Fog. Thick, cloying, damp fog, silent and sinister, surrounded us. Despite being only few hundred yards from Dartmouth castle, we immediately felt as lost and isolated as if we were in the middle of the Atlantic. And it was not a nice feeling.
We had taken APPLETON RUM away from her moorings for a shakedown after her long winter rest. Ever the prudent pessimist, I tested the engines in a modest run up river first before turning at Dittisham and heading for the sea. The plan was to cross the harbour bar and, if the swell was moderate (ie if Mrs Shacklepin could stand upright without hanging on to the boat structure), to do a full power run to get the engines good and hot and to try to blast off the accumulated weed and marine life on the boat’s bottom. Dartmouth and the harbour mouth had appeared a little misty and surreal earlier that morning, with fog – like candy floss – shrouding the castles and filling the river valley, yet leaving the hills on either side clear. However, this had started to burn off in the watery sunshine by the time we headed down river, and I reckoned it would be all clear by the time we arrived. The swell was not too bad as I opened up the power and headed for the Castle Ledge Buoy that marks the north eastern edge of the channel into Dartmouth harbour; it was, however, sufficiently noticeable for Mrs S to veto a longer sea excursion and, in any case, the mist was still prevalent. I therefore decided to turn at the buoy and return to the harbour. We shot past the buoy, spun round in a roaring turn like an MGB that had just beaten up a train on the German-occupied French coast…and ran straight into thick, impenetrable fog. It really did reappear that quickly. The rocky coastline that had been closely visible less than a quarter of a mile away had gone, visibility was down to about 100 metres and it felt as if we had been wrapped in a cold, grey, wet blanket. I immediately dropped our speed and assessed the situation. I have been at sea in fog many times, of course, but that was always in a warship with a Captain, two officers-of the-watch, several lookouts, two radars and a full Operations Room plotting team. Here, I was in a 10m motor boat with no radar and one lookout. Fortunately, I did have GPS which gave my position and a suggested course to get back into harbour, which I immediately followed. I switched on the navigation lights (for all the good it would do me). Strictly speaking, I should have been sounding the siren for a prolonged blast every two minutes, but this proved to be impractical as I concentrated on the navigation and keeping a sharp lookout. Occasionally, yachts and other small craft emerged from the fog before veering sharply away as they sighted us, and disappearing again. At one point there was a brief break in the murk, revealing menacing rocks quite close on the starboard side. We crawled gently on, feeling our way through the harbour entrance. We never did see Dartmouth or Kingswear castles at the harbour entrance, despite them being only about 400 metres apart; we missed One Gun Point and Warfleet Creek; indeed, the fog only started to clear slightly when we were coming up to the Lower Ferry, level with Dartmouth town itself. Emerging from the mist, we glanced around us at land and civilisation once more. Jane looked at me, and I at her. There was an unspoken pact between us: we won’t be doing that again.
Easter onboard has tended traditionally to be a very pleasant time for us as we scrub the boat after a long Winter, get used to living onboard again, and re-familiarise ourselves with our favourite walks and haunts – all set against the backdrop of warm Spring weather. This time, the weather was certainly sunny as usual, though it was offset by a cool north easterly wind. Sadly, we also had a tragedy at the marina when a fellow boater had a heart attack on his boat. We became aware of some commotion on the pontoon and looked over at the shore to see an ambulance parked on the quay. Two paramedics marched purposefully down the pontoon past us and then, so it seemed, the whole world erupted. Within the space of about five minutes the Devon Air Ambulance clattered overhead, hovered, then landed in a shower of dust and rubble on a section of waste ground in the marina; with a burst of foam, an RNLI lifeboat creamed up the river, shot into the marina and slewed alongside one of the pontoons; more flashing lights on the quayside heralded the arrival of another ambulance; sirens trumpeted the arrival of a Coastguard Rescue Land Rover and Command car; more flashing lights and sirens preceded the arrival of a police car. The only emergency service not there was the Fire Brigade. In the marina there was one paramedic first-response vehicle, two ambulances, an air-ambulance helicopter, an RNLI lifeboat, two Coastguard Rescue vehicles and a police car. The pontoon looked like a scene from the old children’s television series Trumpton or possibly a model town made with Lego: it was populated by ambulance paramedics in green overalls with face masks but no hats; helicopter paramedics in red overalls and flying helmets; RNLI crewmen in lifejackets, white helmets, and yellow wellington boots; Coastguard Rescue personnel in blue overalls and blue hard hats; and policemen in black uniforms with stab vests and pepper spray. Oh yes, and there was also the marina manager wearing a hard hat, lifejacket and a fluorescent tabard. It could not be said that effort had been spared to save the poor man on the pontoon behind us, but I am sorry to say that, despite immediate CPR by a neighbouring boater and a member of the marina staff, and all the efforts of the emergency services, he died. Tragically, the man was with his grand-children and wife when it happened and it must have been a traumatic experience for them. He did have an existing heart condition and his wife later said that he was known to be on borrowed time; but it must still have been a terrible experience for her and her family. One reads in the newspapers of a failing NHS and poor ambulance response times but, I must say, the response at that marina was astonishing.
As is usually the case, I had a few jobs to do onboard that kept me frustrated, bruised, grazed and fully occupied for a couple of days before I emerged, elated at my success, to enjoy Devonshire in the Spring. There is a very good walk that we often do, leaving the marina and into Hoodown Wood towards Kingswear. The route takes us around Waterhead Creek into the hamlet of Kingswear, then follows the coastal path towards Kingswear castle and onward to Pinewoods. There we escape the coastal path and take a permissive road northwards into the countryside, joining Mount Ridley Road that takes us back into Kingswear again. From Kingswear, we skirt the high Hoodown Wood and follow the lower railway embankment north, with the river on one side and steam trains on the other, to the Higher Ferry slipway, then up Bridge Road and back to the marina. It is a good circuit and only about seven miles in total, but one must bear in mind that all walks on the Devonshire coastline involve climbing long steep hills, descending long steep hills, and climbing back up again. On this occasion, when we arrived back at Kingswear railway station we were definitely ready for a rest. As it happens, we needed some sandwiches for another walk that had been planned for the next day and, as we had no bread or fillings onboard, these would best be obtained from Marks & Spencers across the river in Dartmouth. Normally, we would have walked along the embankment and caught the Higher Ferry across the river – this route because we have a season ticket and the fare is cheaper. This time, however, I suggested we go off piste: I proposed that we take the passenger ferry across from Kingswear station, which would take us straight into the heart of Dartmouth. There was a minor debate about the financial wisdom of such a departure from normal practice, but I made one of my executive decisions in a magnanimous gesture.
“Blow it”, I said. “We are on holiday. We will pay the £3 fare”.
Revelling in our new departure from conventional practice free of financial restraint, we crossed the river, raided Marks & Spencers’ sandwich counter and made our way north to the Higher Ferry.
Dartmouth Higher Ferry is a floating bridge that links Kingswear, in the east, to Dartmouth in the west, as part of the A379 linking Torbay to Plymouth. It has been running, off and on, since the 1700s, but has been replaced once or twice since then and is now a modern diesel powered vessel. Unlike the Dartmouth Lower Ferry, which is a floating bridge towed by a breasted tug (a feat of skilled boatmanship well worth watching), the Dartmouth Higher Ferry drags itself across the river on semi submerged wires. It is the larger of the two vessels and we usually take it to get across to Dartmouth. And so it was that we waited patiently at the slipway waiting for the ferry to berth and noting the strong flooding tide that was pushing her sideways against her guiding wires.
“Hmmm”, I thought, “she might be secured by wires, but methinks there is a lot more to conning that ferry than most people think”.
The ferry sashayed up to the slipway, but could not get lined up straight despite the use of her side-thruster. Then she started to oscillate, yawing from side to side. She backed off and tried again. Then it dawned on me: it was a Spring low tide and there was insufficient water for her to beach: she was grounding before she could get right in. Eventually, she did make it up to the slipway to lower her ramp and discharge her vehicles, but we were stopped from boarding: the service would now be terminated for at least an hour until the tide rose sufficiently. Oh dear.
Wearily, Jane and I plodded back along the Embankment to the main town and the prospect of catching the passenger ferry (fare another £3) back over the river, and a two-mile walk. It would be fair to say that Jane was not a happy bunny. Her feet hurt, her legs ached and unspoken thoughts were emitting from her like gamma rays from a block of uranium, saying,
“And Its All Your Fault!”
I am a sensitive soul, you know. I can tell these things.
But then I had an inspiration: the Dartmouth to Dittisham ferry runs half-hourly and will call at our marina by request. I rang them up: yes, there was a boat alongside leaving in twenty minutes. We boarded, ate our sandwiches in the sunshine, set off, and were dropped off actually on our pontoon within sight of APPLETON RUM. Oh the bliss, the luxury. We hobbled along and scrambled onboard for a nice sensible cup of tea.
“How much was the ferry?”, she asked.
“Ah. It was £7 for the two of us.”
“So it has cost us a total of £10 to cross the river for expensive sandwiches and come back again, instead of just walking straight back?”
“Yes”, I said philosophically, “but we have two luxury Marks & Spencer prawn and mayonnaise sandwiches in our bellies, we have just enjoyed a nice walk on which you did not fall over, and we have used a personalised water taxi service. Let us be content: we are on holiday. Time for a gin?”
Have you ever wondered who governs our country? I don’t mean whether it is the Labour or Conservative party, or even the Liberal Democrats. I don’t mean Parliament. I mean who actually calls the shots? It is a rhetorical question. You see, there have been a lot of instances recently where a government minister has decreed that something is to happen, but the organisation that should act on it says the equivalent of something like,
“Thank you very much, but we aren’t going to do that.”
For example, the Department of Health decrees that hospitals should now allow hospital visitors and should abandon the social distancing rules originally brought in to combat Covid, but some hospital trusts have declared that they will not conform. The Department of Education decrees that universities are to return to face-to-face lectures and tutorials, but many are continuing with distant learning. The government declares that civil servants are to return to their offices, but as many as 75% of staff are still “working from home”. New criminal laws are passed, but the Association of Chief Police Officers lays down which laws the police will actually enforce. I find it utterly baffling. Who is paying these people? Who holds the purse strings? Who is running this railway? I daresay it is my armed forces background that causes my bewilderment and frustration: I am, after all, but a simple sailor. Like that centurion in the bible who sayest to a man, “Go”, and he goeth I expect the elected government to operate the same way. It seems to me that Parliament decides how the country is to be run, tells its officials to implement the policy, and there an end. A department, agency, university, school or government establishment refusing to conform should have its Chief Executive (or equivalent) dismissed and replaced by someone who will do as he or she is told. We are, after all, paying their wages. But there you are: put me in charge and we would have a revolution within a week. Mind you, I already have a list of those who will be the first up against the wall when that revolution comes.
I have not commented on the Covid situation for some time, partly because I have been threatened with pain of death by the Editor in Chief and proprietor if I start moaning about face masks again. For posterity, however, it is worth reporting that infections from the new Omicron variant are still quite rife in the UK, but are in free-fall, as are related hospital admissions and deaths. Most people seem to have either experienced the illness or to know someone else who has had it. Everyone I have spoken to who has contracted the virus has reported to have had either no symptoms at all (like me) or a headache, sore throat, lethargy or feeling not quite right for three days – though it has usually taken up to ten days to yield a negative test result. Some people take longer to recover and people with existing weaknesses are still vulnerable. England dropped the legal requirement to wear face coverings and to practise social distancing in January, though coverings are still insisted upon in medical settings such as hospitals, doctors’ surgeries, opticians and dentists (the last, I find particularly odd). “Track and Trace” (the facility to record where you have been and to trace people who may have picked up the virus from you) has been abandoned. Vaccine passports – the proof that you have been inoculated – are not required anywhere (except if going abroad in some cases). Covid lateral flow test kits are no longer issued free to the general public in England and there is no requirement to report the test result. There is no longer a legal requirement to stay at home if infected (though it is recommended). Overall, the feeling I get from asking around is that most people seem to think we should get on with life and live with the virus by being sensible.
I will not dwell on the appalling invasion of Ukraine by Russia with all its attendant brutality and atrocities: you can read about that in the newspapers. I hoped I would never see war in Europe in my lifetime, but there it is: with one stroke the president of Russia has set his country back forty years or more and has totally abandoned all civilised values. Most people thought it inconceivable that one European country would still invade another in the 21st century. Alas, the events in Ukraine prove that you cannot assume a damned thing.
With the coming of the sunshine, Jane has decreed that we should revive an earlier plan – agreed during a moment of weakness (or perhaps intoxication) – of spending one day a week in a different town or visiting a property: “going for a drive”, as my parents would have called it in 1960. Much discussion followed, notably because of our new requirement to take into account the range of our electric car, or the availability of charging points at the destination. We finally agreed on Exbury Gardens near Southampton, a private garden owned by the Rothschild family. I reckoned we could just about make it there and back without running out of energy. Jane loves gardens. Gardens are to Jane what a boat chandlery selling stainless steel deck fittings and cordage is to me. And so it came to pass that we set off on a bright sunny day full of anticipation and hope.
The journey took us, without incident, through the New Forest, with its roaming wild horses and ponies, to join a convoy of vehicles whose occupants clearly had the same destination in mind. I was incensed. Who were these people, travelling in school term time in the middle of a working week? They could not all be on holiday or retired, surely, and why weren’t those children at school? Very poor: we had hoped to have the gardens to ourselves (I was never good at sharing toys when I was a child, either). Whatever, Exbury Gardens proved to be near Lord Montagu’s little pad at Beaulieu (for the benefit of any non-English readers, this is pronounced Be-YOU-lee to rhyme with ‘newly’ – it is one of those little things that we English do to annoy the French after 936 years of Norman occupation ie we mangle their language). The gardens are on the shore of the Beaulieu river and were created, along with Exbury House, by Lionel de Rothschild just after the First World War. They have been enhanced since by successive descendants in the family and now include a small-gauge steam railway. The gardens, but not the house, are open to the public for a modest fee. The carpark was already half full when we arrived at 1030 and a queue of the halt and lame was already lined up at the ticket office, shuffling forward to the single window. Jane had booked and paid for the visit in advance, but someone (it would be inappropriate for me to reveal his name) had deleted the details from the joint email account viewed on her mobile phone so some human contact, explanation and grovelling would be required. I nominated Jane as being the most likely to succeed in such intercourse without upsetting anyone. As it was a windy day, I repaired to the Gents’ lavatory to put some toilet water on my hair while these negotiations progressed. Jane was successful in her negotiation, but was annoyed at having to queue with the hoi polloi who had just arrived on spec; usually these places have two ticket counters: one for members or those with pre-booked tickets, and one for customers who are paying on the day. Not at Exbury, apparently, though the (single) receptionist was doing a splendid and cheerful job in difficult circumstances. As it happens, armed with the paper substitute for our e-ticket, we just waltzed into the gardens past the queue of pensioners and also-rans. No-one checked our ticket as we entered and there was no physical gate. If we were dishonest and cheeky then I suppose we could have just walked in for free, but we are readers of The Times and The Daily Telegraph: we don’t do that sort of thing.
My plan on entering was to institute my standard U-boat square search pattern, such practice being efficient in all other situations where there is an exhibition, show or outdoor venue to peruse: it ensures that all aisles, stalls or paths are covered and we can depart confident that everything has been seen. However, for some strange reason Jane insisted on wandering at random along the many paths, smelling blossom, taking photographs, dallying, and generally behaving in a disorganised manner: most extraordinary behaviour, but that’s what gardens do for you. In fairness, the gardens were beautiful and very colourful, being populated mainly with well-established rhododendrons and azaleas. The colours were vivid, with bright blue, red, yellow and white flowers predominating; the scent of the smaller azaleas filled the air and it was a very inspiring experience. The grounds extended to about 200 acres, so were big enough to explore without running into other people or shuffling along as if shopping in IKEA. Naturally, we dived off the main paths and so were able to enjoy almost a personal experience. The river walk to the south was particularly enjoyable as it had a fine view of the tidal and peaceful Beaulieu river, with its moored boats and birdlife.
Despite the randomness of the exploration we did manage to cover every path, nook and cranny and reluctantly joined one of the main paths littered with old folk and strange people in shorts and flip-flops heading for the exit. I say ‘strange’ because there was a brisk northerly wind blowing, it was 12C (54F), and distinctly cool in the shade. What has become of British sartorial standards? However, I fear that battle was fought and lost some time ago – I merely mention it in passing. There was a quite reasonable looking café/restaurant on site outside the gardens called “Mr Eddie’s”: a title which initially put me off as it suggested fast food of the pizza or burger variety, but in fact it was named after Edward Rothschild, who had done so much to enhance the gardens after WW2. We went in, but it soon became apparent that the establishment suffered from the format so common in Britain: it was self-service. The routine was that you found a table (inside or out), noted the table number, queued for twenty minutes, ordered your food, then (presumably) returned to your table to find someone sitting there. I have never understood this setup. Why could we not be like the French, with their professional waitress or waiter service? I suppose, if you had a spouse, partner or chum then you could dump them at the table as an army in occupation, spreading the chairs with coats, haversacks and other impedimenta and, indeed, that was what most people seemed to do; but as to what you were supposed to do if you were single or had a partner unwilling to act as a doorstop, heaven only knows: eat your baked potato while standing semi upright in the cold and leaning against a tree, presumably. Whatever, as you have probably guessed, we abandoned the eating section of the visit after waiting five minutes in the dining queue and, finding ourselves at a loose end, decided that there was nothing left to do but go home.
Incidentally, re-reading that last paragraph, the Beaulieu river is the only instance that I can think of, offhand, where we say use the word “river” as a suffix, as they do in the USA and Australia. We would normally use the word as a prefix like, “the River Beaulieu” just as we say, “the River Thames” or “the River Rhine”. Interesting that.
Now tell me: what is it with women and donkeys? Why must they go all gooey whenever they see these equine variants? We passed a patch of common land in the New Forest inhabited by these creatures and I was immediately ordered to stop in order that Jane could take many pictures of “the little donkeys and their foals”. I had to pull off the road in a shower of dust and wait patiently while she took numerous photographs of these creatures from close range. Bizarre. Totally bizarre. And she later lost the photographs from her iPhone.
It is one of those characteristics of life, a corollary of Murphy’s Law perhaps, that when one wishes to travel on British roads one will inevitably encounter (a) a tractor, (b) a horse box or (c) a car towing a caravan. And the drivers of these vehicles will always harbour an ambition to lead a Lord Mayor’s Show. Our departure from the donkeys was characterised by the first of my list: not one, but two tractors – each towing a large container of unidentified malodorous organic material. Along the New Forest ‘B’ roads we trundled at 15 mph, the carriageway being too narrow and too speed-limited to overtake (the wild horses, you understand). Eventually, we came to the main ‘A’ trunk road where, we hoped, the tractors would exit to a field, but no such luck. On the convoy rolled, like an exotic Eastern caravan transiting from the Orient to Europe bearing Marco Polo on a camel. Up hill, and down dale, through forest and pasture, we trundled on – the procession growing longer and longer and, I would guess, stretching as far back as Exbury. Where on Earth was Farmer Giles and his farmhand going? To Southampton? To John o’ Groats? We must have crawled down that road for twelve miles, over an hour, with not a hope of overtaking on the busy road. Eventually, a dual carriageway appeared and we managed to shoot past at 70 mph, along with a goodly portion of the motoring public. Heaven knows where those tractors were heading, but taking them on such a long journey was utterly ridiculous. Why couldn’t the farmers travel in a Nissan Qashqai like everyone else?
One of the problems of being of mature age with a wealth of experience (ie old) is that I tend to scrutinise every historical drama of the 20th century to the nth degree for anachronisms. It is just unavoidable. As far as I can tell, the film and television industries appear to be quite good at getting the period detail correct before the 20th century, but when they make a drama that encroaches on living memory their success rate is dismal. I was not alive during WW2 (honestly, I wasn’t), but I can remember life in the early 1950s, ten years later. At that time, Britain was still recovering from a long war and everything was shabby. Food rationing was in force until 1954. Some houses were quite literally falling apart and most internal plasterwork was cracked because of shock damage. Paint was peeling and woodwork was rotting after six years of no maintenance. Bombed sites were everywhere. The people were poorly dressed in clothes that had been mended several times. Bathrooms with running hot water were a luxury, and outside lavatories were common. Only rich people bought and drank wine, and they obtained it from a vintners. Olive oil came from a chemist and you put it in your ears. All women permed their hair and men’s hair had short back and sides; they all looked old, even those in their twenties. It is rare that a film or drama encapsulates that atmosphere accurately, though there are some good exceptions: Vera Drake, a film set in 1950 about an abortionist and starring Imelda Staunton, was one of the best I have seen for costume, scenery and drama; A Private Function, starring Michael Palin and Maggie Smith, was another perfectly accurate depiction of life during rationing in a Yorkshire town in 1953. For some reason, the commonest failure by film makers is usually the men’s haircuts: you see films about WW2 in which there are slim young men with their modern five-o-clock shadows and coiffured hair flying a Spitfire, as if they had been simply plucked from 2021 and transported back in time. Their uniforms on set are neat and well-pressed and rarely show the wide trousers, high waists and baggy battledress that existed in reality. I mention all this because we were watching a new drama the other day, a dramatisation of Why Didn’t They Ask Evans? by Agatha Christie. Set in the 1930s, it was well acted, but – for some reason – the scriptwriter had decided to make the main male character an ex Royal Navy Lieutenant in his mid twenties, with a chum who was black, had a moustache, and was an ex Midshipman “on a naval pension”. They got the naval salute right (unlike the British Army and RAF we salute with the palm down, like Americans), which made their moustachioed Midshipman – who appeared older than his chum, the Lieutenant – all the more baffling. A Midshipman is two ranks below a Lieutenant and, in the 1930s, would typically be still in his teens; he would certainly be nearly ten years younger than a Lieutenant and neither would be eligible for a pension. And no-one in the Royal Navy wears a moustache (Blog 56); even if the “retired” Midshipman had grown one since, he would not be seen in uniform with it. The final death knell for the costume department came with the Midshipman’s uniform: a bizarre concoction with brass buttons around the sleeves like that worn by a Chief Petty Officer. Yes, yes, I know I am being a pedant about something most people wouldn’t notice, but it is an affliction that I have to bear, and I rather suspect that others of my age will have the same problem. The fact is, basic errors in costume and historical accuracy destroy the credibility of a production, whereas accurate depictions add to the atmosphere and greatly enhance the dramatic experience. To this day, I can still remember the bleak and austere setting of Vera Drake and the hunger-inducing food rationing depicted in A Private Function. Retired Midshipmen indeed. Hrrmph.
“If those birds continue to eat that bird food, I will take it away!”
So spoke Jane the other day as we munched our toast and marmalade in the breakfast room, aka the Garden Control Tower or conservatory. I raised an eyebrow.
“The pigeons!” She explained, with some ire.
Yes, Mr Pigeon is back (Blog 47). He and his mate are sitting on her plants, eating the little birds’ food and generally being a nuisance. Already Jane is reaching for the air pistol – a worrying development as she does not know one end of the weapon from the other. Hey ho, Spring has come. We had a warm spell the other day and, to my amazement, Jane appeared downstairs with polished bare legs, painted toenails, sandals and a light summer skirt. Two hours later she was back upstairs putting on a vest, trousers, socks and a Fairisle sweater, having experienced the atmosphere outside when she went out to exterminate a few slugs and snails. The weather had “taken a turn”, as they say though, looking back at Jane’s diary and my old blogs, it is performing almost exactly as it did last year: sunshine, not much rain, cold wind, cold nights. Bird life is teaming in Shacklepin Towers and we wake to the beautiful call of the blackbird. Our bird feeders attract goldfinches, great tits, blue tits, house sparrows, dunnocks, chaffinches, starlings and one grey squirrel. Less welcome are the galumphing great wood pigeons, magpies, crows and jackdaws but – as I told Jane – they are all God’s little creatures, just like us. It is nesting time and already blue tits have taken residence in our oldest bird box, ready to hatch in early June. They spurn the nice new precision-made box that I constructed last year, preferring the more ancient battered structure bolted to the shed – heaven knows why (maybe it is the family home). Great tits have taken residence in the bird box designed for sparrows. Fledgling blackbirds are already trying to fly, and one landed on Jane’s shoulder the other day as she was fiddling with the clematis. It is a wonderful time of the year in England. Zip-a-dee-doo-dah.
Meanwhile, among the humans the general madness continues. Edinburgh Napier University is instructing midwives on how to deliver babies from a “birthing person” who has male genitalia (it must be a very long lecture). A children’s book has been pulped by the publishers because one of the characters in the story, transported magically into a souk with his friends, says something like,
“Keep together – this place looks hostile.”
Apparently the phrase (taken out of context) was regarded as Islamaphobic despite the author being married to a Muslim.
Will the idiocy ever end? Beats me, but it does provide us with hours of amusement, and we must be grateful for that.
Now, if you will excuse me, I have been ordered to go out into the garden and scare off a few pigeons. I am a man of many talents.
30 April 2022
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 