My novel, 'Salt Blue', was published when I was sixty seven. Someone askedif I was I surprised thatI'd had a novel published at my age. I was surprised that she wassurprised. As far as I know, I amnot actually ga-ga.

Recently, I read of a seventy seven year old having a first novel published.That's young.Someone elsehad hisnovel published when he was a hundred. Now, I'm sure he had lots to write about.

Perhaps we need to revise our attitudes to ageing.The population as a whole is living longer, resulting in a pension crisis. When I went to Disney, in Florida, it wasn't the rides and parades that I remembered afterwards, but the old people in shorts and Hawiian shirts who wereworking there.

Parts of Wales have the least qualified people in the country, butjobs in Wales are hard to come by, qualified or not.

A while ago, Iain Duncan Smith told people to get ona 'bus tofind a job. This week, the youth of Merthyr marched to Cardiff todemonstrate that even if they do make it to the city, the workisn't there.

People in Wales relyheavily on public sector jobs, somore entrepreneurs are needed, which is easy to say, difficult to bring about.

Our politicians need to do some hard thinking to work this one out. If older people retire later, they are job-blocking the youngsters. I suggest that students have access to courses that will lead toactual jobs. University degrees are not needed for many jobs and shouldn't be asked for by employers, if not essential.

Some areas are desperately in need of dentists, so why not train more? Likewise, good plumbers and carpenters would see off the 'cowboys'.

Thundery weather is coming ourway over the weekend butit won't affectme.I have an urgent writing project soI'm not going out.

I'm working on a bookabout food, not in a 'Domestic Goddess in an evening gown' type of way, flashing myteeth at the TV camerasand licking my lips and fingers. No, I'm talking about food in a historical context.I'm reading recipes, hand written by the lady of the house and kept in her, usually, calf bound book.

It was the mistress whowrote the recipes down because the servants, until the 1870 Education Act, wereunschooled.With few magazines available,recipes were passed by word of mouth, correctlyusually.

Peter and Iwere in an 'olde worlde teashoppe' one day, which displayed knick knacky gifts. Waiting for our order, I remarked, 'Look, there's beeswax polish'.

To which Peter replied, 'What? Laxative porridge? Where?'People turned to look at us.

Ata meeting for a voluntary project not so long ago, coffee andbiscuits were passed around mid morning.We were all strangers butsoongot chatting.

A man and woman were sitting opposite me andthe man leaned closelyto the woman and said something quietly.Shepicked upthe plate of biscuits, offering him one.

'No, thank you,' he responded.'I said"I'm skint", not 'Pass a biscuit'".

I don't know if I'll findremedies for the hard of hearing but I've a receipt 'To comfort ye heart and against Melancholy yt arifeth from the spleen'. Thenthere's'Brimstone and Treacle' for 'Healthy Youth'. Should the latter produce sickness, there is a counter remedy, involving Rochelle salts.

Some of these recipes go back to the 17th century, the time of Cavaliers andRoundheadsand sweet Lucy Walter, of Roch Castle, Haverfordwest.

Prendergast was a villageon the edge of Haverfordwest during Victorian times, but it has now become part of the town. It hadthe repuation for being lawless and outsiders feared to go there.

The railway came to Haverfordwest in 1853, built largely by Irish navvies, who had arrived to escape the potato faminein their homeland. Theylodged in Prendergast and spent their nights drinking in the 'Bull Inn'.

Each year,Prendergast electedits own Lord Mayor. The honour usually fell to the person who had been drunk most often during the previous twelve months.

Whit Monday was celebrated with a Gooseberry Tart Fair and the streets were lined with stalls selling thetarts. The following day, a Tuesday, more food followed but the important business was the mayor-making ceremony.

Promptly at noon, resplendent in purple and lilac, gold chains denoting hiscivic office, the local worthy appeared, cocked hat in place with asword at his side.On a decorated chair, the new Lord Mayor was carried aloft throughstreets of cheering people.

Thecivic procession stopped at every inn and tavern in the locality andthe happy duty of the mayor was to be the first to drink the health of the ancient borough.

One mayor, by the name of Jenkins, suffered from the Dick Whittington complex. When the procession reached the Salutation Hotel, wherehe had beena messenger boy and Man Friday, he became aware of his elevationin life. Refusing the jug of ale proffered, he calledfor a measure of spirits, more seemlyfor a Lord Mayor. An old man from the north of the county was heard to murmur quietly 'Druan age' (pity for him). It was a case of 'Lord, what fools these mortals be'.

This tradition ended In the early nineteen hundreds, butif reading about gooseberries has whetted your appetite, why not make some jam. (It'slate in the seasonnow for 'goosegogs' but you might come across some.)

Gooseberry Jam:

5 lbs gooseberries

5 lbs preserving sugar

Half a pint of water

Method: Boil gooseberries inwater until soft, about 40 minutes. You could sieve them, but I think it's a shame to lose the skin and seeds.

Add the sugar, stir until dissolved, bring back to the boil and boil for 10 minutes. Test for jelling by putting a spoonful onto a cold plate. Cool and pot.

Memo to the cook:

Medieval cooks served gooseberry jam with roast goose, to cut through the fattiness. This is the type of dish the cook in Roch Castle might have served to Lucy Walter and her family.

In 'English' classes inschool we were told to 'stick to the subject',when writingor in a debate.

In some colleges, prospective studentsare assessed on their ability to stick to the main thread of the conversation and follow it through.

All this I know and understand to some degree but, today,I couldn't help reflecting on the part 'association' plays in my mind.One idea leads to another, the thought of apple pies leads to pastry coffins, to coffins, to woollen shrouds, to apple pies with cloves, is there enough butterin the fridge to make two pies, to 'Four and Twenty Blackbirds Baked in a Pie', to Charles 11.

I was born in the Carmarthenshire countryside. My favourite fabric is scorched flannelette, (scorched because everything had to be aired properly in our house). I was wrapped in flannelette (gwlanened) blankets. (The saying 'Don't give me flannel' doesn't apply to me.)

Woolirritates my skin butI should like it becauseCarmarthen was a wool town in the early Middle Ages. By the middle of the 17th century, though, the wool trade was declining in the country as a whole.Charles 11 wanted to protect the industry andfrom 1666 to 1680 'Woollen Acts' were passed by Parliament.

These Acts required that the dead were buried inwoollen shrouds, unless theywere victims of the Plague and records for Llanddewi Brefi, mid-Wales, record this. Wool was costly but ignoring this edict was costlier,resulting in a fine.

Which brings me to pies. In former times, pies were not baked in tins but meats such as partridge, pheasant, pigeon, eggs, swan, (all manner of things, lovely or not) were wrapped in a pastry 'coffin', a sort of parcel. This pastry was discarded when cooked, merely being a container.

Developments in pastry-making included adding enough lardto makethe pastry edible. The'top table' at a banquet were servedthe toplayer of pastry, hence the term 'upper crust', denoting a social ranking. ('Below the salt' refers to the underlings, who had to wait for the salt to be passed to them).

The lower orders often had to eat pies made from liver and otherpieces of offal and, as their role was to be 'ever so 'umble', the aphorism 'eating humble pie' came about. Which reminds me, Charles Dickens' novels are full ofpuddings and pies.

Yet feasts have never beenabout food alone butextravagant entertainment, too.

A pie, with a pastry lid concealing 'Four and Twenty Blackbirds' was supposed to have been served to Charles 11 for his delectation and amusement. (Judge people by the prevailing standards of their time, I say.)

Which leaves me with an apple pie to bake, studded with cloves, because I like a 'bite' of flavour in my cooking. Bwytewch, Mwynhewch! Eat and enjoy!

Parc Tawe, a shopping mall near Swansea, is not doing so well, according to a newspaper report. I wentshopping today (not in ParcTawe) and prices were slashed in many places. 70% off is what I call good, or desperate if you're the shopkeeper. I bought some glassbeads, 30 down to 9. I didn't hesitate.

I metan older friend in one of the shops. Mairhad already chosen a dark brown skirt but wanted a blouse. Abeige blouseshe liked did not fit her and the assistant suggesteda red andyellow striped top, 50 in the sale. I could see Mair was hesitant so I pointed out thatred and yellowdid not co-ordinate withbrown. Not phased, the assistant returned with a blacktop with patch pockets, definitely notMair's style and the wrong colour, too.

After Mair had bought the skirtwe went to another shop and found exactly what she wanted: awhite blouse in fine cotton, with small silver buttons.

I often wonder about people's minds. Do they view the elderlyasa different species, if not as clothes horses, perhaps, but as 'cashcows' on whom they can foist their hard-to-sell items.

Once, and strangely I wasn't that old then, perhaps I just looked it,a Swansea shop assistant tried to flatter me by sayinga garment I Iiked was my size.

'Go and try it', she said blithely.

I had grave doubts. Granted, it wenton easily,but getting it off was another matter. My mother was with me in the changing room.I am taller and bigger than she is. I knelt on the floor and my mother started tugging. She's not that strong

Westarted laughing simultaneously, the type of laughter that doesn'tstop. I imagined the dress tearing, while my motherchecked the price tab. When I eventually wriggled out of it, I felt a bit like Houdini.

A recent televisonprogramme featuredan old lady who had losther life savings to a 'cowboy' builder.The 'granny annexe' she had wanted turned out to be an electrical nightmare and the plumbing was no better.It took twenty minutes to empty the walk-in bath, so she had to sit there while it drained.The programmeended with a warning tothe 'elderly and women on their own' to watch for'sharks'.

It's not going to stop me shopping.I like it, but I'll be watching for the 'big white hunters' in future.

I'm going to go deep today and talk about Mr Right. Mr Right Man to marry, I mean.

There's some book going the rounds with a title somethinglike: 'Mr Almost Right, is Right Enough'.

It's written by someone whose mother told her not to be too fussy about who she marries because no-one is perfect.

There is sometruth in that but there are also a numberof flaws, the main onebeingthat, when you fall in love with someone, although you may know theirfaultsyou are prepared to overlook them.

(You know, love is blind, that old one). Sometimes, though, no matter how well you think you know your beloved, some things come to light after you are married. Yeah.

Let'sget personal. I knew my husband was a methodical man before I married him. He doubled checked everything,liked to get his facts right, did not attempt to do anything until he understood exactlywhat was involved andthen, quite often, he would decide not to do it, anyway. Iliked him even more for these traits, found them endearing, even.

He put things away immediately, in the proper place, filed things, could retrievethem at a moment's notice. Just let's sayI often didn't do things like that.

There were one or two little habits he had that didnot come to light until after we were married, however. The first night we got into a bed I had made, he ran his toeacross the bottom of the mattress.I wondered what he was doing. Checkingthe sheets and blankets were tucked in properly, because he did not like bedclothes coming adrift in the middle of the night, it turned out.

Then there was the question of his underwear. I was very careful with his clothes, ironing, folding them, putting clean shirts on hangers.

One day he held a vest up to the fire beforegoing to the mirror on the wall and pressing the vest on it. I enquired what he was doing. Looking for moisture on the mirror, which would show the vest was not properly aired. Mmmh.

Because marriage is a relationship in which you have little room to manoeuvre, it's very easy to get on each other's nerves.I like to gnaw the stone of a mango behind what I think is the privacy of the kitchen door. I expect I have some other faults, but I really can't think of them at the moment.

'Aml bai lle ni charer', translates: 'There's many a fault where there is no love'.

If you can say 'Madly, Truly, Deeply', hand on your heart, look each other in the eye and hold it, then marry. It's not a guarantee that things won't go wrong but, if they do, you will have the satisfaction of knowing you were madly, deeply, truly in love with the one you thought, at the time, was not just 'Mr Just Right' but 'Mr Just Perfect'.

Today, I bought the cutest little hat you ever saw. Egg yolk yellow, with two enormous cream poppies and a bow. It's a pill box shape but that's about the only connection with Jackie O. Her style was minimalistic, simple. This hat spelt 'OTT'.

Itried it on. 'Everyone' who had seen itlovedit but it was for a small head.That was no deterrent. I have two grand-daughters.

I bought the hat. I would have been wild with myself if I hadn't.(I don'tregret buying things, only not buying things). It cost 4. Yes, all of 4, from a charity shop, Siop Elusennol as theysayCardigan way, where I had it.

Zara Phillips, Princess Anne's daughter was married this afternoon and I've checked thetitfers and none of the guests, but noneof the guests,wore anything that compared with mine.

Cardiganhas some super charity shops. That was not all I bought. (Can't help myself. Got the bug.) One cat, three china kittens, (granddaughters again), 1.

A china cup and saucer, patterned with snowdrops, gold rimmed, new, 'January' written on the saucer, 2. (For me, for my diligence, for my ferreting instincts).

My friend and Ihad tea in Pendre (top of the town) in a gorgeous cafe wherea huge hand-knitted cardigan was suspended from the ceiling. Books from 'Parthian' and 'Seren' were on sale, there was an art gallery and jewellery, the tea was hot, lovely cakes, and smiley waitresses.

The National Eisteddfodisin Wrecsam (Wrexham) this year and I shall be watching it on television this evening.The first National Eisteddfod held in Wales was in Cardigan Castle. It was the idea of the Lord Rhys and people came from all over Britain to compete. (Perhaps the Lord Rhys was into 'Twitter'and 'Facebook').

Cardigan, situated in mid-Wales, in Sir Aberteifi, was once an important town. The weekly market dates from1227 and duringthe 18th and 19th centuries, Cardigan was the most important seaport in South Wales. When the river silted up, boats were unable to sail in and so trade declined.

A 'Trade Directory'of 1830 shows there were six tailors in the town, five dressmakers and two straw hat makers. I doubt the hats were as good as my little chapeau, though.

The government pledged to supportthe campaign to reduce the number of plastic bags shops give, or charge, customers for but thisyear the number of bags used has gone up.

The bagsare a hazard for wildlife andcan remain in landfill for a thousand years.I don't know whether I am being simplistic, but why not make more use of biodegradable bags which, although still a danger to animals, would eventuallydecompose. Putting up the price of carrier bagswould also cut down on their use.

Years ago, peopleusedstring shopping bagsand if they bought more than they expected to, they were given paper carrier bags.The bags werenot meant to carry heavy weights but just the odd thing.

My aunt usually had the oddpaper carrier bag tucked away in a cupboard somewhere. We called it a'cwdin brown', (brown carrier).

Living in the country, not off the beaten track but close to a main road, tramps often knocked on her door, askingfor hot waterto make tea in their billy cans. Whether or not Auntie Mary believed that Elijah would come back as a beggar, she always cut some sandwiches and added cake, biscuits, whatever she had to hand, to give to the tramp. The food was put in a 'cwdin brown'.

I was looking at an article about decluttering recently (it's so nice to sit back andlearn how to simplify life, without moving from the chair). It claimed that the last thing women will disposeofare paper carrier bags from dress shops. I hold on to mine, likingto be reminded of different places I've shopped, especially when I've been on holiday.

Last year, one evening, we walked along the quay in Cannes, looking at the yachts that had tied up.

Lights were twinkling, people were eatingsupper on deck. One yacht had a liveried butler serving food (we acted casual, made it appear as though it was an every day story of country folk to us).

We noticed someone had left a Hermes paper carrierby a bin, ready for therefuse collection. Now, that's a bagI would have liked to peek in.