Blog 45. Now who will be The One?

She has confiscated the remote control.  I don’t mean the remote control that guides me down the stairs to make the tea while half asleep every morning, I mean The remote control: the one for the television.  I am bereft.  The remote control for the television has always been placed on the left arm of the Command Chair,  ready and available for instant use by the Master and Commander.  It is from this central control position that I determine all television programmes for the household: which ones to turn off, which ones to mute, and which ones not to select in the first place.  In the democratic republic of Shacklepin there is, of course, a degree of consultation before any executive action is taken.  We are not running a dictatorship, you know.  Jane and I do discuss which, if any, programmes we are going to watch on a particular evening; I am merely the humble vessel that executes the decision of congress.  No, the confiscation has arisen because of my policy of surfing the channels whenever there are advertisement breaks, in the hope of finding something more interesting to watch during the interlude.  During this process our television makes a bleeping noise, so every ad break is characterised by BLEEP-BLEEP…BLEEP-BLEEP-BLEEP…BLEEP-BLEEP-BLEEP-BLEEP…BLEEP… like some demented tortoise practising Morse code.  Sometimes I do mute the sound during this process out of selfless consideration to Mrs S, but it has been to no avail apparently.  It seems that the entire surfing habit has been driving the memsahib mad for many years, and she finally cracked two evenings ago.
“Right.  That’s quite enough!  Give me that.”
And with that, she snatched the remote control from me and returned the selected programme to its origin.  She then (and this will really shock you) retained the Control, took over operation for the rest of the evening, and is now claiming droit des commandes as la maîtresse de maison for all time, like some medieval matriarch.  I am shocked.  For a start, she hasn’t done the course.  It could be dangerous.  We have already had several unwanted dives into the unknown depths of our Smart television’s many capabilities and have been faced with a blank screen on several occasions.  One screen showed a boring programme with some weird couple in a living room doing nothing and it took us quite a while to realise that it was – in fact – us, on camera.  Sinister.  I shook my head at her foolishness,
“Never send the baby to fetch the beer”.
For some reason, this seemed to strengthen her resolve.  So there you have it. A mutiny (or it would be if there were two or more people being insubordinate).  I am not sure how to handle this one, nor am I sure which is worse: having to watch and listen to television advertisements or losing control of the ship household.  

This incident may be but a small part of a growing and insidious revolution.  You see, she had previously banned me, not only from surfing the channels on the bedroom television, but from watching the television in the bedroom, full stop.  It had been part of my morning routine (see Blog 39) to surf the early morning television offerings as I lay in bed sipping my tea, while she gradually came up to periscope depth.  Unlike the situation with the television in the drawing room, the surfing on the bedroom television makes no noise.  I am very fond of Everybody Loves Raymond and Frasier, and know almost all the scripts by heart now, but I am always on the lookout for a new programme to entertain me in my pre-breakfast loneliness.  This avenue of pleasure has now been closed off to me and I am not sure why.   She can be a hard mistress; but the perks are good.  That reminds me: I see that the Defence Discount Service, which advertises discount deals for members of the armed forces and veterans, is offering a 15% discount deal on bondage equipment (look it up if you don’t believe me).  It takes all sorts.

[Post Blog Note: since writing these early paragraphs Jane has relented on the Remote Control Policy, and a coup d’état has been avoided. It seems that my innocent habits of fidgeting, whistling or talking to her when she is trying to sleep or play on her iPad have proved far worse than me surfing the channels in advertising breaks. Stability has been restored]

Well, it looks like that “ease springs” I referred to in the title of the last blog was a little too optimistic. Although the number of cases and positive tests continues to fall, and deaths on 13 May stand at 494 and falling, we are still confined. However, a plan has been drawn up for returning to normal and this is supported by a colour-coded system, like health warnings on the ingredients of a packet of crisps. We can now meet one person, who is not part of our household, on a one-to-one basis outdoors and two metres away (who will be The One in my case?). Garden centres are open and the building industry is returning to work with extended hours to 2100. All workers are encouraged to go to go back to work if they can, and to use a bicycle or walk to work rather than use public transport or a car. This might be fine if you live and work in a big city like London or Manchester, but I am not sure how you will get to work in rural Barsetshire without a car; ride a horse perhaps. Few people in the shires use public transport to get to work, for it is totally impractical. Here in Melbury, for example, we have only one bus an hour to our nearest Big City, with a similar number of trains a day to the next nearest Big Town. The government advice is very metro-centric. All the relaxations above, by the way, are laid down by the United Kingdom government, but apply only to the people of England; for reasons that I have been unable to fathom the Scottish, Welsh and Northern Irish are doing their own thing – I suspect more because their leaders want to show that they can than for any logical reason. I know which government will get the blame if it all turns to ratchet. It is a pity that we cannot act as one nation in a crisis, like we used to.

As I have said previously, it is going to be a very uphill struggle to get the British workforce back to work again: they are either genuinely terrified of dying from a horrible disease or have grown very comfortable sitting in the sunshine on compulsory paid holiday. Judging by the number of people around here nibbling at the rules and socialising already, I suspect the latter more than the former. For what it is worth, I think the main obstacle to returning to normality is the two metre rule, which makes any form of public transport and many forms of normal work totally impractical. The distance is, in any case, arbitrary: the World Health Organisation [WHO] recommends one metre; the Canadians recommend one caribou. Abandon that distance rule for the non-vulnerable, and urge people instead to be sensible when in proximity (perhaps wearing masks and gloves), and all the pieces will fall into place for a return to normality. It will not happen, of course. The trade unions are already muttering about unsafe working conditions. The teaching union is even advising teachers to minimise the existing current teaching on-line, and not to do any grading work. Just in case you haven’t guessed, I have added the teaching union to The List.

One surefire way of encouraging people to return to work with suitable precautions in place would be to turn off the tap.  I thought the Chancellor of the Exchequer had recognised that when it was mooted that he was going to reduce the current subsidy on wages from 80% to 60% on a sliding scale over time.  However that is not the case, and the 80% subsidy to wages (“Furlough Scheme”) is going to continue to October, with a review in July.  Most unwise, but then what do I, a simple sailor, know?

Judging by a few of the questions being asked by members of the public, some people seem to have lost their common sense and want precise instruction and laws on what they can or cannot do, detailed to the nth degree. The concept of using their own judgement, based on general guidance, seems to be beyond them. To add to this, there is a section of the population that appears to be risk averse in the present crisis: it is almost as if they are terrified to leave their houses, let alone return to work. It would seem that the UK government has succeeded in lulling the populace into a false sense of total fear. Some folk cannot grasp that all life is a risk and that all events have a probability. Even staying in the house offers a risk. In the UK there is a 4.1% chance of having an accident in the home in a year, a 0.24% chance of being injured on the roads in a year, (currently) a 0.35% chance of catching Covid19 and a 0.075% chance of dying from it. All life is a risk and we will never be free of it. I was expounding on this philosophy to the memsahib at supper the other day and thought I managed to get the point across. However, when I moved on to Bayes Theorem she stood, collected the plates and started to prepare the pudding. I might have over-egged my own pudding there.

Strange times bring strange practises. What is this reference by the BBC to “the four nations” instead of saying the UK? It sounds like we are part of a Navaho and Sioux reservation or something. And what is this “furlough” nonsense when they mean “paid leave” or “gardening leave”; have we become the 51st state of the USA? The other term that always annoys me (while I am at it) is “naval ship”; do they mean warship? Numbskulls. The BBC really does need a major shake up. Going back to “furlough”, there is a natural reluctance to use Americanisms in Britain just as, I dare say, there is a reluctance to use British terms in the USA. I fear we traditionalists are fighting a losing battle. What makes it worse is that, when you analyse English you often find that Americans write more correct or more original English than we do. For example, collective nouns or organisations are singular, so correct grammar is to write, “Harper Collins is publishing a book …”. We in Britain tend nowadays to write, incorrectly, “Harper Collins are publishing a book…”. If you read Bill Bryson’s excellent book, Mother Tongue, you will find a whole host of words and terms that are common in the USA, deplored in Britain, yet were once common in the mother country and may be found in Shakespeare: “got”, “gotten”, “trash”, “fall” (for autumn) are four examples. I am not sure about furlough, faucet, or rubber. So there you are: our American cousins are right after all. How embarrassing. But I do wish they didn’t refer to British English or London, England. Every time that last pops up on a film I shout at the screen, “Yes, thank you, I do know where bleeding London is”. That big place with Tower Bridge is hardly going to be London, Ohio is it?

While we are with the Wild West theme, there has been an outbreak of cattle rustling in Barsetshire.  Sheep rustling has occurred from time to time, but now the thieves have turned to large bovines.  How on earth do they get away with stealing a herd of cows?  Surely someone must have seen or heard a large lorry loading up cattle in the middle of the night?  Not only that, how do they dispose of them?  Abattoirs, farms and the very beasts themselves are registered and closely monitored.  The Barsetshire countryside is hardly Texas, and the farm across the road where we get milk is hardly The Ponderosa.  Most odd.  Still, I suppose it keeps the Barsetshire Police occupied and makes a change for them from turnip poaching and leek slashing.

Yesterday we completed a good walk around the public footpath that passes through the nearby Beechwood Estate, the Marquess of Cranford’s pile: eight miles altogether. It was delightful and I really don’t know why we have never done it before. We are well in with the Marquess already, by the way, because we attend Evensong in his private chapel once a quarter. We heard about these religious extravaganzas through the good offices of a friend who shares our enjoyment of the more traditional style of Anglican service. Jane and I are from the conservative right wing of the Church of England, you see. We are members of a hard core of Christians that favours “thees” and “thous”; that avoids the Creed and Lord’s Prayer in modern English; that deplores cymbals, guitars, karaoke, clapping and overt enthusiasm; and that shies at the hugging and handshaking of the Sign of Peace. We are English: a polite smile and a nod to fellow worshippers on arrival, a similar acknowledgement and a shake of the vicar’s hand on departure, are quite sufficient. Anyway, returning to that Evensong at Beechwood House: a hymn book and the Book of Common Prayer (stamped “Beechwood House”) are issued by the butler on arrival, the service is conducted by a visiting priest or bishop, and wine is served in the gallery or library afterwards. One meets such nice people. It is a sung service (the clue is in the name) and there is tremendous scope for vocal individualism, depending on the quality of one’s voice and how well one knows the Psalms. The Books of Common Prayer that are issued vary in antiquity and are an entertainment in themselves: the last one I was given offered prayers not to the present monarch, not even the one before her or the one before that, but to Queen Victoria. In the back of the prayer book was a fascinating list of people whom a man could not marry, starting with his mother and ending with (if I recall correctly) his sister’s daughter. My mind boggled. Oh yes, Charles (the present and ninth Marquess) and I are well in, and chatted about boats last time we attended. Heaven knows when we will be able to go again.

Communication has been an important antidote to the present restrictions and how lucky we are to be blessed with the technology of the 21st century.  It must have been truly grim for people during the Black Death and Great Plague epidemics of previous centuries against a backdrop of rumour and ignorance.  Come to think of it, perhaps it is not much different from today, with its social media.   We had never used FaceTime before, but we have now completed three FaceTime conversations with our friends in far-flung places and thoroughly enjoyed the experience.  In one, we consumed an entire bottle of wine, at our end, in the process.  I was, at first, reluctant to indulge in these experiments for I do not come across well vocally or face-to-face.   I avoid the telephone at all costs and use Jane as a proxy whenever I can.  At least one friend has commented that I am brusque on answering the telephone, and they will postpone a conversation until Jane is available.  (They commented once that it always sounded as if they were interrupting something when I answered the telephone; I replied that they probably were). To overcome this failing I have been practising politeness and charm on the telephone, but I fear it probably comes across as if I am being sarcastic – a mannerism that I never indulge in.  Far easier to use Jane or send an email.  My economy with words may be the result of my Service upbringing: the Royal Navy never wasted a paragraph when nine words would do (look at Nelson and “England Expects That…).  A formal manner was always encouraged on the telephone.  I always remember the experience of a friend of mine in HMS CASSANDRA when we were taking on fuel at sea (known as a RAS [Replenishment at Sea]),  a complex and tense manoeuvre that required very careful control.  He was monitoring the rate of fuel and had occasion to call the bridge to provide an update.  The telephone was answered with a cheery,
“Hello?”
“Answer the phone correctly!”, bellowed my chum.
“Bridge.  Captain speaking”, was the reply.

I have never seen someone’s face drain of colour so fast.  There was much spluttering and grovelling of course.  A delight to watch and listen to.

Well that walk round Beechwood Estate has really whetted my appetite.  I quite fancy myself in a country house, far from everyone, perhaps with a moat, and a high wall topped with barbed wire beyond that.  All I need is a few million.  To this end, Jane and I have entered numbers for the UK Lottery for the princely sum of £2.  Reassuring the memsahib regarding our chances, and drawing fountain pen, paper and calculator towards me, I calculated the odds based on a combination of 6 numbers drawn out of 59.  Oh dear: 1 in 45,057,474 or a probability of winning the jackpot of 0.0000022 %.
“But someone has to win it”, said my wife with perfect logic.  
Of course, she is right, as always.

Tell you what, if we win, we will cut each reader in for a tenner.  Can’t say fairer than that.

Now do excuse me.  I must give some thought as to who will be The One: the lucky person outside the household with whom I will hold that face-to-face conversation.

14 May 2020