Task 24: Make my own bottle of gin

To be honest I like most forms of alcohol and gin is no exception. If Peter and I are at home, our favourite drink in the evening is a gin martini, made with neat gin and just a whisper of vermouth, two ice cubes and two green olives. The idea of making my own gin was naturally appealing and I was pleased to find that there was a half-day course in London which sounded exactly what I was after.

What I hadn't realised was that Peter, who had seemed unusually relaxed about what to buy for my Christmas stocking presents (a tradition I insisted on maintaining when we were married), had been busy looking at my 60@60 list for ideas. One of his purchases was a gin-making kit, so I didn't bother to book the course and looked forward instead to breaking open the kit when we got back from South Africa:

The instructions looked extremely simple - crush the juniper berries to release the aroma, add vodka, leave to steep for 24 hours, strain and remove the berries, and that was it. There were suggestions of what could be added to create a more unusual taste, such as cardamom, Earl Grey tea and lavender, "once you are confident with your gin making". As I had enough vodka and berries to make three batches using the glass bottle supplied, and the process seemed so straightforward, I planned to make one plain batch and two with various added ingredients. As with many of my plans, it didn't quite work out like that.

The berries felt rather tough and took a fair bit of crushing:

They smelled promising, though, with a distinct scent of gin:

Having poured them into the bottle and then the vodka on top, I wasn't sure it should look like this:

Still, the colour seemed right and maybe the distribution of the berries wasn't significant. Within two hours, however, the liquid had turned a suspicious shade of yellow and by the next evening it was a deeply unpleasant brown:

It didn't look promising, but maybe it would taste better than it looked. Unfortunately not:

It was horribly bitter and I gave up on it, though Peter gamely finished the bottle over the next few evenings.

I decided it would be premature to launch into additional ingredients, so I made a second batch using the same method, except this time I only lightly bruised the berries. The result was a much better colour but it still tasted fairly awful:

Clearly I hadn't yet mastered the technique, so I used the remaining berries and vodka to make a final batch. I thought the problem might be the strength of the juniper, so I squeezed a couple of berries to release some of the aroma and simply poured the rest straight into the bottle and added the vodka. During the evening I kept popping into the kitchen to see how it was progressing, and was disappointed to find it was slowly turning deep yellow:

It turned out just as bitter as the previous lot, so once again it will be left to Peter to finish it. If I have another go, which is looking unlikely, I think I'll halve the number of juniper berries in the recipe and increase the quantity of vodka. All in all, though, it would be simpler - albeit less interesting - to revert to buying gin from the supermarket.

Task 26: Eat 5 foods I've never tried before - postscript

When I was discussing this task with my friend Edith before Christmas, and trying to come up with ideas of what I could eat, she asked whether I'd ever tried sorrel. I hadn't, and she very kindly offered to make me some sorrel soup once the plants on her allotment were ready for picking in late April/early May. Things moved on, I went to South Africa for nearly 3 months, and her generous offer completely slipped my mind. I was therefore rather startled when she rang last week to ask if I'd be in for the next 15 minutes, as she had some sorrel and plum compote to bring round for me.

I was relieved it wasn't soup, as there aren't many types I like, but I did feel rather guilty at the thought that she had gone to the trouble of making the compote, especially as I'd already completed this task while I was away. Guilt wasn't the emotion uppermost in my mind, though, when she showed it to me:

It looked grim and I was going to have to eat it.  Best to get it over with, I decided, so I had some that night after dinner.  To my surprise it was delicious - refreshing and with a light, delicate flavour. Peter, who hadn't felt obliged to try it, was encouraged by my enthusiastic reaction and helped himself the next night - so liberally that there was almost nothing left. It really was yummy.

A few days later, Edith took me round to her allotment, so that I could photograph the sorrel for the blog:

She plucked a few leaves for me to try raw and they too were very tasty - zingy, pleasantly crisp and with a flavour rather like sherbet. They make a good side salad and I came home clutching a bag of leaves, which we had the same evening while they were still fresh. I haven't seen sorrel in the greengrocer's, otherwise I would definitely buy some. Do try it, if you haven't already.  It certainly knocks spots off the moringa bean.

Task 33: Go on a first-aid course

This was suggested by a couple of friends and seemed a very sensible idea. We have a first-aid book at home but if it's an emergency, I wouldn't want to spend time looking up what to do, and of course if we're out of the house it would be useless. Also having seen quite a few accidents over the years and not been able to do anything to help other than ring for an ambulance, I felt I should learn how to make myself better prepared and more useful.

I'd assumed it would be fairly easy to find a course in the area and was very surprised that there was hardly anything available, except for comprehensive courses run for employees who require training as voluntary first aiders. Surely it's a good thing for members of the public to be able to access training too and at a reasonable price?  There are some helpful videos on the internet, but that's not really a substitute for hands-on practice with an experienced instructor.

The only two options I could find were St John's Ambulance, for which I'd have had to travel a long way - either Dunstable or Kent - or the British Red Cross, in Wimbledon. Neither was exactly cheap but at least the money would be going to a good cause.  As the nearer of the two, I plumped for the Red Cross, made my booking and headed there yesterday morning.

It didn't get off to a promising start, as I got lost on the way and arrived to find that no-one could access the building as the instructor had been misdirected to a course in Sutton and he had the only set of keys. Luckily he turned up only 10 minutes late (he extended the end-time so we had our full four hours) and we got cracking. 

There were 14 of us taking part, for a variety of reasons. Four were intending to apply for jobs - firefighter, cabin crew, archaelogical dig in remote part of desert, health project in Nepal - where although first aid training would be supplied if they were successful, it would help their chances if they could point to having already done a course. A couple roughly the same age as me had recently retired and were planning to travel widely in developing countries where access to medical support could be sketchy. Another had become a carer for her mother, two were running martial arts courses and thought some first aid training could be useful, and one seemed to have been involved in so many accidents already that knowing what to do seemed a very good idea.

One of the first things we covered was how to check whether someone was still breathing and if they were, how to place them in the recovery position. I decided it would be sensible to practise this again when I got home, and asked Peter if he would be my unresponsive body. He obligingly "collapsed" on the living room floor and it was interesting how much harder it is to put someone in the correct position when surrounded by furniture. He became rather more responsive when I accidentally banged his knee into a cupboard.

Giving chest compressions was exhausting, especially now that the recommended rate has doubled from one to two per second, and you may have to keep it going for a very long time if the ambulance can't get there quickly:

Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation became more successful when someone gently suggested that the mouth of the dummy should be open, not closed:

When we moved on to how to help someone who is having a seizure, I found myself struggling not to laugh, which would have been wildly inappropriate. It reminded me of what had happened when my brother, many years ago when he was in the Territorials, had taken part in an army first aid session. His role was to speak to the dummy that was lying in the road, convincingly plastered with blood and gore, and provide it with soothing words of comfort and reassurance. The problem was that in climbing out of the jeep, in combat gear, he had accidentally stepped on the dummy's face and smashed it in with his boot. An order is an order, so he had to spend the next twenty minutes telling the splintered remains not to worry, everything would be fine.

One of the most surprising things I learned is that if someone is having a severe allergic reaction and uses an epi-pen, it will provide only 5-20 minutes' relief. It's therefore very sensible, if you are at risk, to carry two with you rather than just one.

We covered a lot in four hours, including all the items on this list that have been ticked:

And here is my certificate:

I hope never to have to use what I've learned - although if I don't, it's likely I'll forget much of it unless I watch internet videos every now and then to remind me. However as you never know when you might need it, I'm very glad I've been on the course and would certainly recommend it.

Task 54: Read a book about the history of Ham

I think it's fairly normal to want to know about the history of the place where you live - its buildings, people, changes in social customs and so on - and I suppose having read History at university I have a particular interest in the past.  For years, long before we moved to Ham, I had intended to read a local history book but had never got around to it. Adding it to the list of tasks provided just the spur I needed.

There was no shortage of books to choose from, including a number that have been gathering dust at home, so I chose the most recent and well illustrated: The Matchless Vale - the Story of Ham and Petersham and their People, by Vanessa Fison, published in 2009. I would strongly recommend it if you want to know more about this lovely part of south-west London. Rather than produce a potted summary of it, I've focused on the parts that particularly appealed to me, as well as some extra bits and pieces, and hope that what I've written is more or less accurate.  

Having read Vanessa's book, I was thinking about how to write this post and realised it would be very dull without any photographs. As I couldn't simply copy the ones she had used, I dragged Peter - a better photographer than I am - on what turned into an extremely long walk all round Ham, snapping away. It became rather addictive, as we discovered other nooks and crannies, and couldn't resist adding them to the list of what I'd intended to cover. In the process we realised how long it had been since we'd last walked by the river or through the woods, as our normal route if we're going for a walk is past the Common to Ham Gate, through Richmond Park up to Pembroke Lodge and back again - a very pleasant round trip of three miles. We've now decided we must wander around more often.

Some 14 miles from central London, Ham and Petersham are adjacent villages, each with a charming rural character complete with river meadows, expanses of open land and a wealth of very attractive Stuart and early Georgian houses.  From the seventeenth to the mid-twentieth centuries their history was heavily influenced by the lords of the manor, the Dysarts of Ham House, who owned most of the land in the area. Despite its name, the House - built in 1610 and now a National Trust property - is in fact in the parish of Petersham, though the grounds straddle the boundary with Ham.  (Similarly, the Ham Polo Club is in Petersham, not Ham.)

Ham House

The gates, with motto Nemo me impune lacessit (No one provokes me with impunity!)

View of the rear of Ham House and part of its grounds

Although the two villages have to some extent a shared history, their characters are quite distinct. Petersham was recorded in the Domesday Book and has long been the preserve of dukes, duchesses, assorted aristocracy and the landed gentry. It has never had more than a handful of shops and now has none at all. 

Ham was originally a hamlet of Kingston and while it still has its share of the rich and famous, it has always been more agricultural, with three large farms in the past.  In the late nineteenth century it developed quickly into a proper village with the arrival of a significant number of tradesmen and smallholders, and now has three separate parades of shops, including a small Tesco and Sainsbury.  Unlike Petersham it has a very mixed environment. As well as mansions, beautiful cottages and plain ordinary houses like ours, it also has several large Council estates, at least one of which has a serious drugs and crime problem. As a friend who lives there commented, she feels safe at home at night as the criminals will all be out elsewhere!

One of the aspects of Ham that I've always liked is its eccentricity.  Since the late seventeenth century, for example, there has been a ferry linking Ham to Twickenham, but until relatively recently it was a simply one man in an old rowing boat. If you couldn't see him, you had to call and wave until he appeared (or not, if you were unlucky that day), wait until he came across and then slither down the muddy bank into the boat - or the river, if you were really unlucky. Now it's rather more sophisticated:

We have a Convent - but it's Protestant, which I hadn't realised was even possible. St Michael's was originally Orford Hall, built in about 1730, and was bought by the international Anglican Community of the Sisters of the Church, an order founded in 1870, to become the Mother House and Novitiate of the order. Martingales Close, where we live, was created partly from land that previously belonged to the Convent and the nuns - who sadly sold the building and moved last year - always regarded the occupants of the Close as part of their flock.

They had, in their words, "a particular commitment to hospitality and spiritual accompaniment" and were actively engaged in the local community. It was great fun watching them wandering around the annual Ham Fair on the Common, particularly when one of them rolled up the sleeves of her habit, seized the baseball bat and tried to "kill the rat" (a game that was later banned, apparently because a group of anti-vivisectionists complained, even though the rat was clearly a stuffed grey sock).

A few used to go to adult education classes and it was slightly unreal watching four of them squeeze into a mini and head off pretty briskly into Richmond. Sister Joy was one of my favourites. She was 80 when I first knew her and especially enjoyed making candles, which she used to pack into a suitcase and take up to London to sell for charity. No-one wanted to deprive her of this innocent pleasure, but as she grew less steady on her feet and more absent-minded, the risk of her accidentally incinerating the shed became a distinct possibility. In the end she switched to making cards.

St Michael's Convent

Another building with an interesting history is the tiny Gate House built in 1771, which was at one time an almshouse.  Its name derives from the fact that there used to be a gate across the road nearby to stop cattle straying off the Common. Mrs Sarah "Grannie" Morffew, the daughter of a charcoal burner, moved there in 1852.  Apparently very fond of snuff, she died forty years later at the remarkable age of 105 - according to her death certificate, of "senility and exhaustion". The building is now part of a physiotherapy studio, having been restored in 1892 by the Hon Mrs Algernon Tollemache in memory of her husband.  (The Dysarts of Ham House adopted the name Tollemache in 1821).

In the same year she also built and endowed a row of six almshouses in Ham Street - three for married couples and three for single people - which are still in use.  An elderly friend and his wife were given the chance of living there some years ago and although they were grateful to be able to get out of their grotty flat in a high rise Council estate, and to have a garden, they found there were a few problems. In particular, they had to retain the original draughty leaded windows and consequently faced hefty heating bills in the winter.

One of the many interesting old houses on Ham Common is Ensleigh Lodge, which has a large curved gable with nothing behind it at the top, so the two highest windows are false and there purely for symmetry.  Also the fanlights are wooden, which is unusual:

Further along the Common is the Cassel Hospital (or Casserole, according to predictive text).  A late eighteenth century grade II listed building, it was originally called Morgan House.  Robert Philippe, Duc de Chartres, lived there from 1863 until 1871, with his wife and cousin the Princesse d'Orleans. He was a grandson of King Louis Philippe and was exiled from France with him in 1848.

The house became West Heath, a school for young ladies, in 1879. The school moved to Sevenoaks in 1930 and later became famous when Diana, future Princess of Wales was a pupil. After a period as a hotel, the house became the Cassel Hospital just after the Second World War and pioneered a new technique of behavioural rather than medicinal group and individual psychotherapy. It now provides specialist NHS treatment for adults with severe and complex personality disorders and young people with emerging personality disorders, who have often exhausted all other avenues of help from mental health services.

 

On the other side of the Common is South Lodge, formerly known as Alcott House, and occupied in 1838 by a community - the Concordium - dedicated to changing the world and creating a new Eden. The term "New Age" originates from one of their publications. Members were meant to be celibate and led an increasingly austere life. Meals were generally uncooked and consisted mainly of bread, raisins, fruit and cold vegetables which they grew themselves. Alcohol, meat, salt and spices were eschewed as too exciting. The men grew long beards and wore loose clothes and sandals, while the women discarded their corsets, which must at least have been some relief, and wore similarly simple clothes.

The day started at 5am and would have felt rather long, especially when the community latched on to the new fad of hydropathy. This required them to bathe in and drink pints of cold water, and wrap themselves in cold wet sheets. It was said to cure all sorts of ailments that had hitherto failed to respond to treatment. The incentive to claim a return to good health and a warm bed must have been powerful.

The Concordium was one of the founders of vegetarianism in England and attracted the attention of many of the radically unorthodox of the day, including Amos Bronson Alcott, the American transcendentalist philosopher and educator, and father of Louisa M Alcott. He stayed with them in 1842 and returned to New England resolved to set up a similar community there. He did co-found Fruitlands on a 50-acre site near Harvard but it lasted barely 6 months, whereas the Concordium managed to stagger on for 10 years, with a mere 30 members at its peak. Louisa, who was eleven at the time, later wrote a subversive short story about Fruitlands, to show what life there was really like.

In 1848 the building was acquired and later extended to provide a home for girls left orphaned and destitute by the current serious outbreak of cholera. It became known as the National Orphan Home and offered accommodation for 120 girls, many of whom were orphaned by the Crimean War. The Home eventually closed in 1922 and soon after the Second World War was converted into flats.

South Lodge

The New Inn, at the corner of the Common near South Lodge, hardly warrants its name as it was built in 1756. However there has been an inn on this site since at least 1675 and apparently there has been one on the site of the Hand and Flower pub across the road since much earlier even than that.

Next door stands one of the oldest buildings in Ham - Stafford Cottages, dating back to the beginning of the seventeenth century. In 1799 it was divided into three dwellings, which in 1851 were occupied by two gardeners, a carpenter and their families, but it is now a single dwelling again:

A little further along are the two Gate House Lodges, built in about 1679, when the Avenues leading to Ham House were laid out. They look charming but with such small windows and abundant wistaria, are probably rather dark inside. Next to the one on the left is a cottage that used to belong to Chris Brasher, Olympic athlete, distinguished journalist and organiser of the first London marathon in 1981.

The Lodge to the left of the Avenue

The only house in Ham to have a Blue Plaque is Newman House on Ham Street, previously called Grey Court House. Built in 1742, it was the boyhood country home of John Henry Newman, who was born in 1801, converted to Catholicism in 1845 and was created a cardinal in 1879.  His beatification was officially proclaimed by Pope Benedict XVI on 19 September 2010 during his visit to the UK. His canonisation as a saint is dependent on the confirmation of a second miracle attributed to his intercession. 

More bizarrely, the only house in Ham to have a horse's head sticking out of a window is Park Gate House, next to the Ham Gate entrance to Richmond Park.  The house was re-built in 1768 and significantly altered and extended since it was bought by an Arab prince in the early 1980s. When he first bought the house, he was apparently keen to reassure local residents about the scale and extent of the proposed alterations, so he invited members of local societies on a guided tour. My mother, whose father owned a small building company until it went out of business during the Great Depression, has always enjoyed looking around homes and building sites and she was able to take part in the tour. I can't remember her saying much about it, other than that it had lots of rooms and they were given tea and biscuits.

Ham Gate is one of the six historic gates into Richmond Park, dating from the time of its enclosure by Charles I.  In 1921 the existing wrought-iron gates replaced the old wooden ones. They are carefully removed every time the Park hosts a major cycling event - an increasingly frequent occurrence - to ensure they don't get damaged. The lamps on top of the pillars are gas, not electric, and there is a Victorian pillar box in the wall:

Not surprisingly, Ham has a number of connections with the British royal family. Like many people who live here, I had heard that Nell Gwynn, the most popular mistress of Charles II, was living at Sudbrook Lodge - a fine tall house opposite the New Inn - at the time of the birth of their illegitimate son Charles Beauclerk. The story was that she had held the baby out of an upstairs window and threatened to drop him unless he was made a duke. King Charles gave way and the infant was later created Duke of St Albans. It seemed entirely plausible, but unfortunately Vanessa's book points out that the boy was born in 1670, ten years before the Lodge was built.

Sudbrook Lodge

Ormeley Lodge on Ham Gate Avenue was built in about 1715 and is the longstanding home of Lady Annabel Goldsmith, mother of Zac Goldsmith. Pevsner described the house as "exquisite" and it is one of the most beautiful houses in Ham. There is a story that the future King George IV, when he was the Prince of Wales, and Maria Fitzherbert spent their honeymoon there in December 1785 after their (invalid) marriage, but this has never been substantiated.

Ormeley Lodge

There have been at least three houses on the site of Forbes House on Ham Common. The original Georgian house was bought in 1872 by Harry Warren Scott. His wife had been married before and had a daughter named Nina, who in 1881 married Claude George Bowes-Lyon, Lord Glamis, at St Peter's church in Petersham. They had ten children including Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, the late Queen Mother, who used to come and stay with her grandmother at Forbes House. Her elder sister Violet Hyacinth died there of a fever at the age of only 11 and is buried in St Andrew's churchyard, which is where both my parents are buried. It's the church where Peter and I were married.

In 1935 the house was bought by Mrs Winifred Buckley, who pulled it down and replaced it with a neo-Georgian house.  At one stage it was an old people's home and when this closed in 1992, it was demolished and replaced with the present neo-classical building, to be used as a family home. Apparently the then owner had wanted it to be a virtual copy of his house in France, but when his wife saw it she was less than happy and declined to live there. It was on the market for a long time and rumours were rife about who might buy it. Boris Becker was said to be interested but it's not generally known who lives there now.

Forbes House

There are also some unusual modern buildings in Ham, including the flats in Langham Close, just off the Common. Co-designed by Sir James Stirling, one of the most influential British architects of his generation, they are considered a landmark in the emerging Brutalist style of the late 1950s in England:

We now even have a Huf house in Ham Street, which I would love to see inside:

Finally, there is the heart of Ham village - the Common, with its rejuvenated pond, complete with nesting swans and a wonderful assortment of coots, moorhens, geese and ducks. It has a lovely village green atmosphere, especially when the cricket team is playing, and is well used by everyone who lives here, whatever their age or circumstances. Right up until the 1930s, the villagers exercised their ancient rights as commoners to keep a cow, horse or sheep on the Common. Often animals got stuck in the pond and had to be helped out. I wonder whether those rights still exist?

Every time we come home from trips abroad, no matter how enjoyable, we always feel how lucky we are to live here. For years I've thought the icing on the cake would be to own a tricycle and pedal around the Common, down to the river and back across to the Park. Peter disagrees.  He thinks Ham has enough eccentrics already.

Task 40: Learn how to use my sewing machine

When Peter and I married over 28 years ago, one of the items I acquired was the sewing machine he'd bought for his first mother-in-law a few years before she died.  Occasionally I would take it out of its hard cover, peer at it and start reading the manual, but it was clear that the technology had moved on a lot since I'd learned to use one at school (zig zag stitching was not heard of then), and it all seemed too difficult. Besides, my marks for sewing had been only marginally better than those for domestic science ("B, satisfactory" was the summit of my achievement) and I had no natural talent for it.

It had always been my intention, however, to get to grips with the machine and at least be able to use it for simple things. Quite what, I had no idea, but I was sure it could be useful for something.  Making it part of the Challenge was just the spur I needed.

Further impetus was provided by my lessons with Rowena, learning to make a nightdress in Cape Town (Task 41), and I came home determined to have a go. I'd forgotten how large and heavy the old machine was, but I lugged it onto the desk in the study, having cleared a space, and spent a few hours reading the instructions and trying to match the diagrams to the various knobs and levers. I decided to start by practising on some old unused pieces of cotton, set aside for painting rags, which was fortunate given the way things turned out. 

The tension seemed rather tight on one side of the stitching, even at its loosest setting, but given how long it had taken me to work out how to load the bobbin and thread the needle, I reckoned it would do for the time being. When I pressed the foot pedal it seemed a bit sluggish, so I decided to give it a rest and consult the manual again - carefully moving right away from the pedal.  As I was reading, the machine suddenly started stitching very fast, accompanied by a distinct smell of burning. How on earth did that happen?  And not just once, but three times - even when I was in another part of the room, nowhere near it.

The choice was either to get it serviced and repaired, or to buy a new one. I was torn, as in principle there was nothing wrong with the old machine (apart from being a health and safety hazard) and if it worked, it could do everything I was likely to need. On the other hand a new one would have more features which could be useful if I got hooked, and it would certainly be lighter to move around. Peter definitely favoured buying new, as he didn't want the study incinerated, and I rather fancied the idea of having my very own machine. I could justify the expense as it could count as my birthday present for 2015, which was still due as I hadn't been able to think of anything I wanted.

After lots of internet research, I narrowed the choice of machine down to two options and then asked Rowena for her advice. She approved both, with a slight preference for the more expensive model, and sent me a link to one on eBay which had never been used but was about 3 years old and out of guarantee.  What to do?  It could be a bargain, with a saving of £50, but I was keen to have the guarantee and I also liked the idea of being able to buy it from John Lewis and pop in there if I had a problem. I decided to go into John Lewis and see it at first hand before making up my mind. Having come from lunch out with a friend, where wine was taken, I was flushed with enthusiasm and perhaps inevitably ended up buying it - with the bonus of being able to get it there and then. Happily when I got home I found that the one on eBay had been withdrawn, so I could revel in my purchase without twinges of guilt.

After a few false starts I was up and running, and decided to make - as a present for a friend - a cover for a pashmina using some organza in a wonderful blue/purple, which I'd bought in Cape Town when in a fabric shop with Rowena. Before tackling the nightdress she had shown me how to make one and I'd found it extremely useful whenever I wanted to tuck a pashmina in my handbag for evenings out. In the process she had taught me how to do a French seam and having brought it back home with me, I had a model to work from. It had been fairly straightforward to make, as it was based on an envelope style cushion cover (ie with no zips or other fastenings), and having watched several videos on YouTube with detailed instructions, I felt fairly confident.

My first mistake was an extremely basic one. Looking at the reams of organza, I decided I could simply cut out a piece that was the right shape, without measuring it. Stupid - but that didn't become obvious until I'd stitched the short seams and was pinning it all in place, ready to do the final long seams. I then realised the sides weren't straight and one section was quite a bit narrower than another.  I tried cutting some more off the wider part - still without measuring it (you'd think I'd have learned, but no) - and that improved it, but even so it clearly wasn't right and I wasn't happy:

The only way I could think of rectifying it, other than starting from scratch again, was to make the long seams wider.  This would enable me to make it all straight at the expense of reducing the overall width of the cover, and I reckoned I'd allowed enough spare fabric for that. Wrong again - I'd forgotten I'd already cut some off.  Anyway it seemed a way forward, so I pressed on:

By now, a project that should have taken only 10-20 minutes, according to the YouTube videos, was well into its second hour. In the end it was finished and by putting an extra fold in the pashmina, it was a snug fit:

One fortuitous mistake, which you can just about see in the upper horizontal seam, is that I made the overlapping fabric section too deep initially, so I folded over a bit more material and stitched a second seam. I rather like the effect of the double line of stitching, and it should help to stop any fraying. Definitely more practice required, but I've certainly learned from the experience and will be wielding my measuring tape in future.

Task 29: Make chutney - postscript

Now that Easter is here, I suddenly remembered about the three jars of chutney maturing in a dark cupboard in the garage.  We sampled one of them yesterday and I was relieved to find it tasted yummy.  Peter was less enthusiastic but he claims not to like any type very much, so I'm not downhearted by his lukewarm reaction. Personally, and particularly given I'm a numpty in the kitchen, I was happy.  It doesn't make up for the failure of the carrot cake, but it's encouraging.

Task 32: Help someone de-clutter a room

One of the important aspects of the whole Challenges enterprise for me is to do something positive to help other people.  If I can enjoy myself at the same time, that's great, but like many people I'm happier sponsoring someone or donating to their chosen charity if it's for an activity that benefits others rather than simply something like a run or a walk.  Helping someone to de-clutter a room that they feel has got a bit out of hand and can't easily tackle on their own, for whatever reason, seems eminently worthwhile.  

As I love de-cluttering - not that you'd know it if you saw our house before I'd had a chance to bundle stuff away -  I was looking forward to tackling this task.  What I hadn't anticipated was how difficult it might prove to find someone who was willing to let me loose on their room.  A few friends had mentioned in the past that they felt overwhelmed by the clutter in their house and couldn't face tackling it alone, but they either felt embarrassed at the thought of having anyone else see it up close, or they were too busy working and/or looking after someone to spare the time, or they were in the middle of a family crisis and it simply wasn't a priority.

Eventually a friend who would prefer to remain nameless, although she realises that some people may recognise the photos below, decided that her garage - which she uses as a storage and laundry room - badly needed sorting out. She would happily have done it herself but unfortunately her arthritis makes that impossible, so she agreed I could be let loose - under her supervision - to tackle it as my Task 32. I donned my scruffs and headed to her house, armed with dustbin liners and a duster:

My friend has high standards so I knew the room wouldn't be a real tip, but when we inspected it to see what needed doing, it was clear it would take us a while:

Luckily it was a lovely sunny day so we were able to move things outside while we systematically tackled all the cupboards and drawers. To speed up the process we agreed some basic ground rules, eg anything rusty, perished, gungy etc could go straight out. My friend focused on the laundry side, I dealt with the DIY side, and we did the gardening and general storage together. 

It was very satisfying once we'd got about halfway through and could see the room starting to take shape, with drawers labelled with the contents (having been emptied and sorted first), each shelf dedicated to particular items such as outdoor shoes and vases, all electrical items (fuses, plugs, spare bulbs etc) placed together in one drawer, etc. Everything that could be recycled or which might be wanted by someone else was put in the relevant crates, old paint cans were piled in a separate bag for special handling, and plain rubbish was dumped in the bin for the refuse collectors.

After two hours we had a tea break, then resumed to finish the task before retiring - creaking and groaning - for a well-earned gin.  This is the "after" photo:

We were both happy with the end result and my friend can now access her washing machine much more easily, which is an added bonus. I suppose I should really tackle our own garage now....

Task 8: Ride pillion on a motorbike

One of the two key rules my parents imposed when I was a teenager was that I mustn't go on a motorbike.  (The other was no hitchhiking.)  There was no chance of this being rescinded when I started going out with someone whose face was badly scarred, having had a serious accident on his scooter.  Admittedly he was accident-prone - when I first met him, his leg was in plaster as he'd broken it tripping over a garden gnome and he'd previously fractured his skull - but that was hardly reassuring for my parents.  As time went by I started going out with people who had a car and then learned to drive and acquired my own ancient mini, so one way or another by the age of 60 I had never been on a motorbike. It seemed time to rectify this by riding pillion - arguably more scary than actually being in control of the machine myself - and so it appeared on my list of challenges.

One of our lovely neighbours is Rob, who is like a large teddy bear.  He has a number of motorbikes and readily agreed to take me out on one of them.  His wife Karen kindly lent me her gloves and helmet, so all we needed was a warm sunny day - and today was it.  I was taken aback when I saw the bike he'd selected as it was black and huge. It's a 950cc KTM with 160 brake horse power and it goes from 0 to 70mph in 3 seconds.  Up close, I wasn't even sure how I was going to get on it.  I may be smiling, but I was definitely a scared hamster:

After we'd donned our gear, Rob got on the bike and turned it around, ready for me to mount.  Eyeing it nervously, I couldn't see any obvious way of doing that.  He explained that I should put my hands on his shoulders, place my right foot on a little foot rest and swing my left leg over the back of the seat.  It wasn't elegant but it worked, and we were ready to go:

We started by heading into Richmond Park, where the speed limit is 20mph.  It's surprising how fast that feels on a motorbike, particularly when you've been held in traffic and then can suddenly accelerate.  My muscles were aching with the strain of hanging on and I realised I could probably afford to relax a bit and enjoy the scenery.  Once I did that, I started to enjoy the experience. The deer seemed so much nearer than they do when you're in a car, and I could smell the grass and feel the wind on my face. Rob stopped so that we could take another photo and to check I was OK. Getting off the motorbike to pose beside it was undignified as I forgot to stand up first and more or less slithered around until I fell off.  Not quite the image I had in mind.

At that point, to be honest, I'd have happily gone back home through the Park as it was a bit unnerving going over bumps and I knew that the alternative was heading towards the main road and returning the fast way.  Still, I reckoned this was going to be a one-off and I wanted to get the most out of the experience.  So, back on board - smoothly, this time - and we set off for Roehampton Gate and the dual carriageway.

Surprisingly I found I not only liked the ride, now I was more used to it and leaning into bends, but it was exhilarating as we picked up speed - briefly hitting 70mph. I felt perfectly safe in Rob's hands, threading through traffic and changing lanes. This was fun!

I'm very glad I included it as one of my tasks, otherwise I doubt I'd ever have tried it. Being nervous beforehand added to the high afterwards.  I must remember that when it comes to the abseiling....

Task 55: See Henning Wehn live on stage

Laughing is one of the greatest pleasures in life and including a task that focused on this was a no-brainer.  Although I've seen a number of stand-up comedians in South Africa over the years, I've never been to one in the UK, so that was an easy decision.  Deciding who to go and see was equally simple as Peter and I both find Henning Wehn very funny when we listen to him on The Unbelievable Truth and see him on Would I Lie to You, so he was my top choice.  Luckily when I googled him last December I found he had a show in London in early April, just after we were due to return from South Africa, so I booked tickets straight away.  It's as well I did it then, as most of his shows for the first half of this year are sold out.

For anyone who hasn't already come across him, Henning is the self-styled German Comedy Ambassador in London.  As his website points out, "This is not the easiest of jobs because Germans allegedly do not have a sense of humour.  Henning does not find that funny".  He moved to the UK in 2002, originally planning to stay for a year to improve his English, but "the good weather, the tasty food and the classy women made me stay". In 2003 he went to an open mic night and decided to try his hand at stand-up comedy. He's now well established and lives permanently in London - at least, for the next two years....

The show was at the Leicester Square Theatre, 7-9pm with an interval.  We arrived early to soak in the atmosphere and were interested to see that the queue, which was snaking around the corner, included people of all ages, with at least as many men as women. 

Some were a bit slow to take their seats, so the show started about 2 minutes late with an announcement from Henning apologising to any Germans in the audience for the delay, which was due to British tardiness.  At one point he asked whether there were any Germans in the audience.  One woman put her hand up and he then talked to her in German for quite some time.  Eventually he turned round to the rest of us and explained he was simply doing what the British do when we're abroad - talk in our own language and ignore the locals - except he wasn't shouting.

Musing on the implications of Brexit, he pondered whether he should be termed an immigrant.  On balance he thought not, as the word implied suffering and he really hadn't suffered that much making the journey to the UK.  Admittedly he had had to get to Dortmund airport early and hang around for the flight to Luton, and then at Luton he found it didn't connect to any trains, and when he got to the railway stations none of the fast trains stopped there, but still at least he'd had a seat on the plane rather than hanging on to one of the landing wheels. 

The British reliance on self deprecation and humour to get away with incompetence, compared with German precision and exactitude, came in for some witty observations. For immigrants, the UK is seen as a land of opportunity, where you can realise your dreams. If, for example, your dream is to become a plumber, you can simply set up and start the next day. As you stand there in pools of water and muck, you can explain to the customer that it didn't work too well this time and maybe plumbing isn't your strongest suit. The same approach isn't to be recommended in Germany.

Our unwillingness to address the issue of colour was also examined. He held up some boards with photos of famous footballers and musicians, asking which was the odd one out. In each case only one was either white or black, but no-one in the audience gave that answer. Instead there was "the only blonde", "the only one born overseas", etc.  No-one wanted to state the obvious. In the end he held up a board with seven red squares and one green, and asked the same question.  Um...

What I like most about his humour is that he really thinks about issues and human behaviour, and often bases his satire - which is witty rather than abrasive - on perceptions of foibles or illogicalities.  He sees an aspect that wouldn't strike most people but when he draws it out, it seems true if slightly weird.  Are we really like that? Well, yes, probably we are.  It's just we'd never noticed it before.

A couple of days before the show, it occurred to me that it would make the blog more interesting if I could include a photo of me with Henning (and to be honest, I was excited at the possibility).  His website has the option of emailing him, so I sent him a short email, explaining why I was doing the blog and asking if I could meet him for just a minute or two after the show and have a photo taken of us together.  To my surprise and delight, he replied instantly and said that would be fine, as he'd be in the foyer anyway. He also wished me luck with the blog.

After the encore, I lurked around until the crowd had cleared and then explained who I was. He immediately obliged while Peter took a few photos, and commented on my post about the Dickens Museum - so, unlike many of my friends, he's actually read some of the blog!! Here we are, with him sporting an English Heritage flag (you had to be there to get the joke):

If you have the chance, I'd urge you to go to one of his shows.  Humour is a very personal thing and I've found it impossible to capture his style here, but I think you'd have a great time.