Bread has a history at least thirty thousand years old. Unleavened bread, like flatbreads and pittas, contain no raising agent. Pliny the Elder noted that the skimmed foam on beer, a result of the yeast used in the brewing process, produced a lighter bread. The yeast used for the fermentation process in beer is the same as the yeast used to make bread.
In the ruins of Pompeii, the poignant remains of bakers' shops can be seen. It is the domestic details most of all that often highlight a tragedy.
Yeast needs moisture, food and warmth to grow. A loaf of bread can be made from flour, water, salt, sugar, perhaps some butter. In the nineteenth century flour was often adulterated, with additions such as chalk.
Some bakers added sea-water to save on salt and customers complained.
Monks in the twelfth century Augustinian Priory in Haverfordwest ate their food off large slices of bread, using the bread as plates. These were known as 'trenchers' and were meant to be distributed to the poor of the town, but often they were given to relatives or even stray dogs.
Tuesday, 26 July 2011
Cockleshells and Cakes
 |
| My favourite vintage tea-set - perfect for afternoon tea |
Llansteffan is eight miles from Carmarthen and we holidayed here when I was a tot. That was during the 1940's, when there were donkey rides on the beach and cockling was a popular pastime.
I was reminded of a holiday, a few years ago, when I went to the beach at Marina del Cantone, a few miles from Sorrento, down a winding road.
It was a rough, windy day and we crossed the pebbles to the cafe that juts out to sea. There we ate almond and chocolate cake, watching the plumed waves crashing onto the beach.
I say all this now, because I have just come across a recipe called 'Gwbert Cakes', which are supposedly from the Ceredigion area. They are simple to make and I'll give you the recipe so you can fry them and try them.
(They are very similar to Welsh Cakes).
| Delicious Welsh Cakes |
Ingredients: 6 oz SR Flour, 2 oz sugar, 1 oz butter, 1 egg, a pinch of salt.
Method: Rub butter into flour, add remaining ingredients. Roll mixture out and cut into circles. Fry in a little butter over a low flame. Sprinkle with sugar and hey presto!
Monday, 18 July 2011
"Sleep Furiously" by Gideon Koppel
I watched 'Sleep Furiously' and admired the way it cut across geographic boundaries. There was an elegance in the rhythm of what was recorded that appealed to me.
Peter Bradshaw writing in The Guardian 29 May 2009 says:
I hope you like what you find here, and may be you'll tell me exactly how you found this piece, in the comments section.
Peter Bradshaw writing in The Guardian 29 May 2009 says:
"This delicate, tonally complex film by Gideon Koppel is a documentary love-letter to Trefeurig, the Welsh farming community in Ceredigion where he grew up, and where his parents found refuge from Nazi Germany during the second world war.
Between these melancholy tableaux, the visual palate is cleaned with single-colour panels, and with weird speeded-up sequences. One repeated image was a real madeleine for me: the sight of the mobile library trundling around the winding roads, a vital source of reading, thought, ideas ... everything. Trefeurig is full of people who love books. I couldn't help remembering the mobile library that used to appear in the village of my own childhood (Letchmore Heath in Hertfordshire): a purple bus, shaped like an elongated tallboy wardrobe on wheels, which, Tardis-like, had a miraculous stock of books, far more than appeared possible from the outside. It gave you the feeling, when you effortfully climbed the big steps to get in and stood in its narrow aisle between the two great walls of books, that its centre of gravity was that little bit too high and that the whole vehicle would topple over if it took a corner at anything over 15 mph - and might well do so at rest, if you moved around inside too quickly."
I hope you like what you find here, and may be you'll tell me exactly how you found this piece, in the comments section.
My Novel Salt Blue
Thought I'd drop by to tell you copies of my novel 'Salt Blue' are selling well on Amazon.com! I'm really delighted by this news received today via email.
There are still copies left - reduced for a short period of time only.
Hwyl, Gill
There are still copies left - reduced for a short period of time only.
Hwyl, Gill
Saturday, 16 July 2011
The Blue of the Night
The Blue of the Night
She said it was the time she loved the best,
The hour when day caresses night
In deepest shades of blue,
When stars shine in the darkest light
And earth takes on an azure hue.
Golden Byzantium and Rose Red Petra,
Your body guilds my lips, my words
Shimmering shadows across the sands
Of time, whispering softly
In the twilight you called 'L'heure bleu'.
Ages have passed, I think, or so it seems
And I have tasted lips carved cold.
Now longer shadows blot the light
In the dusk I call 'The Blues of the Night'.
She said it was the time she loved the best,
The hour when day caresses night
In deepest shades of blue,
When stars shine in the darkest light
And earth takes on an azure hue.
Golden Byzantium and Rose Red Petra,
Your body guilds my lips, my words
Shimmering shadows across the sands
Of time, whispering softly
In the twilight you called 'L'heure bleu'.
Ages have passed, I think, or so it seems
And I have tasted lips carved cold.
Now longer shadows blot the light
In the dusk I call 'The Blues of the Night'.
Metonymy
Metonymy
She was a stolen woman
But he chose her,
Mixed his pigments with her
Shadowed brightness.
Opalescence,
Light condensing on leaves.
He captured her image,
Dipped his paintbrushes in
Rinsed raindrops,
Verbascum, bugloss.
Made her his own,
Birdsong
At dusk and
Each evening.
Water marks paper,
Like pain revisited
From a safe place.
Experience can explain
But only poetry translate
The perfume of rosa rugosa,
Still in the air.
She was a stolen woman
But he chose her,
Mixed his pigments with her
Shadowed brightness.
Opalescence,
Light condensing on leaves.
He captured her image,
Dipped his paintbrushes in
Rinsed raindrops,
Verbascum, bugloss.
Made her his own,
Birdsong
At dusk and
Each evening.
Water marks paper,
Like pain revisited
From a safe place.
Experience can explain
But only poetry translate
The perfume of rosa rugosa,
Still in the air.
Tuesday, 12 July 2011
Majorcan Mice
Pollensa, in the north of Majorca, is one of my favourite holiday places.
The light has a chromatic quality, giving it a clarity that attracts artists to the area and writers, too.
One day, we took the train to Soller, a small town with lovely old houses where orange merchants lived years ago.
I did not know at the time, but Alan Sillitoe, the author, rented a house there in the 1950's.
It was 1963 when I read his book 'Saturday Night and Sunday Morning'. I was expecting my first daughter and I had borrowed the novel from the Fishguard Library.
The book impressed me, describing situations clearly and simply. Before this, I had been reading Thomas Hardy but 'Saturday Night and Sunday Morning' was different.
Sillitoe's style struck me as a completely new way of writing, not that I had much experience of reading novels at that age, but I realised it was something special.
Alan Sillitoe lived in Soller for a number of years, surviving on a small disability pension from the forces. One night, on returning from the local taverna, he found the kitchen was swarming with mice, which he had to sweep out through the door.
I am given to sudden flights of fancy and remarked to my husband that it must be lovely to live in Soller.
He thought about it before remarking that the winters can be bitterly cold there, hence the mice invasion, probably.
Let's just say I'd like to spend the summer months there, then, with something of Alan Sillitoe's to read.
The light has a chromatic quality, giving it a clarity that attracts artists to the area and writers, too.
One day, we took the train to Soller, a small town with lovely old houses where orange merchants lived years ago.
I did not know at the time, but Alan Sillitoe, the author, rented a house there in the 1950's.
It was 1963 when I read his book 'Saturday Night and Sunday Morning'. I was expecting my first daughter and I had borrowed the novel from the Fishguard Library.
The book impressed me, describing situations clearly and simply. Before this, I had been reading Thomas Hardy but 'Saturday Night and Sunday Morning' was different.
Sillitoe's style struck me as a completely new way of writing, not that I had much experience of reading novels at that age, but I realised it was something special.
Alan Sillitoe lived in Soller for a number of years, surviving on a small disability pension from the forces. One night, on returning from the local taverna, he found the kitchen was swarming with mice, which he had to sweep out through the door.
I am given to sudden flights of fancy and remarked to my husband that it must be lovely to live in Soller.
He thought about it before remarking that the winters can be bitterly cold there, hence the mice invasion, probably.
Let's just say I'd like to spend the summer months there, then, with something of Alan Sillitoe's to read.
Wednesday, 6 July 2011
Tomatoes Again
When my daughters were in the grammar school, I liked reading the books they had to study. Laurie Lee was new to me. I loved 'Cider with Rosie' so much that I went on to read 'A Rose for Winter' and 'As I Walked out One Midsummer Morning'.
I thought of Laurie Lee this morning, when I came down to a kitchen warmed by the scent of tomatoes. For Lee, the smell of peppers meant he was in Spain. He might have said the same about tomatoes, the ones I bought in Fishguard yesterday.
I haven't been to Spain, but I've holidayed in Pollensa, in Northerm Majorca, a few times. The market stalls there are laden with huge, gleaming brutes of tomatoes.
Six years ago, the last time we went, we stayed in a villa and the only meal we cooked was breakfast, which included fried tomatoes.
After eating we liked to go out before it became too hot. There was a laundry room just off one of the outside balconies and my daughters enjoyed washing clothes, shaking them out, carefully pegging them to the washing carousels, knowing they would be dry in a few hours.
One day the cleaner sought me out to say, in no uncertain terms, that she cleaned to the standard the agent required, not to anyone else's standard. I don't know if she had been frightened by the girls' laundry standards but we left her to it!
Behind us was the church of Calvari and the shops just a five minute walk away. Mid morning usually found us at a pavement cafe, under sun shades, sampling the 'caffe and cwchen', (coffee and cake) offer. Air Berlin flies regularly to Pollensa and the menus are printed in different languages, including German.
One evening, the church held a fete and old ladies, dressed in black, sat outside selling cakes. We were too late for the cakes but we went into the church, where there were lurid paintings of the martyrs covered in blood, which the younger ones studied very carefully.
I went outside and sat on the wall, while the others had a wander. An elderly couple came and joined me and, though I could speak little of their language and they spoke no English, I managed to tell them where I was from.
Then the lady mentioned the Spanish Civil War and how she'd come to Pollensa and never gone back to Spain. She had known a lot of sadness, all a long time ago.
Oliver and Harry appeared then, hot and damp after running up and down the three hundred and fifty steps of Calvari.
Realising they were twins, she cheered up. They told her their names and we did finger play to show their ages, then the rest of the family came and she wanted to know which daughter was their mother and then she saw my granddaughters and she liked everyone and we were all happy.
Her husband was getting restless now, so I bade them 'Buenos Noches'. With much amusement, she explained it was early evening, so I should have said 'Buenos Tarde'. I repeated it, gave her a hug and off they went.
Once they were out of hearing, my daughter, said. 'Caw, you do your best and then they correct you!'
Back in Haverfordwest, I made a stew with chorizo sausage from Ultra Comida in Narberth, tomatoes, garlic, olive oil, white pepper, and chopped lamb. The chorizo gives a robust flavour to the stew. Chick peas and lentils will thicken the stew or you could mash a slice or two of bread into the stew, like the Spanish do.
A stew requires long, slow cooking, to tenderise the meat and for the flavours to meld together. Broad beans are a good addition, cooked separately and not overcooked. A sprinkling of chopped parsley on top of each portion makes everything sparkle.
In Pollensa, one of my sons-in-law was impressed when he saw me drink a can of beer before breakfast. Later, he realised it had a very low alcoholic content and I went down in his estimation. My advice is, don't drink beer just at breakfast. Have it with your stew, too.
I read a book last winter about the Spanish Civil War. I don't remember the title, but I do remember the images of desperate poverty and food shortages that the war brought. Most household had very little meat or vegetables, so their stews were flavourless. A man with a ham bone went about dipping it into people's stews for a few minutes, to add flavour. I thought of the couple I'd met in Pollensa and the shortages they must have faced. I'd rather forget things like that.
I thought of Laurie Lee this morning, when I came down to a kitchen warmed by the scent of tomatoes. For Lee, the smell of peppers meant he was in Spain. He might have said the same about tomatoes, the ones I bought in Fishguard yesterday.
I haven't been to Spain, but I've holidayed in Pollensa, in Northerm Majorca, a few times. The market stalls there are laden with huge, gleaming brutes of tomatoes.
Six years ago, the last time we went, we stayed in a villa and the only meal we cooked was breakfast, which included fried tomatoes.
After eating we liked to go out before it became too hot. There was a laundry room just off one of the outside balconies and my daughters enjoyed washing clothes, shaking them out, carefully pegging them to the washing carousels, knowing they would be dry in a few hours.
One day the cleaner sought me out to say, in no uncertain terms, that she cleaned to the standard the agent required, not to anyone else's standard. I don't know if she had been frightened by the girls' laundry standards but we left her to it!
Behind us was the church of Calvari and the shops just a five minute walk away. Mid morning usually found us at a pavement cafe, under sun shades, sampling the 'caffe and cwchen', (coffee and cake) offer. Air Berlin flies regularly to Pollensa and the menus are printed in different languages, including German.
One evening, the church held a fete and old ladies, dressed in black, sat outside selling cakes. We were too late for the cakes but we went into the church, where there were lurid paintings of the martyrs covered in blood, which the younger ones studied very carefully.
I went outside and sat on the wall, while the others had a wander. An elderly couple came and joined me and, though I could speak little of their language and they spoke no English, I managed to tell them where I was from.
Then the lady mentioned the Spanish Civil War and how she'd come to Pollensa and never gone back to Spain. She had known a lot of sadness, all a long time ago.
Oliver and Harry appeared then, hot and damp after running up and down the three hundred and fifty steps of Calvari.
Realising they were twins, she cheered up. They told her their names and we did finger play to show their ages, then the rest of the family came and she wanted to know which daughter was their mother and then she saw my granddaughters and she liked everyone and we were all happy.
Her husband was getting restless now, so I bade them 'Buenos Noches'. With much amusement, she explained it was early evening, so I should have said 'Buenos Tarde'. I repeated it, gave her a hug and off they went.
Once they were out of hearing, my daughter, said. 'Caw, you do your best and then they correct you!'
Back in Haverfordwest, I made a stew with chorizo sausage from Ultra Comida in Narberth, tomatoes, garlic, olive oil, white pepper, and chopped lamb. The chorizo gives a robust flavour to the stew. Chick peas and lentils will thicken the stew or you could mash a slice or two of bread into the stew, like the Spanish do.
A stew requires long, slow cooking, to tenderise the meat and for the flavours to meld together. Broad beans are a good addition, cooked separately and not overcooked. A sprinkling of chopped parsley on top of each portion makes everything sparkle.
In Pollensa, one of my sons-in-law was impressed when he saw me drink a can of beer before breakfast. Later, he realised it had a very low alcoholic content and I went down in his estimation. My advice is, don't drink beer just at breakfast. Have it with your stew, too.
I read a book last winter about the Spanish Civil War. I don't remember the title, but I do remember the images of desperate poverty and food shortages that the war brought. Most household had very little meat or vegetables, so their stews were flavourless. A man with a ham bone went about dipping it into people's stews for a few minutes, to add flavour. I thought of the couple I'd met in Pollensa and the shortages they must have faced. I'd rather forget things like that.
Tuesday, 5 July 2011
Tomato Treats
On the way to Fishguard today I stopped to buy tomatoes. Beautiful round tomatoes, in varying stages of ripeness: sulphuric greens, orange greens, Spanish yellows and gutsy, deep reds.
Back home, I piled them in a white enamel colander. I like using fruit and vegetables as ornaments in the kitchen, if only for a few hours.
Someone said that education teaches that a tomato is a fruit, but knowledge stops you from putting it in a fruit salad. Quite. But how about using tomatoes in a jam?
I've had this recipe for years. Once made into jam, the peppery traces of the tomatoes disappear and the flavour resembles rose hip jelly.
It's a sacrilege to fry or cook a beautifully firm tomato, so first we'll have a tomato salad with slices of tangy, Havarti cheese from Denmark and toasted rosemary bread. Later in the week, when the remaining tomatoes ripen, I'll jam them and feel no guilt.
This recipe produces about 4 pounds of jam, or slightly less than 2 kg.
Tomato Jam
Ingredients:
2 pounds or 1 kg of tomatoes
2 pounds or 1 kg preserving sugar
The juice and grated rind of 2 lemons
Method:
Prepare the tomatoes by plunging them into really hot water. Alternatively, simmer for a few seconds in boiling water. Skin when cool. Cut into quarters, remove the centres and the seeds. Chop the flesh into small pieces.
Using unwaxed, washed lemons, grate the rinds and squeeze out all the juice. (Warming the lemons for a few seconds makes it easier to extract the juice).
I dislike jam that has had the flavour boiled out of it, so to overcome this, the chopped tomatoes can be microwaved until they are soft, to cut down on boiling time.
3 to 5 minutes minutes should be long enough.
Transfer the tomatoes to a very large saucepan.
Add the lemon juice, the rind and the sugar.
(The lemon juice and the preserving sugar should ensure a good set, so there will be no need to boil the mixture for as long as many other jams).
Bring slowly to the boil, stirring all the time. (Burnt jam is vile and the saucepan will be devilish to clean). Boil for 40 minutes, but not fiercely, before dropping a globule onto a saucer. Leave for a minute or two then prod with your finger.
It should be gooey now, at setting point. If not, boil for 5 minutes again, but no more.
Home made jam is runnier than commercial jam and that's part of it's beauty.
(Some people use thermometers to gauge the temperature for setting point, but I don't.)
Skim off the foam on the top and allow to cool to room temeperature, before potting.
The jam will be clear and golden as a boiled sweet.
If you like Spanish membrillo, a jammy paste, you could reduce the jam further by boiling it gently for about 60 minutes in all. Eat with Cheddar cheese and a bread roll or water biscuit.
A bunch of fresh thyme added to the jam when it is cooling gives it a savour. (Remove the herbs before the jam has set.)
This jelly is good eaten with pork. It goes well with almost any meat, though, especially in a Brie and bacon sandwich.
Back home, I piled them in a white enamel colander. I like using fruit and vegetables as ornaments in the kitchen, if only for a few hours.
Someone said that education teaches that a tomato is a fruit, but knowledge stops you from putting it in a fruit salad. Quite. But how about using tomatoes in a jam?
I've had this recipe for years. Once made into jam, the peppery traces of the tomatoes disappear and the flavour resembles rose hip jelly.
It's a sacrilege to fry or cook a beautifully firm tomato, so first we'll have a tomato salad with slices of tangy, Havarti cheese from Denmark and toasted rosemary bread. Later in the week, when the remaining tomatoes ripen, I'll jam them and feel no guilt.
This recipe produces about 4 pounds of jam, or slightly less than 2 kg.
Tomato Jam
Ingredients:
2 pounds or 1 kg of tomatoes
2 pounds or 1 kg preserving sugar
The juice and grated rind of 2 lemons
Method:
Prepare the tomatoes by plunging them into really hot water. Alternatively, simmer for a few seconds in boiling water. Skin when cool. Cut into quarters, remove the centres and the seeds. Chop the flesh into small pieces.
Using unwaxed, washed lemons, grate the rinds and squeeze out all the juice. (Warming the lemons for a few seconds makes it easier to extract the juice).
I dislike jam that has had the flavour boiled out of it, so to overcome this, the chopped tomatoes can be microwaved until they are soft, to cut down on boiling time.
3 to 5 minutes minutes should be long enough.
Transfer the tomatoes to a very large saucepan.
Add the lemon juice, the rind and the sugar.
(The lemon juice and the preserving sugar should ensure a good set, so there will be no need to boil the mixture for as long as many other jams).
Bring slowly to the boil, stirring all the time. (Burnt jam is vile and the saucepan will be devilish to clean). Boil for 40 minutes, but not fiercely, before dropping a globule onto a saucer. Leave for a minute or two then prod with your finger.
It should be gooey now, at setting point. If not, boil for 5 minutes again, but no more.
Home made jam is runnier than commercial jam and that's part of it's beauty.
(Some people use thermometers to gauge the temperature for setting point, but I don't.)
Skim off the foam on the top and allow to cool to room temeperature, before potting.
The jam will be clear and golden as a boiled sweet.
If you like Spanish membrillo, a jammy paste, you could reduce the jam further by boiling it gently for about 60 minutes in all. Eat with Cheddar cheese and a bread roll or water biscuit.
A bunch of fresh thyme added to the jam when it is cooling gives it a savour. (Remove the herbs before the jam has set.)
This jelly is good eaten with pork. It goes well with almost any meat, though, especially in a Brie and bacon sandwich.
Friday, 1 July 2011
Midsummer Madness
Purples and oranges, pinks and limes, temple golds, pthalo blue, sweet pea pinks, all the glorious colours of high summer jostling together on the 'Sale' rails, waiting for me to splurge.
I can sniff a sale a mile away. My pulses race. I'm going to buy. Let's see what's on offer. Crunchy crochet tops, eau-de-nil green cardies, jewelled sandals, I love them all, though my wardrobe is stuffed with clothes, many I've forgotten about. Never mind, there's nothing like a new outfit to cheer a girl up (even an old girl). Muslins, thick cottons, heavy linens, velvets, oh! oh! so beauiful. The smell, the feel. The money I'm saving, though it's nothing to do with saving, it's all about the pleasure of spending.
But, as I've learnt, you must keep your wits sharpened. Take a matching pair of shoes in a store. Good idea, trying them both on. Why? One was a size 5, the other a 6. I call the assistant, who is as bemused as myself.
There was this navy jersey dress with a centre panel of whisper soft silk that I'd been eyeing for a few weeks. Sleeveless, it was little more than a large T-shirt, but worn over a pair of leggings, I could saunter down the Croissette in Cannes and be mistaken for someone with Gallic style, I hoped.
The only thing wrong with the dress was the price. At £66 it was a trifle steep for something which, after a few washes, might be more backpacker chic than French Riviera smart. But hey ho! it came down in the sales.
First it was slashed to a 30 % reduction, making it £46.20, but, though like John Gilpin's wife on pleasure I am bent, I am not that extravagant, if you understand, so I exercised steely will power and waited for the Big One. 50%, that is. (The one I really like is 70%, but I don't chance that, not being massively large or noticeably tiny.)
I found my size, took it to the till and presented my card. Fortunately, instead of casting my eyes around in a last gasp to see what else was delectable, I noticed that £46.20 had been rung up.
Ever so patiently, I explained that the reduction was now 50%, making the price £33. The assistant looked at me as though trying to decide if I was capable of mental arithmetic. She then turned the label this way and that. After much pondering, she pronounced I was correct and yes, she should have remembered for she'd sold one at £33 earlier that morning.
Well, prices are falling quicker than autumn leaves, so perhaps that's why staff get confused.
Two weeks ago I bought a half price dress. No quibble over the price but there was a wait for the changing rooms. I hate waiting, so bought the dress, a designer in-store label, took it home, tried it on and it fitted, but I had to find a petticoat to go under it. Surprise, surprise. My daughters had been into the same store the day before (thirty miles away in Carmarthen) and realised that a petticoat came with the dress, though it hadn't with mine. They'd seen a forlorn rail festooned with odd peticoats in the store.
A quick phone call on my part, an apology on theirs, and the slip arrived in the post the next day and in the correct size.
Perhaps I should pop out and buy something else, just to get over the strain of it all.
I can sniff a sale a mile away. My pulses race. I'm going to buy. Let's see what's on offer. Crunchy crochet tops, eau-de-nil green cardies, jewelled sandals, I love them all, though my wardrobe is stuffed with clothes, many I've forgotten about. Never mind, there's nothing like a new outfit to cheer a girl up (even an old girl). Muslins, thick cottons, heavy linens, velvets, oh! oh! so beauiful. The smell, the feel. The money I'm saving, though it's nothing to do with saving, it's all about the pleasure of spending.But, as I've learnt, you must keep your wits sharpened. Take a matching pair of shoes in a store. Good idea, trying them both on. Why? One was a size 5, the other a 6. I call the assistant, who is as bemused as myself.
There was this navy jersey dress with a centre panel of whisper soft silk that I'd been eyeing for a few weeks. Sleeveless, it was little more than a large T-shirt, but worn over a pair of leggings, I could saunter down the Croissette in Cannes and be mistaken for someone with Gallic style, I hoped.
The only thing wrong with the dress was the price. At £66 it was a trifle steep for something which, after a few washes, might be more backpacker chic than French Riviera smart. But hey ho! it came down in the sales.
First it was slashed to a 30 % reduction, making it £46.20, but, though like John Gilpin's wife on pleasure I am bent, I am not that extravagant, if you understand, so I exercised steely will power and waited for the Big One. 50%, that is. (The one I really like is 70%, but I don't chance that, not being massively large or noticeably tiny.)
I found my size, took it to the till and presented my card. Fortunately, instead of casting my eyes around in a last gasp to see what else was delectable, I noticed that £46.20 had been rung up.
Ever so patiently, I explained that the reduction was now 50%, making the price £33. The assistant looked at me as though trying to decide if I was capable of mental arithmetic. She then turned the label this way and that. After much pondering, she pronounced I was correct and yes, she should have remembered for she'd sold one at £33 earlier that morning.
Well, prices are falling quicker than autumn leaves, so perhaps that's why staff get confused.
Two weeks ago I bought a half price dress. No quibble over the price but there was a wait for the changing rooms. I hate waiting, so bought the dress, a designer in-store label, took it home, tried it on and it fitted, but I had to find a petticoat to go under it. Surprise, surprise. My daughters had been into the same store the day before (thirty miles away in Carmarthen) and realised that a petticoat came with the dress, though it hadn't with mine. They'd seen a forlorn rail festooned with odd peticoats in the store.
A quick phone call on my part, an apology on theirs, and the slip arrived in the post the next day and in the correct size.
Perhaps I should pop out and buy something else, just to get over the strain of it all.
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