Recipe

 

Yorkshire Pudding Porridge

1. A couple of scoops of porridge oats in a large microwaveable

 bowl. Sprinkle a little salt in if desired.

2. Mix with boiling water and  milk - half and half.

3. Pop in the microwave for 4 mins. Stirring halfway through.

4. Banana in a bowl.

5. Crush the banana with a fork and add small helpings 

of chia seeds and milled flax seeds.

6. Pour in a little honey for extra sweetness.

7. Spoon cooked porridge over the other ingredients.

8. Combine with a fork or spoon.

9. Add a little extra milk.

⦿

Enjoy.

This recipe comes to you free of charge 

from the  Yorkshire Pudding Foundation 

for Nutrition and Healthy Eating.

Reliance

Just like you dear reader, there was a time when I lived without computers, without internet access, without my favourite websites. It was even a time before blogging came along to civilise the planet.

In those long ago days, how did we fill our time? I can hardly remember.

Anyway, that was then but this is now. Nowadays we seem to rely upon computer access for almost everything. It's where we read the news, watch videos, communicate with friends and family, go shopping, study reviews, find pictures, read maps, plan journeys, do banking, pay bills, blog and blog and blog  and find out about Pete Best. Pete Best - who was he you ask?

Randolph Peter Best (né Scanland; born 24 November 1941) is a British 

retired musician who was the drummer for the Beatles from 1960 to 1962. 

He was dismissed shortly before the band attained global fame and 

is one of several people referred to as a fifth Beatle.

I could have easily asked something else, anything else but Pete Best came to mind. What a story he might have had to tell if Ringo had never been born.

Sometimes it seems as if you can find out anything, everything via the internet and it has become an integral part of most people's lives.

Last night, I was tapping away here in the internet when I suddenly lost my wifi connection. There seemed to be no reason for this to happen. In fact I was in the middle of making my scathing blogpost about  G.I.Joe/Action Man Pete Hegseth. Perhaps Google had detected this and outed me like a bunch of ICE agents dragging a brown person from a building.

I felt a little lost such is my reliance upon this magical internet connection. It was not the first time it had happened but in the past some straightforward jiggerypokery upon the keyboard or with the router has quickly restored the connection.  However, this time round I was not able to get reconnected until earlier this evening when investigating the functionality of the little USB wireless adapter device that I have plugged in to one of the ports on my desktop computer.

For some unknown reason, this ingenious aid had malfunctioned but thankfully restoration was simple. What a delight and a relief it was to again see the tiny triangular internet connected symbol in the corner of my screen. The Great Yorkshire Pudding was back in the game! Whoo-hoo!

Synonyms of reliance are dependence, assurance, faith and trust. It is as if I have come to really need the internet in my life. Maybe you feel that too.  It has become our rock, our touchstone, our guide, our sounding board. I do not really like admitting this but without the internet we are utterly lost, floundering around in the darkness as we must have been before.

Truthed

America's current Secretary of War is a cartoon character who very much reminds me of Barbie's boyfriend Ken. The main difference is that Ken's plastic head had air in it but the current Secretary of War has testosterone mixed with ignorance in his skull.  Another difference is that Ken was a nice guy. He was never guilty of sexual misconduct, financial mismanagement nor excessive drinking. He was also devoted to Barbie when they went surfing or attended beach parties together. In contrast, the current Secretary of War has had three wives and various affairs.

This is what his own mother, Penny Hegseth, said about him in an e-mail back in  2018:-

You are an abuser of women — that is the ugly truth and I have no respect 

for any man that belittles, lies, cheats, sleeps around, and uses women 

for his own power and ego. You are that man (and have been for years).

You simply cannot imagine Ken's mother writing a similar e-mail about him.

Not only does GI Joe Hegseth delight in using hyperbolic tough guy  language that he has no doubt picked from all the war films he has whooped and salivated about, he also mangles English.

The other day, I noticed him using "truth"  as a verb as he referred to his lord and master's pronouncements  on the propaganda social media site  that was ironically titled Truth Social when it was petulantly established. Hegseth said that Emperor Trump had "truthed" this and also "truthed" that Not the familiar "tweeted" that we had all got used to via Twitter but "truthed"! I ask you.

It is a further irony that the bloated and increasingly demented old man in The White House rarely promotes or speaks the truth. He manipulates it and abuses it to his own narcissistic ends. When others speak inconvenient truths, his instinct is to shut them down or insult them. A more appropriate name for Truth Social would be "Loada Bollocks Social". After all what could be more disingenuous than posting an image of yourself as a modern day Jesus Christ - oh sorry, I meant a  doctor!

Triomphe

 

Cherry blossom does not last very long. Lengthening days and sunshine tempt it out of hiding and then it bursts triumphantly upon the urban scene like a bright firework fountain illuminating a coal-black November sky. All too soon it is gone - especially if there's a stiff wind or an April storm.

These first two pictures are of the cherry tree in our garden. It has put on quite a show this year - the best I can remember. But if we are rewarded with a bumper summer cherry crop then I expect that the birds will get to the fruit first. That's usually the case - with wood pigeons being the main greedy culprits. Pigeon pie anyone?

Last night I attended another pub quiz at "The Robin Hood" with the two Michaels who have been my quiz buddies for a quarter of a century. We have won many quizzes but never before had we achieved a perfect score of 25/25. Many 24s and 23s but never before a 25 until last night. Everything came together nicely. Mick knew that Tom Jones sang the theme song for the 007 film "Thunderball". Mike worked out the anagram - "HYACINTH BUCKET" and for some odd reason I knew that Taylor Swift's current single honours the English film actress - Elizabeth Taylor.

They call it team work and the three of us  floated home on cloud nine.

Also - yesterday afternoon...Who is that mean-looking dude who has just completed the Paris Marathon with  58,852 other runners? There he is on the Champs Elysees with his medal and The Arc de Triomphe behind him.

Why - I do declare - it is our lovely son Ian. Riding aboard the Eurostar train, he was back in his west London flat by 6.30 pm - already planning another foreign marathon in Seville, Spain next February. By the way, he has run much longer distances that a mere 26.2 miles. As I said to him over the telephone, I would feel I had really achieved something simply by walking a marathon distance  in one day with a midday stop for a sandwich and homegrown cherries.

We are very proud of him and he proves that there are tough  vegans around.  A plant-based diet does not have to be a handicap when it comes sport - or in his case running. Is that a sport or a pastime?

I expect that most American visitors to this blog will already know that the massive new triumphal arch planned for Washington D.C. has largely been inspired by Paris's Arc de Triomphe. Of course, The Orange Tyrant insists that America's arch will be bigger and better than all the rest - just like The Golden Ballroom  which is rising from the unfortunate ruins of The East Wing of The White House like a phoenix... or maybe a dodo... or a big fat wood pigeon that has been feasting on stolen cherries.  One name mooted for the crass new addition to the Washington cityscape is The Epstein Files Distraction Arch.

Disappointment

At 1.30pm all seemed hopeful as I marched along Psalter Lane in spring sunshine. At the roundabout, I turned down Sharrow Lane, then across busy London Road and on to Woodhead Road where my son Ian once owned a terraced house. Ahead of me, I could see my destination - Bramall Lane football stadium - the home of Sheffield United F.C.. This famous old ground loomed in red and white livery - the same colours as The Blades' team shirts.

Usually, when I go to see my beloved team - The Tigers of Hull City - I have to travel by car or train. It's sixty miles from Sheffield to Hull. However, yesterday I could walk to the game. Just 2.3 miles from our front door. A welcome change.

On the corner, a young woman was selling football programmes. I handed her a tenner and then the fiver in my change blew out of her hand and I had to chase it. We both laughed about that but perhaps it was an omen.

Outside turnstiles 16 to 23 there was a tedious security operation taking place - specially devised for visiting fans. The queue moved terribly slowly and some fans suffered the indignity of body searches. Fortunately, they did not pick on me. After all, 72 year old lifelong supporters rarely turn up for away matches with flares and house bricks. All of the security personnel were in bright yellow day-glow jackets and two of them had barking dogs on leashes. Another hound was a sniffer dog. He did not pick up any suspicious smells from me probably because I was wearing  Salle de Bain by "Old Man".

I scanned the barcode on my ticket and proceeded through the turnstile. Up two short staircases and I was in the cavernous Bramall Lane stand concourse, below the seating. It was packed with Hull City fans in black and amber - my tribe. A scrum of two hundred or so lairy youths were chanting in unison taking it in turns to crowd surf. It was quite hard to get through them.

Finally, I reached my assigned seat - at the far end of a row and partly for that reason I was very happy with it. Before kick off, I sat and read my programme and ate a satsuma.

For some unknown reason, visiting fans have developed the habit of standing up throughout the playing time and so it was yesterday. Quite irritating really when you would otherwise be sitting down on the seat you have paid for. I watched Oli McBurnie score Hull City's opening goal after four minutes - down at the other end of the pitch. It was a fast moving, flowing game with The Tigers clearly on top. 

In the second half we remained in the ascendency until our battling midfielder  - John Lundstram - received a second yellow card and was therefore sent off. That's when the game turned.

United won a dubious penalty and then with two minutes to go, they scored the winner.  City had spurned several good chances but it wasn't to be. Time ran out.

Ten minutes later, I stood at the bus stop at the bottom of  Ecclesall Road feeling blue and dejected as I waited for the 81 bus home. I admit that after all these years it is pretty insane that the result of a football match can affect my mood for the rest of the weekend. As they say - it's just a game but it never quite feels that way to me. Maybe I am in for more agony when I attend next week's home match against Birmingham City. In the meantime, all I can say is - Up The Tigers!

Deodorant

 

I am sure you have heard of  "Old Spice" for men. The range includes aftershave, shaving cream, soap and deodorant. They are products that  go way back in time and are mostly favoured by the older generation

Old men like me, Andrew in Melbourne, Red in Alberta and Cro Magnon in Brighton really do not want body products that are aimed at the younger generation. We actively spurn "Lynx" and Jean-Paul Gautier. What we need is sprays and roll-ons that are specifically tailored for the senior male market.

This is why I decided to invest all my pension lump sum in a new start up business that aims to fill this potentially profitable gap in the market. Rather than getting cunning and creative with fancy brand names, the company intend to call all of their products quite simply - "Old Man". There's no deception in such a name.

Parisian perfumers have skilfully concocted four possible deodorant fragrances for the "Old Man" deodorant range and I suspect that they will prove really popular with the over sixties. It's nice to have choices...

1) "Granddad" - Pipe tobacco, halitosis and "Dettol"

2) "Care Home" - Stale urine, armpits and smelly socks

3) "Salle de Bain" - Lingering farts  mingling with  medicated soap.

4) "Rose and Crown" - the authentic odour of a traditional pub with 

hints of stale beer, cigarette smoke and sports changing rooms.

If the "Old Man" range sells well - as it is surely bound to do - then the company hope to create  similar products for the fairer sex called "Old Woman" but as yet no fragrances have been devised. Perhaps you can think of some suitable combinations.

Earworm

I know that I not alone in  this. Sometimes I will be simply trucking along in this rutted furrow that I am ploughing for myself when a song from long ago will pop into my head  uninvited. It may stay for a few days, resurfacing every so often. And there's not a damned thing I can do about it. It's just there like somebody else's choice on a juke box.

Currently, I keep hearing a song by The Who. It was written in 1967 by the band's lead guitarist and main songwriter - Pete Townshend. I was never a great fan of The Who but I did see them twice in their heyday - including their headlining gig at Hull City Hall in February 1970. I loved them that night.

They were a tight four piece band - Townshend, Keith Moon on drums, John  Entwistle on bass and singer - Roger Daltrey - who by the way is now eighty four years old. Yep - they could really rock and recorded many distinct and characterful songs like "Who Are You?", "Pinball Wizard", "Substitute" and the iconic "My Generation".

But the song that has been buzzing in my head like a bluebottle in a glass jar is "Pictures of Lily". It is an odd kind of song. The Lily in question  may be Lillie Langtrey -  the once famous British actress and socialite and the song may or may not have had something to do with teenage masturbation for that is one oft-repeated theory about it. Of course masturbation was never something that interested me... honest!

I used to wake up in the morning
I used to feel so bad
I got so sick of having sleepless nights
I went and told my dad
He said, "Son, now here's some little somethings"
And stuck them on my wall
And now my nights ain't quite so lonely
In fact, I, I don't feel bad at all
I don't feel bad at all
Pictures of Lily made my life so wonderful
Pictures of Lily helped me sleep at night
Pictures of Lily solved my childhood problems
Pictures of Lily helped me feel alright
Pictures of Lily
Lily, oh, Lily
Lily, oh, Lily
Pictures of Lily

And then one day, things weren't quite so fine
I fell in love with Lily
I asked my dad where Lily I could find
He said, "Son, now don't be silly
She's been dead since 1929"
Oh, how I cried that night
If only I'd been born in Lily's time
It would have been alright
Pictures of Lily made my life so wonderful
Pictures of Lily helped me sleep at night
For me and Lily are together in my dreams
And I ask you, "Hey, mister, have you ever seen
Pictures of Lily?"

Food

I am very glad that I picked up "The Stones Diaries" in a charity shop a month ago. Over the course of the past few days, I consumed it like good food. It really held me and I admired several things about the writer - Carol Shields.

I appreciated her humanity,  wisdom and keen understanding of the human condition. Furthermore, I enjoyed the novel's quirky, clever and varied construction. In addition, I admired her use of language. Words being used to make telling points like daggers or smoothing like a gentle balm. And there was plenty of humour too. How can I say it - this book was very much "alive". Filled with joy and sorrow and misunderstanding and eccentricity and kindness and stupidity and hope.

Of course, I could go on explaining the plot, describing the central character - Daisy Goodwill and the eighty years of life she experienced before dying - as so many aged and financially stable North Americans do - in Florida. Instead, I am just going to leave you with a flavour of the book through these four quotations...

⦿

“When we think of the past we tend to assume that people were simpler in their functions, and shaped by forces that were primary and irreducible. We take for granted that our forbears were imbued with a deeper purity of purpose than we possess nowadays, and a more singular set of mind, believing, for example, that early scientists pursued their ends with unbroken „dedication“ and that artists worked in the flame of some perpetual „inspiration“. But none of this is true. Those who went before us were every bit as wayward and unaccountable and unsteady in their longings as people are today. The least breeze, whether it be sexual or psychological – or even a real breeze, carrying with it the refreshment of oxygen and energy – has the power to turn us from our path.”

＆

“My mother is a middle-aged woman, a middle-class woman, a woman of moderate intelligence and medium-sized ego and average good luck, so that you would expect her to land somewhere near the middle of the world. Instead she’s over there at the edge. The least vibration could knock her off.”

＆

“He was discomfited to see how easily men (and women as well) stepped from the train to station platform, from platform to train – with ease, with levity, laughing and talking and greeting each other as though oblivious to the abrupt geographical shifts they were making, and disrespectful of the distance and differences they entered. Many were hatless, their clothes brightly coloured. The cases they carried appeared, from the way they handled them, to be feather-light.”

＆

“Dreaming her way backward in time, resurrecting images, the young girl realized, with wonder, that the absent are always present, that you don't make them go away simply because you get on a train and head off in a particular direction.”

Carol Shields (1935 - 2003)

Incantations

Drill baby drill!

Shoot baby shoot!

Fake news baby fake news!

Grab baby grab!

America first baby America first!

Me first baby me... first!

Grift baby grift!

Lotta gold baby lotta gold!

Lie baby lie baby lie!

Deny baby deny baby deny!

You're fired baby you're fired!

Me  first baby. Me!

Hyperbole baby hyperbole!

Repeat baby repeat!

Accuse baby accuse!

Excuse baby excuse!

Bomb baby bomb!

Drill baby drill!

Kill babies kill!

Me baby me! Me baby me! Me baby me! Me!

Baby baby baby baby...

Images from "The Times of India" & "The Guardian"

Zen

Today...A five mile walk in the nearby Peak District. The weather was as perfect as weather can be and the air was crystal clear. I slogged up Parkin Clough and then a flatter path that later descended to the tiny village of Aston. On to the slightly larger village of Thornhill before following the bed of an old railway that led back to Yorkshire Bridge where Butch was parked. I felt very calm in a Zen kind of way and took several rests along the route - sometimes just to pause and appreciate the beauty around me. A day like this one - it seemed like a reward for enduring the short grey days of January and February. There was light and greenery and new born lambs and it felt very good to be alive.

Retirement blooms in Aston - specially for fellow blogger Mr Steve Reed.

Bark

For no particular reason, I saved a piece of bark from Ian's horse chestnut tree. That tree had grown from a conker that he picked up when he was three years old. Over thirty six years, it grew to the height of about forty feet and was clearly bothering one of our next door neighbours. Following heart-wrenching considerations, we decided to have it chopped down.

Back in 2024, I took two or three of the resulting logs I had saved to a skilled woodturner south of Chesterfield and he created two lovely bowls for me which I later presented to Ian on the occasion of his fortieth birthday. That had been my intention all along. I blogged about this here.

Getting back to the piece of bark. It  had sat on one of the book shelves in my study for several months. It had vaguely crossed my mind that I could paint something on it.

I had never shown Ian the bark before. 

At lunchtime today he was preparing to return to London with Zachary when I showed him the bark which had entirely dried out and also stood up stably  on my shelf. I told him of my vague idea about painting something on it and immediately he said, "You could paint a tree!"

Yes! I thought to myself. Yes I could! In fact I could paint something resembling our lost horse chestnut tree. Not a realistic, photographic kind of picture but something more naive than that - as might befit a curled piece of bark.

Late this afternoon, I got out my oil paints and within ninety minutes, I had created this...

And what is more, I am pretty happy with it. It was nice to paint on a natural surface that is not flat. Now I am wishing that I had saved more pieces of bark. But this was the only one and if he wants it  another gift for Ian whose flat in London is, by the way, almost clutter-free. In that respect, he certainly does not take after his father.

Easter

Stewart prepared a special Easter Sunday dinner. The Lamb of God was on the menu with roasted potatoes, Yorkshire puddings, leeks, carrots, parsnips and peas. For dessert, Shirley had followed the vegan sticky toffee pudding recipe in the first "Bosh!" cook book  and all was good.

Earlier there had been an Easter egg hunt for the little ones and then we all went off to a Sheffield museum that I had not visited in many years - The Emergency Services Museum at West Bar.

Greatly improved and still run by volunteers, it was a perfect excursion for all of us and we finished up in the museum's little cafe enjoying a light lunch. We had seen police cars, ambulances, fire engines and even a redundant lifeboat called "City of Sheffield". We all enjoyed the visit. As you might imagine, I will be coming back to this museum in a future post.

On the way there,  the roads had been blocked off near Sheffield Children's Hospital as 750 motorcyclists arrived at Weston Park on what has become an annual charity parade - raising funds for that wonderful  hospital's amazing work. Many of the bikers were in fancy dress.

The pictures that accompany this blogpost were all snapped  on this rather happy family  day. I have much to be grateful for and the best thing is - I know it.

Saturday

 

They all went down to the park while I vacuumed the entire house, put a week's worth of washing on the line, mowed the lawn and prepared the evening meal. There was a meat chilli, vegan chilli, basmati rice, grated cheese  and soft wholemeal pitta breads.

They were having fun while I slaved away. A man's work is never done.

Ian is up from London with Zach and of course we had Stew, Frances, Phoebe and Margot round for the welcome home feast - followed by cream cakes and fresh fruit. Fortunately, Shirley helped out by setting the table. I was so grateful for her kind assistance. After all, I am sure you know how lazy some women can be around the home.

After finishing my ironing and washing up the pots - or putting them in the dishwasher - I slumped down on the sofa. Cousins Margot and Zachary were playing on the carpet. Zach loves little cars and other tiny vehicles. Ambulances and police cars are particular favourites.

On the other hand, Margot likes her dolls and shows nascent maternal qualities as she pats them or pushes them around. She speaks very sweetly to them.

Nobody consciously encouraged these stereotypical behaviours.

Margot and Zach's "due date" was just the same - in late October 2023 but Zach arrived on October 24th and Margot waited until November 2nd to pop her little head out. Just nine days separates them and it's interesting to observe how they are developing.

In the picture, Zach is holding my desk calculator. Phoebe has taken a shine to this helpful mathematical aid and recently she has asked for it as soon as she steps in our house. Because of this we decided to order her her own calculator and it arrived this very evening courtesy of Amazon. She was thrilled to bits.

Maybe I can now reclaim my own calculator which she taps away at as though it was a little laptop or something. She is usually oblivious to the random strings of numbers she churns out. She just likes the object's tangibility  and it is the same with my little magnifying glass and the foam wrist pad I use with my mouse.

Now I mustn't hang about any more. Shirley has her feet up watching a chick flick on the TV and she has yelled that she needs a cup of tea and one of my homemade scones. I also have some cucumber pickling and sock darning to do before I can hit the hay. Roll on Sunday!

Politics

Pudding Party  General Secretary  Grace Honeyman at the recent rally in Sheffield

A new political party has just been launched in Great Britain. It has been under construction for several months but now the curtain has been flung back to reveal The Pudding Party. Surely this will be the answer to all the disenchantment with politics, to dismissive electors who refuse to vote or simply cannot be bothered, to dumb moaning minnies who grumble "They're all the same!", to Nigel Farage and the Nazi Party Reform Party, to Zack Polanski and The Eat-Your-Greens.

Arise The Puddings! Your time has come... But every political party needs policies and The Pudding Party currently has just five headline policies to attract voters to our noble cause.

1) It will be the law that when it is your birthday you are entitled to an extra day off work or school. Retired people  will receive free bags of frozen Yorkshire puddings.

2) All vaping retail outlets will be shut down and vaping in any public places will be outlawed - attracting hefty fines, short prison sentences or flogging.

3) The voting records of American visitors to Great Britain to be carefully checked before entry decisions are made. Any visitors found guilty of voting for Donald J. Trump to be sent back in disgrace - without leave for appeal.

4) Poetry appreciation, artistic creativity, music making, pottery and Nature to become the lead subjects in every school curriculum. Mathematics to be resigned to history  as all number work can now happen on electronic calculators.

5) Desperate homeless people will be bussed to large second homes around the country that happen to remain empty most of the year - such as Sandringham House in Norfolk. There they will live comfortably with the cost of food and other basic needs met by the millionaire and billionaire classes who will unfortunately have no choice in the matter.

⦿

Of course The Pudding Party has numerous other policies in the pipeline and naturally  there is the important issue of how handsomely the leader of The Pudding Party will be rewarded for his wise representation.

As yet, we have no idea who that leader will be but he could well be the bloke I sometimes see in the mirror. The one who regularly looks back at me as if to say, "What's it all about...Alfie?"

If you are interested in joining The Pudding Party you must first suggest  one extra policy that the party should seriously consider adopting.

Blonde

Just in case you were wondering, Jesus was a blonde. This fact was confirmed when I visited Christ Church yesterday - in the affluent Sheffield suburb of Dore. There was Jesus in a stained glass window looking very holy and as blonde as many Scandinavians. It made me wonder - did Jesus come from Denmark?

To tell you the truth, I do not think about Jesus very often and I have certainly never asked him to come into my life or anything like that. To me, he's just a heroic character in a story that may or may not have had its seed in long ago happenings during the Roman occupation of Palestine. That tale was later embellished by storytellers, medieval monks and others with vested interests in perpetuating the Jesus legend - including The Romans.

In Egypt, a civilisation flourished for two thousand years before Jesus was allegedly born in Bethlehem. How did they cope without his presence? The same over in China - five thousand years of civilisation before so-called missionaries arrived with the tale of Jesus. And then there were the Aztecs, the Incas, the Khmers, ancient cultures on the Indian subcontinent. All of them seem to have evolved and thrived without the Christian God and his only begotten son. How did they do that?

I looked up to The Blonde Jesus in Dore church and asked for explanation and enlightenment but Blonde Jesus never answered me. If the truth be known, he never does respond. It's all just imagining and wishful thinking.

I am sorry if this blogpost has offended any Christian believers and practitioners who visit this humble Yorkshire  blog. I know that there are a few of you out there. Were you aware that Jesus was a blonde and not a swarthy, dark-haired middle-easterner?  

Baksheesh

Baksheesh (or bakshish) refers to small sums of money, tips, or gratuities given in the Middle East, South Asia, and North Africa. Originating from Persian, it covers a range of payments from legitimate tipping for services (guides, hotel staff) to small bribes or "sweeteners" used to expedite services, bureaucracy, or provide alms. (Thanks to The University of Google for this definition)

Of course I knew about the phenomenon of baksheesh long before visiting Egypt. Over there it seemed that every Egyptian you encountered was after a tip or backhander. I guess it is an endemic feature of their culture.

When we visited The Aswan Museum on Elephantine Island, I paid for two entrance tickets. To tell you the truth, I do not think we were given official tickets and suspect that the fellow at the gate had a little fraud game going on - depriving the museum of much needed funds.

Once we were in, another  Egyptian man just latched onto us to guide us around the small museum. He never asked or anything and I found his presence quite irritating because it interfered with my reading of the explanatory labels. There were some mind-blowing exhibits from ancient times at a place that connected ancient Egypt with the Nubian region and Sudan to the south.

Obviously, our "helpful" guide was after some Egyptian pounds so I generously gave him £50 - the equivalent of about 70 British pence or one American dollar. He looked at this offering as if I had just put a sheet of used toilet paper on his palm but in spite of his discourteous grumbling, he was not getting any more from me.

The museum is right next to a gate that leads you into the site of The Temple of Khnum who was the "Lord of the First Cataract" and considered to be the creator of humanity, moulding souls on a potter's wheel. The temple served as the centre for his worship.It is now a ruinous site that has been investigated by various teams of German and Swiss archaeologists.

Annoyingly, at the gate, another Egyptian fellow latched himself onto us with one prime motive - money! To give him his due, he did take me to The Nileometer which I might otherwise have had trouble finding. I even took a picture of him with Shirley - standing at a timeless gateway that overlooks "the first cataract" of The Nile...

Sure enough when our little temple tour was over and I had just ascended the very ancient stone steps of The Nileometer, our friendly guide expected his baksheesh. Feeling especially generous, I gave him £100 Egyptian this time but like his pal at the museum, he looked at my offering as if it was mucky toilet tissue. The well-practised disdain made me want to laugh out loud and there was no way he was getting any more.

Our on-board educated Egyptologist Ayman was looking for baksheesh like all the rest. Staff inside temples. Men within the tombs at The Valley of the Kings. Our room cleaners, security guards, shopkeepers from whom you had just made purchases. 

And linked to the baksheesh phenomenon, I would also like to share this about Egypt. Shopping there can be nightmarish to westerners because there are no prices on anything. It's all about negotiation - arriving at an agreed price but of course Egyptian traders are very well-versed in the art of price negotiation. It is in their bones - passed through generations. Here in Yorkshire we simply never play that game.

Once or twice, I found the haggling process to be great fun but Shirley seemed horrified by it all. At one Aladdin's cave inside the souk in Luxor she would not even step inside as I jousted with the shopkeeper before buying a carved stone statuette of three monkeys - hear no evil, say no evil, speak

no evil.

How I had previously lived without this remarkable object beside me in my study I shall never know...