“Alexa, play Classic FM”
So begins our breakfast on most days, and I mention it because it exemplifies the valuable contribution that classical music has on one’s mood. It can lift one up (Lark Ascending by Vaughan Williams), or bring one down (Mars from the Planet Suite by Gustav Holst). I also mention the ubiquitous Alexa because she provides that extra degree of control, the digital bluetooth equivalent of the television remote control mentioned in the last blog: as soon as the advertisements or a particularly raucous musical piece comes on, the command is,
“Alexa pause”.
It gives me an immense sense of power to give an order and have it instantly obeyed; it makes for a taut, happy ship.
If only life itself were so simple and we could shut off the things we do not want to see or hear: men wearing shorts in winter or socks with sandals; women with piercings in strange places; people with tattoos; folk wearing dirty white gym shoes instead of polished shoes; gratuitous music from car sound systems; Audi drivers….the list is endless. Alas, we are stuck with peoples’ little foibles, just as they are stuck with mine. But returning to that classical music, it really can make a difference to the day and I would venture to suggest that the radio station I mention has played an important part in maintaining the Shacklepin morale. Of course, there are other radio stations, not all of them classical, but this one is our favourite. Having said that, if left on her own, Jane has been known to go off piste and play the more contemporary music of her youth: the music of the late 1960s and the 1970s that is played by Smooth Radio. I know this because, when I am working in my study located above the kitchen where she is dismembering dead animals, all I can hear is THUMP-THUMP-THUMP of her music. Is it called “heavy metal”? I have no idea. I also get a taste of her music when she drives the car, for we have yet another rule in the Shacklepin household: the driver of the car gets to decide what (if anything) is played on the radio. That person, the Driver, is invested with Special Command as defined by the Queens Regulations (Royal Navy). As the driver, I favour the spoken word, such as BBC Radio 4 or BBC Radio 4 Extra; Jane favours music, usually Smooth Radio. That is not to say that I do not like Jane’s choice of music, for usually her taste chimes with mine; it is just that I find classical music or the spoken word less distracting when concentrating or when offering my profound views on the latest revelations in the news.
Our other indulgence in the panoply of entertainment is to listen to The Archers omnibus on Sunday mornings on the wireless, a pastime that is, alas, no longer available to us in the present Emergency. For the benefit of any readers who are not British, The Archers is the world’s longest running radio drama which is normally aired for 15 minutes every weekday. Originally “a tale of everyday countryfolk” it was introduced in 1951 as a gentle way of re-educating the public and the farming community in agriculture, and reviving British farming after WW2. It is now more of a contemporary drama set in a fictional rural setting. The acting is very good and some of the issues that emerge as part of the drama are thought-provoking, though I still preferred it when it was more gentle and agrarian. It is the only soap opera that Jane and I follow and, even then, we are not rabid listeners and sometimes we miss a few episodes. It is the sort of programme that you can easily dip into or out of, yet soon pick up the thread. That said, The Archers has always had its hard core of devotees. In the mid 1950s my father was serving in a ship passing in thick fog at night through the Straits of Dover, a very hazardous waterway even in clear visibility. Lookouts were closed up on the fo’csle and bridge wings, the siren blasted long every two minutes, the rudimentary radar was manned: it was all very tense. Suddenly, at 1900, the Captain exclaimed,
“Oh! The Archers!”
Whereupon he shot off the bridge and down the companionway to his cabin, where he remained for the next fifteen minutes. The First and Second Mates, the helmsman, and the spare deckhand were astonished, having found themselves literally at sea; but they soon came to realise that it was just one of those little eccentricities that all Captains of ships seem to have. Of course, the Captain returned when the show was over, and carried on as if nothing had happened. They did not hit anything.
I used to play on my father’s ships regularly in harbour and, from the age of nine, would sometimes travel with him on trips to London (he served in coasters up to 1968). It was a grand childhood. My father (who was the First Mate) would just leave me to it: I would board the ship, which usually was moored midstream to buoys, by swarming up a long rope ladder from the ship’s Jolly Boat; I would cox the Jolly Boat on my own; I would visit the ship’s holds or engine room; I would go everywhere. My father taught me coastal navigation, stability, knotting and splicing and boat handling. No lifejackets, no safety briefing, no supervision. Today, the Health and Safety lobby would have a fit and I would not be allowed anywhere near a ship; then, in the 1950s and 1960s, the term had not been invented. I was seasick on every trip with him and, no doubt, was a burden too, but he still took me to sea with him every year and it never put me off a maritime career.
It’s a funny old thing, but when our health system does something well, such as giving patients first class care and treatment in the present Emergency or building a temporary emergency hospital in just a few days, then the NHS and Public Health England are “the envy of the world” and are praised to the hilt. When the system does something badly, such as failing to have sufficient stocks of PPE for just such an emergency as the present one, or ordering sub-standard items, then it is the government’s fault. It is a bit like the comment on your local football team’s performance: “we won”, “you lost”. I am concerned that we are beginning to deify the NHS and sister organisations to the point where no criticism will be tolerated. Currently, many houses have signs in their windows with that pretty rainbow picture next to “NHS”, and we clap the staff every Thursday. The fact is, the NHS is a vast organisation with a budget of about £130 billion for England alone. It certainly performs a vital and enviable service by providing free healthcare for all in Britain and it is manned by dedicated staff; but it is not perfect by any means, and we should not allow our gratitude to the medical staff to cloud our judgement of its efficiency. The NHS is not God. We should also be consistent in our praise and criticism. As to the Thursday night clap, it is good to thank the medical staff for their care and dedication, and I believe it is much appreciated (though I see that the clap has now become a thank you for “key workers”, a vague definition that dilutes the gesture somewhat). I only hope that now, with only about 19% of available ICU beds actually occupied, and all other medical care in our hospitals put on hold, the burden on medical staff has eased somewhat and that many of them can take some well-earned rest.
For posterity, I should record here that the number of deaths in the UK each day is dropping by roughly 15% daily and stands at 363 as of 20 May. Hospital admissions in the UK are at the lowest level since the crisis began. A “track and trace” mobile phone app is promised for June, but I am not holding my breath. Various agencies are working flat out to develop a vaccine and there are tentative signs of progress in the USA but, even if that proves successful, a vaccination programme will not get under way until mid 2021 at the earliest. I think we must prepare ourselves, chaps, for the possibility that this virus will always be with us in some form, rather like influenza, and that it is something we will have to live with. We certainly cannot carry on the way we are with the present restrictions and with virtually no economy to fund our current lifestyle. As I set out in the last blog, we are going to have to start living with some small risk.
The last time I was an inpatient in hospital was while I was still serving and at a time when the Armed Forces had their own dedicated hospitals. I had viral pneumonia and was very ill for two weeks. I always remember a friend visiting me and, against my advice, insisting on looking at the contents of the little pot by my bedside into which I discharged my sputum and phlegm: her face turned the same colour as the contents of the pot. However, the experience of having pneumonia was tempered by my having my own room in the Sick Officers Block of the Royal Naval Hospital, Stonehouse in Plymouth and by being looked after by some gorgeous Naval Nurses in their starched uniforms. The Nursing Sisters were classified as officers and were very authoritative and terrifying; the ordinary Naval Nurses were classified as ratings and called you “sir”, which was most gratifying. It was the nearest I have ever come to having my own hand maidens. What a difference that privacy and eye candy made to my recovery. I could almost have wished to stay in a little longer. It was the Navy’s policy to issue every patient with a bottle of Guinness every night to aid their recovery (Guinness Is Good For You), but this was modified in the Sick Officers Block by the issue of a gin and tonic every evening instead. The naval hospitals have long gone, alas, though the buildings are still there. The starched uniforms and black stockings have gone too and all medical staff now dress in sterile shapeless scrubs, such that you cannot tell doctors from Sisters, Sisters from nurses, or nurses from cleaners. Sigh. I served at a great time.
Incidentally (naval history lesson Number 3 coming up, but it will be brief), the Royal Naval Hospital in Plymouth was built beside Stonehouse Creek in Plymouth in 1758, its location chosen to allow the Fleet, which was anchored in The Hamoaze, to ferry sick sailors ashore by boat for medical treatment. This process became so established that, to this day, the phrase “to catch the boat up” is a euphemism in the Royal Navy for, ahem, having an antisocial disease (ie STD). These sailors.
Just to conclude the medical history theme, it was discovered centuries ago that if one took a pill made from the metal antimony, then it had a laxative effect with the added bonus of the pill being expelled, undigested, afterwards. It would then be recovered and reused as necessary, being passed on within the family and from one generation to the next. I dare say it was given a rinse and a bit of a wipe before being reused. So there you have it: an early form if recycling, now long forgotten until you read this. Tip: if you want to practise this at home then make sure you use the metal antimony, not the metalloid arsenic.
We are still going on walks into Barsetshire, but have now daringly expanded the expeditions by taking the car to a suitable spot and then walking from there, thus expanding our portfolio. We embarked on a favourite one yesterday, starting in the nearby village of Carton and climbing up along the side of the river valley then dropping down and following the meandering river back. It would have been perfect if it were not for the fact that others, clearly, had the same idea. This was very poor: hadn’t they been told that this walk was exclusively for our use? On previous occasions we have met no-one; this time, every man and his (several) dogs seemed to be out. I noticed one party of three behind us and, not wanting to meet anyone (even in healthier times), I suggested we increase the pace to lose them. We ended up with a pace that would not disgrace The Royal Green Jackets, but whenever we paused at various summits to look back, the party was still there. It reminded me of that scene from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid when the pair are being pursued by Pinkerton and Red Indian trackers, and are unable to shake them off (“Who are these guys?”). As we belted up a particularly steep hill, my auxiliary heart having cut in on cold suction, I did suggest to Jane (between gasps) that we should just wait somewhere and let the people past, but she replied, paradoxically, that they might then dawdle and hold us up. We did lose them eventually but, all in all, the walk – while pleasant and taken in beautiful weather – turned into a six mile route march completed in record time. Not exactly the SAS you understand, but you get the gist. This was not really what was intended, but next time I will send out a memo in advance to warn members of the public that Cunard Platinum Badge Holders will be using that walk, and to stand clear.
I must tell you about The Numpties. The Numpties are our neighbours directly behind our house, who moved in a year ago. They are a couple in their late twenties or early thirties with two yappy rats on sticks as substitutes for children. We call them The Numpties because they are harmless, with no malice, yet they are totally unaware of how their actions might disturb or offend. On the very day that they moved in, Jane went round to introduce herself and found that the Numpties had hacked back one of her roses in our side flower bed with a chain saw. They thought that the flower bed (right next to our house) belonged to them (“Oh, sorry about that”). A series of noisy outside parties distinguished the Numpties’ first few months in their new home until, after being driven indoors on the hottest evening of the year, I went round to complain. They were quite apologetic (“Oh, sorry about that”) and turned down the music, but it had never crossed their minds that others might be disturbed. The Numpties are night owls and take their dogs for walks at 0100: nothing wrong with that, but their behaviour also manifests itself in him doing DIY at 2100 or 2200. Mr Numpty is very fond of his electric plane and circular saw. Mr Numpty also has a very loud voice and can be heard all through the day either bellowing on his mobile telephone, or talking to his chum and Mrs Numpty in the garden; Mr and Mrs Numpty do not believe in the lockdown. Finally, Mr and Mrs Numpty do not like gardening (hence the chainsaw incident) and have converted their backyard into a slate and artificial grass haven, decorated with a bar (twin burning torches, as on an altar), kegs of cider and (yes, another) a hot tub. The last is lit by a red light all night, as if ET were about to depart to the Planet Love with the Numpties at any minute. Mr and Mrs Numpty are civil servants who cannot work at home, but somehow the government is managing without them. They are, after all, numpties.
The other morning, Jane was catching up on her emails and I was sipping my coffee to the sound of Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony, both of us having consumed an excellent breakfast of poached egg on crushed avocado and sourdough toast. Suddenly my peace was shattered.
“WHAT!”, cried the Head Gardener and matriarch.
I spilt my coffee.
“Problems dear?”
“They have rejected my passport photograph!”
Oh dear, I thought privately. Stand by for turbulence, and fasten your seatbelt.
Just before lockdown the memsahib had put in for a new passport, the old one being close to expiry and the bait being a nice new blue United Kingdom document instead of the hated burgundy coloured European Union one. But the really tasty part of the bait was the opportunity to have a new passport photograph. You see, Jane hates her existing passport photograph because it shows her without spectacles and she thinks she looks ugly in it. It is true that it looks nothing like her, but she is not unattractive in it: it is, after all, that other woman with whom I sleep every night. Determined, this time, to rid herself of this hated image, Jane vowed to be photographed for the new passport with spectacles on. She duly fronted up at our local photographer’s and had the deed done, taking care to make sure that her photochromic glasses had not gone dark for the process, and she was pleased with the result (cost of professional, £6). She duly scanned the photograph, filled in the forms online, and waited for the new document with lively anticipation. Then lockdown came. Since 23 March she has been bemoaning the non-delivery of her passport, with many aspersions being cast on civil servants in general, and Passport Office staff in particular. The fact that she cannot use a passport at the moment has been dismissed as a trivial detail. She wanted that passport with the pretty face. And now, today, the authorities – having stirred their IN trays a few times – have concluded that her photograph is unsuitable because of the tinted glasses, and Jane is spitting venom like a benzedrine puff adder.
“Look at it! Look at it!”. She thrust the photograph at me. “What, I ask you, is wrong with that photograph? It’s ridiculous…stupid people…ought to be shot…”.
She went on for some time, spread over several days – you are reading the concise account, believe me. Actually, she was quite right: there was nothing wrong with the photograph of her in glasses, and her eyes were entirely visible, but, as the Americans say, you can’t fight City Hall. She wanted to make a formal complaint: to write to our MP; to the Secretary of State; even to write to the Palace perhaps…but I said it would be far easier just to give in, pay another £6, and resubmit a photograph without spectacles. Yesterday, still chuntering, she went off to the local supermarket where they have a photo booth. After a lively session during which, apparently, she took various pictures of, first, the top of her head, then pictures of her neck (she could not read the instructions because, well, she had no glasses on), she eventually achieved success and showed me the result, which she thought not too bad. What did I think?
Remembering that incident with the vomit-coloured outfit (Blog 42), I replied,
“You look absolutely super darling. Just like a film star”
“Do you really think so?”
“Yes, Jane Wymark: that actress who plays Barnaby’s wife in Midsomer Murders”
“Hmm…”
Did it work? Well, she resubmitted the photograph on line and the automatic program came back and said the photograph was too bright. She has overridden the automatic response and resubmitted it. Watch the news: if you hear of an earth tremor in southern England in the next few weeks then you will know the result.
Time for a late breakfast, I think. Have a good weekend and keep taking that pill.
21 May 2020
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 