No, not that Rankin: my lovely newspaper seller on the corner and neighbour, Rankin, almost made 80. Sold me a paper one morning, took the bus to his hospital check up in the afternoon, dead the next day. And if he wasn’t up before dawn selling papers, he was down the Bowls Club, behind the bar or in front of it. Now, that is what I call a life well lived: did exactly what he wanted, right to the end. Memorial service yesterday. All kilts and Regimental ties.
Someone said, if you don’t feed your blog, it will die. But surely too many inanities and my friends will cease to be so?
Today’s selection, still wet from the garden.
How do I get the bulbs into still-warm soil if the garden insists on erupting with flowers? I can’t pull them out, can I?
Rasam and sambar on the boil; ghee on the simmer. Indian kitchen afternoon. Home-made pesto: why did no-one tell me how easy it is.
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