Sunday Times

Please forgive two postings on one day; but I am aware that I've been a bit dilatory in bringing you scenes from Unmitigated England recently. This melancholy dull afternoon in Leicestershire gives me the perfect opportunity to catch up. Sunday lunch has been, and I hope for everybody still is, a very worthwhile institution. Right from childhood (Father: How much did you pay per pound for these bones mother?) and through all the very memorable lunchtimes with the beautiful women and children who have shared my life since, Sunday Lunch has always been very special. Particularly for the wine-fuelled interchanges that have taken place. So, I just have to share two snippets of conversation that have just taken place over the refectory table here. (Lord Ashley at one end, two of my heirs crouched at the other.) Me to the elder of the two (12): "Will you do this for me when I'm old and you've learnt to do a roast pig as good as this?" Son: "Yes of course, if we can remember who you are". Five minutes of quiet eating and then Son the Youngest (6) puts down his knife and fork and says: "I've got a cure for the Black Death". Me: " Bit late, but what is it?" Youngest Son: "Lemons". Me: "That was to prevent scurvy on ships". Reply: "Oh yes", followed by silence and the passing round of the gravy jug.

Sunday Palate

I couldn't resist this. A Sunday morning coloured abstract in Market Harborough, speaking for itself. Of course I do have to say that it's the juxtaposition of shape and colour that appeals, and the pillar box adds so much. But what of the blue box next to it? Being occupied with getting a bottle of claret to go with my leg of pig and the prospect of a couple of pre-lunch stiffeners in a little favourite Leicestershire pub, I didn't study it closely. Perhaps it's a receptacle for a spare pair of trainers and Lycra cycling shorts that seem to be de rigeur these days amongst the younger generation of postmen. That's it really, except to say that in there amongst the apples and new potatoes there's a poster stuck to the door for an Ian Hunter gig. All the Young Tubers.