Countdown - Tuesday

One or two things I've been pondering since meeting Evelyn and Walter the other day.

• After chatting with Evelyn about all those academic Hundlebys with titles and degrees that seems to go with being Canadian, I've been making notes for the article on 'Identity' I plan to write and send to Dr Catherine. I believe I have a more biological than psychological approach to the subject.
• On behalf of Lincolnshire, many thanks to Evelyn for donating Samuel's handwitten memoir to the county archives. Have I got this right - he was my great- great- great-uncle?
• I was surprised to hear that no Hundleby seems to have emigrated directly to the USA, though some have found their way there from Canada. I'm wondering where Margaret Hundleby, who lectures in English at the Universty of Houston-Downtown fits into the family tree.
• It seems that Hundlebys abroad - I'm including the female line in all this, of course, coming from it myself - stem from single emigrant families, whether it be Canada, Australia, South Africa.

Just a few thoughts and questions. Maybe I'll get a few answers at the weekend.

Countdown to the Convention - Monday

With less than a week to go before the Convention, I had the pleasure yesterday of meeting both Evelyn and Walter from Canada, and Phil and Lynn Whitworth from Louth.

Strange isn’t it that although we’ve never met before and lead such different lives we feel we have so much in common?

Evelyn’s already taken up residence in the Central Library and the Archives and was reporting enthusiastically of her discovery of Hundleby wills, which take the line back into the 1600s. (It can be a bit ghoulish, can’t it, this family history business?).

Lunch in the Wig and Mitre ‘uphill’, Lincoln, where I thought I might be able to demonstrate the pleasure of drinking Bateman’s real ale. Pity that it was the worst pint I’ve ever drunk. No wonder people stick to lager and what I think of as pasteurised beer. It may not be any good, but you’re never disappointed.

By chance, when I called in later at Wetherspoon’s Ritz pub there was an inspection of beer going on. Every year or so, without warning, an independent inspector arrives to check that the beer is being stored and dispensed correctly and to award, or withhold, the ‘Cask Marque Trust’ seal of approval. The manageress showed me the form he fills in, marking each beer on taste, temperature (ca 50 deg), colour, appearance, etc. She was pleased to report that all had passed with flying colours. She also told me that all staff have to watch a video which teaches them precisely how real ale should be drawn through the hand-pump.

All this explains why a lot of pubs don’t like it. To me the worst part of it all was that the inspector had left six pints on the counter with just a mouthful removed.

‘How about selling them off at half-price,’ I suggested, always willing to be helpful.

‘I’m afraid not,’ she said. ‘He’s had his gadget in them.’

I pursued the matter no further.