Blog 51. The Garden Strikes Back

Prohibition has started. Not in Britain, you will be relieved to hear, but in the Shacklepin Household. It came to pass on Sunday, when there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus the memsahib stating in capital letters: There Will Be No More Alcohol Or Puddings During The Week. This Draconian edict was, apparently, necessary because she was “concerned about her fat tum”; no specific reference was made regarding my own streamlined form or anatomical deficiencies, but the inference was made plain with a glance: we are both putting on too much weight. I had heard such pronouncements before of course and had, in the past, managed to get around them by a combination of my boyish good looks and blue eyes, charm, pleading, lying about the day of the week, and sheer dogged persistence. This time, however, it looked like she really meant it. We went on a long walk on the Thames Path in Oxfordshire on late Monday afternoon – eight miles altogether in the sun – and returned late in the evening tired, starving and somewhat dehydrated despite the water we took with us. I suggested, tentatively, that we might have a glass of beer (not really alcohol is it?) to help us recover. The reply was very firm and forthright; robust, even: no alcohol or puddings. I could have a beer of course, she said primly with a sniff, she wouldn’t stop me; but she herself would be sticking to the agreed (?) plan and would take just a large glass of tap water. Of course, I had a glass of Adam’s Ale too. Very sensible and most refreshing. Didn’t mind at all really, and I slept the sleep of the just that night (that is, the just craving for a pint).
But there is a happy ending to this sad tale of deprivation and proscription, for Tuesday dawned as the start of a predicted heat wave in England. The sun it came and beat down upon our house and, verily, the heat was hot. We returned from an exciting dentist appointment and tedious shopping expedition, and sat in the shade in our back garden in unusual peace and quiet. In the tranquility, broken only by the buzzing of the bees, Jane said after about ten minutes,
“I don’t know though…it’s times like this when you could do with a drink”
“Yes”, I said wistfully. Then,
“A Pimms perhaps? Weak of course…”
I went on to expound on how a Pimms No 1 is defined as a “fruit cup”. Hardly any alcohol in it at all, and the ice would dilute it. If one added the recommended sliced orange, apple, cucumber, strawberries and – not least – the lemon in the accompanying lemonade then that would count as our recommended “five a day” of fruit or vegetables. Practically a health drink then. We looked at each other.
“Shall I switch on the ice machine?”
“Go on then”
And so that is how the Prohibition Act was finally repealed after 42 hours: an important event in our household’s history, not quite long enough to merit the establishment of a pop-up speakeasy in my garage workshop, but one worth recording as an example of the weakness of the human flesh.

Incidentally, the label on the  Pimms No 1 bottle no longer says, “fruit cup” (I checked).  But let us not bother with the detail, shall we?  I won’t tell her if you don’t.

Poor Jane.  She has been in the wars yet again.  We have moved on from the peculiar and long-lasting abdominal pains of Blog 1 (signature tune: “Don’t touch my tummy”), through the damaged ribs of Blog 48 (signature tune: “Don’t touch my side”) and we are now on to the era of the insect bites and plant stings (signature tune: “Don’t touch me anywhere”).  This last is a result of a rebellion in the last place that Jane expected: the garden.  As I outlined in Blog 36 and elaborated in Blog 40, that garden is dangerous.  It has turned on its creator: yes, the garden strikes back after everything she has done for it.  There’s gratitude for you.  It started a few days ago when Jane decided to do a little impromptu dead-heading, pruning, blackfly killing and slug mutilation.  Jane was in one of her rarely-worn hot summer rigs (No 17 I believe) comprising shorts, sandals and one of those backless topless strappy tops that women wear in the tropics if you are lucky.  In and out of the foliage she went, snipping here, pinching there, treading in areas where I have never been allowed, and happy as a sandboy.  But the garden knew fresh meat when it saw it: that night she was covered in bites, blotches, scratches and prickles on her legs, arms, back and unmentionable squashy bits.  The antihistamine pills and cream are now working overtime, and we have that new signature tune: “Don’t touch me anywhere”.  As if I would.

“Thank you NHS”, runs the refrain on banners and posters throughout the UK, a tribute to the dedication of our medical staff in coping with the Covid 19 epidemic and, undoubtedly, saving many lives including that of the Prime Minister himself. Alas, the downside of that coping process is that all other medical services, with the exception of Maternity and Accident & Emergency, have shut down, the staff being transferred to CV19 duties. If you have potential cancer, pain in your chest, an injury requiring investigation or anything requiring hospital treatment then you are, in naval parlance, fresh out. The backlog of people requiring all manner of treatment is enormous. This was brought home to us when Jane visited the optician today and was told she had cataracts, might have high blood pressure, and had a problem in her eye that needed the second opinion of an ophthalmologist specialist. And the chances of her being seen by a specialist in the near future? Zilch. I only hope that the new phase of relaxing the restrictions will extend to our hospitals and medical services – with only 4,657 hospitalised patients with Covid 19 in the UK as of 25 June, surely those requisitioned staff can be spared to return to their normal duties? For some unfathomable reason, the only service that has been reinstated (as far as I know) is IVF treatment. As has been observed elsewhere, the collateral damage caused by this virus could well end up greater than the 43,230 deaths in the UK attributed to just the virus itself. “Thank you NHS?” Hrmph.

With the daily death toll for CV19 in the UK standing at 149 and still falling, we have encouraging news, at last, on the virus front in England.  As anticipated in the last blog, on 4 July all pubs, restaurants, cinemas, hotels, campsites, hairdressers, libraries, museums and art galleries can open; the two metre distance rule reduces to “one metre plus”; two households can meet indoors; and weddings can take place provided no more than 30 attend.  The “one metre plus” definition is an odd thing in itself as it gives the impression that the government has reduced the contact distance to one metre, but is not entirely confident about it; what it means is that people should keep one metre apart, but two metres or more would be better still if possible (a kilometre would be ideal).  The only significant places that cannot open are gyms, spas and (oddly, given the chlorine) swimming baths.  Various precautions have to be in place, of course, but it is a step in the right direction.   Significantly, the government is moving away from legislation, laws and criminal prosecutions and moving gently towards guidance and encouraging the public to make their own judgements and risk assessments (at last).  As a reflection of the reduction in alert state, the last routine daily briefing to the nation was held on Tuesday 23 June – a sensible decision, in my view, as it will match the CV19 alert level and the reduced publicity might help to ease the level of anxiety.  In many ways we will miss the briefings at 1700 as they have been part of our lives for the last three months; we grew to have favourites among the secretaries of state who hosted the events and the experts who supported them: we particularly liked Professor Van-Tam and Dr Jenny Harries, the Deputy Chief Medical Officers for England, and took great delight in the sport of watching them swat away the more inane journalists’ questions. Never mind, their absence is a small price to pay for a significant step towards normality.  Shortly after the relaxation was announce, and so as not to allow the English morale to rise by an improper or an enjoyable amount, the medical establishment immediately predicted a second spike in cases, with deaths by the millions and bodies in the streets.  As I have said on previous occasions, the English simply do not do enjoyment or earthly pleasure: they are regarded as naughty.  Incidentally, just to reiterate an earlier blog, these relaxations only apply to England, not Scotland, Wales or Northern Ireland who are doing their own thing.  

Crucially, the lifting of the ban on overnight stays in England means that we can go and stay on our boat again, so brace yourself for lots and lots of tales of nautical adventures: a whole new genre in these ramblings.  As a taster for this last observation, we drove down to our boat on Wednesday (hence the tardiness of this blog).  Much to my astonishment, Jane suggested that we rise at 0400 and leave home at 0500 – the better to avoid the heat and any potentially traffic.  Sure enough, we rose as the sun was still just a soft glow in the eastern sky and headed south at 0500.  I was surprised by the amount of traffic that there was around at this ungodly hour: it looked like everyone else had the same idea (to travel, that is, not specifically to visit my boat).  But the journey went smoothly  and we topped up with electricity at Lidl in Paignton while Jane did some shopping.  It was interesting to note different attitudes in a different part of the country: in Paignton, almost everyone in the supermarket was wearing a mask whereas in Melbury, a mask is still a rarity and Jane certainly did not wear one.  I put it down to the paranoia of the people of Paignton, who are mainly retired and geriatric; you, of course, are entitled to believe that those Devonites are Mr And Mrs Sensible.  We found the boat in better shape than we expected.  True, we had employed a contractor to pressure-wash the decks and superstructure to remove the accumulated filth, salt and greenery of winter (he was just finishing off as we arrived), but we expected the interior to be grubby and damp, and this was not the case.  The carpets were a little dirty from the marina staff’s boots, where they had come onboard to run the engines, but otherwise she was fine.  As predicted by the weather forecast, the day grew hotter and hotter (it reached 31C [88F]) at its peak) and, in order to achieve some relief, I decided to take the boat on a shakedown cruise up river, then out to sea.  She performed well, but we were still in full sun despite the cooling breeze and we were back alongside after two hours, craving for the shade.  We also managed to top up with diesel fuel on the way, a snip at £226 for half a tank (if you are ever thinking of buying a boat, then be advised that the noun is an acronym for Bring On Another Thousand).  Alas, the boat does not have air conditioning unless you count the side windows, so we were both melting by 1700.  All jobs completed, we set off for the return journey home at 1800 when it was expected to be cooler and, indeed, it was if you count 25C (77F) as cool.  Fortunately, our car does have air conditioning so the journey was pleasant, if a little tiring.  We staggered in at 2110, stiff, enervated, dehydrated, greasy with suntan cream and utterly shattered.  A cool shower and a sensible cup of tea revived us a bit, but we were in bed and at 500 fathoms by 2230, all upstairs house windows open and still hot.

Britain is not used to heat.  The British are used to overcast, rain, wind and the occasional (and welcome) mild sunny day – the first three being more likely the further north and west you go.  Air conditioning is unusual, except in shops where it is often negated by the proprietors wedging their doors open and, hence,  air-conditioning the environment at vast expense.  Given the comparative rarity of really hot days it is, perhaps, not surprising that the British cope with the heat badly.  It amazes me to see, in this current heatwave, houses with their windows wide open in the vague hope that the (hot) breeze will cool the house down.  It won’t; it will make it hotter.  Forgive me for lecturing on what may, for some, be perfectly obvious and already practised but, for the benefit of those with windows open, let me offer the following advice.  Get thermometers for the house and outside . No, not that one that you stick in your ear or the one that you inherited from your mother that she used to shake to bring the mercury down, I mean proper room thermometers or a weather station.  Put both where they will always be in the shade.  Every night, when the temperature outside drops below the temperature inside, throw open all the windows and doors (shut the downstairs ones when you go to bed in case of burglars, cats, foxes, snarks, leprechauns and other unwelcome visitors).  As early as you can the next morning,  throw open the downstairs windows and doors again to get a chimney effect and let the cool breeze wash through the house.  Ignore your wife’s grumbling about the need for cardigans, trousers and fleeces.  Monitor the temperatures.  When the cool temperature outside approaches or matches the temperature inside, shut every single window and door, draw all the blinds and curtains, especially on the south side of the house (north if you are in in Southern Hemisphere).  If you have external window shutters (rare in Britain) then shut them too.  Keep all internal doors shut in order to form a series of airlocks.  This will trap the cool air in your house until the next evening and will work particularly well if your house has good insulation.   It may be counter-intuitive, but it does work; it is certainly better than leaving windows open during the day.  If you are lucky enough to have air conditioning then, for heaven’s sake, keep the doors and windows shut all the time – I have had many running battles with ship’s companies who leave screen doors open and breach the air-conditioned citadel.  And don’t stand in front of an open fridge or freezer to cool down: the air inside may be cool, but the machines work by extracting the heat from inside and throwing it out at the back with the addition of waste heat from the compressor, so the overall temperature of the room will go up.  Trust me: I’m an engineer.

Of course, humidity plays a major factor in how well a human copes with the heat: we can cope much easier with a dry heat than a humid one.  Anyone who has been in a sauna can testify that the heat is tolerable, and even pleasant, until someone pours that water on the coals and makes the air humid.  I did read once that even the Australians in Britain sometimes find it too hot because of the humidity.  I used to complete machinery rounds in ships’ boiler rooms, where the temperature on top of the boilers could reach 60C (140F) – a temperature which, if applied to water, would be too hot for the hand to bear – but I felt no ill effects other than being a little warm.  Mind you, on one occasion, it was so hot that the St Christopher medallion that I wore around my neck actually burnt a round red disc on my chest, though I myself was not overcome.  Which anecdote reminds me to confess that I have just read that the politician William Gladstone was apparently quoted as saying that there were two stages of dotage:  anecdotage and just dotage.  Alas, glancing back at previous blogs, I am clearly at the first stage.  Oh dear.  Oh well, here is another one.

I had a chum or, as we sailors say, a shipmate, who had a fund of anecdotes.  He once told me that, when he was serving in a frigate, he had a bet with a fellow officer who claimed that the Captain never really listened to reports given to him by the Officer of the Watch (OOW) at sea at night.  I should, perhaps, explain that the Commanding Officers of HM Ships always have a requirement in their Captain’s Standing Orders that they are to be called by the OOW at all times of potential danger: ships coming too close, the ship sinking, OOW lost, that sort of thing.  This means, in practice, that the Captain is called on the intercom many times during the night with a report, the commonest being that another ship is likely to pass within – say – one mile.  To facilitate these reports his cabin has microphones fitted in various locations, even in the heads and the shower.  Usually the response by the Captain is a simple ‘thank you’ and an order to monitor the situation.  Anyway, to go back to the story, my chum reckoned that the Captain did listen to the reports; his friend (and fellow OOW) maintained that the Captain just spoke in his sleep.  They placed a bet, with a stake of a bottle of champagne with breakfast.  That night, my chum had the Middle watch (midnight – 0400) and his friend had the Morning watch (0400 – 0800).  When they had completed their handover of the watch, his chum picked up the microphone to the Captain and said,
“Captain, sir, Officer of the Watch”.
“Captain”, was the distinctly sleepy reply.
“BOW WOW WOW WOW WOW. WOOF WOOF”, said the OOW.
“Roger, watch”, said the Captain in a muffled voice.
Yes!  He punched the air. He had won the bet.  My chum accepted defeat and went below to turn in, agreeing to meet the winner at breakfast, with the bottle of champagne, when his watch finished.
Civilised day dawned and my chum went down to late breakfast at 0800, arranged the champagne, and waited for his friend to appear to claim his prize after being relieved on watch.  And waited.  And waited.  Where had he got to?
Well his friend was not there.  Why was he not there?  Why, because he was in the Captain’s cabin, being given a stern interview without coffee, which went on the lines of,
“…and if you ever do that to me again…!”
You couldn’t make it up.  No, they didn’t have the champagne.

So after that further anecdote in my anecdotage I will sign off: all that talk of champagne has whetted my thirst for a glass of illicit hooch to celebrate the repeal of the Prohibition Act.  It is Thursday and, therefore, the weekend for those of us taking Extended Long Weekend Leave or – in my case – Permanent Leave.  What shall it be: a glass of Wadworths Old Timer Classic Strong Ale, Pimms No 1 or Plymouth Gin and Fevertree tonic?  It’s a hard life making decisions when you are retired.

Stay safe, wash you hands and remember: never eat yellow snow.

25 June 2020