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Written by Winifred Blackmore
| Illustration by: Dana Cooper
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One of the signs that I have become more British during my quarter century of exile is my changing attitude toward mud.
Yes, you read it right: mud. Once upon a time, if I thought about it at all, I thought, Yuck. Or possibly, Who tracked that in here? Let me see your shoes, now, and I mean everybody.
The great British love affair with mud - way they not just tolerate but revel in it (Glastonbury!) - baffled me. No doubt, it's a survival trait. After all, anyone phobic abou... |
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Written by Winifred Blackmore
| Illustration by: Dana Cooper
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This summer, a London bar—The Connaught—was voted the World’s Best Bar at the Spirited Awards in New Orleans, which is, apparently, “the industry’s most prestigious competition.” On reading this bit of news, my first reaction was outrage. Everybody knows the Best of Bermuda Cocktail Awards are the greatest gongs in the business! My second reaction was...more outrage (make mine a double!). Not because of the result (I’ve never been to the Connaught, which see... |
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Written by Winifred Blackmore
| Illustration by: Dana Cooper
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We were creeping home along the M25 the other afternoon, making idle chit chat about things that drive us crazy (motorcycles that weave in and out of traffic at warp speed, trucks that overtake other trucks while going up a hill...it’s a long list), when my husband dropped a bombshell. “Oh, by the way, I think there’s a wasps’ nest in the conservatory.”
Pardon?
We had a wasps’ nest in the garden two years ago. It was the size of a small watermelon, b... |
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Written by Winifred Blackmore
| Illustration by: Dana Cooper
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As I write this, I am at war. At war with the recycling men. Which is a shame, since I’m very keen on recycling. It’s in my blood. My mother still recycles drinking water. Making her rounds in the morning, she tracks down half-empty glasses and decants the contents into her watering can. Once, my son left a Sea-Monkey, bought in the Aquarium gift shop, “growing” in a tumbler by his bed. Into the can it went, and by the time Mom came to water the roses, it ha... |
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