as Al realised it wasn’t realistic to pinch a Queen Bee’s bum, his attention went elsewhere. Off in the distance he had focused on the modernity of the London Eye set against the backdrop of the River Thames.
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Down the back streets of Jermyn Street, across Haymarket, Panton Street where the Stock Pot Restaurant is based – the British equivalent of …well…nothing.. It’s British! It’s just clean food that’s cheap but every tourist who discovers it claims it as their own little secret. Meat & two veg and a pudding for a fiver – you can’t beat it. That is, unless you’re ripping insane and choose to eat at Mr. Wu’s.
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Mr Wu’s is truly one of the most revolting places I have ever been forced to enter. It was so bad I said my prayers after I ate! They serve fried things. And I’m using the word ‘things’ exclusively. I dare anyone to identify anything they serve in their £4.95 buffet. They have fried round things, fried breaded square things, fried long things, and re-fried things that were re-fried most likely over the past two nights. All complimented with rice that even starving Ethiopians would throw back. Yet, because it’s cheap, people (tourists), queue out the door at tea time!
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I’m either ashamed or proud (depending on how you look at it) to say that I’m the only Brit who has ever eaten in the place...once. The rest of us know better! But it’s cheap and that’s its draw. I suppose it’s not any worse than an economy meal on an american airlines flight – 'meat or non-meat anyone?'
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After crossing Leicester Square, running through Trafalgar Square and past St Martin’s I used ‘English logic’ to get to the Eye. Straight down to Charing Cross, we passed the station altogether and headed for the railway bridge that all trains in and out of Charing Cross use. No, I have not gone utterly Daggers* here, there actually is now a foot bridge that runs parallel with the tracks which took us straight to the South Bank of the Thames, where we walked to the Eye.
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Luigi was enjoying the beauty of the Thames, the sights of the commuter boats travelling up and down the river, the sights of Parliament and Big Ben just the other side of Westminster Bridge and off to the distance you could just make out the most mysterious building in the world, the SIS building.
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About a dozen years ago a group of recalcitrant terrorists lobbed an RPG-22 Neto anti-tank missile at the building. The Missile, among the most modern and pernicious of weaponry, is capable of piercing heavy armour through up to a meter of heavily reinforced concrete.
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These ne'er-do-wells reckoned they’d do some nasty damage to the building, break in and avail themselves of the building’s toilets. Their strike had a direct hit on one of the windows. Incredibly, this potent concrete and solid steel piercing missile did virtually nothing other than put a bit of a crack in one of the windows!
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The SIS building is also ‘allegedly’ one of the most expensive buildings in the world. (No, not the UK, but the WORLD!), no 'commoner' has even the remotest clue as to what it cost, it was all classified and conducted under the tightest veil of secrecy. And the substantiated rumour is that quite a few other countries paid a percentage of the costs, regardless of the fact the building is solely Her Majesty’s. 
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Take every James Bond film ever made, every John le Carré, Tom Clancy, and Clive Cussler novel, and roll them into one and you might….just might…begin to touch on the shenanigans that originate from this building! One thing that contributed to the mind-blowing cost is the secret tunnels that run from the building into the Houses of Parliament, Whitehall, and a couple of other destinations that I’d lose my toenails if I mentioned them! 
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Since the days of Blackbeard’s smugglers we Brit’s have been tunnelling everywhere we go. London looks as complex as a honeycomb beneath the surface. Many years ago my father told me that when the main tunnel blueprints were being drawn up some of the SIS planning team made destination notations using names of distant cities on them: Langley, Fort Meade, Camp Williams (Utah), and Menwith Hill (England). I’m sure (I hope) to the intelligent spy, no one would believe that there are actual tunnels to any of these destinations. But to some of the chromosomally challenged, I’m sure there may have been some confusion in the reports they submitted!
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Luigi, again being pushed and pulled everywhere by Alfredo looked exhausted. He was desperate for a brief moment of quiet. So I shouldn’t have been surprised that when we stepped into our Pod on the eye, just as the doors began to close, Luigi stepped off. He waived the old thumb on the nose waive to Alfredo as we ascended into the skies. I noticed Luigi hop into the next Pod so I was able to get a photo of him enjoying the view. 
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The 135 metre tall London Eye is the largest Ferris Wheel in Europe. Additionally it is the most popular paid tourist attraction in the United Kingdom. Originally launched by British Airways in 1999 it was the tallest Ferris Wheel in the world until the 165 metre Singapore Flyer was constructed in Singapore in 2008.
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There are 32 sealed, air-conditioned ovoidal passenger capsules, weighing ten tonnes and holds up to twenty-five people. You're free to walk around inside the capsule, and there is bench seating available in the centre of the pod. One circumference takes thirty minutes. Each capsule represents one of the London Boroughs. Alfredo was worried that he was going to be dizzy, but I assured him that the pods are balanced electronically to insure visitors are level at all times. I also pointed out that the entire facility is wheelchair accessible – a first in the world for Ferris Wheels and a true compliment to British Airways in their insistence that the design of the Eye make such a provision! 
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By the time we made the full rotation on the Eye all of us looked as if we could do with a battery recharge. I suggested to the twins that we walk along the Thames, past the still frightening Clink Prison that dates back to 1144 and on to Southwark Cathedral for the 17:30 Evensong Choral service. Choral music has been part of the cathedral since 1365 when it was an Augustinian Priory. It prospered during the days of Shakespeare who often attended the services before walking to the Globe for the evening’s entertainment.
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And because its directly beneath London Bridge Railway station (not to mention the London Dungeon as well!), it’s a convenient place to convene before heading home on the train. 
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Following the brief Lenten service we walked through the old catacombs, now part of the modern Underground (Tube), up the escalator and up the ramp to our Southbound train.
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Alfredo asked where we were headed next. I told him Battle, but as I looked at them both I knew they were headed for The Land of Wynken, Blynken, and Nod! The two of them were dead asleep even before the train pulled out of the station. I was rather relieved as I didn’t want to face having to make yet another apology to the trolley hostess for Alfredo’s cheeky use of his thumb and forefinger as the poor girl passed by! 
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*Daggers:

Dating back to the 17^th century the Cockney accent represents the basilectal (or Creole) style of English. Completely at the other end of the spectrum of the ‘acrolect’ or prestige accent of the well educated, affluent Englishman, the Cockney dialect is spoken almost in a rhyming way, using numerous and often spontaneous slang words that can leave even the most ardent Oxford educated English speaker utterly baffled. (I have similar problems when I visit people in South Carolina!)
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Here’s how the word ‘Daggers’ falls into the intricacies of the English language: You may have occasionally heard a Cockney speaking Englishman refer to someone of whom they’re suspicious as being ‘Barking.’ The word Barking euphemistically refers to a rabid dog that has gone insane. Also, it happens to be the last stop on the Hammersmith (Tube) Line.
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So you might hear in a café (pronounced Caff), an East London Cockney speaking cab driver say ‘Mate, I had this passenger today, crikey, was she ever Barking!' This means the woman was insane.
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So the other cabby at the table might respond ‘Too Right Nigel, I know what you mean! I had this Bird (woman), who went Daggers on me when she saw the fare on the metre!’
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No need to be alarmed. Neither our cabbies or generally our passengers carry knives or daggers in the cabs. Clearly a game of boasting and ‘one upmanship’ on the part of the other cabbie, he was saying that his passenger was far more insane than his friend’s! Although the Hammersmith Tube line ends at Barking, The District Line, which also stops at Barking, continues on to Upminster. Three stops past Barking is Dagenham. So, in Cockney logic, Daggenham becomes ‘Daggers.’ To say your passenger is Daggers means they’re three stops beyond Barking (mad)!
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So, if I were to believe that anyone at AR is going to read this rubbish I’ve written, I would be absolutely DAGGERS!
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Indeed, as most of my close friends know, I’m three stops beyond being barking mad – I’m completely DAGGERS!