“Heave ho, heave ho, lash up and stow! Come along, golden girl, show a leg!”
Thus, I dragged Mrs Shacklepin from the arms of morpheus at the unbelievably shocking time of 0820 this morning. I did soften the blow with a hot cup of tea, though she fell asleep again and let it go cold. It is the first day of rain and Jane had decided yesterday that there was nothing to get up for today. Of course, I wasn’t having any of that defeatist talk: a pandemic is not an excuse to let standards slip. As it was, I had given her an eighty minute lie in. I, myself, had been up since 0630 and had conducted a complete set of rounds of the house, had sterilised all surfaces, and had swabbed and flogged dry the decks.
As I lay there beside the slumbering beauty, sipping my own tea, I reflected nostalgically on my wakening phrases. “Lash up and stow”, of course, refers to lashing up one’s hammock and stowing it. I slept in a hammock when I was a Cadet in HMS SKEGNESS, and it was very comfortable, being immune to the rolling of the ship. What many people do not realise, is that the naval hammock included a mattress and bedding, and it could not be left hanging during the day: it had to be taken down and lashed into a huge sausage by seven half hitches (one for each sea), using its own rope or clue. This heavy and unwieldy burden then had to be stowed in the hammock stowage, a corralled compound about four feet square in the corner of the messdeck: no mean task in a pitching and rolling ship. In sailing ships the hammocks were stowed in the hammock netting on the upper deck to air, and doubled as a form of armour in action; in modern warships up to about the 1960s they were also used to plug holes in the ship’s side after enemy action or collision. Contrary to what one sees in some country gardens today, hammocks should be slung taut, ie almost horizontal, unless one wants a bad back. Mine was slung on designated hammock bars welded about six inches from the deckhead. Climbing in and out was easy, but one had to be careful – when climbing out – not to put one’s foot in a messmate’s breakfast on a table below (we did not have a ship’s dining hall in HMS SKEGNESS, food was collected from the central galley and brought back to the messdeck to eat). No, it wasn’t 1805, it was 1970.
And “Show a leg”?. This was to prove sex in Nelson’s navy. Women officially were banned in HM Ships, but some captains turned a blind eye and there were often doxies or what were delightfully termed “Portsmouth brutes” onboard warships in those days, especially in port. There are several recorded incidents of women impersonating men and fighting the ship too; heaven knows how they got away with it in the confines of a warship, though there were no showers or baths in those days. The lavatories were open to the weather and consisted simply of seats with holes in them placed either side of the bow (hence “heads”, or in the USN, “head”).
A piece of history for you: this is the first time that English churches have been closed since the reign of King John in 1208. The churches were closed in 1208 by Papal Interdict in response to King John declaring the newly appointed Archbishop of Canterbury an enemy of the Crown, and taking over the See of Canterbury. The Interdict forbade the holding of all church services and effectively withheld God’s offices from the people of England for six years. John was unfazed by the punishment (it wasn’t he who was being punished): he used the time to rob the Church and the Jews, to the benefit of his own wealth, and to beat up the Welsh, Irish and Scots. The pope then excommunicated him, but he still wasn’t bothered. The Interdict lasted until 1214, during which time babies went unbaptised, marriages were unblessed, and bodies were buried in unconsecrated ground. It is typical of the time that it was the people who suffered and the king who benefitted. King John was not a nice man.
Hammocks, Women at Sea and Papal Interdicts: see the wide range of topics and the degree of erudition that you find here.
It is a Trousers Day. I don’t mean for me – I always wear trousers – I mean for the memsahib. I was pointing out to her a 1950s film on the television yesterday, in which the lady of the house appeared wearing a dress with full skirt, stockings, pearls and court shoes, and I suggested that this was the appropriate rig for the wife of a retired naval officer of my rank and standing. She made no comment, but appeared this morning wearing corduroy trousers, a sweater, socks and flat shoes. She said something about it being wet and cold outside. Very poor excuse, in my view, but I shall bide my time before saying something.
It is C-O-L-D. After weeks of continuous sunshine and highs of 24C (77F) the temperature has dropped to about 5C (41F) at night, and typically 10C (50F) during the day, with a cool breeze. We were glad to get back indoors after our pre-breakfast trip to the milk farm this morning. It has rained almost all week. And some foreigners wonder why the British talk about the weather so much. On the plus side, we no longer have people and their children outside making a racket to disturb my peace and harmony, and the garden has a smile on its face; on the minus side we are stuck indoors. Come to think of it, no change there then.
Well, I suppose I must write about this pandemic crisis, if for no other reason than to maintain a historical record. Where are we now? I believe the UK officially instituted lockdown on 23 March 2020, though there were “recommended” restrictions before that. So that makes us just over five weeks in. It feels more like five months. Paradoxically, however, each individual day seems to just wiz by; no sooner have I piped Call the Hands, then it is Pipe Down. The UK has passed the peak for CV19 deaths and the curve is definitely dropping: only 586 deaths were recorded for 28 April, but one third of these were in Care Homes for old people. It is beginning to dawn on people and the Press what has been obvious to me for some time: the virus is taking the vulnerable and the old folk, either directly or, more likely, indirectly (their existing conditions are not being properly treated). The government has changed the goal posts on its reporting method and now includes non-hospital deaths on its charts, pushing the UK mortality figures up accordingly (much to the relish of the Press). In terms of deaths per million population, we are seventh in the mortality league at 326 deaths/million, behind San Marino, Belgium, Andorra, Spain, Italy and France. Belgium is suffering particularly badly at 642 deaths/million. The USA figure is 178 deaths/million. Boris is back, though he still looks a little rough round the edges, and we were hoping that this would herald a modest change in policy, a gentle restoration of some normality. Alas, as I write, the indications are that we will remain in lockdown until June at the earliest. We also have some good news in the arrival of Boris’ new-born son, though this has heralded some incredibly spiteful comments from some left-wing politicians, much to their discredit. The media, inevitably, were moaning that the country was rudderless when the prime minister was ill, but that is nonsense: the UK is not a republic and the prime minister is not a president. The country is a parliamentary democracy governed primarily by cabinet decision. Jane and I think Dominic Raab, the Foreign Secretary, was fine in his newly acquired title of “First Secretary” and some of the other ministers have been quite impressive too. It is nice to have the prime minister back, however. One does need a figurehead.
Boris and, indeed, his government, is not popular with everyone of course. It would be a funny, and even worrying, old world if that were the case. But his illness has brought out some very nasty sentiments in some quarters. There were those who openly wished he would die from the virus, yet those who claimed his illness was a sham for publicity purposes; there were those who said he was taking up a valuable NHS bed that could be used by the poor people, yet those who said he was getting special treatment; and there were those who said he was loafing and should get back to work, yet others who said he should not be using his “second home”, the official UK prime ministers’ country retreat at Chequers, to convalesce. There are some very unpleasant people out there, and we should pray for them; to harbour such bile and bitterness in their hearts must be a terrible burden. A difference in politics, creed or belief is never an excuse for discourtesy, disrespect, ill will or malice. Fortunately, the nasty people are more than offset by the genuine good will and altruism demonstrated by the vast majority of the country. My assessment is that we are in good heart, but keen to move on.
We received that Tesco delivery dead on time last Friday night. It is a measure of the state of things that such a trivial event should merit comment. The shopping list remained a dynamic one until the very last day, that is to say, items already ordered alternated between “available” or “unavailable” seemingly on a daily basis. In the end, we did receive almost everything we had asked for with the exception of flour. What is it with the flour? It appears to have taken over from toilet rolls as the new “must have”. Half of the numpties who are buying it probably cannot bake or make bread and, in any case, there is absolutely no shortage of bread or pastries in the supermarkets. The unavailability is not a big deal for us, but Jane’s favourite hobby is making cakes, so she is frustrated. Today we received a notification that there was a delivery slot available from Iceland (the frozen-food supermarket, not the volcanic country) so Jane is beavering away thinking of things she still needs. All in all, I think it would be fair to say that the groceries logistic situation here is now pretty stable, provided you don’t want flour or disposable rubber gloves. Mind you, I see from the news that there has been a run on egg cups now – apparently folk are starting to eat a proper breakfast for the first time. When I first read the story I thought it was just a yolk, but – no – it is genuine. Fancy not having egg cups; they will be saying next that they don’t have napkin rings and napkins. Our washable face masks, which we ordered from that hosiery firm that has changed its production line to meet current needs, have arrived. They do not meet surgical standards, of course, but they are functional and will satisfy the requirements that are sure to come after lockdown. They can be laundered after use at the Thermal Death Point of 60C. I was impressed that the straps of the masks were coloured red and green, apparently to fit with port and starboard ears, before I discovered that the masks were ambidextrous. Jane wore hers to visit the doctor’s surgery today for a blood test and grumbled that it messed up her hair, steamed up her glasses and made her look ridiculous. Otherwise all right then. I think the blood test must have been to check that it is still blue: Jane is the first cousin, thirty one times removed, of William the Conqueror you know (which, frankly, explains a great deal).
Well, the memsahib has recovered from her labyrinthitis and is stable once more (physically, anyway). Now she is complaining of an ache in her lower chest and she initially was convinced that she had a broken rib. As she has not suffered any impact damage, fallen over, or otherwise been involved in a collision with another vessel my diagnosis was that she had either pulled a muscle doing her gardening or her wired brassiére was too tight. Ibuprofen cream on the painful area, supplemented by paracetamol and a period sans brassiére, has been prescribed by Dr Shacklepin and this is slowly working. I have further informed the patient that there is room for only one valetudinarian in our household and that that person refers to himself by the perpendicular pronoun. To add to this, Jane is going deaf. All my verbal overtures now (admittedly sometimes conducted across several rooms or decks) receive the initial response,
“Sorry?”
Further evidence of this malady came the other day when I was explaining to her the difference between centripetal and centrifugal force at breakfast, while seated only one metre away, and she showed no response whatsoever. She will not be able to get a hearing test in the present state of things, of course, and even if a hearing aid were recommended, she would not wear one. Vanity, vanity. I told her I would make her an ear trumpet, but all I got was,
“Sorry?”
While I remember, it has occurred to me that there may be some terms or expressions that may not be understood by everyone – they may be uniquely British or uniquely naval or uniquely Shacklepin. For that reason, I have added a Glossary section to the main page. If you have found it already then take a gold star.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m watching you work, darling. I am empathising and bonding with you”
“You are lurking. And I don’t trust you behind me. Go away”
She continued decapitating carrots and waved the kitchen knife in a threatening manner.
So ended my attempt at bonding as recommended in The Book. The Book is a text book on psychology called, Why Men Don’t Listen and Women Can’t Read Maps by psychologists Allan and Barbara Pease, and it explains why men and women think and behave differently. The title is probably deliberately eye-catching and provocative. Some friends reading this blog will be all-too familiar with The Book, as I have been known to quote from it ad nauseam. It contains The Hidden Mysteries of Men and Women and I wish it had been written, and that I had read it, 50 years ago. So much is explained for, behold, the half was not told unto me. In the present Emergency I have taken to re-reading The Book during my periods of, shall we say, early morning isolation and ease from which I emerge with further quotes or advice for the benefit of my fair wife (“Oh, not another quote from that damned book…”). On this occasion, I had read that the hormone oxytocin, known as the “cuddle hormone”, is released when someone’s skin is gently stroked and it increases feelings of bonding. I had been about to stroke Jane’s neck with my nose as an experiment, the better to improve her mental health and feeling of being appreciated. Also, I was bored and looking for an outlet. That I had not got past the first hurdle was a pity. I explained all this to her from a safe distance, pointing out that The Book also said that a woman wishing to pleasure a man often scratches his head, caresses his face, rubs his back and tenderly brushes his hair. I observed that she had never done any of that for me. She replied, with a snort,
“You haven’t got any hair!”
Oh, how sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless wife!
I do have hair. It is full, and blond and luxuriant. Well, it used to be. It is now grey, understated, short and distinguished. Like me.
30 April 2020
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 