450-500g minced lamb
1 large aubergine sliced into half-moon shapes
225g onions, sliced
2-3 cloves garlic, minced
olive oil
2 tbsps tomato puree
a splash of red or white wine
ground cinnamon
fresh parsley, or Herbes de Provence
salt & pepper
75g butter
75g plain flour
3/4 - 1 pt milk
50g Cheddar cheese
freshly ground nutmeg
2 eggs
Salt the aubergine, put in a colander, put a plate on top and weigh down with a tin of veg.
Rinse, then fry. Put onto kitchen paper to absorb excess o/o.
Fry the onion, add the garlic, then the lamb mince.
Add the tomato paste, wine, cinnamon and herbs.
Simmer for 20mins.
Melt the butter, stir in the flour gradually. Remove from the heat. Add the milk gradually (you may not need it all).
Add the cheese and grated nutmeg.
Whisk the eggs and then add them to the sauce. Whisk until thick and smooth.
Arrange the aubergines on the bottom of an ovenproof dish. Pour in the lamb mince mixture. (You may need to layer the aubergines and lamb alternately).
Pour the sauce over the aubergines and lamb mince.
Put in the oven for 40-60 mins on 160-180 degrees C.
Serve with salad, pilau rice, steamed vegetables or crusty bread (probably not all four or you'll probably explode!)
Rosie the Mini, 2008
Thursday, 13 December 2012
Wednesday, 12 December 2012
Just A Quickie
Mea Culpa. It's been almost six months to the day since my last post. Gawd bless Richard Herring who has been blogging daily since 2002. I had planned to come here to record what's been happening over the past months, but I'm not in the mood so instead I'm going to post my new favourite soup recipe. I'm come back another time, maybe to spill my guts, maybe just to recount how my knitting and embroidery are going.
Parsnip & Ginger Soup
Ingredients: Parsnips, around 5, peeled and chopped
Carrot, peeled and chopped - mainly to improve the soup's colour
Onion, peeled and chopped
Cloves of garlic - 1 or 2 - peeled and finely chopped
Knob of ginger, peeled and finely chopped
Knob of butter, for frying vegetables
Pears; two small, peeled and chopped
Vegetable stock - about a pint
Powdered ginger and hot chilli sauce, optional
Coriander leaves, to garnish
Yoghurt, to stir in - optional
Cook the onions, parsnips and onion for a few minutes until soft.
Add the garlic and ginger, cook for another minute or two, then add the pear.
Add the hot vegetable stock slowly and simmer for 10-20 minutes.
Taste and add powdered ginger and/or chilli sauce.
Puree in a food processor when cool, then reheat to serve.
It's the easiest thing ever!
Parsnip & Ginger Soup
Ingredients: Parsnips, around 5, peeled and chopped
Carrot, peeled and chopped - mainly to improve the soup's colour
Onion, peeled and chopped
Cloves of garlic - 1 or 2 - peeled and finely chopped
Knob of ginger, peeled and finely chopped
Knob of butter, for frying vegetables
Pears; two small, peeled and chopped
Vegetable stock - about a pint
Powdered ginger and hot chilli sauce, optional
Coriander leaves, to garnish
Yoghurt, to stir in - optional
Cook the onions, parsnips and onion for a few minutes until soft.
Add the garlic and ginger, cook for another minute or two, then add the pear.
Add the hot vegetable stock slowly and simmer for 10-20 minutes.
Taste and add powdered ginger and/or chilli sauce.
Puree in a food processor when cool, then reheat to serve.
It's the easiest thing ever!
Thursday, 14 June 2012
Recipe for Tiffin
Soak 50g of seedless raisins in 2 tbsps of brandy or OJ for 30-60mins.
Line the base and sides of 15-20cm square shallow baking tine with edible rice paper (or grease tin well).
Break into pieces 175g plain chocolate and melt over pan filled with boiling water (bain marie) w. 125g unsalted butter and a pinch of salt. Turn off heat as soon as chocolate has melted.
Stir in raisins, 125g chopped candied peel, 150g digestive or shortbread biscuits, crushed and 75g hazelnuts, toasted and roughly chopped.
Turn the mixture into the prepared tin and press down evenly. Chill in the fridge for several hours or overnight until firm.
Break or cut into squares and store in an airtight container.
Fruit, nuts and biscuits can all be substituted with any other cakey ingredients you have to hand.
Line the base and sides of 15-20cm square shallow baking tine with edible rice paper (or grease tin well).
Break into pieces 175g plain chocolate and melt over pan filled with boiling water (bain marie) w. 125g unsalted butter and a pinch of salt. Turn off heat as soon as chocolate has melted.
Stir in raisins, 125g chopped candied peel, 150g digestive or shortbread biscuits, crushed and 75g hazelnuts, toasted and roughly chopped.
Turn the mixture into the prepared tin and press down evenly. Chill in the fridge for several hours or overnight until firm.
Break or cut into squares and store in an airtight container.
Fruit, nuts and biscuits can all be substituted with any other cakey ingredients you have to hand.
I don't know why this is called tiffin. Tiffin, a word originating in the days of the British Raj, is a light meal or snack, often eaten at lunchtime (a packed lunch, if you will). Mum always used to make this at Christmas; it's great because you can use whatever you have in your cupboard, it doesn't take any cooking and keeps for as long as you refrain from eating it!
The reason I'm including this today, is simply that I found it in an e-mail when I was clearing out my Hotmail account.
Saturday, 26 May 2012
Thursday, 24 May 2012
Monday, 21 May 2012
Photo Upload
Such is the ridiculousness of my Sony Ericsson, the only way I can get photos from it onto computer is via Blogger. It's slow and tedious, but at least it works. They'll be Dropbox'd and removed in due course.
Then I can sit and try to figure out how to get photos off my even older handset that I had from around 2003 - 2010 and came with me to India. They're all saved in the handset, I believe and that phone didn't have internet capability. Expect curse words! But I do know the data cable isn't purely for decoration, like this one, so it might be a bit more straightforward. It couldn't be more Byzantine than what I've done these past two days.
Then I can sit and try to figure out how to get photos off my even older handset that I had from around 2003 - 2010 and came with me to India. They're all saved in the handset, I believe and that phone didn't have internet capability. Expect curse words! But I do know the data cable isn't purely for decoration, like this one, so it might be a bit more straightforward. It couldn't be more Byzantine than what I've done these past two days.
Sunday, 20 May 2012
Monday, 7 May 2012
Silver surfing - Part 1
This post and the one that follows is inspired by @48Refugee who recounted in 3 Tweets helping her Baba (Dad) use his new Android phone. It made me laugh and reminded of my parents' forays into new technologies.
I'll add a disclaimer here. I don't have a smartphone yet, much less an iPad so the world of Apps and touchscreens is a mystery. I've never even had a Blackberry; communication in my previous world of work as a civil servant was totally encrypted and was personal device-free. (I know what you're thinking at this point; the answers are both no). We had to check our phone and/or MP3 player in at the door each morning and collect it in the evening. But I'm due an phone upgrade so, when I can be bothered to deal with the condescending cretins that work in the handset-flogging industry, I'll take the plunge.
My Dad had a Miami Vice-style car phone back in the 80s. It came with the company car, I seem to remember and was there for emergencies - I don't think it was used much - there was probably never much coverage. Then, in the early 90s, Mum got an enormous analogue 'brick', again in case of emergencies because Dad was abroad for work a great deal of the time and she had an elderly mother, said mother's ailing dog, two teenagers and any number of cats to marshall. When she upgraded it to a digital mobile some years later, it having done perfectly good service, the gelled, shiny suited oiks in Radio Rentals (remember them?) laughed at her.
In the Noughties they both had their bog standard mobile phones, although Dad seldom switched his on, had it with him outside work hours. I can't blame him, but it was rare to get a call from him on it, much less a text. He's always been a bit phone conversation-phobic, as now am I. He finally ditched it altogether recently although, now he's retired and having hurt himself falling off a ladder this time last year, you'd think having that link to the rest of the world would be a useful precaution. I digress. Mum is better. Hers is both switched on and charged and she texts with enthusiasm, although I know she's probably never seen the need to investigate her phone's camera or whether she can get internet access.
They are perfectly computer literate, at least with word processing, e-mailing and uploading digital photos and videos. They're not bad at the internet, although I suspect what they call their 'rubbish rural broadband' issues might be solved with some software upgrades. They'll both sit in the living room, laptops on their knees, being mildly insulted as I (yet again) refer to them as 'silver surfers'. Mum recently organised a 'Come and Sing Handel's Messiah' at a local village church and had live spreadlists...ok, lists, of sopranos, altos, tenors et al singing, their contact details and whether they needed sheet music, and the number of audience. I'm sure that Facebook and Twitter could have cut down the number of phone enquiries to their landline (although I wouldn't have had the delicious anticipation that someone might phone up asking if that was the Messiah - a reference that would have gone clean over both parental heads) but it worked for her.
They're finally coming round to the notion that, if you don't know something, you don't have to not know it for a minute longer. Forgotten the title of a poem? Put in a line or two and the whole thing will pop up - as well as title, poet and publisher, Can't finish the Guardian crossword? The solution's on the website - you don't have to wait until tomorrow's paper hits the doormat. Why is everyone making so much fuss about the moon this week? Well, you no longer have trusty Ceefax to consult, so ask the BBC, Huffington Post or the Australian Morning Herald. It's taken a while, but it's beginning to become second nature.
Social networking? That's a whole other bag of beans...tbc in Part 2.
I'll add a disclaimer here. I don't have a smartphone yet, much less an iPad so the world of Apps and touchscreens is a mystery. I've never even had a Blackberry; communication in my previous world of work as a civil servant was totally encrypted and was personal device-free. (I know what you're thinking at this point; the answers are both no). We had to check our phone and/or MP3 player in at the door each morning and collect it in the evening. But I'm due an phone upgrade so, when I can be bothered to deal with the condescending cretins that work in the handset-flogging industry, I'll take the plunge.
My Dad had a Miami Vice-style car phone back in the 80s. It came with the company car, I seem to remember and was there for emergencies - I don't think it was used much - there was probably never much coverage. Then, in the early 90s, Mum got an enormous analogue 'brick', again in case of emergencies because Dad was abroad for work a great deal of the time and she had an elderly mother, said mother's ailing dog, two teenagers and any number of cats to marshall. When she upgraded it to a digital mobile some years later, it having done perfectly good service, the gelled, shiny suited oiks in Radio Rentals (remember them?) laughed at her.
In the Noughties they both had their bog standard mobile phones, although Dad seldom switched his on, had it with him outside work hours. I can't blame him, but it was rare to get a call from him on it, much less a text. He's always been a bit phone conversation-phobic, as now am I. He finally ditched it altogether recently although, now he's retired and having hurt himself falling off a ladder this time last year, you'd think having that link to the rest of the world would be a useful precaution. I digress. Mum is better. Hers is both switched on and charged and she texts with enthusiasm, although I know she's probably never seen the need to investigate her phone's camera or whether she can get internet access.
They are perfectly computer literate, at least with word processing, e-mailing and uploading digital photos and videos. They're not bad at the internet, although I suspect what they call their 'rubbish rural broadband' issues might be solved with some software upgrades. They'll both sit in the living room, laptops on their knees, being mildly insulted as I (yet again) refer to them as 'silver surfers'. Mum recently organised a 'Come and Sing Handel's Messiah' at a local village church and had live spreadlists...ok, lists, of sopranos, altos, tenors et al singing, their contact details and whether they needed sheet music, and the number of audience. I'm sure that Facebook and Twitter could have cut down the number of phone enquiries to their landline (although I wouldn't have had the delicious anticipation that someone might phone up asking if that was the Messiah - a reference that would have gone clean over both parental heads) but it worked for her.
They're finally coming round to the notion that, if you don't know something, you don't have to not know it for a minute longer. Forgotten the title of a poem? Put in a line or two and the whole thing will pop up - as well as title, poet and publisher, Can't finish the Guardian crossword? The solution's on the website - you don't have to wait until tomorrow's paper hits the doormat. Why is everyone making so much fuss about the moon this week? Well, you no longer have trusty Ceefax to consult, so ask the BBC, Huffington Post or the Australian Morning Herald. It's taken a while, but it's beginning to become second nature.
Social networking? That's a whole other bag of beans...tbc in Part 2.
Lemon Dipping Sauce
A mugful of vegetable stock (and hot water in the kettle to augment as necessary)
Juice of one lemon
2 tbsp honey
1 tbsp white wine vinegar
1 tbsp vegetable oil
1/4 tsp garlic salt
1 tsp cornflour mixed into 1 tsp cold water
Knob of root ginger, peeled and finely chopped or grated (optional)
Chilli flakes or powder (optional)
Heat stock, lemon juice, honey, vinegar, garlic salt and vegetable oil in small pan and bring to the boil. Add the ginger if using.
Reduce the heat.
Add the mixed water and cornflour and bring to the boil again, stirring continuously.
Allow to reduce and thicken before removing from the heat.
Leave to cool, then refridgerate.
(You may want to strain out the chilli flakes and pieces of ginger before use).
Tip: if you want to thicken your sauce further, mix cornflour and cold water together before adding to the pan - the cornflour may not dissolve if added directly. I learned this the hard way.
Use on tempura or kebabs, or add at the last minute to a stir-fry.
Juice of one lemon
2 tbsp honey
1 tbsp white wine vinegar
1 tbsp vegetable oil
1/4 tsp garlic salt
1 tsp cornflour mixed into 1 tsp cold water
Knob of root ginger, peeled and finely chopped or grated (optional)
Chilli flakes or powder (optional)
Heat stock, lemon juice, honey, vinegar, garlic salt and vegetable oil in small pan and bring to the boil. Add the ginger if using.
Reduce the heat.
Add the mixed water and cornflour and bring to the boil again, stirring continuously.
Allow to reduce and thicken before removing from the heat.
Leave to cool, then refridgerate.
(You may want to strain out the chilli flakes and pieces of ginger before use).
Tip: if you want to thicken your sauce further, mix cornflour and cold water together before adding to the pan - the cornflour may not dissolve if added directly. I learned this the hard way.
Use on tempura or kebabs, or add at the last minute to a stir-fry.
Sinistromanual or cack-handed?
My Mum's theory is that I 'made' myself left-handed by not crawling as a baby. Before learning to walk I'd put my right hand out on the floor and drag my padded behind towards it. Apparently I could get up quite a speed! Thus it was my left hand that was free to cram things into my mouth and wave my smiley, orange plastic spoon around. So it was only natural that when I started to crayon the walls or grab the cat, it would be with my left hand.
I've always been proud of being left-handed, despite the trials and tribulations. I was always dreadfully co-ordinated which is why I was sent to ballet lessons aged 5. Despite weekly dance classes, exams, shows and all kinds of performances, my co-ordination didn't really improve that much. I was always slow to pick up choreography because my feet and arms didn't naturally understand where they were supposed to go. To this day I have to be careful performing complicated manoeuvres with pans on the hob and things in the oven so I don't burn myself or set the kitchen on fire.
I was very slow to learn how to tie shoelaces; in fact for years I did it a different 'left-handed' way and only learned how to do it 'properly' in my late 20s. (I maintain that my left-handed bow is more symmetrical and harder to loosen than it's conventional cousin).
Anyway, a proud left-hander I, due to being a little bit different. One of 11% of the population. Using an inkpen was a trial - it's almost impossible not to smudge and, thank goodness I didn't become a teacher because my writing always sloped downhill. Although I quickly learned the alphabets, I have always been slow to read Arabic and Hebrew. My eyes just won't travel at speed across a page right to left, although when writing, deep joy, no smudging!
Back in 1997 I did a short work-sponsored course in sign language. A complete fiasco because I did everything backwards. Who knew what I was signing and finger-spelling! For this reason I was always careful not to make the 'L for Loser' sign on my forehead as, I would likely be the loser!
Then there's the discrimination. It's not intentional these days (my grandmother's generation would have had their left had tied behind their back had they tried to write with it and traditionally being left-handed was a sign of the devil), but it's there. Go and look in the mugs in your kitchen. How many of them have the design all the way round and how many on one side? The right side, I'll wager. At university, those seats with a little shelf where you balanced your notebook? Mostly fixed on the right side so I had to sit sideways to take notes.
The point of this blogpost is to question whether I can still call myself left-handed. I don't think I did any writing yesterday or the day before, not even my signature. Writing is an activity I do less and less. I use my laptop mouse and text with my right hand. I can use my left, but it's slow and uncomfortable. Typing is an activity shared equally by both as I can touchtype. So have I, through my use of technology, myself right-handed or ambidextrous? Or is there no such thing anymore? Is 'handedness' like gender and sexuality something that will become increasingly fluid? Are we 'post-handed'?
I was thinking about other activities. You wouldn't want me using a knife in my right hand, but there's something about scissors in my left - the blades don't connect. I can't cut the fingernails on my right hand. My handbag won't stay on my right shoulder and I can't successfully get a spoon to my mouth in my right hand, but were I to have a golf or guitar lesson, I would be right. Also jars and bottles; jars - right, bottles - left. Where did that come from? Ironing, not that I ever do any these days, but when I did I was equally comfortable using either. Oh, and driving. Whoever decided that we should drive on the left and have the gear stick on the left should be sainted and feted. You're the reason I passed my test first time. I'd probably still be learning to drive now, were it not for you!
I'm sure none of these things matter. I'm quite certain no-one is doing doctoral research into this subject. Most people probably never consider it. I think, though, because of the serious little girl with pink NHS specs who always started her 'e's in the wrong place and has her own way of tying a bow, I will continue to be a proud southpaw. Mancino, smoleet, sinestra. Whatever you care to call it.
I've always been proud of being left-handed, despite the trials and tribulations. I was always dreadfully co-ordinated which is why I was sent to ballet lessons aged 5. Despite weekly dance classes, exams, shows and all kinds of performances, my co-ordination didn't really improve that much. I was always slow to pick up choreography because my feet and arms didn't naturally understand where they were supposed to go. To this day I have to be careful performing complicated manoeuvres with pans on the hob and things in the oven so I don't burn myself or set the kitchen on fire.
I was very slow to learn how to tie shoelaces; in fact for years I did it a different 'left-handed' way and only learned how to do it 'properly' in my late 20s. (I maintain that my left-handed bow is more symmetrical and harder to loosen than it's conventional cousin).
Anyway, a proud left-hander I, due to being a little bit different. One of 11% of the population. Using an inkpen was a trial - it's almost impossible not to smudge and, thank goodness I didn't become a teacher because my writing always sloped downhill. Although I quickly learned the alphabets, I have always been slow to read Arabic and Hebrew. My eyes just won't travel at speed across a page right to left, although when writing, deep joy, no smudging!
Back in 1997 I did a short work-sponsored course in sign language. A complete fiasco because I did everything backwards. Who knew what I was signing and finger-spelling! For this reason I was always careful not to make the 'L for Loser' sign on my forehead as, I would likely be the loser!
Then there's the discrimination. It's not intentional these days (my grandmother's generation would have had their left had tied behind their back had they tried to write with it and traditionally being left-handed was a sign of the devil), but it's there. Go and look in the mugs in your kitchen. How many of them have the design all the way round and how many on one side? The right side, I'll wager. At university, those seats with a little shelf where you balanced your notebook? Mostly fixed on the right side so I had to sit sideways to take notes.
The point of this blogpost is to question whether I can still call myself left-handed. I don't think I did any writing yesterday or the day before, not even my signature. Writing is an activity I do less and less. I use my laptop mouse and text with my right hand. I can use my left, but it's slow and uncomfortable. Typing is an activity shared equally by both as I can touchtype. So have I, through my use of technology, myself right-handed or ambidextrous? Or is there no such thing anymore? Is 'handedness' like gender and sexuality something that will become increasingly fluid? Are we 'post-handed'?
I was thinking about other activities. You wouldn't want me using a knife in my right hand, but there's something about scissors in my left - the blades don't connect. I can't cut the fingernails on my right hand. My handbag won't stay on my right shoulder and I can't successfully get a spoon to my mouth in my right hand, but were I to have a golf or guitar lesson, I would be right. Also jars and bottles; jars - right, bottles - left. Where did that come from? Ironing, not that I ever do any these days, but when I did I was equally comfortable using either. Oh, and driving. Whoever decided that we should drive on the left and have the gear stick on the left should be sainted and feted. You're the reason I passed my test first time. I'd probably still be learning to drive now, were it not for you!
I'm sure none of these things matter. I'm quite certain no-one is doing doctoral research into this subject. Most people probably never consider it. I think, though, because of the serious little girl with pink NHS specs who always started her 'e's in the wrong place and has her own way of tying a bow, I will continue to be a proud southpaw. Mancino, smoleet, sinestra. Whatever you care to call it.
Saturday, 4 February 2012
Choose your battles
A friend of mine in Baltimore is passionate about the Occupy movement and urged me to join in. I applaud the movement and am in silent support. There are many just causes; Free Tibet, stop whaling, save endangered languages to name but three.
For my part, I have decided, at the moment to concentrate on just two. The first is very small scale. Save a little Jewish deli on Charing Cross Road from being taken over and redeveloped by a grey, homogenous chain. Gaby's Deli was established some 45 years ago by an Iranian-born Israeli, Gaby Elayahou and serves felafel, salt beef and Mediterranean salads. A few doors down from Wyndham's Theatre, it has been a thesps haunt for decades; signed photos on the walls attest to this. I can't claim to be a faithful customer; I went once for felafel and promised myself I'd go back. I didn't, and I am poster girl for 'use it or you'll lose it'. Actually, in this case, that's not true. Gaby's thrives; it's the landlord, the Marquis of Salisbury, his eye on the £££s redevelopment might bring in, that threatens this luvverly London eaterie. That's why my small Twitter/Facebook weight is thrown behind Gaby's Deli. Currently unemployed, the idea of going to central London, let alone eating there, sends me scurrying to count my change, but I can add my small, belligerent voice.
The second is very much larger and oh, so much more complicated. It's Palestine. I could write for pages, but my simple take is that the people of Palestine, be they in Gaza, the West Bank or the Palestinian diaspora are monstrously discriminated against. Their very existence has recently been denied by Newt Gingrich, Mitt Romney and our own BBC. While my American friend, whose family are East European in origin and was born in Philly, whose family never set a foot there until the late 80s, could emigrate, study and get a great job there in 1999, my friend Atef's father, from Jabaliyeh, Gaza's, who was born in Jaffa in the 40s, could never even get to the town of his birth after his family was forced to flee in 1948. Atef's family are told they can go to any Arab country, but aren't welcome in Israel/Palestine. My American friend was welcomed 'home'. Over-simplification, I know. I could go on for days, cite a myriad of sources, but to my simple brain, that crystallizes the situation for me; my white, blonde, Jewish friend has access all-areas, my brown, Palestinan, Muslim friend struggles to leave Gaza (and faces hassle from dreadful, corrupt, enemy-within Hamas should he speak 'out of turn'). For the record, I have lived in Israel and I speak a bit of Hebrew and Arabic. I'm atheist of CofE/Methodist heritage.
Them's my battles. (A Tesco Metro in my locality may become a third).
See you on the other side.
For my part, I have decided, at the moment to concentrate on just two. The first is very small scale. Save a little Jewish deli on Charing Cross Road from being taken over and redeveloped by a grey, homogenous chain. Gaby's Deli was established some 45 years ago by an Iranian-born Israeli, Gaby Elayahou and serves felafel, salt beef and Mediterranean salads. A few doors down from Wyndham's Theatre, it has been a thesps haunt for decades; signed photos on the walls attest to this. I can't claim to be a faithful customer; I went once for felafel and promised myself I'd go back. I didn't, and I am poster girl for 'use it or you'll lose it'. Actually, in this case, that's not true. Gaby's thrives; it's the landlord, the Marquis of Salisbury, his eye on the £££s redevelopment might bring in, that threatens this luvverly London eaterie. That's why my small Twitter/Facebook weight is thrown behind Gaby's Deli. Currently unemployed, the idea of going to central London, let alone eating there, sends me scurrying to count my change, but I can add my small, belligerent voice.
The second is very much larger and oh, so much more complicated. It's Palestine. I could write for pages, but my simple take is that the people of Palestine, be they in Gaza, the West Bank or the Palestinian diaspora are monstrously discriminated against. Their very existence has recently been denied by Newt Gingrich, Mitt Romney and our own BBC. While my American friend, whose family are East European in origin and was born in Philly, whose family never set a foot there until the late 80s, could emigrate, study and get a great job there in 1999, my friend Atef's father, from Jabaliyeh, Gaza's, who was born in Jaffa in the 40s, could never even get to the town of his birth after his family was forced to flee in 1948. Atef's family are told they can go to any Arab country, but aren't welcome in Israel/Palestine. My American friend was welcomed 'home'. Over-simplification, I know. I could go on for days, cite a myriad of sources, but to my simple brain, that crystallizes the situation for me; my white, blonde, Jewish friend has access all-areas, my brown, Palestinan, Muslim friend struggles to leave Gaza (and faces hassle from dreadful, corrupt, enemy-within Hamas should he speak 'out of turn'). For the record, I have lived in Israel and I speak a bit of Hebrew and Arabic. I'm atheist of CofE/Methodist heritage.
Them's my battles. (A Tesco Metro in my locality may become a third).
See you on the other side.
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