Bags

There's nothing like a change in one's ordinary routine to highlight issues one might have with the stuff one wears or carries around. Take bags. When I trekked across Brighton to Hove two days ago I wore my cross-body orange Florence bag. By the time I'd reached home again that afternoon, I was badly missing my red Karen Millen handbag. Somehow, all against expectations, the Florence bag hadn't delivered. I couldn't put my finger on it, couldn't quite see why it might be so, but I had missed my red Karen Millen bag and would have been happier with it at the Court. Somehow it would have represented me better, not only as the keen juror Lucy Melford, but as a keen human being. I even suspect that I would have been luckier in getting chosen for that trial, had I taken the red bag instead of the orange one. My latent forensic skills and cool reasoning abilities could then have been put to the test! That's my gut feeling.

Long-term readers who pay close attention to these chronicles will know that I have bought many bags over the years, and have discarded nearly all of them, but did use four in particular - and in 2016 remain true to three.

One is the glamorous and super-expensive Prada bag I bought in London from the Prada shop in Sloane Street for £910, way back in March 2009. This is in luxurious soft black leather, with pukka heavy brass rings, zips, studs and buckles. The straps make it easy (and stylish) to carry (or should I really say 'wear'?) in any of the classic handbag ways, including on the shoulder. It catches the eye, and when new elicited gratifying envy from ordinary women, and was an instant conversation-starter. Here it is when still pristine:

It still looks much the same. I used it a lot to begin with, but soon decided that it should be kept for posh or important occasions only. It was just too nice to let ordinary wear and tear take their toll. I would never pay so much for a bag now. But back in 2009, with my world being turned upside down, a bag like this made a statement not just to the world but to myself, repairing and reinforcing my sense of self-worth. If you like, it was a psychological crutch in an period of change and uncertainty.

It did its job. It isn't needed now, and hasn't been for a long time past, but I will never discard it.

That said, it isn't the ideal bag by any means. The Prada bag is essentially a big one-compartment sack, so that anything placed within instantly shifts around and will have to be searched for if wanted. Only big items like umbrellas and shoes can be quickly located within its cavernous interior. In that respect, it's moderately thief-proof - meaning that no street thief can slip their fingers inside and expect to locate purse or phone instantly. They'll have to fish around - like I have to - and that's a time-wasting no-no for a thief. But of course the entire bag can be snatched from my arm or shoulder, the thief assuming that somewhere inside must be the valuable items sought. It can also be deftly removed if I'm seated at a restaurant table, should I be silly enough to hang it from the back of my seat. But even if I keep the Prada bag within my field of vision, I won't necessarily notice its loss straight away. A black bags tends to merge into the under-table shadows, and its absence might not be noticed immediately. A black bag is therefore easy to steal, and easy to walk boldly away with - black being the most common colour of handbag.

So on the whole, I feel that it's taking a risk to carry my Prada bag. And that's one reason why I now reserve it for weddings, funerals and civic receptions. I might not even trot it out for a first date.

Bag number two - worn out and gone now - was a black Radley, bought at House of Fraser in Chichester in August 2009 for £188. It had a cross-body strap, a single main compartment, a fold-over crinkly-leather flap with a magnetic fastening, a big open rear pocket (very useful indeed), and was slightly embroidered with flower shapes. Here it is in early 2012, by then looking a bit worse for wear:

Admittedly, I'd used it a lot, but it hadn't aged well. It had become shabby. The main problem was the leather, which had faded badly and taken some scuffs. I'd been on the lookout for a replacement for some time. Not just for something more presentable. This bag had become too small for my needs, and it was getting difficult to cram in everything. A cardigan? An umbrella? A hair brush? Forget fitting those inside. Still, I ended up getting nearly four years' use out that Radley bag, so difficult was it to find a completely suitable substitute.

But I did in the end. I already had it. The third bag to win my heart was the bag I bought while cruising with Dad in April 2009, this time from a shop in Florence called Simone. It cost a much more reasonable €115 (say £100). I bought it as a present for M---, but she told me that she couldn't accept it, and this rejected gift languished in a drawer at home until the summer of 2013, when I decided that I would put it to good use as my own bag. Originally it was a classic shoulder bag in beautiful but rather orangey leather:

It looked good, and its two-compartment structure allowed a degree of organisation for the contents that made it practical for everyday use. But I couldn't get on with the shoulder strap - the bag kept on slipping off my shoulder, and there was no other way to carry it. So, wanting to make the bag a success, I decided to take off the existing shoulder strap and make a cross-body strap out of a long man's leather belt, brass fittings cannibalised from an unused travelling bag up in the attic, and some buttons sewn in to disguise the belt buckle holes:

The brass fittings didn't last long, and within months I had dismembered the original shoulder strap for its better-quality brassware. This time it was a perfect job:

Perfect - so far as home-made efforts go, that is! It did however suggest the possibility of one day actually designing and making my own leather bag. I'd need to acquire specialist tools and a heavy-duty old sewing machine for that, but it was a creative idea not to be forgotten.

This orange Florence bag remains in use for all occasions when I want both hands free. Such as on a beach, or on country walks. It's good around town too, especially in the winter. It can carry a lot, although it's a mistake to overload it, as that can induce shoulder and back discomfort, even if I remember to swap it from one side to the other. As for security, the cross-body strap makes snatching it very difficult indeed, and the bag can be zipped up. So out on the street it's much more secure from the light-fingered than the Prada bag would be. With a lot of use since 2013, the leather has weathered and matured. It looks like a well-loved bag.

But it isn't - and never was - impressively stylish and arresting. And lacking an everyday bag like that was why I bought the red Karen Millen bag from their Brighton shop in June 2015 for £145. That was a sale price; originally it was £230. £145 was at the upper end of what I'd be prepared to pay in 2015. But the bag was very appealing to me - strikingly red, with great eye-impact; beautifully made, almost to Prada standards; clean lines; no bling; and three main compartments (allowing even better organisation of the contents). It looked great, and was clearly very practical. Here was a wonderful bag for any season, but especially for the summer, that would go with most outfits. Not perhaps a bag for a funeral, but then I had something in hand for that!

The red Karen Millen bag also required a little surgery, to reinforce the straps where they were sewn on. I made holes, and screwed in some polished chrome studs that actually added a little differentiation between this bag and any others like it out there:

You hardly notice the studs, but they have subtly customised the bag in a way I like. Any form of customisation, if done with care, tends to make a possession seem more personal, and this has certainly helped to turn this bag into my firm favourite. But the main thing about it is that it's so definitely red, so much so that if I am seen around for any length of time I become known as 'the lady with the red bag', as happened during the nine-day Appledore Book Festival in North Devon last year. It will thus be necessary to carry the bag at this year's Festival also, if I want to jog the memories of people who are not friends but saw me about last year, and might want to say hello.

It's funny, but for years I considered red bags to be a bit tarty, a bit attention-grabbing, and definitely not for me. But now I've changed my mind. I think they suggest life and vitality, and a zest for living. At the very least, they add an intense colour focus to any photo, indoors or outside!

This Karen Millen bag has strong magnetic closure, so it isn't too easy to open up a compartment and slip fingers inside - and yet the bag will snap shut very satisfyingly. Potential thieves will surely have a challenge deciding which of the three compartments is worth trying for purse and phone (I'm giving away no clues), and will probably have to resort to sneaking or snatching the entire bag as their best option. But I shall instantly notice its loss - red being such an eye-catching colour, even on the edge of one's field of vision - and I'm thinking no thief will relish running off with anything so indiscreet in their arms. It is anyway a bag I can perch on my lap when eating, if I've any doubts about where to park it safely.

It's surprisingly good to carry around, too. You can use all the positions, although 'on the shoulder' is only easy if wearing no coat or jacket. Nevertheless, with this bag it becomes habitual to change arms or hands or shoulders frequently, spreading the load and sparing neck and back and elbow from any strain. I don't think I'd necessarily want to take it on a long day's tramp around London - the orange Florence bag would probably be my first choice for that - but if there were to be regular pit stops for refreshment, then I just might. It's my usual choice for Brighton, anyway.

One thing all three bags still in use in 2016 have in common is that they can swallow quite a lot of cargo. All will accommodate an umbrella, spare shoes and a cardigan, and if necessary a water bottle (or bottle of wine) too. This is in addition to my usual load of purse, phone, camera and cosmetic bag, to name just the chief items. Some people port about tiny little bags, and I really can't see what use they are. So much is needed for ordinary living - surely you need a bag large enough to bring it all along? I mean, we are not men, who seem to get away with keys, phone, a credit card, and a few coins. Men have serious pockets, of course.

Some women scorn any bag whatever. How do they manage? How do they cope? What do they use? Pockets, like a man? Their bra? Or do they rely on someone else, a willing companion, to carry their bare minimum for them? It seems odd.

But if you study the problem closely, it's clear that you could get away with carrying just a phone, a hairbrush or comb, and your favourite shade of lipstick. Because you can pay with a phone (therefore no purse required), and generally control all kinds of electronics, including (in principle) the gadgetry that lets you into your home and car (so no keys required). Jeans pocket stuff.

Ah, but I'm too chubby for jeans...

First day in court

Today was the beginning of my two-week stint as a juror. Or rather, two weeks of being available to serve as a juror. You turn up at the Crown Court, but you won't necessarily be part of an actual jury straight away, or maybe not even at all.

Nevertheless I was keen not to be late, and almost took it for granted that I'd get a chance on my very first day to do the Good Citizen Thing that I'd always wanted to do.

I had to be at the Court by 9.15am. To ensure a timely arrival, I arrived at Hassocks station at 7.45am, intending to catch the 7.57am train to Brighton. From there, I'd walk. The exercise would do me good. Allowing half an hour for the footwork - I might not need so much - it was surely possible to reach Hove Crown Court by 8.40am. There was, deliberately, plenty of slack in these timings. I'd be catching my train near the end of its long journey, and it was bound to be running a little late. And it was, by almost quarter of an hour. Storm Imogen, sweeping in from the Atlantic, was bringing high winds even to Sussex, and there were speed restrictions in force for safety's sake. But I still reached Hove in time to enter the Court building at 8.45am. It was a bright but blustery walk, and all my early-morning drowsiness was blown away. I was absolutely fresh and ready to go.

I was the first juror to turn up. I had the court staff to myself. I ascertained their names, and got them on my side. The two ushers assigned to my group were called Paul and Kevin.

I was able to clear up with Paul what one did with mobile phones. They weren't entirely banned. You could have them with you, and use them normally, while waiting around in the jurors' lounge. They had to be switched off when in the courtroom, but you could still keep possession of them. It was only when shut in the deliberation room - to consider the verdict - that they had to be given up. You popped them into a bag that was kept safe by the usher, and got them back after the verdict had been given in court and one was free to go.

I told Paul that I'd left my phone at home - needlessly, I now saw - and was badly missing the convenience of having it with me. For example, to check my train times, to show me a street map of Brighton, and to tell Paul what my next door neighbour's mobile phone number was - he needed a contact number in case I fell ill at court, or for any other emergency. The phone was a repository of all the useful stuff I might need during the day. I felt a bit rudderless without it!

Not quite knowing what to expect, I was armed with a shopping bag full of refreshments - a double dollop of home-made sandwiches, two Kitkats, an apple, and a flask of water. I'd set the wake-up alarm for 5.57am in order to give me time to put all that together, have breakfast, and then shower and wash my hair. I'd had a change of mind on what to wear. Not a dress: that would be too formal. I settled for a nice top, knee-length black skirt, and black tights and shoes, wearing my black padded coat over the whole lot. It was the right kind of choice.

I wasn't the only juror to get to the Court ahead of time. Other people came soon after I arrived. By 9.15am all but three had made it there. We soon learned that those three were stuck on a train held up south of Haywards Heath - Storm Imogen had felled a tree that had blocked the track. While waiting for them, Paul took us through the court facilities, explained how to claim expenses - there shouldn't be any problem with my weekly season ticket - and showed us an interesting video that explained who was who in the courtroom, and what the procedure was. Then it was a matter of waiting around until we were needed.

Two of the courtrooms were being used for cases that had started a while ago, one of them in mid-January, one the previous week. Last week's case was likely to finish that morning, freeing jurors who could make up the numbers for our group. So we waited for that case to come to an end. Then Kevin would call fifteen of us down into another courtroom prepared for a fresh case expected to last three days. Meanwhile we had to kill time as best we could.

The waiting lounge for jurors was sunny, and full of comfortable seating, enough for up to sixty jurors (everything was geared to batches of fifteen). There was tea and coffee, chilled water, and lots of sweets and biscuits, and payment was by an honesty box. Twice a lady came in to replenish supplies. There were decent toilets, and a 'quiet room' if anyone wanted to get away from a roomful of chatty jurors. In that 'quiet room' were the lockers - you popped in whatever you wanted to lock away, dropped a £1 coin into the slot, locked the door, and kept the key until you wanted your stuff again. You did get your £1 back!

Although you could see (as the waiting lounge filled up) that roughly equal numbers of men and women had been summoned, my group were preponderantly female. I was the oldest woman. The group's typical age was around forty-five. There was one young man about twenty, and an older man about sixty. But age didn't matter; we all soon began to chat, and after a couple of hours definitely began to bond.

But my goodness, the waiting got a bit tiresome! Paul regularly informed us about what was happening behind the scenes, and when things might begin. At 2.15pm Kevin came in and announced that he was going to call out fifteen names. I was among them! So was most of my group! This was very pleasing, because by then we all felt like friends. Down we went to the courtroom.

There was the robed and bewigged judge. There were the gowned and bewigged counsel for the prosecution and defence. There was the lady clerk. And behind a glass panel were three persons, two men and a woman, one of whom I took to be the defendant.

First the jurors had to be selected and sworn in, with the defendant or defendants watching - apparently this was essential so that if any juror recognised one of the defendants (or indeed a name on the list of witnesses to be called) the fact could (and should) be made known to the court. Similarly if a defendant (or their counsel) was unhappy about any juror, they could say so to the court.

The potential jurors each had their names on cards that the clerk shuffled and then read out. I listened with mounting excitement, and I'm sure everyone else did too! As a person's name was read out, you had to answer 'yes' and then take a seat in the jury box. Slowly the twelve seats filled up. Would I be next? No. This time then? No...

And do you know, my name was never called! Nor were the names of two men left waiting with me. Our 'friends' looked at us from the jury box with - I'm sure I'm not mistaken - something akin to dismay. We were going to be split up. I felt gutted, thwarted. But it had all been done fairly and openly, and was really just the way things go by chance. For some reason we three rejects were allowed to witness the swearing-in, which was useful, and then we were led away upstairs by Paul. 'Don't take it personally,' he urged us, when we were back in the waiting lounge. It was 2.40pm, and for us the day as over.

Disappointments were not at an end. No other court case was due to start next day (Tuesday). We should however phone during the afternoon for instructions. A one-day case was booked for the day after (Wednesday). Huh, I thought, only a one-day case - and no guarantee I'd get even that!

I knew it was unreasonable, but I felt short-changed and unwanted. I put on a brave smiling face, but it all felt such a let-down. And there was also the pang of snapping all those bonds lately made, bonds that couldn't now be developed into friendships. It was hard not to cry. That sounds absurd, I know, but I was so psyched up to do my conscientious bit, in the company of the people I'd come to like, that the denial and the severance both seemed brutal. It hurt. Fortunately I met a nice woman with a dog on my walk back to Brighton station. She knew exactly how I felt - it had happened to her too. Well, that was certainly a consolation, and she made me feel rather better.

My difficulties were still not entirely over. Trains northward of Brighton had been stopped for hours while they cleared away that fallen tree, and the normal train schedule was well out of kilter. I sat around waiting for a train to come in and take me home. One did after forty minutes. I unlocked my front door at 4.00pm.

Of course, I do feel a lot more upbeat as I write this. 'Look at the silver linings,' I've said to myself.

# I didn't get soaked by rain getting to the Court, nor coming away from it.

# I've learned from another girl that I can buy lovely baguettes and other yummy things from a French Patisserie shop in Hove, quite near the Court - no need to make sandwiches, no need to lug a shopping bag around.

# And no need to get up early tomorrow. In fact, I can have a totally normal life tomorrow, subject only to making that afternoon phone call to the Court.

# There might even be a sporting chance of pilates on Friday, and the après-pilates to follow, in the seriously good company of Jo et al.  

But I do hope my keenness to serve on a jury is rewarded soon. It would be awful if my two weeks pass, and I'm never selected!

Season ticket worries

This continues the rail ticket saga from my last post.

Armed with my home-produced Photocard picture, I went to the station this morning - a Saturday - at about 11.30am, expecting to find it quiet. It was anything but. I was appalled to see how many train travellers there were, all queueing for attention. Clearly, the weekday queues (such as on Monday morning) would snake out the door!

It's certainly nice to see that rail travel is thriving nowadays, with passengers clamouring for tickets like never before in the entire history of railways in Britain. But it does mean that turning up at a popular station, and expecting to get served straight away, is an unrealistic dream. A traveller might well miss their train, if stuck instead in a long queue on the wrong side of the station!

So I felt amply vindicated in my belief that purchasing a season ticket - and thereby avoiding the queues - was a very sensible idea. It would guarantee that I'd catch the train I wanted, and ensure that I got to the Court on time. A late arrival would of course be very seriously embarrassing!

Well, there was no trouble about my home-produced picture. The Photocard itself took just a few seconds to create. I then asked for a weekly season ticket to Hove. With a receipt. Photocard and season ticket went into a handy little wallet, with room for my Senior Railcard too (although I wouldn't be using the Railcard for my peak-period journeys to Hove and back):

Being a great one for conversation, I mentioned to the helpful young man serving me that I was on Jury Service for the next two weeks. 'Oh,' he said ominously,'You might not be able to reclaim the cost of this season ticket.'

What?

He went on to say that so far as he knew - getting this from other passengers - the Court were fussy about season tickets, and wanted jurors to buy daily tickets. Really?

'But,' I said, 'Although I'm buying a weekly season ticket partly for my own convenience, it will of course work out about £35 a week cheaper for the Court. Which is a big saving of public money!'

'I know, but they stick rigidly to their rules.'

'Well, I hope you're wrong about this. It would be silly and unfair of the Court to deny me reimbursement, when a weekly ticket actually saves them money!'

And here are the figures. I intend to buy two consecutive weekly season tickets costing £25.20 each. Total, £50.40. Buying ten £8.50 daily peak-period return tickets instead - the Court's expectation, apparently - would come to £85.00. My way saves the Court £34.60 in reimbursed travel costs. It's got to be the proper thing to do.

Back home, I had another look at the small print in the notes on what allowances and reimbursements a juror might claim:

'If you travel by bus, train or underground the Court will pay the cost of the ticket (the 2nd class return fare, if travelling by train)'

Now did they mean that I was entitled to claim - and they expected me to claim - £85.00, even if I'd found a legitimate way to travel for £34.60 less? Surely that couldn't be right. If it were, then what a waste of public funds! A juror shouldn't be making a significant profit on expenses!

They must mean, surely, that I should claim what I actually have spent on my rail fares, up to £85 anyway. That had to be the right interpretation. Maybe.

Then I discovered some further advice, tucked away at the tail end of the notes:

'Initially you should only purchase daily travel tickets unless you are instructed otherwise by the court. You must also keep copies of the original travel tickets or a receipt to submit with your expenses claim. Without original copies or a receipt your travel costs may not be reimbursed'

I suppose they mean here that I shouldn't anticipate Jury Service of, say, a month and on this supposition buy a monthly season ticket - and then expect them to meet the cost. But I knew that I'd be doing a minimum of two weeks, and so - one might think - there would be no clear harm in getting season tickets up front sufficient to cover these two weeks. Or could that be an unreasonable notion? Had I jumped the gun in an objectionable way, and would be punished for it by withholding reimbursement?

And yet this second passage implied that they would reimburse all receipted travel expenditure up to the overriding limit set by the first passage. So perhaps I would, after all, get my £50.40 back?

It wasn't actually fog on fog, but the position still wasn't absolutely clear. I'd have to ask at the Court about it on Monday. (Wish me luck)

Photocard faff

I begin my two-week stint as a juror on Monday 8th February, and I've been making some preparations. There are five main things to consider:

# Getting to the Crown Court at Hove.
# What to wear.
# Eating and drinking during the day.
# Passing the time when hanging around.
# Things the Court Rules prohibit.

I'll cover the travel aspect - the guts of this post - further on.

What to wear might seem obvious: comfortable things. And yet I want to make a good impression, and be taken seriously. So I think it would be a mistake to dress too informally. On the other hand, I don't want to look like Lady Melford turning up in her best frock to watch the polo at Cowdray Park. I'm thinking then of the sort of clothes that would be OK in a smart office environment.

I've had fair warning that catering facilities at Courts will be meagre. I suspect that there will really only be some kind of vending machine. The Court notes for jurors admit that there are no handy lunchtime eateries just round the corner. So a yummy packed lunch would seem essential. I've been getting in a store of cold meats and so forth for home-made sandwiches. To these I might add an apple or two, and maybe a fruit yoghurt also. All in a plastic lunch box. Plus a bottle of water. Hmm! I'll need to take a shopping bag, as well as my red handbag, to carry all of that.

Passing the time, if not involved in a case on the day, will be a test of endurance! A couple of books to read, then. I began to read Ellis Peters' Cadfael novels a while back, and I've reached number fifteen in a series of twenty that she wrote over the years. I'll probably finish the whole lot in my time at Hove.

The Court bans photography, so the Panasonic camera must be left languishing at home. Nor does it want anyone using a mobile phone, so that will have to be left at home too. But since I refer to my phone for telling the time, I've had to bring my trusty Timex wristwatch out of semi-retirement, and fit it with a new battery. I must also be careful not to take anything sharp with me. So I must leave behind pins, and anything with a point or an edge to it.

As for getting there and back each day, travel by train is the best solution for me, and fits best with what the Court can reimburse in the way of expenses. They are happy to refund the daily cost of a second-class return ticket. I could therefore turn up to my local station every day - early of course - and (to save queueing in the main station buildings on the going-to-London side) buy a ticket from the machine on the going-to-Brighton side. But it would be nicer to have a weekly season ticket, and avoid the scary possibility of missing my train if there are several people in front of me, all wanting to use the ticket machine. Apart from which, I always find machines like that desperately difficult to use - as I do the insane self-service machines in superstores, and some cash dispensers. (I don't think I'm stupid, just human)

Anyway, buying a weekly season ticket two weeks running would save the Court some money, as well as removing a certain amount of hassle from my daily journey. So I enquired at the station two days ago. The cost was about £26. Could I buy one, please?

Ah, not so fast! There were Rules. It was too soon to buy a ticket starting on Monday 8th. I'd have to come back nearer the day. And I'd need a Photocard.

A Photocard? Really? I used to have one of these during my commuting days way back, when I carried an annual season ticket, renewed each year for years on end with the same old Photocard. But creating a fresh one for a short series of rail journeys to Hove seemed over-fussy and unnecessary.

I tottered off, saying I'd be back, but wondering whether I could really be bothered. But of course it was worth bothering with.

They would quickly create a Photocard for me at the station ticket office, but first I'd have to get some passport-sized pictures taken of myself. Now how to do that at minimal cost and trouble? Going to a studio would be expensive. A photo booth, then? But it struck me that I'd not noticed any around for a long time. Perhaps there was one at a big station like Brighton, but offhand I wasn't sure where to look. And when I got the Photo-Me website up, I saw they wanted me to phone them on an expensive number, just to be told where their local booths might be found. I wasn't going to play that money-wasting game. I could of course whizz off on a wild goose chase, looking for a photo booth at shopping centres, or in a superstore perhaps, but that seemed a senseless waste of car fuel.

Besides, I remembered that photo-booths used to turn out mediocre results that at best made people look like convicts, or at least desperately ill. Perhaps the modern booth did it all digitally, and the results would be more flattering. But how much would a set of pictures cost? £5? More perhaps?

So I decided to do my own pictures. Just as I had when applying for my last passport in 2010. I couldn't quite remember the precise technique, but it could be rediscovered. And at least I'd have some decent shots from it. One or two little prints of myself, 35mm by 45mm, were all I needed.

It was in fact all simple and obvious. I pegged up a cream king-sized duvet cover as the required neutral backdrop, and placed a chair in front of that, with myself facing the Panasonic (tipped 90 degrees) on a tripod, focus set manually, and a ten-second self-timer.

My camera didn't have a flip-up back panel, so it wasn't possible to remain seated and see what kind of shot would be taken of myself. I had to get the manual focus right by trial-and-error, leaping up and down several times until satisfied. It was harder than you might think. The light level indoors this morning around 10.30am wasn't brilliant, and I was having to to use full aperture - f/1.7 - which meant a shallow depth of field and critical focussing. But eventually I got it spot on, and took a series of shots with a straight face and minimal reflection in my glasses. This was the best result:

I've noted before that a plain red top is good for pictures like this. I cropped in to arrive at the end product:

Finding how to print at the right size was not obvious, but I managed it. And so, as I go to bed, I have three little pictures just like the one above to take to the station tomorrow. They will presumably use one of them, leaving me with two spares.

I do hope, after all this effort, that they find no fault with that shot, and accept it as a true likeness and good enough for their precious Photocard. I shall feel seriously miffed if they don't.

To end, I'll show for comparison my 2010 passport photos. Bear in mind that I was six years younger, decidedly thinner, and that the designer glasses I wore then did me no favours:

Gosh, I looked awful - sunken cheeks, bad hair. All you can say is that the 2010 me had smaller bags under the eyes, and some sort of waist. But you know, despite being overweight, I vastly prefer the 2016 version!

Challenges for the older woman

I see that my blog followers have lately reduced sharply to only 82. And that the general level of readership is down a bit. I suspect that I've lost a slew of readers who didn't want to follow me into the minefield of older womanhood.

However humdrum it might seem, my constant theme now is the viewpoint of the older woman, and the challenges that face such a person. And believe me, there are some major ones - dread illnesses for example, one or two of them just around the corner for all I know. But also many minor ones. Here's an example.

A couple of days ago the hot tap in my bathroom basin began to misbehave. It was very stiff, and would hardly turn around. Turning it as far as it would go produced barely a trickle of water. Oh dear! Another thing to be fixed! Was it a worn-out washer, or something more serious?

Now time was - ten or twenty years ago, perhaps - when I'd get out some tools and have a go at this myself. I still have all those tools. But somehow my will to use them has evaporated. My DIY self-belief has gone. There is hardly a domestic repair job, except the very simplest involving just a screwdriver, that I would now tackle with confidence. Something has altered inside my head to inhibit me. And it stops me tinkering with broken or worn-out things.

It's not just about lacking sufficient knowledge to get the job done - not that I ever really had that - it's also doubt about not having the necessary manual skill, dexterity and sheer physical strength. And I have a fearful reluctance to take the slightest risks. I am mortally afraid of injuring myself. I am also afraid of turning an ordinary mishap into a dreadful mess. In this case, of cracking the porcelain of the basin, and wrecking the tap so that water will spray everywhere, and the resultant flood proving unstoppable unless I turn the mains supply off. (But what if I can't? Nightmare!)

So my first reaction now, with virtually every job, is to ask for help. Is there a man who can do it?

In this case, there was. I'm lucky enough to have a plumber living next door. I asked Kevin to step in and look at the the tap. He instantly diagnosed badly-corroded moving parts. It was a case of isolating the tap (there was a convenient valve in the bathroom piping that I'd never noticed) and replacing the top half of the tap. It's a standard design, and he had a brand-new identical replacement in his garage. In less than ten minutes, he had the old bit off and the new bit installed. Hot water flowed freely. A little cash changed hands. He showed me the old mechanism. It looked horrible - completely gunged up. He remarked that I wouldn't have been able to remove the old part. It was very, very stiff to unthread with spanners, and needed real strength. There, I knew it. I would have got into a terrible pickle.

But I didn't feel any kind of feeble person. In my view, unskilled sixty-three-year-old ladies shouldn't be messing about with spanners. My instinct now - my social role when faced with a problem - is to get hold of A Man Who Can, point him at a job to be done, pay him a fair price, and duly appreciate the outcome.

Is this the right attitude?

I can think of several women over fifty who might strongly disagree. My cousin Rosemary, for instance - a few years my senior - would scorn to get someone in to tackle every apparently-difficult job that needs doing. She finds a way to do most things. But I am not inspired or shamed or otherwise persuaded that my own efforts will be effective. Perhaps this is a hangover from my previous life, in which my DIY skills, such as they were, had been more-or-less dismissed or ridiculed. Or perhaps it's laziness, egged on by my being able to pay. Whatever the true reason, DIY is one challenge that I shy away from.

But I face up to others. The challenge of living alone, for one. And yet this solitary life without a partner doesn't seem like a stiff test of any kind. But I know friends who do find the single life very hard to bear, and are desolate at the thought of never again having someone to care for. And it's no good telling them that they make too much of the problem, and should be unconcerned.

Still, if you can remain unworried about an issue, it won't be a challenge to you. Which suggests a future strategy of keeping cool and calm about everything might well be best!

The Grand Butter Test commences

You and Yours on BBC Radio 4 today at lunchtime did a piece on butter sales, which are on the up. Apparently the latest thinking is that butter is OK, that it never deserved an evil reputation. And that other fats, once thought to be much better for one's health, are now found to have some problems - especially when used for cooking.

I was relieved to hear that one of the 'other fats', olive oil, is still healthy when used cold. But I was even more pleased to hear that in moderation good old butter is not going to kill me off, and is in fact still the first choice for modern chefs.

I knew it. I always believed that natural foodstuffs, barely modified - one might add a little salt to butter, but nothing else is required - are bound to be best; and not artificial or highly-refined products (most of which are heavily-marketed with lots of trendy persuasive lifestyle advertising - and like many things of this nature seem to be an expensive con).

I'm sure some people reading this will think that I've simply been given convenient news that I badly wanted to hear. And that I should not embrace pure undiluted butter without using caution and restraint. Well, of course. I entirely agree. Need I mention that 'Caution And Restraint' was the family motto? Need I point out that 'Caution And Restraint' are also the very three words I chant nightly in Stygian crypts when defying ghouls and demons of the nether world - and the usual words I mutter when faced with any doubtful situation at all?

But how nice it is to find that butter was never actually harmful! What did that chef say on the programme? 'Fat is your friend'. And especially butter.

Well, thus enthused, I drove off to Lewes and bought not only two makes of butter, but a rather nice butter dish to put it in. Because of course 'proper' butter comes wrapped up in paper, and not in a plastic tub. You need a receptacle. And a china container helps to keep it at the right temperature on the worktop - butter straight from the fridge being too hard to spread, of course. This is the butter dish I purchased, freshly washed before use:

I rather like that cockerel motif. The dish cost £16.99 at the Steamer Trading Cookshop. It will look good not just on the worktop, but at the dining table if I have people over for lunch - better than a plastic tub would, anyway.

And these were the two butters. One was Essential Waitrose Salted Dairy Butter at £0.95 for 250g. The other was Lurpak Slightly Salted Butter at £1.70 for 250g. The Waitrose product was 98.3% butter and 1.7% salt. The Lurpak product was a mixture of butter and 'lactic culture' (whatever that is), amounting to 98.8%, with only 1.2% salt. I had been using Lurpak Spreadable, at £3.25 for 500g (equivalent to £1.63 for 250g), which adds in some vegetable oil; and I'd been finding it very pleasant, but not of course quite like real butter. Now I could make some comparisons. What was there about the two Lurpak products that justified charging the consumer 68p-75p more per 250g?

I decided to pop the Lurpak Slightly Salted Butter into the freezer for now, and commence my Grand Butter Test with the Essential Waitrose Salted Dairy Butter. I unwrapped it. Gosh, that looked like the right colour, and no mistake!

I dropped it into the new dish, cut a couple of thin crusty bread slices, and was ready to go.

It was good tasty bread - and rather nice butter! I could taste the salt, but it wasn't as salty as I expected. Lurpak Spreadable contained only 0.9% salt, but seemed scarcely less salty to my taste. It will be interesting to find out what flavour the all-butter Lurpak has, and whether it's worth paying more for a possibly better taste.

Of course, there's something else to bear in mind. Lurpak Spreadable is a great all-rounder. It has a good flavour and is perfectly fine for cooking and spreading. Both the 'proper butters' should be even better for cooking, but they will both present me with the traditional snag: they won't spread all that easily - or thinly - on anything other than toast. So deciding which is the 'best' butter may rest on convenience, not just taste.