Whatever happened to Wonderloaf? Or Mothers Pride? Or thick sliced white bread? I posed this question to Jane as I gazed, disappointingly, at the rough lumpen toast with bits in it that rested on my plate at breakfast time. The previous night we had pondered on the important issue of what to have for breakfast the next day and I had expressed a desire for a really nice piece of toast, lashings of butter and Jane’s home-made marmalade: a surprisingly rare occurrence as we more usually have something cooked with eggs. Alas, the fulfilment of this preference did not meet my expectations, and Jane gave me toast made from that strange fancy bread with bits in it. I don’t know what it is called, but it is brown or wholemeal and seems to incorporate bird seed. Most of the time I don’t mind and the bread features frequently with our poached or scrambled eggs; but for a simple breakfast, to be taken with marmalade, I wanted toasted white bread, thick sliced – like about ½“ thick. I voiced my mild disappointment accordingly, but was told – in no uncertain terms – that white bread was bad for me and, in any case, was no longer obtainable in the thick-sliced version that I craved. There was also an unspoken suggestion, reinforced by a sharp eye, that if I didn’t like the breakfast then I could always prepare it myself. I tried calling her bluff on that one and expressed the intention of baking my own white loaf, only to be told that she already had some of my bread in the freezer, ready cut in thick slices, but it was bad for me, so I couldn’t have it. Noting that we had just turned full circle, I gave up. To add further insult to injury, Jane then proceeded to read out an article from the newspaper stating that I should not drink black coffee on an empty stomach either, so I should desist from my current practice of taking the double espresso before breakfast. It all made me ponder on what is the point of life if one cannot indulge in a little luxury now and again: we were not talking cream cakes or pain au raisin here, just a thick slice of toast made from British white bread, not mucked about with, and eaten maybe once a month. I think she is trying to preserve me in aspic, bless her: I am, after all, a little treasure worthy of eternal life.
Continuing on matters sewage from my last blog, Jane now has us participating in an on-line trial to produce blue stools (I hope you aren’t eating breakfast). The “blue poop challenge” is part of a research project into how fast we digest food and it involves baking blue-dyed cup cakes, eating them, and reporting when the – er – end result appears blue in the lavatory pan. The cup cakes, when Jane had baked them, came out a bright fluorescent lightning blue colour like something out of Star Trek, but they tasted all right. We await the results and I will let you know when they manifest themselves..
The weather is still pretty awful, a situation exacerbated by the news that the citizens of Moscow are baking in 30C temperatures. No chance of that here, and we abandoned the boat last week after six days of rain, wind and (very occasionally) sunny intervals. We did have the pleasure of entertaining our old friends Benjamin and Margery from Plymouth. We managed to rush them onboard in a gap between heavy downpours and celebrated the milestone of being able to entertain people indoors with a bottle of Cremant de Loire. Alas, they declined the option of joining us in steaming the boat away from her berth into a rain squall and Force 4 wind, so we remained alongside gorging ourselves on Jane’s lunch, catching up on news, and slurping wine. It was a tough choice and I could see that they were disappointed to miss the fun of life on the ocean wave, but the wine offered some consolation I am sure.
It occurred to me, as I re-read an earlier blog, that some readers might not fully understand my reference to “Day Running in a frigate from Portland”. The island of Portland (actually joined to the mainland by a causeway) is located off Dorset and has the distinction of being the first place in Britain to receive the Black Death. It does not surprise me, for it is a bleak and awful place, exposed and wind-swept, and – until just over twenty five years ago – was a naval base for the Royal Navy. Day Running from Portland comprised raising steam at some ungodly hour each morning, sailing into stormy weather and the notorious sea area known as the Portland Race, and doing Something Awful before returning alongside or mooring to a buoy, shutting down, and then doing Something Else Awful. For Portland was more than just a naval base, it was the home for Flag Officer Sea Training, the officer responsible for bringing warships up to full operational standard before they joined the Fleet. The Something Awful referred to earlier could be fending off an attack by aircraft, submarine or ship; blind pilotage (as in fog); boarding a suspect vessel; or taking on fuel and stores at sea. The Something Else Awful could be fighting fires, plugging leaks, pumping out floods, landing an armed party, assisting a civil power after a disaster or resisting an attack by enemy divers. All these things occurred, 24 hours a day, for up to six weeks. It was all very necessary to bind a Ship’s Company into a single efficient fighting unit, but an absolutely dreadful experience. No one in the Royal Navy liked Portland; indeed, we all dreaded it. Even the pubs ashore were awful. Yet Workup (as it was known colloquially) had its humorous moments, particularly when viewed from afar and happening to other ships. I remember that there was one frigate that was tasked with the requirement of boarding a suspected merchant ship. The victim was played by a Royal Fleet Auxiliary (RFA) – a tanker – called GREEN ROVER. The RFA, by the way, is a collection of supply ships and tankers manned, not by naval personnel, but by members of the British Merchant Navy: a hard working crowd who get little credit for their contribution to the Fleet, though I believe their pay and leave conditions are better than the Royal Navy. Anyway, this frigate was tasked with stopping the merchant ship (GREEN ROVER) and then boarding and searching her. Steaming up to the tanker’s beam, the frigate signalled in International Code, by flag and light, Flag KILO:
“STOP INSTANTLY”.
No response.
She called up the ship by VHF radio and ordered her to stop.
No response.
So the frigate stood off and fired a 4.5″ shell across GREEN ROVER’s bow.
Still no response (the RFA crew were old hands at this).
Then the frigate’s CO had a brilliant idea. Frigates at that time carried an anti-submarine mortar: a triple barrelled weapon that fired three bombs, each about 12″ in diameter and 3′ long, ahead of the ship, exploding at various depths above and below a detected submarine. Into one barrel of this mortar the frigate’s crew inserted a large bag of potatoes and this they fired at GREEN ROVER.
It was something of a success. The bag of potatoes described a neat vertical arc and landed bang-on the top of GREEN ROVER’s wheelhouse, pierced the deckhead, and exploded inside, firing potatoes in all directions.
GREEN ROVER stopped and the way fell off the ship.
Cheered by the result, the frigate’s boarding party set off in the motor whaler, armed to the teeth. Unfortunately, the success story ended there, for when the boarding party clambered over the tanker’s bulwarks they were met by an extremely angry crew of merchant seamen who beat them up and summarily threw the boarding party over the side. A case of defeat snatched from the jaws of victory, I feel.
Incidentally, the naval base at Portland closed in 1995, but Workup, or Operational Sea Training, still takes place though now only in the comparatively benign naval base of Devonport in Plymouth. I dare say they still have their fun, but they are welcome to it.
After all that head-shaking and sucking of teeth last week over the latest bogeyman in the Covid 19 saga, the Indian variant, it has now been revealed that the vast majority of people who have died from, or are in hospital with, the variant were eligible to have the vaccine, but had declined it. Enough said. Moreover, after all the hand wringing and threats of halting the programme taking us out of lockdown, the scientists have concluded that the vaccines are – in fact – very effective against this latest variant. But if you are missing this bogeyman then fear not, for there are others lining up for take off: there is now talk of a triple-active mutant variant with pike (or something like that), or a malady called Black Fungus, which sounds like a novel written by John Buchan; the medical fraternity, the British government and the media clearly believe that, when it comes to controlling the general population, Fear is Good: beat them with the stick, then offer the carrot just out of reach, then repeat the cycle; whatever you do, don’t actually give them the carrot. Statistically, it is quite clear that – at long last – the hospital admissions and deaths associated with Covid have been decoupled from detected infections. Daily deaths for the whole of the UK remain in single figures and are still dropping asymptotically, hospital admissions likewise. There are infection hotspots related to the Indian variant, notably around Bolton and Blackburn. With exits now freely open, people are beginning to go on holiday abroad again: some to “Green” approved countries (too many to list here, but ranging from Australia to Tristan da Cuna), but also – more head shaking from the government here – to “Amber” countries (Afghanistan to Yemen, including the USA). The authorities are clearly shocked that some citizens have actually exercised their own judgement on risk in this matter and are choosing to go to “Amber” countries, despite the test and quarantine requirements associated with the decision. People thinking for themselves? This will never do. For completeness, by the way, the “Red” countries range from Angola to Zimbabwe and include India. With this last country, an old saying referring to stable doors and bolting horses springs to mind.
In further matters medical, a lively row has broken out regarding face-to-face appointments with GPs. It started when a newspaper revealed that the NHS had instructions in place directing GPs to avoid – or even not offer – face-to-face consultations and rely, instead, on telephone or on-line consultations. This caused an uproar among the public, so the instruction was flipped into requiring all GPs to provide face-to-face appointments with any patients who wanted them. Cue uproar from the GPs, who have no wish to provide such a service and want to continue with isolation and a telephone triage service. It is a very curious thing: my dentist, dental hygienist, pharmacist, chiropodist, optician and osteopath have been providing face to face consultations since last June without any difficulty other than the usual face coverings and strict appointment times. Astonishingly, even hospital consultations are picking up again (Jane has been three times without problem). Yet my GP surgery ceased on-line booking of appointments last March and the waiting room of the surgery remains empty. Telephoning to get an appointment can genuinely take hours and often results in finding no appointments available or – worse – simply being cut off. The impression given by GPs is that they would rather not have to deal with the grubby public and their nasty diseases at all – or at least keep them at bargepole length and discuss their ailments only after extensive filtering and pre interrogation by a female Heracles, the gatekeeper of Olympus. To be fair, many – if not all – GPs have been heavily engaged in the vaccination programme, which has reduced their availability; nevertheless this outrage from the profession at a time when the epidemic is easing does not do it credit though it has an historical precedent: the British Medical Association opposed the introduction of the NHS 73 years ago. Personally, I have no problem with the concept of triage as it should weed out the sickbay rangers and time wasters in order to make way for genuinely ill patients such as my good self; however, the system should not require protracted waits on the telephone and having to describe one’s piles to some flibbertigibbet or termagant on reception who has no medical qualifications. At the very least, the triage person should be a nurse. My theory on General Practice is that the majority of patients are just worried about their symptoms and want simple reassurance that it is not serious; current guidance on ailments does not help one’s anxiety when, for example, anyone with chest pain is told to dial 999 immediately and anyone with a new spot or mole is advised to see a doctor at once. Triage or seeing a nurse instead of a doctor might well bowl out these cases at an early stage. At the end of the day, however, you cannot beat a proper consultation with your personal GP who knows your history. Alas, I rather think that that is now a pipe dream unless you go private and pay a small fortune.
A GP appointment is not exactly a pleasure, of course. In days gone by the surgery would be held in an old house with, maybe, only two doctors presiding. Patients turned up on spec and simply waited their turn rather than having an appointment. I believe there are still some surgeries like that, but most are modern purpose-built facilities with a dozen or more GPs. Ours is one such edifice and there are several “waiting areas” instead of one waiting room. I have always been very satisfied with our GPs (we no longer have a designated doctor) once I have overcome the difficult hurdle of actually getting an appointment, but I never like the waiting area: people sitting there silently and morosely, grizzling children, nothing to read, assessing each other and deciding either that the others are loafing or that they are highly infectious, shouldn’t be contaminating everyone else, and – er – should go to see a doctor. I remember a friend of mine telling me the saga of his local surgery in the early 1960s. The archetype establishment of its time, it was located in a large private house and had one central waiting room with a row of chairs down each side. There were two consulting rooms, each related to its corresponding row of chairs, and two resident doctors. The GPs were traditional doctors who took their time to know their patients, but somewhat different in temperament. My friend related how he was sitting in the waiting room one evening with the rest of the sick and hurt, no-one speaking, several coughing and wheezing, when, from behind the door of Doctor A’s consulting room, he heard Doctor A exclaim,
“A SICK NOTE! Good God man there’s nothing wrong with you! I’ve never heard such nonsense!”
As one man, the entire line of Doctor A’s patients got up from their chairs and transferred themselves quietly to the line for Doctor B, across the room
Ready-meals are not really our forte, the memsahib being of the view that she is quite capable of producing a tasty wholesome meal herself without any short cuts, thank you very much. Cooking is both her hobby and her pride and I must say she is damned good at it. So when our friends Fraser and Isla recommended a company called simply, Cook, as a source of such meals we took note, but thought we were unlikely to use the firm a great deal. Fast-forward to now, when we can visit the boat again, and we decided to reconsider the recommendation. The cooking facilities onboard are not bad for the size of our boat, but are still limited: there is a small refrigerator, about 250mm of work surface, a two-burner gas hob and a small oven that burns any food placed at the back. With these facilities Jane still works wonders, but it did occur to us that ready meals might ease the burden on her and – let me be frank here – would reduce the number of pots and pans that I had to wash up. We have used supermarket ready meals occasionally before, buying food from Marks & Spencer or Waitrose with mixed results – the steak from the former company, eaten on my birthday last July, is still being digested (Blog 54). There is also concern regarding the ingredients and nutritionally value of these supermarket ready meals, with monosodium glutamate, sugar and salt sometimes featuring in the contents. Hence, the recommendation of using meals from Cook was attractive. The firm uses the freshest ingredients and traditional home cooking techniques, sourcing, hand-preparing, cooking, freezing and distributing the meals all in-house in one facility in Kent that employs 300 people. Meal portions are available for one, two or four people and there is even a Sunday lunch option for a large party. The meals can be cooked straight from frozen, which is a big advantage, and delivery is free for orders over a certain amount. Prices of the meals are very reasonable, with a main course for two costing typically about £8. There are also High Street outlets, though only in England. Anyway, we tried some meals from Cook and they were absolutely superb, so good in fact that we have ordered further batches to cover the weeks when we are away on the boat (we can store the frozen food in a freezer in the marina ashore). So there you have it: a recommendation for delicious food, ready cooked in the county of Kent and certainly worth a try: Cook (www.cookfood.net). Of course, if you don’t live in England or within delivery range of one of their shops then I’m afraid you are fresh out but – hey – you can’t have everything.
Well you will be pleased to read that Jane’s period with a heart monitor taped to her chest (Blog 91) produced no results to worry about. We were due to depart for the hospital in the Big City on Sunday for the follow-up consultation in Cardiology (on Sunday, note) when Jane received a call that proved to be telephone consultation instead. That seemed quite sensible to me, but it was a pity she was not told of it in advance: we had just put on our coats ready to depart and it was one hour before the appointment time stated in the letter. Also, the drive to the Big City – both of us dressed up in our best Sunday Rig – was going to be our excitement for the day. Anyway, the recorded traces of Jane’s heartbeat showed no defects though – as I said on Blog 91 – she only gets these funny turns once in a blue moon so a week’s monitoring was unlikely to produce anything. However, the consultant suggested to Jane that she might consider buying an ECG heart monitor from Amazon that could be activated if her heart went funny again. Another gadget from Amazon, I thought; excellent! I sought out the recommended AliveCor KardiaMobile EKG Monitor, which links with, and records to, a mobile phone and gulped: £99. Oh well, I was going to buy a new telescope for the boat (such affectation intending to present an alert and professional nautical image when deployed, especially if I wore my new Breton cap with the gold RNSA cap badge); but I suppose a fully-monitored and well-running Jane will be better value for money. The thing is, what with her dodgy leg, I just worry about which bit of her is going to drop off next.
Following up on my second paragraph and the saga of the blue poo, by the way, I can report that we are four days down the line and still nothing blue in the pan. I knew you would be interested. Is this what they mean by being anal retentive?
24 May 2021
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 
One thought on “Blog 93. The Blue Poop Challenge”