“Deck the halls with leaves and holly”. As I quote these words, with just a touch of irony, I bet most husbands know what I am alluding to: the annual grumble associated with extracting the boxes of Christmas decorations from their obscure stowage in the loft, the acquisition of a suitably shaped Christmas tree, mounting the tree, and decorating it; for it is usually (though by no means always) the women who want the decorations and the men who are pressed into service. This year being peculiar in more ways than one, we decided to try a small pot-grown tree instead of the usual two-metre cut variety, the aims being to be kinder to the environment, the vacuum cleaner and the husband, in that order. Initially, the tree was left outside in the freezing cold and wet (well, it is a fir tree from Scotland), but it was later moved into the garden shed to acclimatise it to its forthcoming holiday home in tropicana. On Tuesday, the weather being dry, it was decided that the time had come for the tree to grace our drawing room and to start earning its keep. There was some reluctance by the Head Gardener to do this at first, her concern being that it might die in the simulated Caribbean climate of our house. However, I pointed out to her that her stance was similar to the one currently being practised by the UK government, namely that, in order to protect the NHS, we should not get ill. Just as the NHS is meant to protect us, not the other way round, so we should not be nurturing a Christmas tree outside in order to protect it: it was purchased to decorate our drawing room, not the garden. This firm patriarchal response seemed to find favour and she acquiesced. Furniture was duly rearranged in the drawing room, as was custom, and my tray of single malt whiskies was transferred onto another occasional table that already contained a table lamp, four photographs, an Amazon Echo, a little owl, several home-made wooden bowls, and a box of matches left over from Christmas 2019. I was not comfortable with this arrangement as it did not present an image of being secure for sea nor, indeed, shipshape in any sense, and I voiced my opinion accordingly. My comment that the whole setup was in urgent need of being squared off, with spare whisky bottles emptied into near-empty decanters, and the tarnished tray and the decanter labels re-polished, was met with a somewhat tart response,
“Don’t start! You do this every year! It’s only for a few weeks. Leave it alone”.
When she was out of the room I consolidated the dregs of whisky in the near-empty decanters by the simple expedient of drinking them, topped them up from the bottles, removed and hid three photographs that portrayed me in an unfavourable light, and gave her a beaming (if mildly inebriated) smile as she re-entered the room. She looked at me suspiciously.
“Right, we need to get the tree in. Would you be able to manage it on your own? I don’t want to get my new shoes dirty outside, you see”.
She was still wearing those awful plimsolls, those “trainers” with the white soles, the ones with the quick release mechanism like granny’s zipped slippers. I held up my poor injured right hand, the finger still swollen, the scar still vivid, and mewed pitifully.
“Oh, you’ll be all right. It’s only a little tree. Put a leather glove on”. Clearly, Mrs Shacklepin’s sympathy bucket was finally empty. Whimpering quietly, I went out to the shed, donned a pair of leather gauntlets, seized the tree as best I could with six fingers and two thumbs, demolished part of the shed interior and, doubled over, hobbled back to the drawing room French windows. Naturally, these were still shut and I sank a little lower with my burden while I waited. Finally I was granted access and I staggered in, depositing the tree on its table in the corner with a great heave. She began to arrange it tastefully while I looked on, mystified: how do you rearrange a tree? She looked down at the cream carpet.
“Did you come in with your shoes on?”, she asked accusingly.
Resisting the urge to reply that, no, I was wafted in on the wings of an angel, I replied that yes, I had indeed been shod when I returned, heavily burdened, with the tree.
“You’ve left marks on the carpet”.
I looked at her incredulously.
“But it’s all right, I’ll clean them off”, she went on magnanimously.
She started rummaging in the many boxes of decorations, unearthing baubles and trinkets dating back sixty years, two remote controls for lights we no longer had, and a battery that had expired in 1996. When she seized a large coil of Christmas lights that must have been at least ten fathoms long and advanced purposefully to the tree, I stopped her.
“Surely you aren’t going to use those lights. You do realise that the tree is only one metre tall, do you?”
“I like lots of lights”, she said stubbornly.
“Shall we have our traditional glass of sherry?”, she went on illogically.
I glanced at the ship’s clock on the wall: not quite six bells in the forenoon watch (11.00 am – do try to keep up) and the sun not yet over the yardarm. The woman had clearly gone mad, but who was I to argue? So, sipping Harveys’ best, we bound the tree with so much wire and lights that it stood no chance of ever escaping back to Scotland no matter how much it struggled. The baubles followed. If that tree survives to Twelfth Night it will be a miracle. As we packed up the boxes for temporary storage until January, Jane suddenly said,
“Where has that dirty whisky glass come from?”
I looked as innocent as that angel on the top of the tree.
I hate Sundays. Don’t ask me why. I have never liked them. When I was little boy Sunday was the day when my parents (if my father was not at sea) turned to as a team to cook the Sunday dinner starting at 0900 for a meal served at 1400. For five hours the house was filled with steam and the smell of boiling cauliflower, cabbage and potatoes, the cooker was overflowing with pots and pans, and vegetables were not only being murdered, their bodies were being mutilated as well. And as for the joint, well, I never did discover what sort of meat was being prepared, but I would hazard a guess that, whatever it was, it was a cheap cut. I recently asked my older brother if he knew what the meat had been and he said that he had no idea either. It was not until many years later, when well into adulthood, that I could differentiate between beef, lamb and pork. My mother, bless her, was not a brilliant cook and my parents were not well off: they struggled to feed and clothe my brother and me on a Second Mate’s wage and it is only now that I recognise the fact and appreciate it. It’s a bit late to say ‘thank you’ really. I rather suspect that that is the case for many of us: we take or took our parents for granted. At the time, I did not realise that my mother’s cooking was not the best, for I had never had anything different. In those days people of our social class did not host or go to other people’s houses for dinner parties, and we did not go to restaurants, unless you count the fish and chip café in Tynemouth next to the outdoor swimming pool, where – once every five years – we partook of cod and chips, with bread and butter and a pot of tea on the side. Wine came from a vintners, but we did not drink it anyway, with the exception of the Asti Spumante that we had on Christmas Day. Olive oil came from the chemist’s and you put it in your ear. Probably because of my mother’s cooking, I hated meat and would not eat it: an early example of vegetarianism, though the word did not feature in the Tyneside vocabulary of the 1950s and 1960s. I survived on chips and suet puddings, supplemented by baked beans (I didn’t like my mother’s vegetables either). Of course, that changed when I joined the Navy, for it was a case of ‘eat what you are given or starve’ (there were none of these Halal, Kosher, Vegetarian or Vegan choices that they have today). I mention all this, not to wallow in nostalgia, to sneer at today’s generation or to excuse my peculiar personality, but to make the point that we should appreciate the hardship that our parents and forefathers had to endure, and recognise the circumstances that they lived in, rather than condemn their actions by applying the standards of today to the past; we should be celebrating just how far society has come on over the years and the social mobility that goes with it. Most of my male ancestors were coal miners, labourers or seamen and my father started life as a cabin boy before retiring as a Master Mariner; but look at me now, writing to you good people on a device the size of a large notebook called a computer, in a nice warm centrally-heated house with a garden, with a car in the garage, and a glass of sherry at my right hand, waiting for Sunday luncheon (not dinner) that includes celeriac. The past is history; it is what we do today and in the future that matters.
Having written last week about my dislike of overfamiliarity by strangers using my first name (Blog 70), imagine my surprise last Sunday when I opened my copy of The Spectator magazine and found an article saying exactly the same thing, even quoting my examples of ‘vous’ and ‘tu’ in French. My gob was well and truly smacked. I would just like to make the point that this was emphatically not a case of plagiarism on my part, but rather an example of the fact that coincidences do happen and great minds think alike. Although the The Spectator is published on a Thursday, I do not start to read it until Sunday morning: it is my Sunday treat to counteract the fact that I hate Sundays. Did I mention that?
One of the less welcome aspects of living in the early 21st century is that we seem to live in a risk-averse society. Some people, particularly those in authority, are increasingly unwilling to risk doing anything – even if the action may be to save lives. Thirteen years ago, two Police Community Support Officers stood by and watched a child drown in a pond because they had not completed the appropriate training to rescue small children drowning in a pond; the local Police Authority supported their inaction. When I was a volunteer lock-keeper on the River Thames a few years ago, a woman on a narrowboat fell into the lock and was badly injured by the boat’s spinning propeller; the lock-keeper dived in to rescue her, but was later reprimanded by the river authority for doing so (she died from her injuries nevertheless). More recently, in Bristol, police officers stood by while a statue was pulled down by a mob, casually rolled along the street, and thrown into the River Avon; it was deemed ‘too risky’ to stop the vandalism. I find these examples appalling. Life itself is a risk. As I said in Blog 45, there is, in the UK, a 4.1% chance of you having an accident in the home requiring hospital treatment; there is a 0.24% chance of you having a road accident. I am even taking a risk in expressing my views in this blog. The important thing, surely, is to make a personal assessment of the risk and make a decision accordingly: it is what humans have done, without knowing it, since the beginning of time. And the risk you take depends on the circumstances at the time. Emergencies and potential loss of life demand a high risk on your part; your job may also demand a high risk – it may be what society pays you to do, such as if you serve in the emergency services or the armed forces.
I was thinking of all this while watching an excellent documentary series called Saving Lives at Sea on BBC television. It covers actual incidents encountered by the Royal National Lifeboat Institution (RNLI) in the waters around the British Isles (ie including Eire). The action is recorded on head cameras and is put together with a narrative to form a very watchable programme (one of the BBC’s successes). The RNLI is funded entirely by charitable donations and the service is free. All those lifeboatmen (I use the term generically for simplicity; many are women) are volunteers who give up their time – and sometimes their lives – to rescue people in distress in the seas around our shores, and the footage shown in the programme is both inspiring and humbling. But some incidents that the lifeboats attend are entirely preventable and watching them can be annoying or puzzling. In one case, a surfer in Hastings, East Sussex thought it would be a good idea to take advantage of the Force 8 gale that was blowing one winter and promptly launched himself into the sea from the pier. He just as promptly lost his surfboard and was swept out to sea. Someone must have raised the alarm because the lifeboat was called out to search for him. The filmed footage was terrifying: visibility from the lifeboat was obscured by heavy spray and the crests of waves, so it was very difficult for the crew to execute the box search pattern. After hours of fruitless searching it transpired that the surfer, amazingly, had been swept ashore and was safe, and the lifeboat was ordered to return to harbour. Unfortunately, the sea state was so bad that the lifeboat could not get back in; at one point it was swamped by a wave and rolled right over before recovering (as it was designed to do), though with the engine room flooded and several systems off the board. It was forced to make its way to an alternative harbour, Eastbourne, involving a very difficult two hour passage against heavy seas. Interviewed later for the programme, the surfer who had caused the call-out virtually laughed off the incident and thanked the crew on the programme: it would appear that he had not even bothered to call in to the lifeboat station personally to give his thanks. I don’t suppose he gave a donation to the RNLI either: what price his life? £1,000? £5,000? The men and women of that lifeboat knew the risk they were taking, but they went out anyway. On the other hand, at the opposite extreme of incidents attended, lifeboats are often called out to rescue dogs, sheep or other animals that have become stranded on beaches or on cliffs; in this risk conscious society I am amazed that the RNLI considers it acceptable to risk human life to rescue an animal. I am also amazed that the charity insists on the crews wearing face masks (because of COVID 19) despite the adverse conditions at sea: measured against the risk of death by drowning or being unable to breathe through a soggy face mask I would have thought that the risk of passing on COVID among the crew would be negligible. But there you go: apparently even the RNLI has a fickle approach to risk.
“Invite. Verb. Request the company of; ask courteously; attract, call forth. Invitation, Noun”. So defines Collins English Dictionary stating that “Invite” is a verb: a doing word, as my primary school teacher used to say. It is not a noun; the noun is “Invitation”. Why, then, do I often receive communications that say that someone is sending me an “invite” when the word is invitation? Why, also, do I receive requests from charities for me to “gift” them a donation? “Gift” is a noun, not a verb: the word they are looking for is give. Did these people never go to school? In business, do their superiors not check the correspondence sent out in the company’s or charity’s name? It is all very poor. I daresay that, in defence of this practice, the intelligentsia of the 21st century will argue that English is a constantly evolving language and that these colloquialisms do not matter; the fact is, however, that they do: bad grammar is sloppy and indicates a lack of education that reflects badly on the competence and credibility of the parent organisation as a whole. Buck up.
Coincidentally, I have just seen a television quiz show in which a graduate who had just completed her degree, was not sure if “lone” was a proper word. I despair for my country and its education system. She graduated in History of Art, so I suppose words were not her strong point; I expect she preferred picture books.
It was the week before Christmas and my friend and I had only just been appointed to a ship in Plymouth. After dinner in the mess, we decided to go for a spin and explore Dartmoor, perhaps stopping for a drink in a little village pub. We duly set off with a blank agenda though – foolishly – no map, and soon we were driving in total darkness along a tiny lane on Dartmoor. A freezing fog came down, our speed was reduced to a crawl and it it was like driving through cotton wool: our headlights were useless. We had no idea where we were and the fuel gauge was hovering near ‘Empty’. All around was silent, though I could have sworn I heard the howling of a hound or wolf out there in the desolation. We went over hill and down dale, through fords and across cattle grids, and soon it became clear that we were totally lost. Then a glimmer of light appeared in the gloom, and materialised as a warm and welcoming pub in a tiny hamlet. Relieved, we parked the car and went in. The place was heaving with locals, but we managed to get to the bar to find out where we were and get directions for Plymouth. We ordered two pints and looked around for somewhere to sit. All the seats and benches were taken except at one small table where there were two chairs; one seat was free, but a small dog occupied the other.
“There will do”, said my friend. We went over.
“Get out of it!”, he said to the dog and kicked it off the chair. It ran off.
“Blimey”, I said to him as we sat down,”You’re taking a bit of a risk there, aren’t you: kicking the blacksmith’s dog? You know what these little country places are like: the blacksmith will be a big bloke”
My friend was baffled.
“What do you mean, ‘the blacksmith’s dog’? How do you know that? We’ve never been here before.”
Well”, I said, “it’s obvious: when you kicked it, it made a bolt for the door”
“You’ve been a long time up there. Have you been writing your blog?”
“Yes, I’ve just written a page and a half on us decorating the Christmas tree”
“Good grief! I hope your account isn’t putting me down again and that you aren’t still portraying me as some sort of dominatrix”.
“Good heavens no, my dear. I praise you to the hilt, especially your cooking and your loving nature. I may occasionally mention your strong leadership qualities, of course”.
She harrumphed.
Jane does not read these blogs, you see. She prefers romantic and detective fiction to conjugal fiction, and that gives me perfect freedom of action. Her comments have made me pause for thought, however, and I should make it clear that she is a demure little flower, ever ready to be at her husband’s bidding and to satisfy his every whim. Also, one should never let the facts get in the way of a good story. If Jane did have any strong leadership characteristics, incidentally, then it would be genetic on account of her being a distant cousin of William the Conqueror and the Duke of Wellington (this is a fact, by the way – she has a very classy pedigree). The Duke of Wellington who, of course, led the British and Prussian victory against the French at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815, went on to become the Prime Minister of Great Britain in 1828. After his first cabinet meeting he is said to have emerged from the Cabinet Room and remarked, with some puzzlement,
“An extraordinary affair. I gave them their orders and they wanted to stay and discuss them”. Sounds like a good man.
I doubt if William the Conqueror would have approved the current trend in Britain for men to cry about everything in public. We have just been treated to the spectacle of the Secretary of State for Health weeping on television on the news that a 90-year old woman has become the first person in Britain to receive the COVID vaccine. On another front, we are very fond of a BBC television programme called The Repair Shop, which invites people to bring in damaged heirlooms for repair by experts. Recently, however, it seems to have become the policy of the producers of the programme to favour projects in which the male owner of the heirloom breaks down when describing the ditty box once owned by Great Uncle Charlie (whom he never met) at the Battle of Jutland in World War 1. Where did this mawkishness come from? Whatever happened to the British stiff upper lip? Get a grip, for heaven’s sake.
I think you deserve a break from my moaning about COVID 19 and face masks this week, it being the season of goodwill. So I will stick to the facts. The fall in daily positive test results in the UK appears to have been arrested after a fairly dramatic drop, and the trend is not yet clear. Daily deaths from CV19 in the UK are still falling, and currently stand at 516. Immunisation has started and a 90-year-old woman in Coventry has become the first recipient of the vaccine, followed (ironically) by a gentleman called William Shakespeare, but full scale immunisation is not likely to be under way until well into 2021. A scientist has said that we may still be wearing masks in the winter of 2021. Excellent.
Our town of Melbury has some absolutely splendid Christmas lights, funded by charitable donations and rigged entirely by volunteers. They are the best in Barsetshire and put other towns and, indeed some cities, to shame. On the domestic front, however, I do wonder if we should consider having a British Standard or, indeed, an ISO standard for household Christmas lights? Not a technical standard, but one of taste: the illuminated reindeer and sleigh on the roof; the brightly lit house frontage courtesy of Hinckley Point Nuclear Power Station; the flashing gold stars belting out energy like the Eddystone Lighthouse… I believe these displays started in the USA, an established extrovert nation, but do they really fit in with we subdued British? Think of the environment and all that carbon dioxide; the trees, the newts… On the other hand, I see that, in Staffordshire, the police have threatened a household with a £1,000 fine if they switch on their vast illuminated display in the aid of a local charity as, “it will encourage spectators to flout COVID social distancing rules”. And you thought I was Mr Humbug. Here in Chez Shacklepin we have modest, understated, white LED nets on the two shrubs in our front garden that do not twinkle and simply imply a gentle discreet nod to celebrating Christmas. However, we have just discovered that, around the corner, our neighbour two doors down has – wait for it – a large inflatable Father Christmas in front of his house. Dear, oh dear, oh dear. I think we should establish a Committee of Taste to consider this important issue. Any volunteers to join?
I leave you with a cracker.
Two bits of string slid into a pub and went up to the bar:
“Two pints of bitter please, barman”, one of them said.
“Out!”, said the publican, “I’m not having bits of string coming in here. This is a decent establishment. Damned cheek. Who do you think you are?”.
They slid back outside and had a discussion in the forecourt.
“Maybe we don’t sound respectable enough, though it looks like an ordinary pub to me. Let’s try a different approach”, said one.
They re-entered by the Lounge Bar entrance and sidled up to the bar.
“Good Evening”, one of them said in his best cultured voice, “Could we have two gins and tonic please, with ice and lemon”.
The barman looked at them.
“It’s you again, isn’t it? The bits of string. Hop it, you’re banned!”
They left hastily and had another conference.
“You need to disguise yourself and go in alone”, said one, “That’s the only way we’ll get a drink. Tell you what, you tie a knot in your head and fluff the ends up: he’ll think you’re one of those punks. Order the drinks, and bring them outside”
He disguised himself as suggested and went back into the pub via the Public Bar entrance.
“Two pints of bitter please, mate”, said the bit of string.
“Certainly, sir”, said the barman and started pulling the pints. He paused and looked up.
“Hang on a minute”, he said, “Aren’t you one of those bits of string who I’ve just banned?”
“No”, said the bit of string,”I’m afraid not”
Ho, ho, ho.
11 December 2020
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 