They follow me around you know. The children, I mean. I am convinced that God is putting me to the test like He did with Jesus when He spent 40 days in the desert (and there the comparison between me and the Son of God definitely ends). We are back on the boat and, in the sloop moored ahead of us when we embarked, were three tiny tots screaming the place down and bouncing off the bulkheads with boredom. The sloop had a tiny cabin, but there was a mesh canopy around the cockpit to create a sheltered extra space and it was in this barred pen that the children were corralled, banging on the meshed canopy like enraged monkeys in a zoo. This was just as bad as the screaming and tantrums that we have to put up with from the children next door, at home, and one of the reasons why we had escaped to the boat. The screaming could be heard inside our boat, with all the windows closed, and continued until well past sunset. I felt like bouncing off the bulkheads myself. The next morning, I enquired of the Marina staff if the sloop was a visitor; she was. How long was she staying? The chap I asked said he didn’t know, but he would find out. One hour later, the sloop was moved to a spot further up into the marina, as far away from us as possible. Thank you marina staff. Thank you Father. I’m sorry I failed the test.
It is bucketing down: what the locals call “Devon sunshine”. I won’t dwell on this misfortune, as I gave it some lengthy attention in the last blog. Suffice it to say that the weather improved when we left the boat last time – and promptly deteriorated again as soon as we came back onboard for a second batch of punishment. We have not taken APPLETON RUM away from the jetty yet, though I hope to do so in the next week or so: the rain does not bother me, but Miss Caribbean 1951 turns into the gingerbread woman in these conditions and runs the risk of dissolving into a soggy mess. And, as I revealed at the end of the last blog, we all know who commands this vessel, don’t we?
The emphasis on Health and Safety in the 21st century has gone mad. How things have changed since the Admiralty Manual of Seamanship Volume 2 (1967), in its section on Survival, stated,
“Do not sleep under a coconut tree, or you may be fatally injured by a coconut falling on your head”.
I have just taken delivery of a portable battery operated wet & dry vacuum cleaner and the accompanying nannying instructions (which I usually throw into the recycling bin, unread) state:
“Persons lacking experience and knowledge may only use the appliance if they are properly supervised, have been instructed on use of the appliance safely by a person responsible for their safety, and understand the resultant hazards involved. Only people who have been instructed on how to use the device, or have proven their ability to operate it, and have been explicitly instructed to use it, may use the device.”
Thank heavens mummy is here to guide and instruct me on how to use this dangerous vacuum cleaner. I know she cares for my safety because she took those scissors away from me the other day and replaced them with a plastic pair with rounded tips. Yep, I was right the first time: straight into the recycling bin with those instructions. Unfortunately, I cut my hand on the paper in the process.
Many years ago, when our son was a little boy, we were playing together in the living room and I thought it was a good time to give him a fatherly lesson in credit scoring with women. I suggested he approach his mother in the kitchen and ask if he could help with anything. I counselled that she would say no, but that the offer would be worth many credit points that could be used in his favour in the future. He duly trotted off. Time passed by and he did not return, but I assumed he had found something else to amuse him. After about half an hour he returned, indignant, and demonstrated some remarkable verbosity for his age,
“I’m not doing that again!”, he grumbled, ”she set me dusting the bedrooms”.
Oh dear: failed in my fatherly advice, though I suppose he did earn the credit points and I had, at least, taught him Sod’s Law. I was reminded of this little incident the other day when I fell into the same trap. I had commented that the morrow was a completely clear day with nothing to disturb our peace, only to receive the tart reply that my day might be clear, but hers would be spent preparing the lunch for our friends, who were coming the day after. Like a fool, I offered to help with the cooking (I knew she would say no) but, true to historical form and to my dismay, she accepted with alacrity. The day dawned and I expressed the intention of sorting out the screws in the workshop.
“That would be after you have helped with the pie, would it?”
Damn. She had remembered. I was allocated the task of producing the sauce for a chicken, ham and leek pie, and directed to the recipe on her iPad. I am not always good with recipes. When the memsahib was still working, but I was retired, I once produced a successful dish from chicken breasts with goats cheese and red peppers. The recipe told me to cut slices in the breast, 3/4 of the way down and stuff the goats cheese and peppers in the slices before baking the whole thing. As I say, the meal was a success (we still produce it today on occasion), but Jane was baffled as to why the goats cheese and peppers were clustered just on one end of the breast, with the rest clear. I showed her the recipe and she burst out laughing. I dare say you have already guessed it: the requirement was to cut the slices all along the chicken breast, but 3/4 of the way deep (ie in the vertical plane). I had interpreted the instructions as 3/4 of the way along the breast (ie in the horizontal plane). I told her that I was glad she found it amusing and if the stupid book had given me a drawing in 3rd Angle Projection there would have been no problem. This little incident was in my mind as I produced the roux, as we professional chefs say, adding to the flour and butter mixture a little milk at a time while stirring conscientiously.
SPLOOSH.
She poured the entire measuring jug of milk into my creation, all in one go.
“That’s my roux!”, I cried, “you’ve ruined it. The milk has to be added a little at a time”
“Just keep stirring, buster”, she said,”we haven’t all day to waste on that nonsense”
And, of course, it all worked out perfectly, as she knew it would. The pie, by the way, was excellent and she never noticed that I had sliced the leeks into little boat shapes as a final mark of defiance.
Buster?
We met some friends for lunch in Taylor’s Restaurant in Dartmouth yesterday: our first outing to a restaurant since February and a belated celebration of our birthdays in June and July. Taylor’s is a small but excellent restaurant specialising in fish and is located on the first floor of a building in the centre of Dartmouth, with excellent views of the river. As it does not encourage children under the age of seven, does not allow dogs, and has never disappointed us in the culinary department, the establishment ticks all the boxes on the joint Shacklepin/WCFields selection sheet. On entry, the waitress asked if she could take my temperature and I offered to bend over and drop my trousers, but she declined the offer and I was given a stern ticking off by the memsahib (“Horatio, one of these days…”). All the tables were screened from others by Perspex and well-spaced, but the arrangements were otherwise as normal if you exclude the waitress wearing a visor as if just about to weld two sheets of mild steel together. The food, as ever, was first class: I had sea bass followed by vanilla panna cotta, Jane had frito misto (mixed fried seafood with skinny chips) followed by Eton Mess. The seafood salad, consumed by one of our friends, was enormous and declared delicious. I wonder why everyone else’s choice in a restaurant always looks better than your own? Other patrons of the restaurant included the TV personality, Angela Rippon, who asked me for my autograph (I made that last bit up – the autograph, not the fellow guest).
We took the yacht taxi across to Dartmouth and back: one mile in an open boat on the river in a Force 3 breeze, the only passengers, while wearing mandatory face masks. How utterly ridiculous. Of course, we have to wear face coverings in shops now, despite the late stage in the epidemic. I predict that the government’s next move will be to require us to wear face coverings in all public places, including the open air (principle: “We must be seen to be doing Something. This is Something”). I won’t toot on more about this, as I gave the subject a good airing in the last blog, most friends seem to disagree with me, and I don’t want to sound like a damaged record. I will point out, however, that there was a report in the newspaper the other day that a female motorist had engaged in a row with another motorist because the latter was not socially distancing from her motor car with his motor car. Dear God: the virus is spreading to the brain.
The lunch out was partly marred by me being stung or bitten by an unknown creature, living in the sleeve of my wind-proof jacket, when I put it on. We have no idea what it was as the creature did not survive the slap I gave my arm when I felt the sting, and the mutilated corpse was unidentifiable when it fell out. I am prone to these stings and they are always agonising and often traumatic. I was once badly mauled by a swarm of wasps when cruising on the River Thames and sustained multiple stings to my arm, hand and nose cavity. This produced an enormously swollen hand, like a boxer’s glove, that turned septic and required emergency treatment with antibiotics by a local doctor three or four days later. Literally once bitten, twice shy, I always carry a copious quantity of antihistamines in case of further attack and I rapidly dosed myself on this occasion. Sadly, this time the swelling in my elbow is not responding well to the pills and the whole arm is gradually turning into a red dirigible (I am typing this with one hand). There is no point in trying to find an emergency doctor in the current crisis, and the NHS help line, 111, just rang and rang. Jane is being very attentive and concerned at the moment, which is most gratifying. Note to self: play this for all it is worth, but keep an eye on those lymph glands.
Good grief. The sun has come out. There is even a blue sky above those dark glowering clouds. With a jaunty ‘toot’, the steam train on the Dart Valley Railway has just chuffed its way by the marina on its adventurous trip to Paignton, and a river trip boat is surging up the river to Totnes. There is a world out there other than rain. Time to trot ashore and experience the fresh air I think, dragging my poorly arm behind me.
Have a good weekend and spare a thought for this poor little injured sailor. If you never receive another blog then you will know that Jane has had to hack off my arm with my seaman’s knife and douse the stump in hot tar.
25 July 2020
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 