The mice are eating the shed. Yes, the very same shed that – almost a year ago – we laboriously painted in blue and cream, kicking over the paint can in the process (Blog 37). As it contains garden implements, the shed falls under the purview of Mrs S: it is on her slop chit. I rarely go into into it other than to access the lawn mower, for it is full of creepy crawlies, bits of greenery and dirty soil, and I am a fastidious and sensitive person. However, on this occasion I was called out to examine the damage and led – almost by the hand – down to the site. The shed door was opened and the memsahib silently pointed at the entrance. Hovering in the air was the unspoken question of,
“…and what are you going to do about this?”.
You see, the shed might be Her domain, but repairs to the fabric of the house and outbuildings are His domain, decorating work falling between the two domains as a joint Whole Ship Evolution. I looked at the shed: whoa…the rodents had certainly had a go at that. The door sill, previously a good hunk of 2×2, was half gnawed through across the diagonal; the door bottom had been got at, and the little devils had started on the door frame too. The attraction of the shed to the little critters was the bird seed stored in there – originally in an old plastic gash bin and sack, but more recently in a large galvanised steel dustbin. Last year the mice ate into the shed through the floor, leaving a small hole. I stopped that by covering the hole with a mild steel plate. Now, the little devils were trying to get in via a more direct route, namely through the door (literally). Jane had tried spraying the gnawed threshold with Roundup systematic weed killer: a novel solution that I thought might actually just work. However, it appears that our rodents are made of strong constitutions (it must be all that bird seed that they eat) and so the weed killer did not prove effective. Clearly a more robust campaign must be waged, so we drove off to our local ironmongers and armed ourselves with lengths of angle aluminium and a rodent trap. The angle aluminium was screwed over the threshold, door bottom and frame (try eating through that lot Jerry) and the trap was unpacked ready for use. We should have bought old fashioned spring traps that you bait with cheese but, in a mad fit of modernity and compassion, had instead bought one of those plastic box-like traps in which the mice are tempted inside by poisoned bait and (presumably) die quietly, but content. I ripped off the packaging to reveal the rodent equivalent of the Green Mile, which was black and sinister and came complete with a key which, the instructions observed, should be kept separately. I was a bit bemused by that: have mice got so clever that they can operate a key? Anyway, I opened the box to discover inside – well – nothing actually. The poisoned bait was not included. So we had just spent £10 on the equivalent of a piece of black Tupperware. I ask you! What was the point of that? We had to go on Amazon and get a delivery of poisoned bait, which successfully cancelled out the green savings we had made by shopping locally. Oh, I forgot to mention that we also removed the galvanised steel dustbin of bird seed and stowed it outside, and Jane took the opportunity to vacuum out the entire shed to remove all traces of residual seed, soil and various creepy crawlies. Let us hope that all that works. So, the trap is in place now and when I looked today the bait had been stolen, which I don’t think is supposed to happen, but it should still do its job. Examination of the shed interior revealed that the rubber mat is now being eaten, so the rodents must still be in there, the cunning devils. This is getting like a film in the Alien series: the creatures are no longer outside, but are somewhere here within. Where will they strike next? I haven’t actually mentioned to Jane what occurred to me and, no doubt, to you: it might not be mice, but instead, the bigger rodents with the long tails. Best not mention the ‘R’ word.
I observed in the last blog that Jane was b-o-r-e-d and, alas, that situation has manifested itself inevitably into the urge to occupy herself – and me. I will swear that in a previous life she must have been a Chief Boatswain’s Mate or possibly the First Mate of a tramp steamer on the Shanghai run. I could see it coming but, like the snowball rolling down the hill and gaining size and momentum, there was no stopping it. Having cleaned all the bathrooms several times, then removed the protective old newspapers and grease from the top of the kitchen cupboards, her eyes turned to the outside and fixed on the patio table and chairs. Her assessment was that that furniture really was in need of a good clean up and chamfer off, followed by a repaint to cover the patches where the previous coating had fallen off. It was true that the six-year-old aluminium furniture did look like it was suffering from alopecia, but – in my view – the solution did not bear thinking about. In vain I put forward cogent and well-argued reasons why we should leave it alone: the difficulty and expense of finding a paint suitable for covering aluminium; the need to scrub it all down thoroughly first; the awkwardness and mess of painting any lattice framework…But it was to no avail. Her face adopted that very familiar stubbornness and firm resolve and she finally came out with the killing blow:
“Well, I shall paint it on my own then!”.
This was, of course, code for,
“You – The Husband – are failing to accept your responsibilities as Mr Repair and Mr Shared Decorator so I must, perforce, undertake this task without help (though I may have the body of a weak and feeble woman…)”
Of course, I gave in. I know when I am beaten.
So, one day I ferreted around in the garage loft and found a tin of green Hammerite metal paint which I offered up for sacrifice. I tried a rear guard action by pronouncing that it was not really suitable for aluminium, but that was dismissed out of hand. And so we started, each to a chair. I don’t know if you have ever used Hammerite: it is an excellent paint for metal, being particularly versatile as it requires no primer and can be applied over rust. However, it is also quite thick, so must be applied with a very loaded brush which, naturally, gives it a tendency to run; also, if you paint over it then the process pulls off the previous coat. Soon, we were in the thick of it (if you will pardon the pun). As I had predicted, and may have pointed out to Jane once or twice, painting any lattice-type structure is a nightmare because of the requirement to get into all the cracks and crevices. Soon there was green paint almost everywhere, though at least we had had the foresight to cover the patio with a tarpaulin. The final straw came when Jane discovered that strands of her hair had fallen out of her Alice band and had brushed against the newly painted chairs, delivering a green streak to her strawberry blond tresses. She was not best pleased, as she had to cut the contaminated bits off. Finally, we were done: all six chairs painted and only the table to be done; another tin of paint ordered form Amazon; the prospect of a fun-packed weekend; Jane with hunks out of her hair and looking like Wurzel Gummidge the scarecrow. What more could we ask? It’s all go here. Oh dear, we seem to have run out of paintbrushes. How sad.
I am hanging on to the hope that the emerging garden will keep Jane occupied in the forthcoming weeks. The garden is her pride and joy and, when operating at maximum cultivation, will keep her off my back for hours and hours. The lawn is the only part that I deal with apart from being called in as a contractor on an ad hoc basis to dig deep holes (usually standing on several plants in the process) or to hack the top off trees and bushes. Our lawn is only a small patch of grass, but I am determined to obtain a golfcourse-green-perfect showpiece. Alas, after eight years, the prospect of achieving my goal is not looking good. I have done all the right things: the weedkillers, the fertilisers, the scarifying, the aeration, the top dressing; the grass is healthy and weed free; but it still lacks that final refinement that you see on a golf course or bowling green. I think we have the wrong sort of grass, but it is too late to change that now. I suppose I must be pleased with what I do have. At least we are not troubled by moles, which is a problem faced by many proud gardeners. I have read of several methods used to rid lawns of these pests, none of them – as far as I can tell – fully successful. Besides, there is also the ethical question of whether we should be depriving poor Mr and Mrs Mole and their offspring of their cosy littles burrows. In considering that, I am reminded of the saga of the General’s lawn in Aldershot. As related in Blog 68, an old friend of mine worked as the Contract Director for a facilities management company in Aldershot after he left the Royal Navy (all Ministry of Defence establishments are now privatised for catering, administrative services and estate management – soldiers no longer paint coal outside the Guardroom or type on an Imperial typewriter at a desk covered with a War Office blanket). He told me the saga of the lawn at the official residence of the Officer Commanding, General Sir Ponsonby-Smythe MC (not his real name), which was plagued by moles and their mole hills. My chum was summoned by the General one day and asked to provide a quotation for bringing in a specialist contractor to rid his lawn of the nuisance. My chum duly did and, of course, the quotation was for several thousand pounds.
“Stuff and nonsense!”, said the General, “I can’t afford or justify that. I bet I could do it cheaper”.
So he did. He called in the local gun club and offered them free refreshment and free target practice for the day. The shooters duly turned up, bearing a collection of weapons ranging from large bore to small bore (though, thankfully, no automatic assault weapons, which are illegal in the UK). They set up post on the edge of the lawn and bided their time, waiting for Mr Mole to appear. Finally, he did, whereupon the entire gun club let loose with their weapons, blowing Mr and Mrs Mole to kingdom come. Unfortunately, they also shredded and obliterated 80% of the General’s lawn at the same time, reducing it to a mini version of a Flanders field on an off day in 1917. The cost to re-lay the lawn by far exceeded the original pest control quotation. Still, it got rid of the moles.
After a long career in the Royal Navy, my chum had some small difficulty adjusting to working with the British Army as a contractor. He made the mistake of believing that, as one of the three British armed forces, the army would fundamentally be the same as the navy, except they would be dressed in green and shout a lot. This was not the case, for the British Army is more like a collection of small armies (regiments), each with their own history, their own distinctive uniforms their own mottos and their own ethos. Put six British Army officers in a room and no two will be dressed alike. There is even a hierarchy among the regiments, with the Household Cavalry at the top and the Royal Bermuda Regiment at the bottom. In the early days of his second career my chum was astonished when a battalion of the Blues and Royals was redeployed back from Germany to Aldershot and looked, with metaphorical pursed lips, at the 1960s barrack block that he had allocated for its use.
“Oh no”, their Commanding Officer said, ”that simply won’t do”. He looked at a more modern barrack block nearby.
“Which regiment is in that one?”, he asked.
My chum looked at his plan.
“Ah, no, that’s occupied. That belongs to the Royal Logistics Corps (RLC). They moved in last month”
“Right”, said the CO of the Blues and Royals. “We’ll take that one”
And, do you know, the RLC was hoofed out of the new barrack block and into the older barracks, and accepted it without a word of protest. They knew their place. The British Army: they’re not at all like us. And as for the RAF, well…
I suppose I have to say something about lockdown and Covid 19, as it has become a tradition and – indeed – was the raison d’être for starting these blogs (it keeps me occupied and demonstrates to you that there is always someone worse off than yourself). Positive test outcomes, deaths and hospital admissions are still dropping and the figures for the last 24 hours are: positive tests, 6,385 (dropping at 32% per week); deaths, 315 (dropping 34% per week); hospital admissions, 725 (dropping 28% per week). About 18 million people (40% of UK adults) have now been vaccinated and the programme is currently addressing all those over 60. It has been proved conclusively that the vaccination programme is reducing the impact of the epidemic, and those who have received the jab are 80% less likely to be seriously ill or require hospitalisation. It has also been demonstrated that, contrary to early trial results, the Oxford AstraZeneca serum is slightly more efficacious than the Pfizer vaccine and that both vaccines reduce transmissibility significantly. It all begs the question of why we are all still locked up in these circumstances – particularly we senior folk who have been immunised – but the government is firm in its resolve not to budge from the published timetable. It will be interesting to see how the government would respond to a situation in which there were still significant infections, but very few deaths and few hospital admissions: would it stick to the policy of accepting that Covid 19 is now endemic and would have to be lived with? Or would it extend the existing misery and isolation? I suspect that some sections of our hierarchical society will not relinquish the power they have over us quite so readily. On Monday 8 March I can sit on a park bench and enjoy a flask of coffee and a sandwich with one person outside my household. Whoopee!
Oh dear, we are wishing our lives away at the moment. Every day is pretty much the same and, unconsciously, we wish each day over so that we can get closer to the next Covid Relaxation Milestone. As I have said before, with God’s grace Jane and I may have only twenty years left on this planet (it is a sobering thought) and already we have lost 5% of it to misery, lockdown or both. The thought of yet another year of restrictions, bringing the wasted time to 10%, is profoundly depressing and extremely annoying. We, and most other people in the country, have done all that is asked of us and have been promised much, yet here we are, still confined to barracks. At the beginning of all this, almost exactly a year ago, I remember thinking that the British people would just pay lip service to social distancing and lockdown, and the police would not enforce it. I have been astonished to be proved wrong and to find that we Brits have embraced the whole concept wholeheartedly and even created quite a few zealots and informers in the process. In Scotland, the First Minister gives her countrymen a good kicking on a daily basis and imposes some quite stringent measures, yet – so I am told – they all admire her for it. This masochistic tendency is beyond me to explain. I do wonder how much longer the British people will continue to put up with it all, especially if (say) a fourth lockdown were imposed. We can only hope that a few stalwarts in parliament will finally stand up and say, “enough is enough”: the vaccine works, let’s run with it and get back to normal.
I have commented before on differences in life under Covid compared to previous life: more people around, folk dodging to avoid you on the street and falling into a ditch, morons walking around in the open air with masks on, that sort of thing. Another characteristic must surely be the increase in litter on the streets. Litter, like graffiti, is anathema to me. I can never understand why people would want to soil their own nest. Do they throw beer cans and take-away cartons onto the floor of their own living rooms, and scrawl on the walls? Perhaps they do. In a previous life I was a warden for the National Trails and this required me to walk part of the Wessex Ridgeway and the Thames Path once a month to monitor and report their condition. I could be five or six miles from the nearest road or civilisation, in the heart of the English countryside, but would still find litter – often a discarded water bottle or an empty energy drink can: someone had actually walked or ridden all that way, presumably because they loved the environment, but thought nothing of just throwing their rubbish away when they longer needed it. My theory was that the empty drink receptacles had been dumped by mountain bikers or marathon runners who thought they were still in an organised race or marathon in which “someone else” would pick up after them, but I could never prove it. Today, the top item of litter is the discarded face mask: you see them everywhere, on verges or in gutters, all too contaminated for anyone to even consider picking them up unless they have gloves or the right tool. I wonder if they will be found by archaeologists in centuries to come, who will say,
”Ah, this must have come from the Great Covid 19 Epidemic. Our family is still using the lavatory rolls that my Great Great Great Grandmother bought in 2020. She was never one to go short, so I’m told”.
BOOMPA! BOOMPA! BOOMPA! In almost a flashback to WW1, when the guns of the Somme could be heard in England, so the guns of the Royal Artillery have been heard here in Melbury all this week. All through the day and into the evening the guns have roared. We must be twenty or thirty miles away from Tidworth and the gun ranges of Salisbury Plain, yet still we can hear the field guns. Or, I suppose, it might be tanks from the Royal Tank Regiment. It is not intrusive or irritating, just curious on how far sound travels; and I suppose it is reassuring that all that expensive ordinance works. What baffles me slightly is how the army has such a large practise allowance that they can blast away for a week, night and day. When I was serving in the navy the live shell allowance was distinctly parsimonious, so live firings were quite an occasion; missile firings even more so and dramatic. Heh ho – at least the Pongoes are out there in the cold and mud enjoying themselves, rather than sitting in the barracks watching television two metres apart. Keeps ‘em out of mischief,
There is a television channel in the UK called Talking Pictures TV that I am very fond of. It is dedicated to old films, particularly the old black and white films of of the 1950s and 1960s when men were men, women were grateful and every Briton had a stiff upper lip and wore a jacket and tie. Excellent times. Recently the channel has taken to screening the shows which, in my childhood, appeared at the Saturday Morning Pictures – a screening for children at the local ABC cinema on (guess when) and very popular. A seat downstairs was 6d and upstairs, 9d, the latter seating arrangement (if one could afford it) providing the opportunity to lob missiles over the balcony onto the paupers below. Films included The World of Charlie Chan, Rocket Man and Zorro to name but three. There was always a sing-song at the beginning of the show that had the refrain,
“We are the boys and girls well known as,
Minors of the ABC,
And every Saturday we line up….”.
Sorry, I was getting a bit carried away there. Anyway, I was thinking of this when someone was talking about the cinemas opening again after Covid, and pondering that cinemas aren’t what they were. Gone are the grand auditoria, the big screen, the Wurlitzer, the curtains, the usherettes with the torch to show you to your seat, and the girls selling ice cream from little lit-up trays hanging from their necks; instead we have multiplexes with small dark caverns that you stumble into, no regulation, no projectionist, people talking, people noisily munching sweets or popcorn and sprinkling them liberally over the floor. It just isn’t the same. In the 1960s we would go to the cinema as a family and watch a great epic like Pollyanna or From Russia With Love: it was a sense of occasion that you sometimes had to queue for. Now, the cinema is just a mundane pastime that you go to to be deafened or annoyed. There used to be a lot of enjoyment in a cinema and the back row could be a den of iniquity if you were lucky. I remember a friend of mine telling me if his experience in the 1960s. He had joined the navy to train as an artificer (now called “technician”) and served his four year apprenticeship at HMS CALEDONIA near Rosyth, in Scotland. The cinemas there could be quite an adventure. The usher would patrol the back row on a regular basis, shining his torch to ensure that there were no improper goings on. On one occasion, apparently, his torch highlighted a white item on the floor that proved to be a pair of knickers, so he picked them up and held them in the torchlight. He addressed the girl sitting nearest him,
“Are these yours?”, he demanded in a stern Scottish tone.
“Och no”, came the innocent female reply. “Mine are in my handbag”.
Like I say, the cinema isn’t what it used to be.
5 March 2021
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 