“You have done what?”
Jane’s concern for my welfare was touching, but also a bit scary.
“Um….I may, just possibly, have swallowed those old hearing aid batteries you gave me to recycle. I may have thought they were Vitamin D pills, you see”.
She shook her head, more in sorrow than in anger.
“I’m going to have to watch you”, she said.
Dead right, I thought: this was a bit frightening. She had given me the two tiny batteries as I dashed back to the workshop/garage, where I was putting the finishing touches to a wood project. My mind was on other things. When I finished my woodwork I suddenly thought (for no particular reason), “where did I put those batteries?”. I looked in the battery recycling bin: nope, not there; I searched my pockets: nothing there; I scoured the work bench: still nothing. Surely…surely…surely I hadn’t swallowed them, thinking they were pills? I could be daft enough as, bizarrely, it had crossed my mind as something I should NOT do. As described in Blog 74, I am regularly given tiny pills to swallow by my dear wife – invariably some vitamin or other – and I just pick them up and pop them into my mouth (I do not swallow pills with water). Those batteries were about 5mm in diameter, about the same size of a Vitamin D pill, hence my almost Freudian thought of what not to do. I Googled “swallowing lithium batteries” and unearthed a terrifying host of consequences, though all referring to children; other answers seemed to suggest that the alien objects would just pass through the system naturally. I thought I should hedge my bets and inform my next of kin, lest I suddenly develop strange symptoms later in the day, hence the memsahib’s incredulity. Bless her, she is worried about me: the loss of Shirt Presser Boy, Chief Deck Swabber and Mr Fixit could seriously impinge on her horticultural ambitions. As I write this paragraph, some seven hours after the potential ingestion, I am still alive so I am fairly certain that the batteries went into the dustbin. If I am wrong, then the Adventures of Shacklepin and The Stomach Pump will grace this blog later…or the blog will never appear again. Definitely cracking up.
Where would we be without our garbage disposal unit (GDU)? We are fairly unusual in the UK in having a GDU fitted in our kitchen, a luxury that we have enjoyed, in several houses, for about 35 years. I may be wrong, but I believe GDUs, while quite common in the USA, remain a rarity in Britain; certainly none of our friends have such a beast as far as I can remember. I cannot recall why we bought the first machine: possibly it was because I was familiar with the concept from my experience in the galleys of HM ships. They are the best way to get rid of wet and sloppy food waste unless you are prepared to cultivate a wormery in your back garden or have the luxury of a food waste collection, provided by your local authority (we don’t). You tip the remnants of your plate or Sunday joint into the sink, you turn on the tap, you press the button and GRRRRR- WOOSH, the stuff has gone down the plug hole to be digested at the local sewage farm and turned into methane and farm manure: very efficient. I put a whole chicken carcass in ours once (after it had been stripped of all edible flesh) and it was gone in a flash. Well, almost a flash …grinding and evacuation did take a little longer than usual, but it still went. Marvellous. GDUs would be particularly beneficial in flats and other community accommodation, where storage for rubbish is at a premium and at least one UK water company encourages their installation. Elsewhere in Britain, however, you do not see a lot of them in domestic kitchens. It is just one of those curious things.
GDUs can have a ‘down’ side (apart from wrecking great-grandmother’s canteen of silver cutlery after dropping utensils into the whirling mechanism). Interesting sideline, this. As mentioned earlier, GDUs are commonplace in a professional kitchen setting, including in the galleys of ships. There was one US warship, about 40 years ago, which suffered a very serious epidemic of food poisoning – a situation so bad that a formal enquiry was convened to investigate the cause. After a very extensive investigation the cause was found to be the GDU in the ship’s galley. GDUs use a small amount of water to lubricate the grinding process and to flush away the residue. However, freshwater is at a premium in ships as it has to be distilled or otherwise manufactured from seawater, so the design of this particular warship utilised seawater from the ship’s firemain. This seemed eminently sensible as the water was just going to waste anyway. Unfortunately, the GDU in the galley was located next to what is known as the pot wash, a sort of open dishwasher used to wash the serving platters on which the ship’s company received their food, and the GDU was operated in harbour as well as at sea. As the GDU was used, an invisible aerosol of polluted harbour water was emitted, contaminating the adjacent clean food platters which, in turn, poisoned the crew. Who would have thought it? And full marks to the USN medical team who tracked down the cause of the problem.
You know, you can’t beat a good John Wayne film. I switched on the television on Sunday night and started my scouring of the televisual offerings with the aid of the remote control. There was the usual huffing and puffing from my dear wife on my right (who was reading a book), but I ignored that. Anyway, I clicked through the usual garbage, the games shows, the woke propaganda, the dramas with a “message” and the Downright Awful until, finally, I found something worth watching: She Wore a Yellow Ribbon. Now there was a film: when men were men, women were grateful, and the only good Indian was dead Indian. I am amazed that the film has survived, let alone that the snowflakes have permitted it to be shown in 2021: it contained so many shibboleths that the awoken must have been swooning away or having fits as the reels rolled on. It was, of course, a film of its time like every other old film, just as our forefathers were people of their time: we should not apply today’s standards to the past, try to rewrite history, or judge our ancestors; it is how we behave and respect each other today that matter.
One of the trivial things that struck me about the film was that the officers of the US cavalry carried their swords with their left hand as they marched, the scabbard being supported on long slings from the sword belt. Royal Navy officers also carry their swords, which are slung in the same manner (the exception being when worn with a greatcoat, when the sword is hooked up). As a result, when marching off, Royal Navy officers have to flick the sword up and catch the scabbard about ⅓ of the way along; fail to catch it and you trip over the sword (a not unheard of occurrence that causes much mirth among the squad of matelots assembled behind you). A similar action is required in order to draw the sword: you toss it up, catch it, unclip the hand guard from the scabbard, draw the sword and kiss the hilt; at the same time you hook the scabbard onto the sword belt under your reefer jacket. You are then set to board that French frigate blockading the Channel Islands. I mention this because, in the quiet watches of the night, Royal Navy officers are occasionally prone to speculate why they have to carry their swords. With the odd exception – inevitable in the multi-uniformed British army – army officers’ swords are worn, hands free, on the sword belt, as are Royal Marine officers’ swords, and I believe that that is the case for RAF officers too. We were taught at Dartmouth that Royal Navy officers carry their swords in shame for breaking their word regarding promised leniency for mutineers some time in history, the reigning monarch declaring that the penalty would last for all time unto the third and fourth generation. However, a friend of mine is an expert on naval swords and has written the definitive book on the subject; he says such an explanation is complete hokum. Over the 18th, 19th century and 20th centuries the wearing of swords by Royal Navy officers has changed many times just as the uniform has: sometimes they were worn on long slings, sometimes on short slings; sometimes with curved swords and sometimes straight. There was never any instance of a monarch imposing a punishment, but the long slings are necessary today because the sword belt is worn out of sight, underneath the reefer jacket. He claims that the long slings would also facilitate the officer riding a horse (like the US cavalry, in fact). I am not entirely convinced by that equine argument but, either way, Royal Navy officers do not carry their swords in shame. Incidentally, the swords are not issued universally and personally on being commissioned: they are loaned out for ceremonial occasions as required, but most career naval officers buy their own for about £1,000. Mine was made by Wilkinson’s of razor blade fame: it is supposed to be capable of withstanding a two-handed blow against an oak beam but, at that price, I have never put it to the test.
We are back on the boat enduring the worst of the English weather again: gluttons for punishment. It always makes a welcome break from home and the time is used for a final cruise before preparing systems for the winter. This time we achieved one of our ambitions, that of seeing dolphins off the Mew Stone near Dartmouth. Odd though it may sound, it is something I never experienced in 33 years in the Royal Navy, but now I can die happy (but not yet, please).
“Jane, are you doing anything?”, I called from the pontoon.
“Oh, no. I’m just sitting here on my backside twiddling my thumbs”, came the reply.
“Oh good. Can you help me range the anchor cable?”
I ignored the sarcasm, it being the lowest form of wit and something that I, personally, never employ.
With thumps, bangs and muttering Jane appeared on deck, clutching a duster.
“What did you want to do?”, she asked
“Range the cable – the anchor chain. We need to fake it out on the pontoon so that I can mark it with paint every ten metres. That’s how I can tell how much cable is out when we anchor. Now, you can either pull the chain out of the hawse hole, or fake it out on the pontoon. Which would you prefer?”
From the look on Jane’s face I might as well have been speaking Venusian, but she is a long-suffering soul, always willing to help with my little nautical tasks and never complaining. Numbly she scrambled onto the pontoon and headed for the one bit of my explanation that she understood: the anchor.
“Oh good, you want to do that bit. Right, I’ll fake the cable, you pull it out of the hawse hole”.
I demonstrated what was required.
She started heaving on the chain while I laid it out. Dust and dried mud flew everywhere as the chain passed upward from the chain locker, emerged through the navel pipe, passed over the gypsy, and led ashore through the hawse pipe. Soon, the uncomplaining assistant was complaining mightily:
“My trousers!”, she wailed.”Just look at them! They’re covered in mud. And this chain weighs a ton. How much more is there?”
“Not much more, my dear. Only 60 metres…”
“Good God! How much?”
“Not long to go now, my dear. You are doing awfully well.”
I was operating at my most unctuous. I can be very tactful and appreciative, you know.
There was much muttering from the bow as she heaved.
“Stop pulling at it!”, she ordered. “Give me time to get it out. And why are you doing it that way?”
I smiled secretly. There is no task that my dear wife cannot comment on: tying a Mathew Walker knot, rigging sheerlegs, launching a Dan buoy or (now) faking an anchor cable… All you have to do is excite her interest. Two hours later, the job was done, the chain painted at ten metre intervals with the colours of a rainbow (red for 10 metres, orange for 20 metres, yellow for 30 metres and so on); no one can claim that I am not respectful of the LGBT community. Or is it the NHS? I forget. Soon, we were ready for stowing the cable back into the chain locker but, at that point, Jane drew the line: I got the job of heaving it all back onboard while she disappeared onboard. I dare say she wanted to do some embroidery or light sewing. Ah, what a team we make.
I thought I would wrap some insulation around the ventilation trunking that forms part of the boat’s hot-air heating system, the present arrangement being less than efficient as the system loses heat to the engine compartment as the trunking makes its way to the cabins. Once again, my trusty assistant could not wait to help as I lowered myself into the bilges and started disconnecting the trunking. First, I needed to cut the cable ties that anchored the flexible trunking in the engine compartment. I took out my penknife.
“Should you be doing that?”, asked my little auditor. ”Let me get a pair of scissors.”
“Nonsense, woman. This will be fine. I’ll just…ouch! Oh heck, that’s torn it.”
Blood spurted out from my cut finger and dripped variously over the turbocharger, the exhaust trunking, the port tail shaft and into the bilge. The pain in the finger was as nothing to the pain in my ears.
“Did I not tell you not to do that? Oh God, that looks deep. You might need stitches. You might have to go to A&E. Quick, you must wash it before it gets infected from that dirty engine.”
“Nonsense woman”, I said again. ”Just get the first aid box.”
“Where’s the first aid box?”.
The blood, by this time, was forming delightful swirling patterns on the water in the port stern gland.
“On the bulkhead by the conning position.”
She looked blank. I pointed, spraying blood over the saloon carpet.
“How does it open?”.
This, I thought, was beginning to sound like that song, “There’s a hole in my bucket”. Eventually, she got the first aid box open (contents scattering in all directions) and swabbed down the cut. Then we discovered that the plasters in the kit expired two years ago and would not stick. Frankly, the Marx Brothers could not have written a better script. We did get there in the end and – take note of this for I will say it only once – I could not have done that insulating job without my trusty First (and only) Mate. She was great. We are now warm and toasty, though I expect the engines are feeling the cold a bit.
Covid-wise, I have finally given up monitoring and recording the figures. The last I saw, the infections for the UK were still rising, though the hospital admissions and deaths are either steady or rising slightly. Deaths tend to be predominantly among those over 85 with other medical conditions, though that is of little consolation if one has friends or relatives who have died. A friend of mine, an undertaker, told me the other day of the deep sorrow he felt at having to prepare the bodies of three good friends who had died. The general feeling by the government and its experts is that the situation will be nothing like as grave as last year, and currently there is no intention to close down on liberties in England (Wales and Scotland still mandate face coverings indoors and have other restrictions; it has made no difference to their infection rate). I am still sceptical of Boris holding his nerve, but hope we remain ‘free’. The requirement to wear face coverings indoors in England passed to individual judgement on 19 July, but a few shops still ask that customers wear them and one can respect that. However, I saw two shops in Dartmouth that had adopted a more aggressive and robust stance: one had a sign that said, “Face masks are required in this shop” (my italics) and I saw some customers who had innocently entered uncovered being ejected accordingly; another – a ladies’ dress shop – had a sign that said in bold letters, “NO FACE MASK, NO ENTRY”. I was tempted to scrawl under the sign, “No customers either”. My views on the hated ‘F’ Word have been well recorded in these pages, so I won’t reiterate them. All I would say is that there are tactful and less aggressive ways of getting compliance on your premises, and customers like me have long memories.
So here we are, the rain hissing down, the wind gusting Force 7 from the south-south-west, the boat jerking and creaking at her moorings and us snuggled down listening to Classic FM, toasted by our new improved heating system. Jane has a macaroni cheese on the go and I have a bottle of Shiraz uncorked in the drinks locker, just waiting to be poured. Life could be an awful lot worse. Regular readers may wish to be assured that Jane’s shingles (Blog 103) finally cleared up, by the way, after a painful rear guard action, and – oh yes – I never did see those batteries (first paragraph) again, so we will clock that down to experience. Does anyone else in Britain remember Torchy the Little Battery Boy from television in the 1950s?
Press my switch,
See my bulb,
Start to gleam
It’s the most
Magic light
You – have – seen
No? Not old enough? My dear chap/girl/personal pronoun, you missed a treat.
Time for that glass of Shiraz to recharge my batteries, I think. But first, it is sunset and that ensign doesn’t haul itself down.
“Sunset, sir.”
“Pipe the Still.”
”Pipe the Carry On”
Keep calm and carry on.
24 October 2021
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 