Jocasta Innes Diary

In all the current brouhaha about top up fees, only one or two radio phone-in people made the sensible and cogent point that there is something wrong with aiming to send 5O% of young people to `university' when what the country, and the economy, is crying out for, are practical trades and skills. I wrote about this in my book, Home Time, deploring the snobbery that deprecates these skills as jobs for thickos and pointing out that a young person, of either sex, who did the training and set up in business in a sharp, fast, reliable business mode would be more likely to make a good living ( even a fortune) while their peer group who did `mickey mouse' degree courses at a ` university' were struggling to get one foot on the ladder. Unlike Germany, where practical and technical aptitudes are respected, valued and catered for, we in the UK still seem to be mired in a I9th century notion that
arts and sciences are aspirational and somehow genteel, while hands-on skills are for the `stupids'. Anyone who has tried their hand at DIY can give the lie to this idiotic prejudice. My partner`s former P/A., Susanna, who all but completed an architectural degree before coming to work for him, left his practice after a year to train as a plumber. Slender, pretty and unmistakably `genteel', she is the last person you would expect to turn up to clear blocked drains or fix a leaking shower. But she knows her stuff, enjoys the variety of work, and is much happier ( and better paid) as a clever plumber than she was as an architectural P.A. It wouldnt at all surprise me if in a few years time Susanna is running a smart and highly profitable business, with a whole new take on plumbing and other essential services to frazzled homeowners in the metropolis. I keep getting wistful E-mails and CVs from young people who have Diplomas in Interior Design, asking my advice about their next move. I think I will start suggesting they move sideways - into plumbing. Or carpentry. Or electrics. This what the Real World needs.

Has your au pair done a runner without warning and just as Christmas looms ? Possible Solution: call your agency and ask for a male au pair, preferably from Eastern Europe. Of course you need to do the usual checks, but if you are lucky you might be on to a really Good Thing. I took on Peter, Czech, 22, a few months ago. I had only once employed a male au pair once before, Istvan, from Hungary, a basketball champion. Problem - he spoke maybe thirty words of English. Also- this may be a Hungarian thing - he hated being `told'; instead of dusting bookshelves or whatever he would spend two hours polishing brass door knobs.But Peter is a gem, a treasure and increasingly, a chum. I tell him that he is precisely the New Man young women dream of and will one day make some Czech girl surprised and happy. With only a little nudging from me he is now a super competent man-about-the-house, washing, ironing, mopping, hoovering, tidying - he has a fine grip on household routine, and is totally without `attitude'.He is truly fond of our two dogs - walking them is a daily task.My youngest grandson, Felix, is coming to stay over Christmas. Felix is at the terrible toddler stage, but I am absolutely confident that he and Peter will hit it off, and his parents will be able to take a short break knowing that Peter is coping. Thats already a brownie point, but even more wonderful - for me - is that Peter is something of a techie. When my computer throws a wobbly I can call upon my in-house IT man, which is just brilliant.So what I am saying is if the au pair girls have been letting you down, maybe its time to try an au pair boy ?

The BBC and the V&A jointly hosted a massive dinner recently in honour of YBA artist, Rachel Whiteread, whose inside-out plaster cast of Room IOI holds pride of place in the V & A`s Sculpture Court. I am not sure how many of the 2OO or so guests had the faintest idea what Room IOI was about; they certainly hadnt seen it, because it is just one of many studios in BBC Portland Place where George Orwell ( who worked there during World War II) located an interrogation and torture chamber in his famous book, I984. Judging by Rachel Whiteread`s sculpture it was a boringly standard room, with two windows, one door and lots of recesses which no doubt once housed pipes, or wiring, but these had been removed. Boring rooms make for boring sculpture I regret to say, though we all stood around making intelligent comments as people ( expecting a fab meal) are prone to do in these situations. I mean its just a big chunk of white plaster. But the dinner was something else, 2OO or so media and arty folk ranged either side of a table which took up an entire gallery overlooking the Sculpture Court. We all gasped at the sheer scale of it all, a bit like a swanky and well-behaved street party with superior nosh. The star of the evening, Rachel herself, sitting between Alan Yentob and the Director of the V & A, was a surprise. Unlike the guests, who were a bit dressy, Rachel seemed to have come straight from her studio, in stained and humble working garb, a small, shy person who looked overwhelmed by the proceedings, a timid mouse flanked by two sleek and voluble urban rats. My heart warmed to her.I cannot remember a single item on the menu, but it was all top nosh and we shovelled it down gratefully. But what did make me sit up was the table decorations,which I instantly recognised as majoring on sprays of pink peppercorns. Pink peppercorns were my best find on a holiday in Mauritius a few years ago and I proudly brought back a paper bag stuffed with them, to sprinkle on fish dishes or drop into a marinade.
Now here was a vanload of these precious aromatic seeds being merely used as decoration ! Needless to say I grabbed a fistful on my way out. I have to say they were a tad past their sell-by date, and it took some time to extrricate them from the florists wire, but for a week or two our family meals became pungently Mauritian.I should add, for those of you who havent visited this visually astonishing volcanic island in the Indian Ocean, pointy black peaks rising out of a green sea of sugarcane, the island cuisine is a fascinating mix of French and Indian with a touch of nearby Africa.The French owned it, the Indians came over as indentured workers and Africans made it across from Madagascar. Now that super de luxe hotel/spas are popping up around the coastline, with helicopter service laid on from the airport for VIPs, the local dishes must be getting fancied up and Europeanised. But when we were there you could stop off at pretty well any roadside cafe and be sure of fresh fish lightly grilled and given an exotic fillip with a sprinkle of crushed pink peppercorns, a hint of chilli, and a benison of garam masala. And the frites which came avec, were delicious.