Look. It’s only a game. It’s only 22 over-paid vacuous young men chasing a bit of leather around a field for 90 minutes. It’s not Agincourt. I have just seen two Daily Telegraph headlines that read,
“Southgate summons the warrior spirit of generations past” and
“I am in tears writing this…”.
I didn’t read the rest and ended up skipping about 50% of the newspaper. When I then skipped the dire news on Covid, with its predictions of relaxation of restrictions not happening after all, I had only a quarter of the paper left. Yes, yes I know I am A Man Alone in the current euphoria of maybe England winning the World Cup for the first time since 1966, but I have to say it again: it is only a game. Still, the whole shebang seems to make a lot of people very happy and it has taken their minds off Covid, so I suppose it has all been a good thing. I don’t begrudge the pleasure it affords, it is just that I don’t understand it. Good luck then, chaps; I shall be reading an improving book when it all takes place on Sunday night or maybe go for a walk; the streets will, after all, be deserted.
Did you know that there is a right and wrong way to slice a tomato? Me neither. I have still been preparing the suppers during Wimbledon week as outlined in Blog 96 and I had graduated to providing a pork pie salad one evening. “Nothing to that”, I thought: cut pie in half and plonk on plate; remove lettuce from fridge, rinse and slice; anoint with dressing; spoon on accompaniments, negative coleslaw for Jane; slice tomato and cucumber and add to plate; serve. Jane had magically appeared like a genie from a bottle during the final stage of this operation, it being break time on Centre Court and she being suspicious of malpractices taking place in her kitchen. So spectral was her appearance that I jumped as a voice at my elbow said,
“Why are you cutting the tomato like that?”
I was nonplussed. Was there a right or wrong way? I had sliced the tomato up and down, that is, parallel to the axis of the stalk. It seems I should have cut it across ways. I shrugged and cut another one as directed, thus providing an option for the discerning diner. Even then the presentation did not meet with approval, for I was disturbed to note that she had left part of the tomato on the plate when the meal was finished; it seems that the bottom of the tomato – the bit with the stem and the little dimple on it – is traditionally discarded on preparation and not offered on the plate. Oh dear: I had eaten mine. Various other shortcomings were noted on the presentation of the salad, which I had created using my own haemorrhoidal system, to the point where she just burst into giggles and shook her head sorrowfully. I was, she said, hopeless, but she appreciated that I had tried hard. It reminded me of my school PE report from 1966.
The prime minister has announced that all Covid restrictions on meeting, distancing and face coverings will be dropped from 19 July. If all goes well. A final decision will be made on Monday 12 July and I still predict that he will give in to the doom-mongers and kick the can down the road yet again. You see, the positive test results related to the delta variant are still rising (“soaring” according to the media) and the number of deaths has risen too. However, the latter statistics are not increasing at anything like the same rate as cases, standing at 34 daily, as I write. Moreover the case rate, though still rising, is beginning to fall off and will reach its peak probably in the next few days; it is already falling in Barsetshire. No matter, some members of the public and most of the media are appalled at the thought of abandoning compulsory face masks: a recent poll indicated that some people think the masks should be worn, literally, forever and some favour a nighttime curfew as well. Wearing face coverings in certain scenarios remains government advice, but – if the relaxation goes ahead – the decision will be left to individuals and the owners of premises such as shops or pubs. I think it is a sensible move (well, I would wouldn’t I) as it credits individuals with common sense and personal responsibility. Those who are uncomfortable with the relaxation can keep on wearing face coverings, and shops, pubs and hotels can take the risk of losing (or gaining) customers by excluding people who are uncovered. Sadly, this whole thing is splitting the country, just like Brexit did: it would have been far better if the government had nailed its colours to the mast , ditched the law on masks, left the matter to individuals and withheld advice. But there you go. I still think Boris will bottle out on Monday: “just a little longer, folks…”. I will be pleased if I am wrong.
We don’t watch a great deal of television, but sometimes – after a long exhausting day of being retired – you want to watch something entertaining after dinner or supper. We have quite taken to the 25-year-old detective series Wycliffe, set in Cornwall, the series being repeated at the moment. The plots are good, the acting well done, and the scenes stunning. As each programme is only an hour long the plots cannot be too complicated; there are no red herrings as there is no time to incorporate them, and so the first suspect tends to be the actual culprit. Nevertheless, the series is very watchable. The other programme that I would recommend is Clarkson’s Farm on Amazon Prime. Jeremy Clarkson, of Top Gear fame, is rather like Marmite: you either like him or you cannot stand him. We are of the former opinion, but even if you are of the latter persuasion I would give the series a whirl. It is hilarious. Clarkson owns a farm in the Cotswolds and, two years ago, decided to try to work the land himself. The series covers his ineptitude and his triumphs while doing a very good job of educating the viewer in the difficulties and techniques, the trials and tribulations, of modern farming – all in an entertaining way. It is fascinating and definitely recommended.
I knew it was a mistake to paint that idyllic picture of balmy weather on the quarterdeck in Dartmouth (Blog 96). Since then the weather on the boat has been pretty awful. When it wasn’t raining it was blowing a hooley, overcast, or both. We travelled down last Sunday at 0500 to beat the traffic then spent the rest of the day, between showers, doing jobs in that fuzzy twilight world that goes with a very long day and a lack of sleep. I fitted that new outboard-engine mounting davit, as predicted last week, and – to my surprise – the procedure was completed without any problems at all. We slept the sleep of the just (as in “just shattered”) that night and managed a few other jobs the next day but, by evening, the clouds were black and heavy, the rain came down, and the wind whipped up into a Force 5/6 south westerly. The forecast was for more of the same, the boat creaked and groaned in her moorings and I gazed out at the squalls after supper and thought to myself, “Why are we doing this?”. We had booked a birthday lunch at Taylors’ Restaurant for the following Thursday, but that was the only commitment for the week. I pondered and made one of my masterful decisions:
“Let’s go home. We’ll cancel the lunch.”
“What now?” said Jane.
It was 2100 and I had just hauled down the ensign for the night.
“Yes”, I said. ”I’ve had enough of this”.
So with no more ado, I donned my foul weather gear and seaboots and retrieved our bags from the car, fighting my way up the pontoon against the wind and rain in the process. Jane emptied the refrigerator and we shut down the boat’s systems. By 2200 we were on our way, me still looking like an advert for Fisherman’s Friend throat lozenges and Jane in a state of shock and bemusement. We staggered into the happy homestead at 0045 on Tuesday morning and collapsed into bed (I did take off my seaboots). It has taken us the rest of the week to recover our sleep and our wits.
Well that’s it then: three score years and ten. What does it feel like? No different, of course. I am still 40 with the mind of a twenty-year-old and the tact of a rhinoceros. Last week, for the first time, Jane asked me if I would like a birthday cake. When, surprised, I replied that that would be nice, she asked what sort I wanted. I replied enthusiastically,
“Fruit cake, please!”
She looked away and I thought I heard a muttered,
“Bloody hell…”
Sensing some reluctance, I tried again.
“Carrot cake, then?”
“It would need refrigeration and we are travelling to the boat…”
Hmm not doing too well in the patisserie stakes here, I thought.
But she eventually relented and went for carrot cake (fruit cake was difficult, not because of the effort or skills involved, but because we had none of the ingredients in stock. I finished the last slice of carrot cake yesterday and, I must say, it was fantastic).
Our conversation moved on to the Special Meal. Regular readers will recall that on Jane’s birthday I normally prepare a special dinner for her (Blog 50) and it is a practice that she reciprocates. This is a double treat because Jane is a superb cook. A few days ago, she asked the inevitable question: what would I like? I thought of my favourites, all of which had been rejected in the past. No harm in trying again – it being a special birthday.
“Beef olives, please”.
“No, you’re not getting that.”
“Chicken Marengo?”
“No, you aren’t having that.”
“Oxford cutlets?”
“No, you’re not getting them either, whatever they are.”
“Cheesy hammy eggie?”
“What’s that, for heaven’s sake?”
“It’s a traditional naval dish, a bit like croque monsieur, but with an egg added. ”
“No.”
“Beef Wellington?”
“No, too rich and too much work”.
Oh dear.
In the end, we settled on barbecued fillet steak: simple, but a treat. True, I will be the chef, barbecues traditionally falling within the purview of the spear side of the family, but what the hell. You know, being Jane’s husband is just one big birthday and just being with her is birthday present enough (was that all right, girls?). Indeed, Jane is looking after me and at my beck and call all day until midnight. I was brought tea in bed this morning and she emptied the dishwasher for me while still in a comatose state at 0700 (her, not me). Now there’s sacrifice! I did try pushing my luck and asking for a foot massage later, thinking that she could refuse me nothing as King for the Day, but she told me to push off; clearly there are limits to both servitude and fruit cakes, even for a King.
It is the duty of the Marine Engineer Officer of a British warship (and, no doubt, other navies too) to carry out a number of pre-sea checks personally before sailing, reporting to the Captain, “Marine Engineering Department ready in all respects for sea, sir”.
It involves testing the ship’s steering in main, local and emergency control, comparing the actual position of the rudders with that indicated by instruments; testing the ship’s sirens from all operating positions, remotely, automatically and by hand; testing the main engine telegraphs; testing the main engine throttles ahead and astern in all modes of operation, remote and hand control; and visually confirming that shore electrical power cables and shore steam hoses (as appropriate) are disconnected from the jetty. It is a laborious but important task and the personal element is a proud tradition. I have undertaken the job on more occasions than I care to remember, rising at some God-awful time like 0500, usually on cold, dark and stormy mornings, in time to get the job done for an 0800 sailing time. It is a principle which I have brought with me to operation of my boat and I have a check-off list for that purpose: when the lines have been let go, it is a bit late to discover that the steering doesn’t answer or the engines won’t engage.
I mention all this because, despite all my experience and methodology, I cocked the whole thing up the other day and nearly killed Jane.
It was before the bad weather and wind came along. The conditions for sailing were very favourable: the sun came out from behind a cloud, the wind was light airs from the east, the tide was at slack water. I made another of my masterful decisions:
“We will go to sea”.
I started the engines. I tested the throttles ahead and astern, I proved the steering from both helm positions, I tested the siren, I switched on the VHF and GPS, I singled up the mooring lines. Taking a last look around, I removed the stern line and told the First Lieutenant Jane in my firm commanding voice,
“Let go for’ard!”
She let go, I engaged astern, and we made gentle sternway out of the berth. Suddenly there was a shout from the fo’c’sle.
“Horatio, the shore power cable!”
We were still connected to the shore power by an electric cable that was running out as she spoke.
She caught the cable just as it parted, her aim being to keep the live end out of the water. Of course, what that meant was that Jane ended up standing there on the fo’c’sle with the head line in one hand and a live electric cable in the other, the boat being otherwise detached from the land.
There was, to put it mildly, much tumult and shouting.
I did manage to manoeuvre the boat back alongside, but Jane – holding a live electric cable as she would a venomous snake – was powerless to throw the head line back onto the cleat on the pontoon. Fortunately, others were passing and lent a hand. All was eventually secure and we could recover the situation. We sailed fifteen minutes later, this time with all umbilical cords removed.
You are allowed to say it. Nay, let me do it for you:
“Shacklepin, you dipstick”.
But I do slice a mean tomato. Unconventionally, in the perpendicular style.
Now if you will excuse me, I must flash up the barbecue. Prepare to be amazed by my al fresco culinary skills.
10 July 2021
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 