It's not a pretty sight

I think I was born judgemental, coming out of the womb in horsehair wig and red robes, a tiny gavel to hand. I imagine I had view on the quality of the placenta, my mother’s milk. I certainly had views on codliver oil and National Milk powder that came in blue and white tins. A Catholic education fed the urge to judge even more. The nuns were ferocious and unbending, and we learned the script quickly. Marxism was another layer, another script, another worldview. Then there was teaching and the never-ending supply of weird and wonderful minds.Unfortunately teaching involved grading, making judgements based on attendance records, ‘personal qualities’ and academic achievement. The judging continued via staffroom gossip and the subliminal drive for consensus.

I think it was teaching—not the fabled summer of ‘peace and love’ that passed me by in a blip—which undermined certainty and the desire to judge others. After ten years of ‘judging’ I’d had enough, and I had another twenty or so years to go. 

The habit though is hard to resist and I still cringe at how I once judged a middle aged Dutch couple who invited me to dinner in Queens. I found them boring and failed to appreciate their generosity—certainly with sufficient warmth—though now of course I’m judging myself. Judgmentalism is  indiscriminate. It strikes where it can.

Judging has a more benign twin: ‘sizing up.’ In fact ‘sizing up’ the stranger is an essential life skill, especially in Liverpool where it’s taught in the womb.

Explaining the difference between ‘sizing up’ and ‘judging’ is relatively easy. A few days ago I passed a man, well into his middle age, walking arm in arm with an attractive Filipino woman. ‘Sizing up’ conjured up various scenarios/explanations—a habit with me. I do it everyday on the keyboard. Sizing up possibilities is relatively neutral. It becomes judgmental when you focus on one and vent an opinion—whether it be ‘Good on you, mate’ or ‘you should be ashamed of yourself.’

I have yet to achieve the serenity of Buddha or the kindness of Christ. Politicians remain fair game along with celebrities and pundits pissed on ego juice. There are times when I spit with rage. I try to be alone on such occasions. It’s not a pretty sight.

Stroking Statues

I have seen some funny things in life but Adam takes the biscuit. It’s an Epstein sculpture, carved from alabaster in 1938/39 and, not surprisingly perhaps, found it difficult to find a buyer, or indeed anyone willing to exhibit it. Then again, World War 11 was just around the corner. It did at last find a home . . . in a travelling fair as a ‘freak object’ before being sold to Madame Tussauds. It says something for the taste and discernment of the 7^th Earl of Harewood who bought it in 1961. Fifteen years later the Entrance Hall was strengthened and since 1976 the statue is the first thing you see as you enter the house.

My first thought on seeing it was profound gratitude that God not Jacob Epstein had designed man. Having said that, it is immensely tactile, and I found my hand straying in unexpected places. Epstein did eventually get the hang of things, if you pardon the expression, as the 18foot high bronze statue adorning an iconic Liverpool Department store illustrates.

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 Sometimes known as the ‘Big Man’ or ‘Nobby Lewis’, sometimes ‘Dickie Lewis,’ it stands on a plinth like the prow of a ship overhanging the main entrance. Its left hand is stretched out and his right arm raised as calling or signalling and symbolises Liverpool’s resurgence after the war. It's primary function though was as a meeting place for friends or perhaps girls. 'See you under the Big Man.' 

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But back to Adam. I’d had my fill of stroking it and so wandered off in search of something more orthodox. This looks promising, I thought. It was a statue on a plinth and from the back looked as though   it brandished something worthwhile.

 I went to investigate and discovered an important truth. It’s decidedly okay to stroke something that bears only the slightest resemblance to anything human. Less so for something more specifically so. Besides, I couldn't reach. 

 My final thoughts were that statues end up in some very weird places. Adam, after a chequered career ended up in Harewood House. Nobby Lewis, another Epstein statue ends up fronting a derelict Department store. I think, though, the one on terrace has the best view of all.

* By Peter Hodge, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=9211391

* By John Bradley - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=6520483

A Great Feast was held

I’ve spent a busy morning chopping veg for a dinner we’re having tonight. It’s modest enough: a Lebonese lentil soup, Beef Carbonade, Swede, diced carrots, and Duchess potatoes, Apple and orange tart, Chocolate and orange cake, and cheeseboard. Modest enough compared to the celebrations held in honour of the Viscount Lascelles.

In 1845 young Henry Lascelles came of age and married Lady Elizabeth de Burgh, the eldest daughter of the Marquis of Clanricarde - double event that demanded serious feasting. 

A Ball was held in the candlelit Long Gallery, clearly a fire hazard but not with the Estate's personal fireservice to hand.

The ceiling to the Long Gallery

All very nice but in this case, my interest lies in the kitchens. 

This is our kitchen

A four ringed hob

And one double oven. No scope here to roast an ox

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Below are those of Harewood House.

They must have bought up every copper pan in the country.

I was intrigued by this very old range powered by the charcoal you can see underneath

And to the left is some kind of weird knife cleaning/sharpening contraption. 

To the left the biggest pestle and mortar I've ever seen.

And below, not some kind of C16th torture but a dairy maid's harness. We have our milk delivered.