Vale

It was moving to see the coverage today of the Pope's final hours in the Vatican. It is strange to think this is probably his last public appearance, in an age where celebrities do their best to keep themselves permanently in the limelight, and when their long-announced retirement is followed by a rapid comeback, with accompanying memoir and publicity tour, and frequently a slot on a reality TV show involving a jungle and a plateful of insects. Not many celebrities retreat to a life of quiet contemplation. Maybe the world would be a better place if they did.

It is difficult to know whether his decision was the correct one. I rather think it was, though not because I particularly want to see him go. So little is said explicitly that you are tempted to read between the lines of his last few speeches, wondering to what extent his resignation was intended as a public sign of his frustration with the internal disputes at the heart of the Vatican. Or whether, on a personal level, he had simply had enough, and decided to leave the job to someone younger and fitter. I can sympathise with both views. I can imagine, in a similar position, reaching a point where I would run out of patience trying to fix everything broken I see around me, preferring instead to fade away and let others shout it out among themselves.

They say he is very fond of his books and cats. Again I can sympathise, though at the moment I'm thinking one cat is plenty.

For everything there is a season...
A time to seek, and a time to lose;
A time to keep, and a time to throw away;
A time to tear, and a time to sew;
A time to keep silence, and a time to speak. 

Promenade

– You don't appear to have caught the sun.
– I was only there a couple of days.
– But still: the French Riviera, you know.
– It was a bit on the cold side. And wet.
– Right... I thought it was never cold. Or wet.
– I think I just caught it on a bad day. But it was a fascinating place to visit, even so.
– Pointless to go all that way just to lie basking on a beach.
– Exactly.
– To be pestered by film stars and minor European royalty.
– I can't say I noticed any.
– They tend to like to keep a low profile.
– They do? I thought they courted publicity.
– Not while on holiday.
– Then why would they pester me?
– Who knows? They are a law unto themselves.

The South of France (detail).

Puzzle

I have been trying my hand at packing. For an imminent trip, rather than just as a way to fill an otherwise uneventful evening. It's not one of my favourite chores, coming a rung or two below ironing on the ladder of fulfilling pastimes. But these things have to be done, especially if you want to travel anywhere, and want to have anything to wear at the other end apart from the clothes you travelled in.

I never know what to pack. I know what I would like to pack, but usually this doesn't fit into the suitcase. I try emptying out the contents and putting them back in a different order, in the vain hope that, like an intricate Escher tessellation, they will slot together seamlessly, and still leave room for a pair of pyjamas. But the law of conservation of mass, or momentum, or socks, or whatever, usually defeats me. You cannot win against physics.

Chore

I did some ironing this evening. I do it quite often: once a week, on average, which is pretty good going, I would have thought. I could leave it a bit longer, but then I might start to run out of shirts. And I am not one for just ironing one shirt at a time, to see me through each day as it comes. I prefer to get them all out of the way, so that the next morning I am free to choose whichever shirt best suits my mood, or the weather, or the last pair of socks in the drawer. Besides, if I had to iron every evening I would have to get the ironing board out every evening, which is probably the thing I like least about ironing. It's not an unpleasant ironing board in itself, though I sometimes think it could do with livening up, even if I'm not sure how one goes about livening up an ironing board. The problem is more one of wrenching it out from the awkward corner of the kitchen where it lives, and then putting it up without losing a finger; and, after the ironing is done, collapsing it without losing another finger, and trying to get it back into the awkward corner of the kitchen without it falling on top of you. I could just leave the ironing board out and upright between ironing sessions, to save myself some patience and some fingers; but it would take up such a significant amount of floor area in the living room, and be a source of embarrassment were friends to drop in; although, on the positive side, they might always offer to help with the odd shirt.

Heart

– No cards today, then?
– Sorry?
– Cards – Valentine's Day – you know? There don't seem to be many cards out.
– No... Nothing arrived in the post this morning.
– Well, that's the way these things go sometimes. Nothing to be worried about.
– Goodness, no. Of course not. Not worried at all.
– After all, too much is made of all this. Another harmless tradition that has been overtaken by rampant commercialisation.
– Yes...
– We should try to hold on to the true meaning of the day.
– Of course. Sorry – what would you say the true meaning was, exactly?
– Well, I suppose it's the feast day of the saint himself, St Valentine; when we celebrate his life, and charitable acts... Or possible martyrdom. To tell the truth, I'm not entirely sure what he is famous for. Perhaps for sending greetings cards to his beloved.
– There is only the one delivery nowadays.
– Sorry?
– You could imagine something may have just missed today's post. But may make tomorrow's.
– Are you clutching at straws?
– ...To some extent. But without hope, what is there?

Ash

Each year, when the season of Lent comes around, I do my best to make a few resolutions: generally in the form of giving up unnecessary treats, denying myself extravagant luxuries, and seeking to make the world a cheerier place by having a go at whatever good deeds come to hand. Spurning chocolate in its many and varied forms is one resolution I usually have a go at, when I'm feeling particularly enthused. It is curious why so many people choose to abstain from chocolate, almost as if it is personally to blame for the lack of spirituality and general moral decline of the modern world. After all, it is quite a big thing to blame on a simple piece of chocolate. You can imagine it develops something of a complex, believing all of creation's ills lie at its feet. But I suppose the point is not that chocolate is the fountain of all evil (although I sometimes think that about white chocolate), but that a period of simple self-denial, as opposed to continual over-indulgence, helps us to reflect on our inner selves and the importance we attach to material things during our journey through life; which can't be a bad thing.

I don't always succeed. The house is littered with temptation. (I mean, nice things to eat, in case you were concerned what other forms of temptation I might have strewn about.) I can still see remnants of edible Christmas gifts by the window, and even my daughter's uneaten Hallowe'en treats. It is difficult to stare at these things for the next six weeks without breaking down at some point, usually when my spirits are at a particularly low ebb. Perhaps I should hide it all in a cupboard. Or melt it down and make a very large refrigerator cake. And then hide that in a cupboard.

Shrive

I've never been all that fond of pancakes. In moderation I can just about handle them. But too many and I soon begin to have regrets. They are a versatile foodstuff : simple to cook (especially the ones that go straight in the microwave), and readily accommodate a variety of fillings. You can be quite creative, if you wish: let your imagination run riot. But while I am happy to devour other treats in enormous quantities, I find pancakes have to be taken in strict moderation. I think it is a batter thing: you can too easily have more batter than is good for you. And I feel more or less the same about other battered products: fish, Yorkshire puddings, those little Chinese starter things. I have to take care not to overindulge. It is a burden I have learnt to bear through life.

But I do my best to participate in celebrating Shrove Tuesday, which happens to be today, to show some solidarity with these ancient traditions. I believe the pancake habit started as a way to empty one's larder before the start of six weeks' austerity during Lent. This evening I had a look through my fridge (in the absence of anything resembling a larder) to try to assemble the ingredients for a Mardi Gras feast. But there was not much to be found, assuming it ought to be reasonably edible. Mainly milk, and a few cheeses of various sorts, and a bit of leftover cat food. Not much to go on, really, for whipping up a tasty meal. Presumably in mediaeval times they took more care over stocking the fridge.

Moment

It's worth a brief note to mark an event that does not happen very often: the resignation of a pope. A difficult decision to make: to step down from leading a billion souls, when none of his predecessors has resigned for the last six centuries. Yet, in a way, understandable: you might imagine the pressure must be overwhelming at times, the climate of criticism too relentless for an aged man to tolerate, the disappointment of seeing so tarnished a world too painful to bear. You wonder what the outcome will be: whether this represents an uneasy period of transition, or whether something significant, something radical perhaps, will happen: either to retreat to past certainties or move tentatively towards an unknowable future.

Lasagne

– It's a bit off-putting really, when you stop to think about it.
– Yes... I suppose.
– The horse meat scandal.
– Of course. My mind was elsewhere.
– I mean, if I wanted to eat horse meat, I'd go out and ask for it.
– Would you?
– If I wanted it. I'm making the point that I don't want to get horse meat when I ask for something else.
– Like beef.
– Exactly.
– Or chicken.
– Well, yes. Though I don't suppose horse is particularly similar to chicken.
– I have always managed to tell them apart. The size is a give away. And the feathers.

A horse.

History

– You've been internetting, if that's the right word, for hours.
– I know. I've been struggling over my holiday plans: trying to find the ideal cottage. In the perfect location.
– That should be fairly straightforward...
– With internet access. And car parking.
– Perhaps you're getting a little too specific.
– And a view of the sea. And a large supermarket within walking distance.
– Right... You should probably limit your search to the bare essentials.
– I have.
– I guess you've left open the colour of the front door. But perhaps you still need to loosen the query. Somewhat.
– Difficult to know how...
– Talking of car parks, they seem to have discovered the body of King Richard III. In a car park.
– Yes. Remarkable what you can find, with a bit of digging around. Mind you, he isn't the most popular of monarchs.
– I know. But sometimes it's hard to separate historical fact from fiction: reputations are deliberately blackened to suit the prevailing political climate. Shakespeare decides the story will be a bit more entertaining with a few choice embellishments and the odd hump. That sort of thing.
– I always had a problem with history at school. Not necessarily because of the frustrating ambiguity of historical sources. More that I was not very good at it.

Cake

February is here already. I had barely got my head around January when they go and change it. Without warning. To be fair, February is generally to be found marked on calendars nowadays, so perhaps it shouldn't have been such a surprise. But I can't be expected to remember everything.

I baked a cake last weekend. I don't, as a rule, do much baking, preferring to focus my culinary efforts on more practical dishes for lunch or dinner rather than cakes and biscuits, which are hardly essential for the sustenance of life, nor even particularly well-suited for maintaining an acceptable body mass index, and are anyway readily available in shops and supermarkets, where they tend to taste better than anything I could ever concoct. But last weekend I had a go at a lemon drizzle cake, just for the fun of it. As the name suggests, this cake is meant to taste of lemons, and drizzle. I followed the recipe faithfully: even bought all the correct ingredients, rather than substitute likely looking alternatives from the back of the cupboard. But somehow – I don't know – it didn't turn out all that well. You could tell it was a cake – it even tasted of lemons – but it was lacking something: it was lacking heart. And no amount of drizzle can make up for that.

I found it in a tin this morning. It had hardly got any smaller since when I first made it. It didn't taste any better.

It is no longer there.