It is census year in England (I think Scotland does its thing next year) and I have just completed the form online. Yes, yes I know the census date is actually 21 March and I was jumping the gun a bit but, let’s face it, under the present situation we won’t be anywhere else but home on that date. I suppose one of us could die in the next ten days or so, but I’m hoping that that is unlikely. The assessment being online is, itself, a sign of the times as is the question (which used to have two simple options), “What sex are you?” The race question was also a bit odd in its choices and one black MP stated that he was baffled by the choices of ‘Black Caribbean or Black African”, for he was born in Northampton. The memsahib was also a bit miffed, as there was no option of “White Caribbean” – the Caribbean was where she was born, as was her father, and her grandfather, and her great grandmother… ad infinitum). Never mind, a 10-year milestone has been reached.
I consider the censuses to be very important because I use the results a lot in my hobby of genealogy and they are a key source of information when tracing your ancestors. Although the first census in England took place in 1801 it was very sketchy and the results have been lost anyway. The first significant census in England took place in 1841 and we have held one every ten years ever since, except in 1941 when the British had more important things to direct their energies towards. Poring through old census forms (which can be done online) can be fascinating. For a start, the later ones (only the results up to 1911 England Census are currently available) usually have been completed in your ancestors’ own handwriting, so that in itself is a bridge across the gulf of time. The occupations of our forebears can be interesting too (one of mine was listed as a “Cordwainer”) and it can be disconcerting to see, in these diplomatic times, some people recorded as “Imbecile”. The addresses sometimes read like something out of a Dickens novel (“No 5 Back Glum Street” was one I seem to remember). Finally, the families were huge and this is reflected not only in the number of children listed, but also in the column that records, rather sadly, “Infants no longer living”. Complementing the census results are the central records of Births, Marriages and Deaths that started (in England) in 1837, though you have to send off and pay for the related certificates to get full details of the parties involved; again, the certificates are a rich source of history that record professions or trades and, in passing, whether your forebears could write (“X – her mark” is not entirely uncommon) or were born out of wedlock (more common than you would think in the straight-laced Victorian era). Before 1837 there are sometimes parish records from the churches, but they are not as comprehensive as certificates and, irritatingly, will often list just a female’s first name as if the woman were unimportant (a reflection of the times). Taken overall, genealogy can be quite fascinating as it excites not just the senses of history, curiosity and sociology, but also the fun of being a private investigator. It is very addictive and can be done from your armchair at home. Better still, now you can submit your DNA and it will flag up others, often in other countries, who share your great great-great-grandparent or whatever. My ethnic background is 69% Scottish, 3% Welsh, 21% English or North European and 3% Scandinavian, lending weight to the argument that we are all part of the Family of Man (on the basis of the result, I wonder if I will be able to vote in a Scottish Independence referendum?). I did a quick bit of research for an old friend of ours, who also comes from Tyneside and who subsequently became hooked. She took the DNA test, and – would you believe it – we turned out to be distant cousins, though we have yet to find the common link. Oh yes, those winter and spring evenings can just roll by. You can start researching online, entirely free of charge or commitment, with www.familysearch.org which is run by The Church of Latter Day Saints. Alternative and more sophisticated funded sites are the British site www.findmypast.co.uk (subscription from £80/year) or the bigger US company, www.ancestry.co.uk (subscriptions from £120/year). If you prefer not to record your tree on the internet, privately or otherwise, then you can buy software to record it on your PC. I use FamilyTree Maker. Why not have a play? You might find you are related to the British Royal family – it is how I found that the memsahib was the 1st Cousin, 31 times removed, of William the Conqueror.
Now here is another of my ethical dilemmas for you to consider at your next dinner party – if such a happy occasion should take place in our current circumstances before we all die. Imagine, hypothetically, that you are a bloke born into a family that runs – I don’t know – let’s say a rag and bone business. The family is a well established firm in the trade and has been doing it for years. Your grannie runs it. She is much respected locally, is still fit, and still very much in charge; but she’s getting on a bit and your grandad’s quite ill in hospital. Your dad will be taking over the family firm soon and you and your brother and cousins all work for the company. It is truly a family affair. You have all had your ups and downs over the years, as families do, and tragically, your mum was killed in a road accident when you were only a little boy, so you were brought up by your dad and your grannie. One day you meet this beautiful girl from out of town and fall in love with her. She is fascinated with the family business, which she thinks is actually an environmental recycling agency (which it is, in a way) and she thinks she may be able to help and offer a few words of advice if she were part of the firm. She seems a really nice girl and the family welcome her to the fold, culminating in a big fancy wedding for the two of you. Like the rest of the family, it is expected that you will both continue to work in the business. But after a while your wife becomes a bit disenchanted with it all: the pokey flat you have been given next to the business isn’t good enough; some of the rough men in the scrap yard were rude to her when she tried to tell them what to do; the money wasn’t up to much; she even had to take her turn at driving the rag and bone cart and mucking out the stables; your grannie wouldn’t let her wear the family jewels at that Rag and Bone Convention the other day and, what’s more, that cow of a sister-in-law hurt your wife’s feelings before the wedding and made her cry. Your wife thought that this was an environmental recycling agency, not a grubby rag and bone business, and she doesn’t like working there. No one ever asks how she is, they are so busy collecting rags and scrap iron, and there is no formal training course. The local press is being horrible too: they love finding things wrong with rag and bone men. You are getting a bit fed up. Even your older brother, who will one day run the firm, is being a bit too ready with the brotherly advice. You and your wife decide to leave and do your own thing, maybe move to where your wife used to live and people are more understanding. You approach your dad and your grannie and explain your problems and intentions. Now your dad’s a bit of a stuffy and old fashioned sort of chap, but his heart’s in the right place: he does a lot for charity and the disadvantaged poor kids in the area when he’s not helping with the firm. He’s saddened that you want to leave the business, and so is grannie. No one has left the family firm since Great Uncle Teddy, who went off and consorted with the Nazis. However, dad and grannie both love you and your wife, and they want what’s best for you.
“Well, son”, says dad, “I’m really sorry to hear it. The thing is, I won’t be able to pay you a wage if you don’t work in the scrap yard – the shareholders won’t wear it.”
“That’s all right Dad”, you say, “the wife and I just want to be independent, to move far away from the rag and bone business and stand on our own two feet”.
“So be it son”, says dad, “but you’ll always be welcome here at home. We all love you”.
And away you go with your wife to, let’s say, Tinsel Town, where the sun always shines, the people always smile, and there is not a rag and bone business in sight. A friend of your wife lends you a nice big house to live in; you still don’t have a job, but you can live off your late mother’s money so, what the hell. It just so happens that in Tinsel Town, where your wife comes from, they know absolutely nothing about the rag and bone business – the last firm like that operating there went bust nearly 250 years ago – but the people of Tinsel Town are fascinated to know more. Like your wife they, too, think it is all about environmental recycling. A local television station gets in touch and asks you about the family business. People are interested: there might be money in your story or, at least, a job for your wife who wants to get back into the saddle again in her old profession.
“Really?”, say the television people, “a family business through and through? How quaint! How fascinating! So that’s what rag and bone men do! Tell us more. Tell us about your family. Why did you leave the family business?”
And here, at last, is the moral dilemma for you to consider. Do you pour out your heart to your new fellow citizens; describe that an environmental recycling agency is really a rag and bone business in which you and your wife had to get your hands dirty and drive the horse and cart every Thursday; in which the rough men in the yard were firm with your wife because she wouldn’t take their advice and wear a hard hat; in which she and you were just a small cog in a big machine and no-one asked after your welfare; in which you both felt under-valued; and how that miser of a father and awful grannie wouldn’t keep paying your wages now that you no longer worked? Or would you just smile politely and explain that the rag and bone business wasn’t for you, and you were in Tinsel Town to turn over a new leaf and start a new life in something different? What would you do? Go on television and whinge, or get a job and stay loyal to your family? Your call.
Lockdown continues to plod its weary way in England. I have found that every day has some characteristic that identifies it (other than the name): Monday is dustbin day, clean the floors, change the towels and University Challenge and Only Connect on the television; Tuesday is supermarket shopping and ironing; Wednesday is start blog and a fast day; Thursday is wood whittling or hobbies and the second fast day; Friday is finish blog, return to normal diet, FaceTime with friends and (ah ha!) end of weekly prohibition; Saturday is hangover, nice meal and pudding; Sunday is air bedding, laundry, pre-luncheon sherry, roast joint and more pudding, alas with weekly prohibition on all things alcoholic and sweet starting at 2359. As an overlay to this exciting cycle of events (which I commend to you as an antidote to boredom) we now also have Jane’s exercise régime to fix her leg: two days of short healthy walks then three days biathlon of mixed exercise bike and holding up a wall for half an hour followed by ice packs; as her routine is on a five, as opposed to seven, day cycle it makes for a heady mix of challenges when combined with my weekly drudge. Occasionally I allow Jane to chop an onion, stir a pot, clean the bathrooms and flick a duster around as light relief. How we are are going to cope when (if?) lockdown lifts I have no idea: there are just so many demands for our time.
Schools went back on 8 March though teachers and most of the poor little blighters are being forced to wear masks (how do you teach anyone in those conditions) as well as having to endure regular Covid tests. Positive test results, hospital admissions and deaths continue to plummet in the UK, standing at (in the last 24 hours): positive results 6,753; admissions, 532; and deaths 181 (dropping at 36% weekly). About 23 million people (43% of the adult population) have now received their first vaccination. It is anticipated that positive test results may increase after the resumption of school attendance because – statistically – the more active tests you do then, proportionally, the more positive results you will get (as ex President Trump pointed out last year). England is still on the Naughty Step.
“Can I get down now?”
“Certainly not”.
“Well can I go and have tea and play with Johnny next door as we’ve both been vaccinated and are now immune?”
“You cannot. Back on that step at once. It’s not time for you to get down yet.”
The next milestone is 29 March, when we may be able to venture a little further from home in order to exercise, meet one other household in the garden, or play tennis – but only if we eat our greens.
That talk of teaching children while you, and they, are masked reminds me of the days when we had to wear respirators in the Navy as practice for encountering nerve gas or biological warfare. All British warships can be closed down and hermetically sealed to enable them to transit a radiation cloud or area contaminated with chemicals, gas or airborne biological agents: the ship is pressurised within and ventilated via special filters developed to take out the nasties. Just in case there is a breach in the citadel (as it is called) some of the the ship’s company also have to wear special biological suits and all carry anti-gas respirators (what used to be called gas masks). The filters for these respirators (and in the ship’s ventilation system) have been developed over decades of expensive research; they are proof against all known types of gas, nerve or biological agent. It is for this reason that I am sceptical that they can be replaced (as at present) by a couple of bits of cloth across your nose and mouth, held on by elastic, but I digress. The anti-gas respirators cover your whole face, of course (agents can be absorbed through your eyes too), but they can be a bit soporific and impersonal, and speech is a little muffled. A chap I know was a lecturer at the Royal Navy’s NBCD (Nuclear, Biological, Chemical and Damage Control) School in Portsmouth and he recounted how – at one time – he required officers taking the course to sit in some of his lectures while wearing anti-gas respirators, in order that they become accustomed and comfortable with their use. He said it was most unnerving to be faced by the resulting sea of black masks in the class, all whistling rhythmically as each student breathed. One day, he was writing on the board when there was a clatter and bang behind him. He turned to find one officer in the class collapsing.
“Strap me”, he thought,”the poor blighter’s fainted”.
He dashed up the aisle to help the unconscious man only to notice that no-one else in the class had moved to assist: like the collapsing man, they had all fallen asleep. The practice of students wearing respirators in class ended after that.
Not many people know that you can be poisoned through your eyes as well as your mouth or nose. When I was serving, officers received regular lectures on three main topics: The Threat [from the Soviet Union], Drugs and Alcohol, the last two being fundamentally important in our role of looking after our people. I was serving ashore at one point in the Ministry of Defence and received a telephone call one day from the establishment’s Petty Officer Regulator (what we used to call the Navy Police). He said that, according to his records, I was overdue for the Alcohol Lecture, and could I attend a session in a few days time? I duly turned up along with a clutch of other quite senior officers, and we sat through an hour of being told how bad alcohol abuse could be in the Navy, and what new things the boys (and now girls) were up to. I won’t go into the details of the whole lecture here, but the bit that always sticks in my memory was when the Petty Officer came to the bit on ‘current practices’. He started off by observing that we were all senior officers of considerable experience in the Navy, and that we had probably encountered just about everything that Jack could get up to. We all nodded sagely, for it was true: Jolly Jack never lacks imagination or ingenuity when it comes to booze. The Petty Officer then went on to describe the latest practice: you take a port or liqueur glass and you turn it upside down; into the shallow dish formed by the upturned base of the glass you pour a small quantity of ardent spirit, such as slivovitz , sambuca or vodka; you then lift up the glass (still upended) and cup the base over your open eye, as if bathing it with Optrex.
To a man, the whole audience cringed.
“Why on earth would you that that?”, we all asked.
The Petty Officer explained that the process was an instant hit: you were immediately drunk because the alcohol was absorbed rapidly by the cornea of the eye. He had tried it, purely in the interests of professional research, and he said the pain was excruciating.
“But where is the pleasure of becoming gently and progressively intoxicated?”, we asked, “the various phases of confidence, eloquence, bonhomie and masculinity; the swaggering Casanova emulation and general well-being?”.
The Petty Officer shrugged. He was baffled too.
That lecture was in 1997. God knows what sailors are doing with alcohol now.
I don’t know what led me to do it: boredom perhaps, or maybe a desire to do something daring and dangerous during lockdown, like those people who go parachuting or white-water rafting in retirement. After months of my nagging repeated concern for her health, Jane finally agreed to go to the doctor to get him to sort out her hearing, which has been deteriorating in one ear for at least a year. As a precursor to any tests, she was told to drop olive oil into her ear to get rid of the wax in there and – naturally – I was asked to deliver the potion in the appropriate hole. She lay on the pillow and pulled back her hair to reveal the target area.
“What a delightful little ear”, I said. “Such a treat, as I rarely get to see it”.
“Just get on with it and stop mucking about!”, was the stern muffled directive from the pillow.
It was then that I did it.
I put my tongue in her ear.
Incredibly, there was a short hiatus (what we engineers call ‘lag’) then an almighty shriek as she shot up and, seemingly, bounced off three bulkheads before she found the bathroom and her hand towel.
“How horrid!”, she cried, scrubbing her ear vigorously. ”EEURGH! You horrible, horrible man. Just you wait!”.
But she was too late, I had already legged it down the stairs.
Come to think of it, re-reading that first paragraph, maybe I won’t survive to 21 March and Census Day after all. But it was fun.
12 March 2021
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 