On Breakfasts and Battle-fields

Dear Chroniclers,

welcome back to the continuing adventures of the electrofrieds, deep in the heart of Pennsylvania. You join us just as breakfast is about to be taken ...

Full stomachs for the day

Unaccustomed, as yet, to the "coronary-on-a-plate" helping typical of American portion control we dig deep into the assembled troughery.

We choose fruit to start. Succulent red water-melon, a fast-emerging favourite of teenygoth, is stacked high on her plate. We assume it must be in preparation for her hollowing out some frightful pumpkin mask come our return to Old Blighty.

Whilst she chows on down, mrs electrofried and I exchange pleasantries with the catering staff. To a person, they are unfailingly civil, welcoming and genuinely interested in service with a capital, "S". In other words, the diametric opposite of our loyal, but frankly deluded, retainer - the execrable Fetlock.

Having been "happy-dayed" to our hearts content we resume foraging duties and set off in search of the next course.

The perils of American bacon

I do not know if you have encountered American bacon before, but to the uninitiated it is a most bewildering thing. First, the wretched stuff is cut so ephemerally thin that were it to feature on the breakfast menu at the House of electrofried, one decent blast of tobacco-flecked spittle from dear Cook would despatch it, coughing and spluttering, to its Maker.

Were that not bad enough, those responsible for its presentation have chosen to pile the stuff several layers deep in a silvered turine. It resembles nothing so much as a complex work of pork-based macrame and my tentative insertion of the serving fork into the heart of this tangled web only serves to make matters worse.

Let battle commence

My goal is to extricate a rasher or two for consumption alongside a mild smattering of scrambled egg. It is not, however, to be. The serving fork emerges from the fray loaded with a writhing mass of intertwined bacon threads all of which seem intent on knotting themselves ever tighter around its prongs.

Herein lies the dilemna. Is it good ettiquette to remove by hand the surplus pig-meat, or should one accept one's fate gracefully and disgorge the entire contents onto the waiting plate?

I chart a course mid-way between the two, surreptiously returning half the pay-load to the open turine before slinking off to our table with the remainder stacked high. Teenygoth greets my arrival with her customary derision.

"Cor, Dad - you moving up a belt at your Sumo class or what?!!"

Her barbed remark is waved off contemptuously and I tuck into my breakfast. Big mistake. The bacon has been cooked to a crisp and as my knife makes contact with the toppermost layer an explosive shower of porcine-shards covers a fall-out zone extending some ten metres from our table.

Teenygoth giggles, but even now, I await fearfully the launch of a class-action from litigious American diners caught up in the piggy-crisped maelstrom.

En Charabanc

Breakfast over, we board the tour charabanc.

There is a certain blissful magic to travelling the backroads of America ensconced in the richly trimmed plastic mouldings of a fabled "Bluebird". It's driven by the seventy-year old Glen, our sharp as a pin chauffeur. If anything, he looks in better shape than the charabanc itself.

Several of its internal fittings hang at interestingly jaunty angles, unrestrained by long-lost fixing-screws that doubtless have been swallowed up some time ago in the swathes of shag-pile carpeting underfoot. One fears that any rapid braking motion on the part of our driver will lead to a complete collapse of the interior in a fashion not dissimilar to the untimely despatch of my breakfast bacon.

Crossing the Susquehanna

I take up station toward the rear of the coach and scribble random thoughts of our introduction to the Amish in my much-thumbed note-book, glancing out periodically at the unfolding view from the window.

As we reach the banks of the Susquehanna I look up to see a mile-wide reach of shallow water traversed by a series of stunning bridges. One in particular catches my eye. Its mist-shrouded arches resemble a row of hand-stitched embroidery in a creamy landscaped sampler.

A rude awakening

Time, and the view from the coach window, continue to drift by. They carry with them a jet-lagged horologist who falls fast asleep, until ...

"Come on Dad, we're here!"

As ever, I am rudely interrupted by young teenygoth.

We've arrived at the Gettysburg Visitors' Center and the rush is on to empty bladders and top-up the ever-expanding collection of tourist souveniery. Battling my way to the front of the queue I settle on a rakish pencil'n'pad set featuring a cartooned cannon and the implacable face of Mr Lincoln.

Descent to the lower levels

The Visitors' Center exudes a curiously run down air that rather befits its content. Descending to the lower levels, we chance upon a series of dimly lit exhibition cases that display decaying Union and Confederate uniforms. They appear both haunted yet lived-in at the same time.

In the eerie gloom the faded colours make it difficult to distinguish between the two warring armies - death and low-lighting bleed them into one amorphous mass of dull blue/gray fabric.

An announcement over the tannoy summons us to the Viewing Room at the far end of the Center which houses the "Electric Map". Time to go.

A journey in flashing light

We join a party of bored American schoolchildren seated around four sides of a square auditorium - on the floor below us a map of the Gettysburg battlefields punctuated by swirling lines of small electric bulbs.

As the commentary blasts out over the tannoy systems they blaze and dim, illuminating the progress of the battle in front of us as the warring armies attack and counter-attack. Fascinating stuff, and wasted on the yawning youth who stretch out on the seats around us.

Guided by voices

After a brief pause for lunch we're back on the charabanc, this time accompanied by the commanding figure of our Battlefield Guide - a statuesque middle-aged lady whose girth is matched only by her extensive knowledge of and evident passion for the Battle of Gettysburg.

The charabanc rolls around the battlefield and we take in views from Peach Orchard, Cemetery Hill and the Wheatfield. We practice marching manouevres and cannon-fire, drenched in sweat from an Indian Summer sun. The tour concludes at the summit of Little Round Top and, as the heat begins to die, our Guide recalls the grim and bloody statistics.

Three days of battle between July 1st - 3rd 1863 see over 46,000 soldiers lose their lives. They're still digging out skeletal remains to this day.

A hand waves

The rest of our party return to the charabanc, but I pause for a second to look down into the valley. Pictures of decaying military uniforms, twinkling electric maps and a sweat-stained marching party fill my vision.

Then for one brief second I think I see a hand rise from the ground below to wave.

American Beauty - Gallery 2

Amish History and Culture

Dear Chroniclers,

as you will have gathered from earlier pastings, our American adventure took place in Pennsylvania, temporal home to one of the largest Amish communities in the world.

We were very fortunate indeed to have not one, but two marvellous tour guides who know the community well. Accordingly we were granted access to places that would not normally feature on the tourist map.

Set out below is the verbatim text from some furious scribblings made at the back of the tour bus during the course our first visit to the Amish. These record a few basic points concerning their history and culture which I hope may enable you to make sense of later pastings as the story unfolds.

best regards

electrofried (mr)


About the Anabaptists

The Amish are anabaptists, a Christian movement that believes in adult baptism through informed choice, rather than by proxy during infancy. Their roots lie in the Protestant reformation of the sixteenth century and their spiritual heritage dates back to the origins of Christianity.

Many similarities can be seen with the early church, in particular the emphasis on sound teaching, close fellowship and a simple, humble approach to living out the Christian life. An oft-quoted passage from scripture encapsulates this perfectly:

"What does the Lord require of you, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God"

(Micah6:8)

Division and Development

Over time, the anabaptist movement has been subject to many divisions and developments. One of the most significant occured in 1536 when a Catholic priest from the Netherlands called, Menno Simmons, joined the movement.

His leadership helped bring together a number of scattered anabaptists who soon became known as Mennonites.They went on to spread out across Europe and, to this day, retain strongholds in Georgia and the Ukraine. The Menonnites continue to place great store on pacifism.

In many ways the Menonnites are similar to the Amish, and often live side-by-side with their more conservative "cousins".

The Amish

The Amish are yet another branch of the anabaptist movement. They began life in 1693 under the guidance of Jacob Amman, a young Swiss Mennonite leader. Jacob was concerned about the growing liberalism within the wider anabaptist movement.

He had a more conservative approach to faith and ended up establishing a new division of anabaptism. As with the Mennonites, this branch took on, in time, the name of its leader. Accordingly, its followers became known as the Amish.

Under Attack

As the seventeenth century began, the new Amish communities came under increasing threat. They were widely persecuted in Europe and many of their leaders were put to death. Their communities sustained further damage as a consequence of both the intercenine wars that beset Europe during this period and the famines that followed.

But a way out was offered ...

William Penn

William Penn, like many other Christian non-conformists, was subject to religious persecution, ending up at one point in the Tower of London. He was a Quaker, committed to change through peaceful means.

Fortunately, William was related to Admiral Penn.

The Admiral was a supporter of the royals during a time of struggle in the UK. King Charles I was indebted to him as a consequence - however, rather than repaying in money, the King elected instead to settle the debt by donating several large tracts of land in America. These eventually ended up in the hands of William Penn.

Formation of a new State

William was a visionary thinker who believed people could live in a state of peace and harmony despite having different religious convictions. He was determined to put these beliefs in practice, and therefore, as a grand "Holy Experiment" opened up his new possessions in the States to all who shared his views.

The Amish were quick to take up his offer of free land and the flight to America began in earnest around 1720. Significant numbers of European Amish left from the port of Rotterdam in Holland and set sail across the Atlantic to Philadelphia.

Following their arrival, many of them journeyed to what is now known as the County of Lancaster some 60-70 miles from Philadelphia. Previously Lancaster was inhabited only
by a few British settlors. It now houses one of the largest Amish communities in the world.

The growth of the Amish community

The new immigrants discovered a rich, fertile farmland in Pennsylvania which continues to this day to deliver the highest rate of agricultural production in the States.

In time, the Amish spread - they have now established communities in twenty-two US States together with the Canadian State of Ontario. The County of Lancaster remains a stronghold and some 150,000 Amish now live there.

On average, each Amish family has seven children and their numbers continue to grow. Unfortunately, as land becomes scarce, this means that many can no longer become farmers, the long-standing occupation of choice for the Amish. Instead, they have turned their hands to work as bakers, carpenters, dealers and repairers of agricultural machinery, builders and the like.

Amish dress - Female

The Amish have a distinctive dress and are known as the "plain people" for good reason.

Amish women wear a plain dress in the colour of their choice, usually increasingly muted as they grow older. Over this they wear a black pinafore, fastened either with flat pins or press-studs (known in the States as "snaps"). Buttons are regarded as frivolous. Accordingly they are either not used at all or are added in matching colour to make them inconspicuous.

Younger children will wear only the dress in Summer, but come the Winter they too will add a pinafore for warmth.

Amish girls are normally bare-headed, but as they approach teenage years will wear a blue bonnet on formal occasions. On becoming teenagers this changes to black - and, in due course, if they marry, to white.

The bonnet reflects the religious conviction of the Amish, which stems from a passage in Paul's first Letter to the Corinthians, that a woman's head should be covered when she is in prayer. As their life is an ongoing prayer the bonnet is worn at all times.

The outfit is completed by black stockings and plain black shoes - though Amish children are permitted a slightly more liberal regime. Come Summer they usually go barefoot - and some will wear trainers rather than shoes.

Amish females never cut their hair. There is but one hair-style - a parting down the middle with the hair tied back in a bun to one side. They wear neither make-up nor jewellry.

Amish dress - Male

Male attire is equally sombre - a plain black jacket and matching trousers, a white or self-coloured shirt and black shoes. Men, too, have prescribed headwear - in Summer a straw hat and in Winter a black felt hat. The hat is worn at all times in public - though the definition of "public" is somewhat narrower than ours.

Amish culture does not permit the use of zips. Accordingly the trousers have a flap at the front fastened by four buttons in two matching pairs - these are known as broad-fronted button-drop pants.

A relatively recent innovation has been the use of denim in clothing for farm-work.

Amish men are clean-shaven until the day they marry. They then cease shaving and grow a beard, but not a moustache. As with Amish women, individuality in dress is actively discouraged. The Amish derive much comfort from wearing a shared "uniform" that helps foster the community spirit that lies at the heart of their culture.

Transport

The Amish steer well clear of cars. They believe this method of transport will tempt then to journey away from the community to which they hold dear. Accordingly, transport is by means of horse and carriage, a frequent sight on the streets of Lancaster. They also avoid the use of rubber wheels - wood or iron is used instead.

Schooling

The Amish have established separate schools for their children, and these are recognised by State law. Teaching usually takes place in a single classroom with a young female teacher in charge.

State law also exempts the Amish from continuing in education beyond the age of fourteen. Instead, they learn vocational skills by working alongside their parents.

The Amish do not go on to higher education, though this has not affected either the sustainablility or prosperity of their community. Their services and products are much in demand and they are far more integrated into mainstream commercial life than may at first be believed. Amish furniture, in particular, is on sale throughout the east of America.

Religious structures

The Amish worship at home, rather than in churches - though a recent breakaway group, the Church Amish, are starting to construct permanent church buildings.

The Amish are organised into geographical districts, each comprising twenty-five families. Every district will have a deacon (who looks after administrative matters) and two ministers responsible for taking the Services and pastoral care.

There will be a bishop for each eight districts. The bishop is responsible both for administering the sacraments and for deciding the rules and regulations that determine day-to-day Amish life.

Services

Services take place once a fortnight and last up to three and a half hours. Often in Summer they take place in barns to avoid the stifling heat.

The Amish use the Martin Luther Bible translation and a traditional song-book called the Ausbund that is several centuries old. "Hoch deutsch" or "high German" is used throughout the Service.

The songs sound much like chants and there are two sermons. The first opens the Service and lasts twenty to thirty minutes. The second, and longer, sermon lasts between one to one and a half hours. In addition there are prayers (for which everyone kneels) and the reading of the Scriptures (for which everyone stands).

At the end of the Service there will be a fellowship meal. The elders eat first, the children eating later out of respect. Once the meal is over the elders will stay on in the house whilst the younger members of the congregation go outside for games, often meeting up with the youth from other, neighbouring districts. This often where young couples will get together.

Finally, everyone will get together again for a second meal, followed by singing, a favourite pastime for the Amish.

Marriage

Marriages are not arranged in the Amish community - indeed, there are safe-guards in place to make sure young Amish are not put under any parental pressure. The wedding itself takes place in the home and is on a large scale - two to three hundred guests is not unusual.

Once the couple are married the barn-building team sets to work. Unfortunately, as a consequence of the scarcity of land, it is no longer possible for every Amish couple to have their own farm. However, the barns are usually built close to the parents.

The barn-building team will consist of sixty to seventy men with specialist skills, supported by an equal number of women to cook and cater for the menfolk whilst they are at work. This community spirit is extended to the wider population. If a neighbour's barn blows down the Amish will provide a builiding team free of charge, leaving the owner just to meet the cost of the materials. The Amish believe this is part of their general community duty.

Baptism

The concept of adult believer baptism with informed choice is central to all anabaptists, of whom the Amish are a branch.

Accordingly, baptism will take place no earlier than age sixteen - the usual age being between eighteen and twenty-five. Contrary to popular belief the baptism is carried out by the simple pouring of water on the head - there is no requirement for full immersion.

Until baptism young people are not formally part of the Amish community. Accordingly, they enjoy much greater freedom than might be expected. Again, contrary to popular belief, there is no "year out" in the wider world - the individual always retains the choice as to which path to follow.

Of course, Amish children like all others will rebel against their parents. However, a very high proportion do indeed make the choice to join the community - recent estimates place the numbers making this choice at between 90 - 95%.

Funerals

When an Amish person dies the body will be taken first to an undertaker for embalming. It will then be brought back to the home for an official wake lasting two days. The funeral then takes place on the third day.

The design of the coffin is prescribed and the body is dressed in white to symbolise freedom from sin. The Amish do have graveyards and on the occasion of a funeral a special place will be made available for horses and carriages.

The Outside World

The Amish call everyone outside their community, "English", regardless of where they hail from. The outside world is viewed with some suspicion - the Amish follow a strict biblical model of being in, but not of, this world.

That said, there is far more integration than may first be thought. The Amish are increasingly involved with commercial activity that brings them in contact with the wider world. However, there are some things they continue to avoid - the most obvious of which is electricity.

Whilst they are happy to use batteries (and a torch is usually to be found on the bedside table) the Amish do not wish to be connected to the rest of the world on a permanent basis. They believe this will introduce too many worldly temptations. Accordingly, Amish homes remain free of computers, televisions, DVD players and other similar devices. They will also be illuminated by portable gas-lights rather than electricity.

Telephone usage

For similar reasons, the Amish will not have a telephone in the house - they believe this will disrupt the peace of family life. However, they will use the telephone. Normally it will be a communal facility, the telephone being housed in an outside shed. The monthly bill is then split between the participating families in accordance with usage.

Language

All Amish speak three languages - low German for everyday conversation, high German for Services and English for communicating with the outside world.

A typical Amish house

Amish houses are far less spartan than may be imagined. Whilst the style is simple, it is by no means austere or unattractive.

There are no photographs or paintings of family members - the Amish pay strict adherence to the Biblical command not to make graven images. Instead, they will often have brightly coloured family records displayed on the wall. This may be supplemented by calendars containing appropriate images and greeting cards.

Whilst there are no large vanity mirrors, the Amish do have small mirrors for grooming purposes. Houses have no central heating - what heat there is will be provided by the kitchen range. For this reason, the parents bedroom is normally downstairs closest to the warmth.

Traditionally, babies are kept in cribs in the parents' bedroom to assist the process of bonding. Older Amish view with some suspicion a growing practice amongst certain younger Amish to have nurseries.

The bathroom facilities will also be downstairs for reasons of practicality, the water being gravity-fed from water-towers. The kitchen will contain either a tradional range or a cooker powered by Calor gas. A recent innovation is the introduction of gas-powered refrigerators, which are readily available in the States as a consequence of the popularity of motorised homes.

Food in the kitchen will be mostly tinned or preserved. Few Amish today are totally self-sufficient and they do visit supermarkets to stock up. The likes of Walmart are keen to attract Amish custom and have even gone so far as to build special sheds to shelter their carriages and horses whilst they are shopping in the store.

The children's bedrooms will be upstairs. Boys rooms tend to be more austere than girls - the most decoration of all being reserved for teenage and older females. They may even be permitted simple curtains in addition to the traditional green window-blinds.

Amish children do play with toys, though clearly not computer games, TV sets, DVD and CD players etc.

American Beauty - Gallery 1

Adventures across the Pond - The story begins

Dear Chroniclers,

I'm delighted to report our safe return from adventures "across the pond", replete with capacious suitcases, carrier bags and general trunkage, all of which bulge visibly at the seams with trophies from our visit.

Spoils of war

Mrs electrofried bears home a country mileage of printed cotton material and three gloriously elaborate hand-stitched quilts. Another is to follow shortly.

Meanwhile, teenygoth's single-minded attack on our ever-shrinking bank balance has yielded several t-shirts, two pairs of ripped jeans and some bizarre pastel-coloured pumps she refers to lovingly as her "Converses", though converse to what is not immediately apparent to yours truly.

For my part, a box of carefully exposed glass plates has already been despatched to Little Wittering's only 24/7 film processing mini-lab'n'phrophylactic dispensary.

Oh, and the new pants probably need a clean, even though I took great care to turn them inside out every other day, as duly instructed by mrs electrofried.

A promise fulfilled

Twenty years ago the good lady and I planned a tour of America. Books had been purchased, itenaries organised and then ...

It fell to Dr Phlegm, physician to the electrofrieds and a close family friend, to break the news. He arrived with his dear wife, Dabs the Artiste, early one Saturday evening. Maximouse and our six month old son, reallyfried were safely bedded when he sat us both down on the sofa to break the news.

We never had the heart to make the tour once we'd found out reallyfried was mentally handicapped, as such conditions were called then.

But now, with reallyfried a proud householder in his own right, we can venture out once more. The promise is fulfilled - and we've made the journey across the pond. And oh, what adventures we've had!

The story begins

We owe it all to "Simply Quilters X-treme", the weekly publication of choice for mrs electrofried. Secreted amongst the small-advertistry for crochet-swapping and embroidered swingers she located an intriguing invitation to join a quilting party for a tour of Pennsylvania.

Given this is the year of the plumply-rounded birthday for the love of my life, what else could I do but write out a series of not insubstantial cheques and await the arrival of three cattle-class airline tickets.

Pastings to come

It all seems like a dream, but may I extend a cordial invitation to join me on a journey to the backroads of Pennsylvania. Over the next few pastings we'll:

• learn something of the Amish community;
  
• visit the battle-fields of Gettysburg;

• reflect on strange eating habits;

• be glued to a hard wooden bench, mesmerised by an eight hour quilt auction; and

• observe the grace of God as a terrible tragedy unfolds.

Would you care to join me?

The definition of time

As you might expect, the stories to come will be accompanied by various glassy-plated Dagguerotypes - you may even encounter the occasional gallery along the way.

But there will be something missing from my casual and badly constructed holiday snaps - the people who lie at the very heart of Pennsylvania. A people who were thrust involuntarily and tragically into the spotlight of the world media; a people of great grace and love who are known as the Amish. They hold literally to the commandment not to make graven images and I respect their beliefs.

This pasting and those to follow are dedicated prayerfully to their witness.

with best regards,

electrofried (mr)

Time Beans

Dear Chroniclers,

so do you believe in fairy tales?

We're all firm believers in the House of electrofried, and that's why we're about to introduce you to the time-beans.

Where we live

It's good neither to live in the past nor live for the future, but just to live in the time-beans. We've grown them for many years now on the estate and they're best sellers on the vegetable stalls of Little Wittering.

Transformation

You see, the best thing about fairy tales is that they transform how we see life. And, of course, that's exactly what our time-beans do.

Here's one growing now. Shortly, it will fall from the stalk and take root in one of the pastings below. Why not scroll down the page and see where it lands! Rest assured, there will be others to follow.

Our bags are packed and the Charabanc awaits

Dear Chroniclers,

excitement is almost at fever-pitch in the House of electrofried as the time nears to visit our cousins on the opposite side of the pond. You see, we're about to celebrate a plumply rounded birthday in the life of mrs electrofried.

Time flies

I will not bore you, yet again, with tales from our teenaged past (more from fear of incurring the wrath of young teenygoth, as anything else) but suffice to say the dear lady is rather special. An under-statement if ever there was one!

So what more fitting way to say thank you to mrs electrofried for sharing her life with us than flying her across the Atlantic for two weeks pleasuring deep in the heart of Pennyslvania's Dutch Country. Oh, and teenygoth gets to go too.

Instructions to the Staff

Please do keep a weather-eye on the House whilst we're away. We will be leaving Fetlock in charge, a decision I fear we may have cause to regret come our return.

For some weeks now he's been beavering away in the Servants' Quarters, head buried deep in the well-thumbed, but grossly inaccurate Slovenian/English dictionary that is his faltering life-line to communication with the residents of Little Wittering.

If you do call by, expect to be greeted with the cryptic entreatment, "Dve karti za avtobusni izlet v Postojno?". This may come in handy should you indeed wish to purchase, "Two tickets for the guided bus tour to Postojna.", but otherwise is unlikely to be of much substantive use in ongoing conversational repartee.

The assembling of luggage

You will doubtless be pleased to learn I have given Fetlock the afternoon off to conserve his somewhat limited energies. He will need all his strength to hoist aboard our charabanc the substantial assortment of light hand-luggage and general trunkery that has been amassed by mrs electrofried in the upper reaches of the House.

The collection began some weeks ago with one small valise. It now covers most of the visible flooring area of one of the smaller bedrooms in the West Wing and spills over into a considerable portion of the backstairs.

Cook's Tours

Cook is far from pleased. Her garret hideaway lies immediately adjacent to mrs electrofried's luggage repository and the prospect of negotiating its straits whilst bearing her customary crated cargo of super-strength alcohol fills her (and us) with some dread.

It seems likely she will resolve this predicament by consuming half the contents of the crate before venturing past the box-room. Given past form, we anticipate a lager spillage of Exxion Valdez proportions.

In-flight Entertainment

I conducted a brief, but revealing, inspection of the hand-luggage earlier this morning.

Personally, I thought we might leave the Victrola behind for a well-needed "dust'n'lube". However, mrs electrofried is determined it must be packed, together of course with a small selection from her extensive and ever-expanding Perry Como collection.

She has even gone so far as to fashion a curious device out of a pair of heavily embroidered ear-muffs and a short length of garden-hosing. I am informed this is to convert the much-loved Victrola into a personal stereo unit for in-flight entertainment purposes, but I remain to be convinced this will be a viable option given the baggage constraints currently in operation on most Transatlantic flights.

Mrs electrofried is, however, a lady on a mission. And who am I to bet against her emerging victorious from battle with those who man the Customs Stall at Heathrow.

My contribution

Of course, I have made my own contribution to the ongoing luggage assembly. A crate has been duly packed with several Box Brownie bodies, an accompanying assortment of carefully dusted prime lenses and a box-load of freshly emulsioned glass plates.

Oh, and I've bought a clean pair of pants.

The call of the charabanc

Forgive me if I now bid you a fond farewell - I hear the familiar parp of the charabanc as it pulls up the drive toward the House. Happy journeyings all and see you in a few weeks' time.

best regards

electrofried (mr)

Streaming

I knew you would get here eventually - I've been watching you ever since you began visiting the House. Not that you seemed to notice me standing by the portal on your way in. No-one ever does, until it's too late.

So have you guessed my name? I'll give you a little clue - cast your mind back to that very first walk along the corridor.

Armoured

"We walk, braille-like, the length of the corridor, careful not to trip inadvertently into one of a series of mounted suits of armour that line the wall."

Tentative steps and a light that beckons toward the end of the corridor. Past silent rows of rusting armour in search of the sound of a tapping type-writer - I slip away into darkness and the noise gets louder as you close in on its source.

Footloose

I see you approach. The sabeton lames of the armoured feet stretch tight across the tips of my toes, set ready to flex. It's hot in here, so hot.

Buried deep within the metal suit I wait patiently for you to appear. The quilted layers of the aketon lining are sweat-stained and bloody from so many encounters before. But I dare not move a muscle.

Until, of course, you arrive ...

Peek-a-boo

I sense your footsteps close by and the visor drops open to reveal a pair of deep-blue Predator sunglasses.

BOO!!

... I grab hold of you and now we're streaming in time.

Life is a Beach

A shadowy figure beckons to us, its hand playing out patterns across the surface of the cold saline water. We're sucked out by the current into a triangulated trench toward the bottom of screenshot and leave the page together, embraced in a metalled armour suit.

We interrupt this pasting

Hello!

It all seems a little Gothic round here, don't you think? And rather confusing, if I may say. I guess that's what you might expect when time starts to stream the wrong way.

I should explain. But first, would you mind holding out your hand.

A simple Borlotti bean

Well caught! Now I guess you want to know what you're holding. Lift it up to the light and take a look. Do you see an oval shaped, pale brown legume?

That's right - it's a Borlotti bean. A rather special Borlotti bean, grown exclusively in the kitchen gardens of the House of electrofried. It has a sweet flavour with a creamy, smooth texture. But may I suggest that instead of tasting it, you dig a small hole in the ground before you.

Yes, just like that. Now plant the bean at the bottom, cover it over with soil and stand well back.

Blossoms

Nothing much happens for a little while. Time is like that - it requires great patience to bring to the boil.

Then a small crack appears in the soil. It spreads rapidly and begins to divide - once, twice, four times then eight. And before we know it, the ground in front of us has fissured and fractalled into a spider-patterned web.

A small shoot appears at the epi-centre. It leaps free into the air and spins round in a gaudy green-leaved waltz that has us both dizzy before we know quite where we are. It's all we can do to hang onto its tendrils as it pushes upward.

Taking hold

The shoot chases toward a triangulated channel in the time-stream and locks on to a medieval armour suit just a few seconds ahead. This suit has a whitened body clasped firm to its metalled breast-plate.

There is no escape! The shoot takes hold of the armoured feet and begins to wrap around. It covers the armour in a green-leafed bower from which blossoms a sweet smelling orange flower. As the metal begins to rust and flake the suit releases its captive cargo.

A portly horologist steps forward, shakes the cold saline spray from his hair and smiles. He has in his hand a magic time-bean.

The confusion of time

We're all very confused!

Those of us who have not visited here before may fail to spot the joins. But there's no getting away from these strange interruptions throughout this pasting. Why do we leap from a darkened corridor to a shadowy figure on the beach, then on once more to a the stalks of a green legume?

And for those who have travelled this path in the past, the shifting sands of time have changed this pasting beyond recognition. On our last visit we were flowing out of a computer screenshot in the cold grasp of a metalled armour suit - but now?

An explanation is required.

The power of fairy tales

Do you believe in fairy tales? They have an uncanny power to transform things so we see them in a different light.

Welcome then to a modern-day fairy tale and shake hands with the time-bean that is the invention of one Master Clesiastes, the keeper of the Horology Factory.

Too confusing by far? Then here are some questions to puzzle over until next time we meet:

• Who greets us as we enter the portal to the House?

• What's the significance of the suit of armour?

• Why do fairy tales have the ability to transform?

• Just who is Master Clesiastes?

Hope to see you soon. And, before you go, here's a present from the horologist who lives here - a time-bean of your very own. Keep it close to hand, just in case you need it to transform something in the future!

All is not as it may first seem

Dear Friends,

sometimes all is not as it may first seem, as I have discovered, much to my embarrassment, this weekend.

Some words of wisdom from Fetlock

"Ne hodi po travi".

A double-take

Forgive me, for I sense we must investigate the concept of confusion a little further before we proceed down an increasingly bizarre path toward the House of Electrofried. No doubt you will have observed on your way in today two portly figures, both of whom are dressed in black and wearing Predator sunglasses.

One clutches to his breast a well-thumbed Slovenian/English phrase-book and the other a manual film camera whose genesis began some ninety three years ago in the mind of one Oskar Barnack.

But who is the real horologist? And why?

Central Exchange

This weekend has seen a veritable frenzy of phone-calls and increasingly confused emails as various members of the family electrofried have emerged, one by one, from behind a series of curiously fashioned Circus masks to reveal their true identities.

Perhaps confusion is a natural hazard of hosting a Chronicle that is subject to the vagaries of the shifting sands of time. So take a seat as the drama unfolds.

An invitation is extended

A few weeks ago (if time can be relied upon) I extended a family-wide invitation to visit the House. The initial response was muted, the electrofrieds being a somewhat cautious and sensitive clan.

Brave nephew, Piercelings, was among the first to visit, though to date he has yet to register his presence formally. Perhaps the mention of his name will prompt a comment - please do keep a sharp look-out for any trail he may leave.

Piercelings was followed closely into the House by much-loved son-in-law, His Imperial Hirsutelessness, who was bold enough to venture into print. His first, but hopefully not last, contribution to the Chronicles appears in the chapter entitled, "TW3".

So take a bow, Piercelings and His Imperial ...

Fungal Growths

All was quiet for some time then, much to my surprise and great joy, a comment appeared overnight like some exotic fungi deep within the woods, from another family member. Enter stage left, Lagerfried.

For those of you who are remotely interested (and I sense you must be in the rather less than significant minority) the debutante pasting of Lagerfried can be discovered by scrolling down to the very bottom of the page.

There you will find the first entry to my journal entitled,"Tap, tap, tap .... ping!!" and hidden amongst the comments is a brief, but highly revealing entry.

Thrown off the scent

It was the reference in that pasting to West Country lineage which threw me off the scent. I automatically associated it with my dear Cousin Frazzle, a Bristolian emigre, mother of two and fellow imbiber of strong continental lagers.

Imagine my surprise, when I discovered the true identity behind this cunningly titled nom-de-plume. Earlier this afternoon, during discussions on the telephone with my elder brother, it became clear Lagerfried, was not a she, but a he.

Step forward then, elder brother. Pray remove your Circus mask, take a bow and lay claim to your rightful title as Lagerfried!

"Nip and Tuck"

Were this to be a Shakespearean opus I would doubtless stand accused of being a gorbellied tickle-brained scut for making such a simple error of judgement. Fortunately, my immediate family are of a more forgiving nature.

Accordingly, I have been able, during the course of the day, to make a number of "nip-and-tuck" operations to the blog to ensure Lagerfried does not have to pass himself off as yet another transgendered electrofried.

Will the real slim frazzle ...

Which just leaves Cousin Frazzle to lay claim to a comment on my blog. She has expert assistance readily to hand in the shape of her gamine like daughters - once suitably rubbed down and oiled with a can of the old super-strength, she too may be tempted into placing finger to keyboard in response.

Should she do so, I feel sure regular Visitors to the House will make her comfortable. Be careful though. Once she's thrown off her tartan blanket and matching bed-socks she's a force to be reckoned with.

A different perspective

So as you leave the House once more, did you guess who was who?

The portly horologist on the right was responsible for the Gallery of Tinctured Abstractions, just a scroll away downstairs. Do call by and have a look - there's a special prize for visitors who guess correctly the subject matter of the photographs.

And as for the imposter on the left, all that remains to be said is, "Ne hodi po travi," or, "Keep off the grass", as the Slovenian/English dictionary would have it.

best regards

electrofried (mr)

The Gallery of Tinctured Abstractions

A Climb to the Viewing Room

There are some thirty three irregular steps that make up the Tower stairway - they lead to a small, flagged corridor at the end of which is the Viewing Room. Shall we ascend together?

The Eastern Approach

The Tower lies east of the House and to reach it we must walk a gravelled path that leads from the kitchen garden. Let us leave behind the licquorice scent of Florentine fennel and make our way across.

Tread carefully as you go - the gravel will incise sharp reminders of the passage into our well-worn soles!

Gargoyles and butterflies

As we near the entrance to the Tower, we notice its Gothic stonework loom up to greet us. A flying buttress supports the outer wall and a party of silhouetted gargoyles hangs languidly from a mooring-point close to the apex.

They point toward a strange stone tableaux a little further up the buttress. This depicts a bleach of butterflies in pursuit of a stout gentleman. His arms flail wildly as he seeks to avoid their deathly white embrace - two of their number have already taken hold of his eyes.

Another Portal

We recommence our walk.

At the end of the gravelled drive lies a single lancet opening to the Tower. Our way is now barred by an oak door on which is mounted an elaborate metalled door-knocker. It's in the shape of a gargoyle head, similar to those which adorn the buttress overhead. Two white butterflies partially obscure the face - they look, for all the world, like a pair of albino sunglasses.

As we reach out for the door-knocker the butterflies take to the air, leaving two vacant eye-sockets to greet us. These blink, and the door swings open to reveal a high-vaulted Hall within. The Tower bids us enter.

A decision to make

Shall we go in? You look so apprehensive standing by the portal, but there's really nothing to fear - many have travelled this way before.

I can sense you're unsure. I'll leave you a while to decide what to do. If you want to go back, just retrace your steps along the gravel path, no-one need ever know you left the kitchen garden. But if you do decide to go further, then step through the portal and join me.

In the meantime, please excuse me. There's a gentleman who's been waiting patiently outside this door for some time now and I must speak to him for a moment.

A decision made

I'm so glad you chose to venture on. If I were to be honest, there are times when it's quite lonely waiting for someone to enter the Tower. Did you pass my friend on the way in? He says he knows you from way back, but then again, he says that of all my visitors!

So take a good look around while I check if the stairwell is clear.

The Hall of Flowers

The far wall of the Entrance Hall is pierced by a series of mullioned windows - their crossing trefoils and quatrefoils dissect the sunlight into a series of intricate patterns on the floor in front of you. Look up and see the dog-rose motif that decorates the lintel to each window.

As your eyes focus on this motif you're drawn back to a dim memory from an earlier visit to the House - the memory of a walk across a beach. A bitter scent pours from the dog-rose vine, and time becomes a loop as you float into a foaming sea next to the thin bearded man who plays with a laughing baby. He wears a stethoscope around his neck.

And now you're rising up into the air. The dog-rose carries you to the very height of the vaulted ceiling then lets you down in a fall of Autumnal leaves.

The stairway is clear

Please forgive me, I should have warned you about the Hall.

It's a long story involving experiments under the tutelage of Eudor. Unfortunately things went rather badly wrong with the regrettable consequence that time has become a little tangled in there. Best just to step through it and ignore the mess - I'll sort it all out one of these days.

So, if you're ready to proceed - I've checked, and the stairway is now clear.

Vestigial stumps

Four easy steps to begin with. They're so well worn they've become little more than vestigial stumps, but nonetheless they ease our way up to the first level of the Tower.

It's here the staircase begins to turn. Do watch your step; one foot in the wrong place and you may find yourself back in the Hall of Flowers. And we both know what happens there, don't we?!

Round the bend

Easy as you go, now. There are five more steps to negotiate, each one curving a little further into a loose cork-screw.

Do you notice how smooth the walls are? This part of the staircase has been decorated in the finest Penteli marble. The craftsmen who set it in place have done a superb job, don't you think? The marble joins are so close you could be forgiven for thinking the whole thing's been fused together into one enormous slab.

May I suggest we press on - there's still some way to go and I do find this part of the Tower rather chilly.

Catching hold

Five more steps to climb and these are much more substantial fare. You may need to grab hold of the cord that runs the length of the staircase - you'll find it over there.

Now follow me up to ...

The Cage

It's much lighter in this section. There are twelve steps to mount and each is illuminated by a small barred window.

"The Cage", as it's known in the House, is guarded by twelve stained-glass watchmen. They oversee the approach to the final part of the staircase.

Almost there!

Shaken in transit

I must warn you about the last seven steps. Don't rush on ...

Oh dear, too late! Hang on tight, I'm just behind. You see, the last seven steps have an alarming tendency to move quite without warning, especially if there's someone in the Viewing Room.

I do hope you're not too alarmed. Just wait for a second or two and the staircase should stop shaking.

Jolly good! So, now we're almost at the top, would you like to go and see who's there?

TW3

Dear Chums,

so how has your week been?

Visitors from the Flatlands

Another Friday evening arrives in the House of Electrofried, bringing with it a visit by maximouse (our eldest daughter) and her husband, His Imperial Hirsutelessness. The extended Hounds are, of course, in tow.

The younger of them, a sturdy creature of some uncertain parentage, seems intent on nefarious pleasures with sundry items of furniture, Fetlock's right leg and our own dear Dylanne - simulaneously, if at all possible.

Canine Shenanigans

Fortunately, young teenygoth is currently attending the local youth-club for persistent ASBO offenders, so her blushes are accordingly spared. Mrs electrofried does, however, observe that our youngest fruit's increasing interest in the opposite sex might mean she has more than a passing interest in the finer mechanics of these high-spirited canine shenanigans.

One hopes, therefore, all will have cooled on the dog/furniture/Fetlock front, come teenygoth's return to the House.

Downtown Little Wittering

In the meantime, yours truly and His Imperial Hirsutelessness are currently half way through a demi-john of the finest strong continental lager, laid down in the cellar just a few hours ago following a flying visit to Mrs Mills' 24/7 Kebab-bar and Licensed Victullers Emporium in downtown Little Wittering.

There are glasses to be drained and waxy platters to be spun on the faithful Victrola, so I will not dally long tonight.

Enter Lagerfried

And so finally, to the cryptic photograph that introduces this latest pasting on "The Chronicles". Grey-haired and bearing a slightly bemused expression, it brings to my mind my dear brother, Lagerfried, a wise old bird if ever there was one.

The observant may already have spotted a brief exchange of comments in the Visitors' Book at the very start of the blog that bears his name.

Joys to Come

If time permits, I will tell more of the mighty Lagerfried in pastings to follow - his is a story that defies description. Fortunately.

And with that thought in mind, I must take my leave.

yours as always,

electrofried (mr)

In a Secret Place

Many visitors have arrived at these portals via the Mojo Music Board, the place where the author of this meandering blog first began his fledgling pasting career.

One of the regular contributors to that Board is "foxontherocks", who is shortly to marry. This pasting is a wedding present from the House of Electrofried to him and to his bride-to-be.

with all best wishes from the House.


Approaching the House

Past birdsfoot trefoil, black knapweed, the ribwort plantain, white campion and yarrow - all tumbled and rolling into a rich kaleidoscopic meadow. The northern approach to the House.

There is a secret path here; it treads the yellow-buttercupped length of an ancient celandine route through the undergrowth. A secret path known only to the lovers who tryst between its grassy blanket. We come here tracing steps.

Seated

We pause by ox-eye daisies scattered carelessly around a green cast-iron bench. As we sit here for a while and rest we sense the recent presence of the couple - their memories returning to the day they first sat together by the grey water of the Thames.

Surrounded, yet gloriously alone; becoming one in time with the flow.

The Northern Door opens

Just ahead lies the Northern Door, its sun-blanched oak and thick black ironwork barring the way to those who seek sanctuary within.

We hear music calling from within, and as we rise from the bench to investigate, the portal opens.

Spinning in Time

Our eyes grow slowly accustomed to the dark and we see once more into the House.

The hall beyond the Northern Door is dressed with wild-flowers plucked fresh from the meadow. Plaited strings of sorrel and salad burnet garnish the table by the doorway, their sharp scent cutting through the gloom.

The couple dances within - deep in embrace, the swirling music is their inspiration. Etched in the stonework above the Door we read this fragment from an ancient Jewish psalm:

"Sing a new song to Him, play the harp with skill and shout for joy!"

Tweaked and Fettled

Dear Browsers and Browserettes,

here at the House we've had one of those tidying-up days that are from time to time necessary if one is to avoid disappearing under a pile of rusting armour.

Fetlock the Butler has been hardest at work - he's barely paused to draw breath, let alone consult the latest supplement to his Slovenian/English dictionary. This arrived earlier in the week in a brown-paper parcel and we await its unwrapping with some trepidation.

Dusted Down

Whilst the changes are small, Fetlock and I have been "fettling" the blog all day long to improve its overall appearance. I've oiled and greased a number of the pastings and Fetlock has dusted each one down with his customary zeal.

At the same time, I've also taken the opportunity to sort out the on-line equivalent of the sock drawer by responding to comments kindly left by readers during previous visits.

Spot the difference

We hope the minor tweaks and fettles enhance the enjoyment of your visit. Please do spend a moment or two looking around the blog to see if you spot any differences.

best regards

electrofried (mr)

p.s. a few minutes ago Fetlock opened the brown-paper package with a triumphant yell that was heard the length and breadth of the House. Accordingly, we now know we should not be unduly alarmed when we hear him say "S smetano?", which is, apparently, an invitation to partake in whipped cream.

Mrs electrofried has already taken the sensible precaution of telephoning the fishmongers, just in case they should be confused when Fetlock places the usual weekly order on Monday morning.

Pictures at an Exhibition - the Horologist's Cut

Dear Browsers and Browserettes,

one of our regulars to the House left a comment in the Visitors' Book yesterday concerning the possible inclusion of a "Gallerie Photographique", and who am I to spurn such request. Accordingly, earlier this morning I instructed Fetlock to suspend dusting temporarily and fetch me down an album from the Library shelves.

The results are duly exhibited further down the page.

Flights of fancy

Before I provide a little more detail concerning the pictures, I must first bring you up to speed with the exploits of my late Great Uncle Electrofried.

Following his ill-timed and disasterous punt on the malted beverages futures-market, Great Uncle struck upon a brilliant idea to restore the fortunes of the House - namely, the construction of an airport on the outskirts of Little Wittering in order to relieve the congested air-ways above our over-crowded capital City.

Terminal Velocity

Heathrow and its ilk are well known to collectors of frequent-flyer awards, but few will be aware of the existence of Gnatwyke, a once-bustling terminal located just three miles drive from the House. You pass it on the left-hand side as you travel north toward Eudor's horology factory.

Constructed initially to receive light passenger traffic, it was not long before Great Uncle was tempted to extend the activities of the airport to commercial cargo. Work accordingly commenced on the construction of a second runway and plans were put in motion for a grand Opening Ceremony.

Special Delivery

It will come as a little surprise that Great Uncle insisted the first cargo to be delivered to the new facility should be a bulk load of a well-known bedtime beverage from the Slough HQ of Horlicks.

To add to the fun of the occasion, it was to arrive not by airplane but on board a huge dirigible, constructed especially for the purpose, in the shape of an Indian elephant - said country being, at the time, the number one market for the beverage in question.

Excitement approached fever-pitch in the village as the Big Day loomed. Bunting was duly bunted and the local Womens' Institute set about work to bake the biggest scone in cream-tea history.

First sightings

At long last, the time arrived for the grand Opening Ceremony. Great Uncle Electrofried, accompanied by representatives from the WI and the entire Parish Council of Little Wittering, stood waiting by the newly constructed runway, heads craned sky-ward to catch sight of the approaching dirigible.

She was first spotted by a small child who leapt up and down pointing to an indistinct, vacillating dot in the far distance. Parish records disclose her name as "Preteeny Goth", but one suspects this may have been a pseudonym.

Suffice to say, her cries of, "It's going to crash, it's going to crash!!", were roundly ignored by all except her mother, who wisely picked up the child in her arms and carried her off in the general direction of the cake-stall.

Crash, bang, wallop!

The rest, of course, is history. The dirigible duly hove into sight, cutting an eccentric path toward Runway No. 2 and with a marked lean to the portside. Understandably, the assembled crowd below fled for their very lives, leaving the air-borne wanderer to lurch to a premature and resounding halt in the cream-tea tent.

All hope of beating the WI scone record came instantly to naught as the dirigible discharged its cargo of Horlicks-bearing elephants into the very heart of the mix. The contents were duly splattered to the four corners of the runway, but fortunately no elephant perished in the bake.

Black Box Recorder

We now know the cause of this unfortunate scone-base debacle. The black box recorder, subsequently recovered from the smouldering hull of the dirigible, revealed all.

Apparently, the constituent members of a small herd of Indian elephants hired especially for the day by Great Uncle from a local circus, had chosen simultaneously to look over at the view on the portside of the wicker basket - with disasterous consequences for all concerned.

Depressing Coverage

The "Little Wittering Bugle" expressed little sympathy. Its report of the events of the day appeared under the banner:

"Elephants in dirigible strike fear into the heart of Little Wittering's Womens' Institute at newly opened Gnatwyke Runway No 2."

A snappy headline, if ever there was one, but sufficient to promote a wave of cancellations from prospective incoming airlines. The inevitable closure of the entire airport facility followed shortly after, leaving Great Uncle Electrofried to lick his wounds and scrape the remainder of the well-dispersed scone mix from Runway No. 2.

Little Wittering - the Annual Quilting Exhibition

Of course, the story doesn't end there!

When we inherited the House some years ago, title to the estate at Gnatwyke passed with it. Mrs electrofried was determined to put to good use the disused aircraft hangar at the end of Runway No 2. Accordingly, shortly after we took up residence, she launched the first of Little Wittering's now legendary Annual Quilting Exhibitions under its freshly dusted rafters.

The latest took place just a few weeks ago and, as Photographer-in-Chief, I was duly charged with the task of covering the day. A few sample snaps appear in the pasting immediately below.

Remembering our fore-bears

Notwithstanding the disasterous events of the Opening Ceremony, mrs electrofried still insists, to this day, on celebrating the work of Great Uncle.

Should you ever choose to join us at a future Exhibition, you will find tucked around the corner of the quilting stands a small kiosk staffed by representatives of the local WI. They serve, as you may well have guessed by now, elephant-shaped scones.

yours as ever,

electrofried (mr)

Pictures at an Exhibition

Autumn Leaves

Dear Browsers and Browserettes,

it's been somewhat of a "Red Letter" day in the House.

At the end of the week it's my customary practice to pack up a Gladstone-bagged load from the in-tray at the horology factory and work from home.

By starting early morning, sufficient seconds can be captured, bound together and hung up to dry on-line to permit a stolen walk in the Grounds with dear mrs electrofried - accompanied, of course, by the good Hounds.

And that's just what we've done today.

Waiting for the fall

At this time of year, there's something especially poignant about the woods at the far end of the estate. Shortly the leaves will start to turn and everything above us will be flamed and glowing. Every season bears fresh treasure but, as for the House of Electrofried, Autumn will ever be our favourite.

As one might suspect, the years are now clinging to the collective electrofried frames more tightly than a bag of drying seconds in Eudor's horology factory. Accordingly, our journey through life is in so many ways reflected in the Autumnal shades from above - a time of fruit and harvest celebration, with the bite of chill Winter winds still just a little over the horizon.

Thus we hold hands and walk together into the deep heart of the wood.

On the pleasures of hand-holding

Indeed, what greater joy can there be than to take firm hold of the hand of the one you love?

To this day, I still remember that very first occasion I held hands with the dear lady of the House - I can even recall the sweet citrus-note of her teenage daubed perfume. Oh how the memories flood back!

Disappearing figures in the wood

And with that, I will take my leave tonight. A short pasting it may be, but a "Red Letter" day requires no more than a brief fleeting moment of intimacy beneath the bowers of an Autumnal tree. So look deep and long into the picture above and you may just catch sight of two lovers still dancing in time before the Autumn leaves.

yours as ever,

electrofried (mr)

The curious case of the imploding Victrola

Dear Browsers and Browserettes,

today, as can be seen from the graphic illustration above, things have gone steadily from bad to worse in the House of electrofried. If only I'd listened to teenygoth ...

"Loud, Proud and Home-Baked"

Regular visitors with a day-pass to the House will be aware of mrs electrofried's long-standing dj slot at the Little Wittering branch of the Women's Institute. "Loud, Proud and Home-Baked", or "LP+h", as it is now known amongst the cognoscenti, has become a veritable legend in the world of institutionary.

LP+h's loyal following extends well beyond the boundaries of the village. Revellers have, in the past, joined us from such far-flung exotic locations as Greater Wittering.

A jam to remember

On one memorable occasion, the hall even played host to a touring charabanc-party from the birthplace of the British WI movement - LLanfair PG, or, to give it its full name:

"Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch".

Regrettably, by the time the charabanc operator had announced, over the feedback-infested tannoy system, the full name of the touring party, mrs electrofried's slot was all but over.

Had it not been for the timely arrival of the clotted cream teas, a small-scale disturbance seemed the inevitable conclusion to proceedings. Fortunately, all thoughts of riotous tumult were put to one side in the rush to score copious quantities of scone.

Even more fortuitously, this historic session was captured for posterity on the infamous limited-edition bootleg album, "Mrs electrofried meets the forces of Madge Watts in the House of Dub". The occasional copy can be found on E-Bay, and it commands a premium that frankly beggars belief.

Bangers and Mash

By custom and practice, LP+h usually takes centre stage at the Friday meeting of the Institute. Accordingly, mrs electrofried has been engaged most of the day in putting together her set-list for tomorrow.

Her favourite style of the moment is the "mash-up". Having discovered, from a stuffer in "Quilting Monthly and i-tunes", the black art of illegally combining otherwise unconnected songs in a rich melange of sound, mrs electrofried is regularly to be found hunched over the Remington Noiseless downloading MP3's from a variety of dubious wonderweb sites.

... and it was here it all started to go wrong.

Heed the warnings

Conscious that Friday was fast approaching and further melodies were still required for the set-list, I set off in search of teenygoth's MP3 player, certain in the knowledge it would be full to the gills with suitable material. As always, it was to be discovered beneath a mountainous heap of discarded garmentry and mould-encrusted table-ware.

"Leave it, Dad ... " protested the ever somnabulant teenygoth, "... you know you'll end up breaking it."

Undeterred, I seized the player and made off in the direction of the music room, screwdriver in hand.

The Overload

In just a few moments the front to the Victrola was off and I had it fire-wired to teenygoth's MP3 player with a length of flex purloined from the angle-poise in my study.

Just as I flicked the switch to initiate the download procedure mrs electrofried arrived, an accusative teenygoth in tow.

"Electrofried ... " she cried, "... not my Victrola??!!!"

Rewind, bo selecta

We did manage to put the flames out eventually. However, I fear we are in urgent need of some replacement valves and a new nickel-plated Horn Elbow. So once more, I find myself banished to the Tower as mrs electrofried and teenygoth seek to make good the damage.

Pray spare a thought for me as I ponder on the cruel events of the day. "Bo selecta, rewind", indeed!

yours as ever,

electrofried (mr)

Life's a Beach

Dear Browsers and Browserettes,

tonight I sit in rather splendid isolation in the pasting room. Teenygoth has long since retired to bed to practice her presence, whilst Cook tucks into a freshly cut Mills & Boon, a half-drained litre of the finest super-strength continental lager close to hand.

Up in the servants' quarters Fetlock is, for some reason best known to himself, exploring the arcane mysteries of a Slovenian wonderweb search engine. The last I heard, he was attempting a translation of "my pomegranate is richly vibrant", which I feel sure will go down a treat, come the morn, when he tries out his best English on the unsuspecting burghers of Little Wittering.

Silence abounds

For her part, mrs electrofried is quilting a cover for her trusty Victrola. We plan an approach to certain well-known music magazines for a sponsorship deal and, keep this under your hats dear readers, we're quietly confident of a major bidding war between the likes of "Kerrang" and "Q" for the privilege of plying their wares before the massed crowds of the Little Wittering branch of the WI. Mrs electrofried has a stencilled motif prepared in readiness.

Even the nether regions of the House have fallen silent. The Black Dowager remains several feet beneath the basement, her ears trained, as ever, upon the sound of a laughing young girl up in the attic. One day, God willing, they may be re-united.

Picture this

But enough of such light banter. Now we are alone, I feel it's time to tell you a little more of the beginnings of the current line of electrofried. Picture if you will a classroom of hormonally charged Fifth Form boys.

Sitting at the back is a particularly unprepossessing specimen. In his mind's eye, he attempts to piece together some loosely worded descriptions from the well-thumbed pages of "Virgin Soldiers" to create a technicolour picture of womanhood. All the while he pretends to pay attention to the teacher.

Enter the Headmaster

His thoughts are rudely interrupted by the arrival of the Headmaster. The boy listens half-heartedly to his request for volunteers to help out at an evening club for the mentally disadvantaged - a place of respite for their long-suffering parents.

No volunteers are forthcoming until the Headmaster adds these few vital words, "And there's girls ... "

One hand is raised swiftly, and the rest is history, for this is young master electrofried we see before us.

Fast forward

And now we're at that very same evening club. Master electrofried spies at the other end of the room a shy, and rather beautiful, young lady who's repeated glances in his direction cannot be ignored. The two gravitate gently toward the table-tennis equipment and play out a game, oblivious to the general mayhem around.

Eight weeks on they're an item, six years later they are mr and mrs electrofried, and thirteen years from when they first met they cradle their newborn second child. Little do they realise that reallyfried, their son, will take them right back to nights at the club ... for he too, it will shortly be revealed to them, is mentally disadvantaged.

And now ... the beach

So why, may you ask, is there a crudely rendered photograph of a beach at the beginning of this increasingly tedious pasting? It's because it's the place that holds the very deepest of memories for mr and mrs electrofried - most happy, just a few that are sad.

For it was here we courted, holding hands to explore rock pools and things that would make teenygoth blush beetroot red. It was here we walked on the first night of our married life. All the way to the fish and chip shop at the far end to purchase supper with the few shillings left in our newly conjugal purse.

It was here, too, that Dr Phlegm, the electrofried family physician, splashed in the waves with his newly christened Godson, the baby reallyfried. Just a few months later it would fall to him to break the news that all was not well.

Bittersweet memories

Scroll up for a second, if you will, to the photograph. How does it speak to you? If you have bittersweet memories of a place in time then spare a moment to add a comment in the Visitors' Book before you leave the House.


yours as ever

electrofried (mr)

Universal jigsaw puzzles

Dear Browsers and Browserettes,

it has to be said, the hands of my dear lady electrofried are forever dancing balletically across fabric and thread. Be it the simple sampler or a quilt exploding into patterns of the most exquisite colour and beauty, I never cease to be stunned by her work. It adorns every part of the House and extends to our wider family beyond.

A wedding treasury

I reflect on this at length during our recent visit to maximouse and His Imperial Hirsutelessness, further details of which appear just below in these increasingly bizarre meanderings. Adorning their conjugal bed is a purpled, kaleidoscopic treasure - a wedding present from mrs electrofried.

I look at it in wonder, studying the intricate fabric patterns that have been woven together in an extraordinary fabric jigsaw. How many generations to come, who have never met mrs electrofried or her half-wit husband, will also stand and gaze in awe at her work.

And then my thoughts pass to strands of DNA forever twisting and delivering messages, like the threads of a treasured wedding quilt, to those who must follow. Where did it all start and when will it all end?

More questions than answers?

In truth, I have no answers. I am content just to follow - and in this I find rich peace. There are many places in the House I fear we must visit together in the fullness of time, locked doors and bricked-up rooms. But for now, there is just one destination to which I would like to take you. Will you join me?

Along the corridor

It's good to walk with you along a corridor that exists only in a simple binary coding. As if to illustrate the point, may I adjust the lighting as we go. Here's a switch we will push up, and now another we will push down. And so it goes until a recognisable pattern emerges.

dot, dot ... dash, dash ... dot, dot.

Of course, it's no more than simple illusion, a little Vail code delivered by means of a carefully secreted squeeze-button, and yet in the flashing lights we sense a pattern we recognise. Which is a place we are now about to enter.

A room full of mirrors

Let me open the door for you - please do come in and let your eyes grow accustomed to the light.

We've just entered a large, high-ceilinged room. The windows are shaded by cream voiles that diffuse the fading sunset into a pleasing soft warmth. There is no need for further artificial illumination as the remainder of the walls are clad in ormolu-framed mirrors that reflect our image.

Who do you see standing next to you? Perhaps a portly horologist clad in black and wearing Predator sunglasses!

Table-topped jigsaw

There is, of course, one more thing to be seen. In the centre of the room squats a chunky wooden table and on it rests an album. Let's walk across together and see what's in there. We open it at random to a page that contains a photograph of a hand pouring out pieces of a jigsaw.

And at this point, please could I ask you to look up as I ....

A blinding flash of light

Oops, sorry! I should have warned you, but this is my studio, the place where my threads come together. Please forgive me for capturing your image.

There are many photographs in the electrofried family albums. They line an entire room in the House, and a brief selection from their pages already decorate this diary.

There are some that are my own wedding gift to maximouse and His Imperial, but they must remain as personal a jigsaw puzzle as the wedding quilt lovingly patched together by mrs electrofried. There are others that are blurred or over-exposed. And each is an observation - my take on life.

Room full of mirrors (slight return)

Which is where we step out into the light of a fresh day!

Would you care to come back another time to look through the family albums again with me? There are many stories to be told and, one day, all the pictures will link together in the universal jigsaw puzzle.

Until then, may I wish you as always,

best regards

electrofried (mr)