The Cornish Cosa Nostra

When we make our annual trip to Cornwall there is something rather welcoming when we pass Opies garage in Redruth.

Teapot glows as if she has just drunk a brew of Yorkshire's finest and tells me once more the story of John Opie the painter and his burial in St Paul's Cathedral, her great grandfather Opie the church army captain and the links with the mining Opies at Wendron near to Helston.

A van passes by bearing the name Opies Oils and there is magic in the atmosphere - and not just from the exhaust.

In recent trips we have come across another name whose tentacles reach out far and wide in those remote parts. There is Tiddy the estate agent. We have met Tiddy who was the postman and Tiddy the English teacher who married the surfer, and granny Tiddy all of whom seem to be related to the keeper of the most southerly cafe. A jolly soul who would have been a great stand in on "Allo Allo". ("I shall repeat this only once but I have no heavy buns. They are cooling on the rack at home". What kind of Cornish cafe is that?)

It made me wonder if the Tiddys and the Opies had come across each other in times past. A bit like the Capulets and the Montagues, or even the Jets and the Sharks.

Be that what it may up here in the Midlands the Opies and the Tiddys are the best of friends, and not even a Haribo could come between them.

Fings aint what they used to be....

....here in the Tardis, and especially the kitchen.

If you come to visit us now like one of Matt's friends did the other week you may think all is just the same and then suddenly you are lost! When you look for something it is not where you thought it would be.

It all began when we decided to do our bit for climate change and have a condenser type of gas boiler that hangs on the wall and fires up only when you need the heat or the hot water. So out went our floor based bolier and into the space of one of the kitchen cupboards went the new boiler - and all the reorganising and moving around that goes with it.

So if you want the coffee jar, or a bowl for the morning cereal or a teaspoon, the autopilot which I rely on first thing in a morning no longer works. Nothing is where it should be and everything is upside down. Dinner plates have even appeared in that most sacred place: the cake cupboard.

The only break in the cloud that has descended on the kitchen chez Tardis is to watch Curly Al do exactly the same as me and time after time at that. I confess to a mean chuckle as I see him go for a knife in what was the knife drawer only to find it empty! Teapot eventually had mercy on us both and last week returned the cutlery to the drawer immediately behind the Cornish Pixie on this picture.

But the damage has been done. I have become directionless. All of a sudden I can forget where I am.

The other week I came up from Victoria on the Tube to Euston and on climbing the escalator thought "hmmm this does not look like Euston" and sure enough it wasn't. I had got off a stop too soon and was heading out of the station at Warren Street.

And today I was busy doing the shopping when a young lady said to me "hey that's my trolley" as I tried to load it with a bottle of milk and 4 yogurts of my own.

Where will this malady strike next? Will I ever recover? When I board the train for Wolverhampton on Monday will I end up in Crewe?