The study door flew open:
“I am soaked!”, she cried.
“Is it raining? I thought it had stopped”
“Very funny. It was that damned cat scarer”
Ah.
We have seen a return of roaming cats in the garden, a nuisance that I have been battling with for nearly eight years and which I thought I had eliminated. It is not that we dislike cats per se – indeed, we used to have one ourselves. Rather it is that we dislike cats eating the birds and we abhor accidentally digging up, or treading on, cat mess in the garden. I have tried various techniques to rid us of this menace: ultrasonic devices, spikes on the walls and fences, deterrent gel in the soil; even sitting out with a hose at 0500 every morning. None has been wholly successful except The Scarecrow. Plugged in to the garden hose, The Scarecrow is triggered by movement and it sprays water in a wide arc like a Spandau heavy machine gun. It is very effective, but the drawback is that it anoints humans too. The memsahib particularly suffers because she does not listen to me (or rather she filters out the boring bits), forgets that the weapon is armed, and walks straight into the fusillade on a regular basis (the screams can be heard over a considerable distance I believe). Triggering The Scarecrow is an interesting experience from a psychological point of view (I speak from experience): as you walk inadvertently into its range you hear a click like a soldier cocking a rifle and this gives you fair warning. Yet, bizarrely, instead of running like hell, you freeze on the spot like a rabbit in the headlights. The device fires off a continual spluttering arc of cold water over its field of fire, always catching you full on and thoroughly soaking you. I remember once a few years ago, when we were going off to church very early one Sunday morning for Communion, Jane forgot that the device was armed as she led the way down the garden path to the garage. There was the click and, as expected, we froze. Away it went: TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT…She was drenched (it missed most of me). Then – and this amazed me – despite the fact that we were already running late, she insisted on going back indoors to change and to blow-dry her hair. Fascinating behaviour, and I bet I got a good mention during the silent prayer at Communion later. Anyway, to get back to the present, I have had to resurrect the faithful Scarecrow, give it a good overhaul and press it into service. And it had its first victim this afternoon, a human adult female. I am so pleased the overhaul worked.
“What would you like to do on your birthday?”
“Surprise me”
Hmm. Tricky. Let her lie in until 1000 perhaps? Let’s face it, there aren’t many treats available at the moment: a nice meal out (the usual treat) is not available; a trip to a nice garden is also out in practical terms: too many people and you have to book with the National Trust under the present situation. I will, of course, prepare that special dinner for her as described in the previous blog, but it will be a poor substitute. We could go for a nice walk in the countryside and look at the wild flowers but, alas, the forecast is not good. You see, it is going to rain on Friday, her birthday. And she is spitting bullets. Never mind that this will be the first rain for weeks and her garden needs it; never mind that the weather forecast has been unreliable lately, so the rain will probably not happen: as far as she is concerned, it is going to rain – yet again – on her birthday and she is an oryctolagus cuniculus of downcast demeanour (not a happy bunny). One would think that having a birthday in June would offer a reasonable chance of sunshine on the Big Day, but bad luck seems to dog poor Jane’s birthdays. Even when we spent her birthday in France one year, it rained all day.
Jane is obsessed with the weather and I am convinced that it stems from her Caribbean roots and an unfortunate visit to the UK in the late 1950s. Her parents had long leave in 1957 and came over to the Old Country with the family on a banana boat for a few months, touring England. By pure chance, it was one of the hottest and sunniest summers that Britain had experienced for many years, and they thought that that was typical. Seven years later, when they decided to emigrate because of the deteriorating political situation in their island, there were three popular candidates for their new home: Canada, Brazil and the UK. They chose the UK, based on the 1957 experience of a green and pleasant land bathed in sunshine and decorated with wild flowers (and the fact that Jane’s mother was English and her father was educated here). And Jane has moaned about the British weather ever since. She particularly dislikes the low cloud, or clag (a wonderfully descriptive acronym, borrowed from the aviation world, derived from “Cloud Low Aircraft Grounded”). To be fair, it must have been quite difficult to acclimatise to Britain after all those days of endless sunshine in the Caribbean, where even the rain is warm. She still recalls, with a shudder, the mornings of ice on the inside of her bedroom window during her first winter here and having to warm her clothes on a single bar electric fire while dressing (and what is unusual about that?). But she entered Britain in 1964; you would think that, by now, she would be resigned to the situation? Not a hope. We have a sophisticated weather station at home and she monitors and records the weather diligently every day. My first report to her in the morning, when I bring the tea, is of the current and lowest temperature; I think it determines how many vests or cardigans she is going to wear for the day. Mind you, give her a sunny or hot day, here or abroad, and the sleepy, cocooned pupa turns into a beautiful butterfly, dancing from one flower to the next; give her a dull day and the caterpillar returns, curls into a ball, and falls asleep. ’Twas ever thus.
A butterfly flaps its wings in the Amazon jungle and it triggers a typhoon in the Pacific; a black man is killed in the course of being arrested in Minnesota, USA and it triggers riots in the rest of the world. Here in the UK, what started as a sympathetic protest claiming unfair treatment of black people has turned to riots focussing on, of all things, slavery: an abhorrent trade that was abolished (and the abolition enforced) by the British in 1807 and a practice that was banned in the British Empire as a whole in 1833 – nearly 200 years ago. Property has been damaged, monuments have been covered in graffiti; even the statues of Churchill, Gandhi and Queen Victoria have been defaced. Disorder reigns, and the police hierarchy have not only permitted it to happen, but – in some instances – have literally kowtowed to the rioters and expressed their sympathy and support. Organisations are falling over themselves to virtue-signal their anti-discrimination credentials and some local authorities are drawing up plans in a panic to rename streets and remove statues with any connection to slavery. It will be a long list. They would air-brush the past out: an ignominious past in places, to be sure, but still our history. They will be burning books next. Our past is what it is, and we cannot change that; we can, however, learn from it. What these officials do not seem to realise is that, by giving in to these rioters, taking the knee and expressing sympathy, they are opening the door to further demands and the rule of the mob. We have a democratic society here and – I might add – a better record on equality than most, though we should not be complacent. We do not do things under threat, by rule of a mob or with kangaroo courts. There is a great danger that this situation will get out of control, particularly if – as expected – rival factions choose to counter-demonstrate in the cities next weekend. It is the function of our police to protect persons and property, and to do so impartially without fear and favour. They have failed to do so in this instance, and have tacitly condoned criminal damage. The senior officers who have failed to uphold the law in these riots should be disciplined, reminded of their duty, and replaced if necessary. We will have order here, or be swallowed up in the bleak wave of anarchy.
As to the situation in the USA: inequality in the USA is not inequality in Britain, the US police are not the British police, and US law is not English law. I shall monitor the situation with interest and concern, but it is not my country and certainly not appropriate for me to comment.
Well, that lot has knocked Covid 19 off the headlines though – on the whole – I think I preferred the news on the virus. One thing is for sure: all the concerns and talk of isolation and infection have gone out of the window for the protestors and rioters. If we get a second spike in infections then we will know who to blame. One liberal intellectual in America has even gone so far as to say that the long-term principles of these protests are more important than the short-term dangers of the virus. It is a point of view, and good luck to him, but I don’t think he is right: shortly, he may not be around to demonstrate. Here in England, the number of cases and deaths continues to fall and moves to relax the current restrictions are continuing as planned. All shops are scheduled to open on 15 June (with precautions in place) and there is talk of pubs and restaurants opening for outside customers in early July. Given the weather in England (as outlined earlier) the success of the last relaxations will be doubtful, but it is a step in the right direction. Children will shortly be able to visit zoos and safari parks, but some teachers and parents are reluctant to have them at school. In education, it is the poorer state children who will suffer from this pusillanimity: private schools have been assiduous in providing and enforcing on-line classes and have returned to almost regular attendance; state schools have not been as conscientious or as consistent. You will notice that I referred to England: the rules for Scotland, Wales and Ulster are different as a testimony to the bloody-mindedness of devolution. To give one example of the silliness of the UK not acting as one, Wales has decided not to open dental surgeries until January 2021, while the surgeries in England were allowed to open on 8 June. The moral: don’t live in Wales if you have a toothache. For posterity I record that the daily death toll for the UK at 10 June is down to 200 and the weekly total is about back to normal for daily fatalities at this time of year (total respiratory deaths in England and Wales in this same week in 2019 was 1,134).
Speaking of dentists, you will be pleased to learn that I received an appointment for an assessment of my toothache on Tuesday, a day after dental surgeries could open in England. Suitable and pragmatic precautions (masks, gloves, sanitiser, strict appointments) were taken and I was X-rayed and checked out very quickly. I now have antibiotics for a root infection, but it also looks like a tooth will have to come out. This is scheduled for the week after next, but the pain has eased considerably since it started. I knew you would be interested.
Strange times generate strange behaviour. We took the car for a drive to Devonshire the other day, partly for a simple outing (this smacks of the Sunday Drives of the 1950s and 1960s) and partly to assess the range of the car and the availability and ease of charging it at a public charging station. It all went like a dream: we stopped just over the Devon border, charged the car rapidly in half an hour, partook of a picnic and a flask of coffee, and returned home feeling like we had been on a grand adventure. I am beginning to think we have been confined too long. Next week, weather permitting, we intend to visit my boat at the marina and return in a single day. Sometimes I think the excitement is too much.
This crisis has brought forth many restrictions, some sensible, most necessary, but some downright silly. I was reminded of this when we spoke to a friend and told her of our intention to visit our Big City in a few days time, for no other reason than a change of outlook and something different to do. She agreed with our philosophy and said she had done the same thing a week ago. However, she pointed out one pitfall to look out for: there would be no shops, restaurants or cafés open (obviously) and, more crucially, no public conveniences. Plan accordingly, was her counsel. It made me think. Putting aside the fact that I am approaching an age where such things have to be accounted for in the programme, it is appalling that all public conveniences are currently shut. Of all the places, the public lavatory should feature high in the priority for restoration: it is easy to clean, essential for personal hygiene in the present situation, and vital for personal comfort. If there are no public lavatories then people will use the street or the park, and the town or city will stink. We men are well practised in finding convenient places to ease springs; it is much harder for women, even if some of them can hold water like dromedaries. It is amazing that in this, the 21st century, there is no statutory duty for a local authority to provide public lavatories and that, in the present crisis, no effort has been made to open them.
Now if you will excuse me, I have just spotted a convenient bush in need of irrigation.
11 June 2020
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 