“All clear!”, Jane called from the kitchen.
“What?”, I asked, looking up, startled, from reading a fascinating article in a technical paper about the ductile brittle transition temperature in mild steel.
“All clear!”, Jane repeated. ”The clearing away after dinner is done. You can come out now.”
Oh dear: in trouble again. I left the dinner table and entered the kitchen warily.
“Oh, have you cleared away? Sorry, I was embroiled in this interesting article…why didn’t you say what you were doing? I thought you were just preparing the pudding.”
Needless to say this launched a long diatribe from her about the stresses of life, having to clear away the dishes after having spent several hours preparing and cooking a Sunday roast dinner…There was a distinct sarcastic element to her reprimand that told me that I was seriously in trouble. Naturally, I apologised sincerely and unreservedly. I explained that I had been distracted; had not realised what she was doing; it had been a delicious meal; the parsnips, in particular, beautifully roasted; she was much appreciated…If she considered my contribution ‘in the round’, I feebly suggested, she would see that I was not all bad: the early morning tea, emptying the dishwasher every day, warming her cold feet in bed, the jolly tunes I whistled every morning, those breakfast fruit salads as a treat…I put my arms around her waist from behind as she stood at the sink, by way of reinforcing my apology, but backed away rapidly when a soapy sponge came round, aiming for my face. The gesture seemed to start her off again. I did try wincing at the pain from my old war wound from the Falklands (when I fell off that chair in the Ministry of Defence), but that cut no ice with Jane. I was in the wrong and I couldn’t deny it. God, this will cost me.
Well! What a time to be writing a blog! There is no shortage of material at the moment. I hardly know where to start. Perhaps the obvious target is the drunken debauchery that allegedly went on in No 10 Downing Street, starting nearly two years ago, when the rest of the country was confined to barracks with lockdown (I will ignore the possible impending invasion of Ukraine by Russia – after all, everyone else has). No less than twelve “parties” have been reported to have taken place, with more breaches of the (then) law probably still to be revealed. The national press, on all sides, has been slavering over the stories with all the relish of dogs let loose in an abattoir. As far as I can gather, most of Britain is bitterly annoyed – nay, furious – at what went on.
I confess, I am struggling to put a positive spin or to give an even-handed account of the continuing saga, but here goes (for posterity). It seems that while the people of Britain were severely restricted in their personal liberty over the last two years because of unprecedented laws imposed to combat Covid19, some civil servants and special advisers working in the seat of government at No 10 Downing Street occasionally had social gatherings, either in the garden of the house or internally. Some drink was taken. The prime minister, Boris Johnson, attended some events, notably a birthday party arranged by his wife. There was a birthday cake. Worse (and I was particular struck by this shocked revelation in the press), there was – it is claimed – singing (a rendering of “Happy Birthday”). These events occurred at various times, but all of them when ordinary folk could not socialise – even outside; could not attend funerals or comfort loved ones; were limited to exercising only once a day; could not sit in a park, on a promenade or a beach; were stopped and questioned by police at roadblocks; and were literally pursued by police drones while walking in the desolate Derbyshire Dales. The inference is that these draconian Covid19 isolation rules were considered necessary to scare the living daylights out of the masses and ensure obedience, but were not applicable to those who actually invented and imposed laws on those masses: “Do as I say, not as I do”. At the time of these social get-togethers, on-the-spot fines of £100 were rigorously issued by the police on ordinary citizens who infringed the isolation laws, with fines of £12,000 imposed on organisers of illegal parties.
In the interest of even-handedness, I have to observe that neither the prime minister nor any member of his elected government appears to have organised any of these gatherings, though Boris Johnson did attend at least two (including his own birthday party): the organisers and main attendees were public servants and political advisers. The events occurred at a time when ordinary clerical workers were told to work from home where possible, but key members of the civil service still had to come into 10 Downing Street to operate the machinery of state; they had been working intensely and closely together in ‘bubbles’ (to use the terminology in vogue at the time), day after day; there was little additional risk of the spread of infection as a result of chatting over a glass of wine. I am not a lawyer, but this seems to create a grey area in terms of what took place in some instances: when does chatting at work become a social gathering? The whole matter has been the subject of a very thorough investigation by a senior civil servant, who has produced quite damning conclusions on what took place. It would be nice if this could be treated as an internal disciplinary matter by the civil service with major reorganisation or penalties imposed, the relevant staff removed, root and branch, and the matter closed. Alas, it would appear that the very people tasked with any reorganisation or discipline may be among those under scrutiny. Externally, a Deputy Assistant Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, no less, has also been appointed to head a police investigation into two-year-old potential offences that could (and perhaps should) have been dealt with by an ordinary constable at the time, issuing on-the-spot fines of £100. Certainly the police providing security in No 10 Downing Street seem to have been aware of what was going on, judging by the way they apparently provided evidence to the enquiry with great enthusiasm; why did they not act or raise concerns with their superiors at the time?
Whatever, the whole thing – inevitably labelled “party gate” by the press – is not only a complete mess, it is all an absolute disgrace and the prime minister is deemed responsible for what went on in his office. His response to the allegations was apologetic, but robust, evasive and barely credible: he claimed that either he did not know what events were taking place, or was not told that the events were contrary to (his) laws. Or possibly both. His reaction was not well received by parliament (including many of his own party) or the country as a whole. It seems to me that, to misquote Shakespeare, there is something rotten in the state of the entire Downing Street attitude and organisation, and the prime minister must take responsibility for it. Johnson used to be very popular with the ordinary man in the street because he seemed as flawed and human as the rest of us. He led his party to victory with a high majority in the general election; he successfully implemented Brexit after the referendum; he presided over an extremely successful vaccination programme and England has emerged well from the epidemic. Sadly, however, this latest scandal may be the straw that broke the camel’s back in a long series of gaffs, U turns, tax increases and distinctly un-Tory new policies. My feeling is that the Conservative party will hoof Boris Johnson out of his office with a vote of no confidence, but – never say die – the man seems to have the hide of a rhinoceros and the luck of the devil.
After all that it seems rather tame to announce that England has dropped Plan B Covid restrictions and we can all enter buildings without a vaccine passport or without a face mask again though, like last July, many people continue to wear the latter as it gives them comfort and reassurance. In Scotland, the devolved government is spending thousands of pounds to saw off the bottoms of classroom doors to improve school ventilation as a precaution against Covid. This, no doubt, will ensure that pupils die of pneumonia or fire instead of Covid, though the face masks they are compelled to wear may provide some extra warmth. An in-depth study by Johns Hopkins University in the USA has concluded that lockdowns had negligible effect in reducing mortality from Covid. The English government has dropped the plan to dismiss any members of the NHS who have not been vaccinated, it being acknowledged that people can still pass on the virus, whether vaccinated or not. Covid cases will no longer be reported after April. Covid deaths are now significantly below the average figure for influenza, hospital admissions are dropping, as are positive cases though the number remains high. From talking to friends and neighbours who have suffered the omicron variant of Covid recently it would appear that – for most people – the symptoms are headache, sore throat, temperature swings, lethargy, fatigue and headache, with recovery after a week to ten days. I do not think we have the virus beaten but, after a long two years, I think we have knocked it down to being bearable and treatable. Certainly, as I have written before, I think we will have to learn to live with it just as we have with the many other diseases on the planet.
Just as a matter of scientific interest, the remote Pacific island of Kiribati has encountered its first Covid cases and has gone into lockdown. An aircraft from nearby Fiji is thought to have brought the virus in, but all the passengers were fully vaccinated and masked; they were tested three times in Fiji (all negative) before departure; they were quarantined in Fiji for two weeks before departure; they were further quarantined and tested on arrival. Yet 36 out of the 54 (two thirds) of passengers who had been onboard the aircraft subsequently tested positive and the virus has spread to the island’s population. Despite the lockdown, the infections are spreading, but there have been no deaths.
Jane and I are still socially isolating towards the end of a two-week quarantine period, the precursor to my minor operation on Monday and required to ensure that I do not bring Covid into the medical centre: a sensible, if over the top, ‘belt and braces’ precaution until you read of the unfortunate inhabitants of Kiribati in the paragraph above. We have still been out on walks during the very unseasonal mild weather, but our expeditions have been out into the countryside, not in towns or shops. I find I can manage about six miles of walking before the pain starts, so at least I am getting some exercise, though a typical walk in normal times would be about ten miles or even fifteen. Isolation hasn’t been too bad, as we have had plenty of practice under the several lockdowns we have endured. I just want to get the whole thing out of the way now and for life to return to normal. I have revived my interest in genealogy during the short winter days (Blog 84) and have spent many hours on the computer trying to tie up loose ends or to make headway with those of my ancestors whose past defy further discovery. Unless you have aristocratic forebears (like Jane), with a family tree already established over the ages, there is only so far back in time that the ordinary bloke can go in his or her research. A key date, for England, is 1837 when the formal recording of births, marriages and deaths was required by statute. Likewise, 1841 was the first useful and fairly complete census. Before those years, baptisms, marriages and burials were recorded by the Church in parish registers, but these only supply limited information. Still, pursuing the seemingly impossible makes a challenging pastime and, even going back to only the 19th century, there are a lot of ancestors to investigate. I did a calculation the other day (this is interesting – pay attention). Each of us has two parents, and each of them has two parents (our grandparents) and so on. So the sequence of ancestors goes: 2,4,8,16…and so on: a geometric series with ratio 2. Now, if you consider that there will be roughly three generations alive in any one 100 year period (me, my parents, my grandparents for example) then in, say, 1,000 years (about the time of King Cnut in England and before Harold) there will be roughly 30 generations of ancestors. I calculate that in those 1,000 years I have accumulated roughly a total 2,147,483,646 (or just over 2 billion) ancestors – including my mum and dad, of course. That will keep me going for a while.
What is it with the media? Why must they exaggerate everything with screaming headlines? And why can they not use correct English? Do they not own a dictionary or a copy of Fowler’s Modern English Usage? At least The Times has a style guide that lays down a standard (I have a copy), even if its journalists do not always stick to it. In the Daily Telegraph I see “invite” instead of “invitation”, “quote” instead of “quotation”, “due to” instead of “owing to” and – worst of all, “naval ship” instead of “warship”. It is sloppy and unprofessional. On the hyperbole front, we never read of “a light dusting of snow”, but instead get, “Snow Bomb Expected in the South West!”; “expect high winds tomorrow” becomes “Storm Lucifer to hit the UK!”. I might add that, where we live, none of these meteorological predictions ever happens. Still, you never know: best I unearth my seaboots stockings and wellington boots.
Thankfully, we get very little snow in England so, when we do, the entire transport system grinds to a halt. This is not so in the USA, particularly on the east coast. In Washington DC on 27 January 1922 – almost exactly 100 years ago to the day – heavy snow fell in the afternoon and overnight, and by the next day the city was under several feet of snow. In the Knickerbocker Theater a silent film was being shown at about 9:00 pm when there came an ominous creaking sound from the roof. Within seconds the entire roof collapsed, overloaded by the tons of snow accumulated on the flat roof, and the audience was buried under rubble. Despite the limitations of communication at that time, a huge rescue effort involving the fire service, police, soldiers and the public lurched into action, but work was hampered by the snow and, in the end, there were 98 deaths and 130 injured. One man was blown clear by the piston effect of the roof dropping en masse into the auditorium, though his girlfriend was crushed. Another man was found in an air pocket, still in his seat and uninjured, but dead from a heart attack. When you read stories like that it puts that one inch of snow on the M11 in Essex into context.
Have you noticed that schoolchildren never go to school now wearing a raincoat or hat? You see them slogging along the street wearing just a pullover, with the rain pouring down in sheets. I am amazed that their mothers let them leave the house like that. Jane says that part of the difficulty they have is that some schools apparently no longer have cloakrooms, so there is nowhere to offload coats on a cold or rainy day. When I was a child in the last century I always hankered after one of those navy blue raincoats with the secret pocket, but my mum couldn’t afford one. I wore my brother’s hand-me-downs instead. I also fancied those Clarke’s shoes with the animal footprints on the sole and the hidden compass in the heel: alas, another failed ambition in the life of Shacklepin.
January has been remarkably mild, with little rain, few storms where we live, and only a few frosts. Contrary to all expectations based on experience, the month passed quite quickly and, here we are, already into February with Candlemas over and Valentine’s Day beckoning. Jane and I have been remarkably adventurous for a January, dining out on two occasions (we normally stick to lunching out, evenings being reserved for an early supper and a sensible cup of cocoa; or maybe a glass or three of wine). But, oh dear, I broke one of my own rules yet again when dining out. Shacklepin’s First law of Restaurants: never, but never, order the steak. I don’t know what it is with British pubs and restaurants – with the exception of really expensive specialist steak houses (and sometimes even with them) they never seem to be capable of cooking a decent tender steak. We dined out, the other week, at a very capable local ‘gastropub’ that we have just discovered. We have never been disappointed with the food but, on this occasion, I felt like going off piste – not least because I fancied chips for the first time in months. I ordered the sirloin steak, rare, at a cost of about £23 and not cheap. It was as tough as old boots. Yes, of course I could have sent it back, but I doubt it would have been any better if I had and it would have disrupted the meal. How can you get steak wrong? Even I can generally barbecue a steak from our local farm shop (admittedly a fillet steak) and produce a good result. It just goes to show that you should never break with your own rules. Jane had pork belly and declared the food excellent. I should have done the same thing.
Barbecued steak aside, alas my ventures into cooking and all things culinary continue to frustrate Jane. Even in the previously safe realm of drinks I appear to come unstuck. We tried to pass through January with alcohol only being consumed at the weekends (Friday night included). The plan was to try to lose a little weight as well as live healthily. Alas this ship of good intentions began to spring leaks when it was thought necessary to finish off a bottle of wine left over from a Sunday night. Another leak appeared when I declared Wednesday afternoon a make-and-mend (a naval holiday) and therefore worthy of some relaxing stimulant in the evening. I think the ship finally started to go under when I observed that Thursday was a day for Extended Long Weekend Leave for some ships in HM Dockyards, and we should follow suit. We finally concluded (yesterday, as it happens) that life was too short to start living the life of abstinence, we being in our 71st year already. I think the phrase used was, “Blow it, let’s have a drink”. Anyway, I suggested we have a gin and tonic the other evening and collected the necessary accoutrements: Plymouth Gin for me, Durham Gin for madam; Fever Tree Tonic for me, Schweppes for her; tall glasses; heaps of ice. But then I paused. When we had imbibed G+T on the boat of our friends Raymond and Carole in Dartmouth last year, they had served the drink with a slice of cucumber instead of lime or lemon (Blog 99). Hmm, it had tasted rather good and it gave the gin a distinct refreshing flavour. I thought I would do the same. I hunted in the fridge and soon found the cucumber, buried in the bottom somewhere. Drawing out the chopping board and grasping our sharpest knife I was just about to cut off two slices when Jane appeared, silently like a ghost, right next to me (how does she do that?)
“WHAT are you doing?”.
“Ah, my dear”, I said, in my best explanatory manner. “This is the technique used by Raymond and Carole, if you recall: cucumber instead of lemon or lime. It made an excellent drink. I thought we would try it.”
I smiled condescendingly, recognising tolerantly that, as her years advanced, her memory was – perhaps – not as good as it once was.
“Really”, was the icy reply. “Why, then, are you slicing a courgette?”
“A courgette?”.
I looked at the long green sausage-like vegetable on the chopping board.
“Isn’t that more or less the same thing?”
“It is not”, she replied addressing me as a matron would address a probationary nurse who was being wilfully stupid. “It is a totally different thing altogether. You cannot eat a courgette raw. Give it here.”
Whereupon she removed the offending vegetable, returned it to the fridge, and replaced it with another long green sausage-like vegetable.
“This”, she said with considerable emphasis, waving it under my nose before thumping the thing on the chopping board, ”is a cucumber. Can’t you tell the difference?”
Nope, I thought, but best to concede defeat and say nothing. I smiled wanly and sliced away. Jane retired, shaking her head. I think she really needed that drink. I looked it up later: the cucumber is your cucurbita pepo and the courgette is your cucumis sativus, both members of the cucurbitaccea family of gourdes. I told Jane, but she said she still didn’t want a courgette in her drink.
So, I guess sliced cucumbers and courgettes will have to join wrongly sliced tomatoes (Blog 97) in the field of my failed endeavours. Ho hum. Say goodnight to the folks, Gracie.
4 February 2022
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 