Jennifer Pittam

It's fortunate for me that one thing so often leads to another. Whilst I was in the Highlands of Scotland for a court case anyway, I got a little commission to write about marmalade. Like Paddington Bear, I've had a lifelong attraction to the stuff, so this was one I couldn't resist. Arguments abound on the internet and elsewhere about the origin of marmalade. There's little doubt that preserves containing peel were eaten, and mentioned, as early as Shakespeare's time.  However, for me the definitive story is that, in 1700, a storm-tossed ship bearing a cargo of bitter Seville Oranges took shelter in Dundee harbour, off the coast of Scotland. The ship's master sold the now damaged cargo to a local grocer, who was down on his luck and hopeful of saving the family fortune. Once he got the organges home, how many tons is not recorded, he and his wife discovered that they were too bitter to eat (wonder what she said to him? 'Wheesht, Mr Keiller,...

It's dreadfully hot, here in London (which means, not nearly as hot as in Spain, Egypt or any other hot place you can name). Very few houses here have air conditioning, because our weather is so variable that it's simply not worth the investment. So we swelter away, moaning. British people do love to moan about the weather and the TV's awash with dire warnings about the 'dangers' of the heat. In all honesty it depends how you earn your living, if you're fortunate enough to be able to do that at all. Living on the first floor as I do, very near to the outskirts of London's ancient Epping Forest, it's a pleasure to write or edit in a cool flat with all the windows open. The raucous croaks of the rooks in the nearby trees are a great backdrop for anyone writing historical fiction. Still when I'm not cavorting with corvids or editing my work in progress, I'm finding it an absolute pleasure to get out and shop, walk or write in post-pandemic c...