Where's the marzipan?

For as long as I can remember, part of the joy of eating a beautiful plump, moist Christmas Cake, was the topping. Not just icing, such as you might see on a mere wedding or birthday cake, no the Christmas icing was always served with a layer of exotic marzipan. Well if you came from the wilds of Northampton, then it was indeed exotica.
This sugary almond marvel, craved annually, was sufficiently sweet to be on my diabetic taboo, not to do list, along with Sherbet, Curly Wurlies and that old favourite the Easter Egg. Therefore my annual marzipan haul was minimalist to say the least.

The confection affection spread throughout Europe in the middle of the last millennia and was especially honed in the ancient Hanseatic trade ports of the Baltic...Lubeck and Konigsberg became synonymous with the treat. But over time, cities rise and fall, people migrate and tastes adapt.

Now Konigsberg is the Russian city of Kaliningrad, its beautiful city centre laid waste during the last war and it's Prussian marzipan endeavours are no more.

Meanwhile Endeavours of a different nature reached down under to NZ with Captain Cook. Following in his footsteps, after 170 years of migration, a nation of self sufficient chefs was formed. Baking became a national sport and now every cook in the land is proficient with Cake and it's decoration. Sadly my favourite Northern European almond topping was not a success here, replaced instead by plain icing, sugary candied peel and fruits. In fact the notion of heavy fruit cake has been displaced by the pavlova.

Not that the pavlova isn't a bad substitute for a fruit cake, with heaps of meringue, lashings of whipped cream, chunks of fruit and yet more cream.

These treats get lavished on us at Christmas, as we sizzle in the summer, eating al fresco on the beach or at the BBQ. A traditional Christmas cake might be too heavy after ham, sausages, salads and barbecued food. But something in me still wishes for that taste of almond promise, which is virtually unheard of down here. A treat which I am now unrestricted in enjoying!  I shall console myself with another helping of pav.

The Day of the Doctors

To understand time itself has taken fifty years of countless companions, ingenius inventions and distinctive Doctors galore. In order to unravel the intricate and infinite permutations of time has taken the Beeb many series, many aliens, and has kept the BBC prop department in enough foam and bottle tops to outshine even Blue Peter.
However those superior beings at the ADHB appointment scheduling cyber army have learned how to effortlessly travel through both time and space. Out of nowhere 2 separate appointments materialised in present day Earth on the Whangaparoa Peninsula. Both were for the same day, but with different consultants. Great! How convenient.
But alas I would have to master the skill of dual spatiality, as each were at different hospitals in Auckland, which would take many galaxies to get through.

I began to formulate a plan.....

I would need my trusty transport, the Petroleum Energy Unit's Gravitational Esprit Oscillating Turbo (or P.E.U.G.E.O.T. for short), some jelly babies, my sonic iphone screwdriver and all the customer service charm that the planet of Gallifrey can muster.
I turned to ask my trusty companion, Canine, of his opinion but he just sniffed and looked expectantly at the jelly babies.

I went to work, carefully opening the iphone sonic device and dialled in the number for ADHB appointments....I toggled with the various electronic security options and pressed hash for a real person, not an alien droid. Having explained and reasoned to the Great Brain on the sonic iphone, outlining the problems that simple beings have in simultaneously existing in two dimensions at once. The Great Brain considered and issued it's response.....
The second appointment would be moved to a later time on the same day.

With that I climbed into the P.E.U.G.E.O.T and set off for the first appointment with the Doctor.
Jelly baby anyone?

Double Dutch

They might break and they might fall but the girls from New York City don’t,

They just start again…..

Malcolm McLaren intrigued us with his 1983 homage to competitive skipping contests, though no Dutch were utilised in the recording of that song. Except perhaps those from Harlem or New Amsterdam.

But no more clogging up with this waffle (yes, I know they’re Belgian, but it fits). Meanwhile back down under I have been waiting for meetings and appointments with wise sages and medical chaps in preparation for a vein graft. Soon it seemed in vain, but clearly there has been some hard graft,  for I have been offered not, one, but two meets,  integers below graphed.

Both related to the graft, and both on the same day. 
Alas not at the same hospital, so some rapid transit will be required, not that I use the subway..