Blog 113. Mercy Mistress.

The memsahib has taken to wearing horn-rimmed spectacles instead of her usual gold-rimmed designer pair, and I am finding the new headmistress look to be very threatening, intruding on my safe space. I feel I should complain to somebody, though I am not sure to whom. The headmistress appearance reminds me of Miss Fair, the headmistress of my infant school in 1956, who would threaten you with The Strap if you were sent to her for naughtiness. I do not recall any child actually being lashed by this instrument or, indeed, of any child who actually saw it; but the threat was enough to strike terror into the heart of any five-year-old and there was no disobedience in those days. I read recently that about 40% of primary school teachers admit to not marking pupils’ homework, partly for the obvious reasons such as they are too busy or cannot be faffed to do it, but also – significantly – because they apparently are concerned that marking a pupil’s work as wrong is too negative and may upset the little darlings, traumatising them for the rest of their lives. I am at a loss to understand how children will ever learn from their mistakes under such a policy and, as to life-long trauma and their mental health, I submit that it would be nothing compared to the memory of being threatened with a strap while five years old, an experience still remembered 65 years later. Corporal punishment was, of course, the norm for my generation, with the cane being administered for quite minor misdemeanours from about the age of nine. Unlike the apparent practice in public schools, where pupils were flogged on the buttocks, the state schools that I attended caned you on the hand, which bruised rather than stung, and the pain lasted for days. It was quite a good ultimate deterrent for misbehaviour, but my experience was that it was over-used and often administered unfairly. I was caned once (along with several others) for not remembering the formula to calculate the area of a circle; on another occasion the entire class of 40 was caned for absolutely nothing (I think some teachers enjoyed the power). The swimming instructor at the public baths (my secondary school did not have its own pool) was fond of hitting us with a short length of hosepipe for errors: I was whacked for doing the breast stroke kick incorrectly, though I had never actually been taught it in the first place. Were these punishments unfair? Undoubtedly. Did they scar me for life? Hardly. And at least I know that the area of a circle is Pi x radius squared, and I have an RNLI life-saving certificate for swimming,

Anyway, to return to those horn-rims, that headmistress image of Jane still scares me. I tried representing my trauma and my concern for a safe space to Jane, but she gave me a headmistress look, which set me off again. Fortunately, the horn-rims are only temporary while her usual gold-rimmed, ‘please-may-I-have-an-extension-to-my-mortgage’ frames are being fitted with new lenses, so back to normal soon.

My first thought, lying there on my back in the garage/workshop after falling from the loft ladder, was to call for my dear wife. They tell me that the common cry of soldiers who have been horribly injured in war is for their mother but, thankfully, I was not in that tragic condition, besides which, my mother is long gone, so calling for her would do no good at all. As it happens, calling for Jane in the main house did no good either: I tried using my mobile phone, but her mobile number went unanswered and our landline was engaged. This, I muttered, was typical: the first time I need help and she’s gossiping on the phone to some friend about tradescantia or something. Ho hum – I metaphorically shrugged my shoulders, stood up, dusted the sawdust from my trousers and hobbled back to the house, remembering to develop a pronounced limp because of my sprained ankle. As it happens, Jane had the perfect excuse because it turned out that she had been answering a call from an old friend who had called to tell her that her husband had died. My sprained ankle and bleeding wrist couldn’t trump that one. I have no idea why I fell – accidents, by definition, occur when you least expect them to. I think my ankle gave way on the last rung of the ladder and I tumbled down, cutting my arm on a sharp piece of machinery in the process. I am, of course, unhurt apart from the twisted ankle, so no flowers or messages of sympathy please. Oh, you weren’t going to bother anyway? Fair enough.

Incidentally, to make things quite clear, I fell; I did not “have a fall”. My godson, who is far too clever for his own good, once observed that there must be a certain age when one graduates from, “He fell over” to “Oh dear, he’s had a fall”. I have not yet reached that age, thank you.

The incident did make me think of just how much we men depend on our wives. How did we manage before we were married? I always remember the experience of a fellow officer of mine when I was serving in an aircraft carrier. He was a pilot who managed to get himself locked in in the Officers’ Club of the US Naval Base in Mayport, Florida (I believe a good time had been had by all, and he had fallen asleep behind a sofa or something). His immediate reaction, when he found that he could not get out, was to pick up the telephone and to call his wife who, of course, was still in the UK where the time was 0500. Strangely, his plea for help was neither welcome nor successful.

The recent sequel to the film Top Gun (Top Gun – Maverick, starring Tom Cruise) has received good reviews and revived the interest in naval aviation. I understand that the original film did wonders for recruitment to the USN (who quite blatantly set up recruiting booths in cinema foyers where the film was showing) and I daresay its sequel will be just as successful. Jane and I went to see it and thoroughly enjoyed it. Though the action is very similar to Star Wars and the story is a bit slow at first, the action sequences are quite spectacular and make up for the minor shortcomings. I can testify from experience that the depiction of naval aviators, of whatever nationality, is entirely accurate: arrogant, cocky, exceptionally brave and completely crackers. One naval pilot once told me that being catapulted from the deck of an aircraft carrier was the next best experience after sex. He did not comment too much, however, on the experience of receiving a “cold shot” ie of the aircraft not taking to the air but, instead, dropping off the front of the flight deck and the ship running over the top of the aircraft while it is underwater. In such cases, the best practice was to wait in the cockpit until the ship had passed over (you could tell by the shadow overhead and the noise of the ship’s propellers), then eject underwater. Ejecting before the ship’s propellers had passed overhead meant being fired into the bottom of the ship or being shredded. As I said earlier, they are all completely crackers and irritatingly successful. Of course the uniform helps: the flying suits with the badges like Dan Dare, the RayBans, the wings on the sleeve or breast, the air of casual panache…all are calculated to make women swoon (I am less sure about the effect women aviators have on men – make them feel inadequate I should think). The aura that these aviators exude is such that, inevitably, some of the other members of the ship’s company in an aircraft carrier would like to embrace it and – perhaps – embellish their own roles onboard. When the old HMS ARK ROYAL visited Mayport some time in the 1970s, the ship’s company was tickled pink after an announcement was made on the ship’s main broadcast following the arrival of a lady at the gangway seeking her young man whom she had met in a bar the night before:
“The chef who flies Phantoms, report to the for’ard gangway”.

This year is the Platinum Jubilee of the succession to the throne of Queen Elizabeth II and what a celebration it has been. Jane and I missed all the pageants, celebrations and street parties because we had decamped to the boat, but we did dress ship overall (ie put up a few flags) and recorded the television extravaganzas for viewing later. I must say that, despite my generally cynical outlook as I approach my dotage, I was both impressed and moved by many of the events that we watched later. It was clear that an immense amount of planning had gone into all aspects of the official celebrations and organising security for the events must have been an absolute nightmare; but the enthusiasm and professionalism displayed by everyone was heart-warming and inspiring. Trooping the Colour was particularly spectacular, and I could empathise with the soldiers taking part: unless you have served in the Armed Forces you cannot appreciate just how difficult it can be even to stand perfectly still for a few minutes without fainting, let alone march together or complete complex manoeuvres. On the spectator side, there was an awful lot for the royal family to sit or stand through and the Queen herself was unable to attend every event, relying heavily on her close family to represent her. What Her Majesty thought of the noisy concert that bombarded Buckingham Palace in the evening will never be known (perhaps she wore ear plugs), but her subjects seemed to enjoy the occasion immensely and The Mall was packed solid. Overall, the whole jubilee seemed to bring the British together as a whole and to be proud of our queen and her total dedication to the job as underpinned by her solemn oath given 70 years ago. When the jubilee was over, the National Union of Rail, Maritime and Transport Workers reiterated that it would implement a series of strikes on the railways and London Underground and “bring the country to a halt”. The unity was good while it lasted.

After the Jubilee, another great lady celebrated her anniversary. I refer, of course, to Jane’s birthday, which we celebrated at home. Once again she was made Queen for the Day and granted all manner of privileges: a lie in to a time of her choosing; tea in bed when called for instead of at Call the Hands (0700); sparkling wine with breakfast; a freshly plucked rose on the table; fruit salad; scrambled egg on sourdough toast. I made a bit of a faux pas by serving her fresh strawberries in her breakfast fruit salad – alas, they were earmarked as pudding for the supper that evening. Also, apparently you are supposed to extract the stalks before serving, but – heh – full marks for trying. As an outing, I took Jane across into Wiltshire to visit Chisenbury Priory, a country manor open under the National Garden Scheme (the entrance fee goes to a local charity) and she was in her seventh heaven. The house was a 17th century edifice built on the site of an ancient priory and the garden was beautifully-kept, very varied and huge. Tea and cake were also available, taken in a marquee on the lawn. Lovingly, Jane touched every flower and pronounced the identity of every plant as we walked around. How she remembers them all I have no idea. The sun shone, the tea and cake were excellent and she was able to admit that, for once, it did not rain on her birthday. We had a barbecue for early supper: fillet steak from the local farm shop supported by lamb kebabs and sausages, preceded by a couple of glasses of Pimm’s and washed down with some excellent Maclaren Vale 2019 Shiraz from one of the Dominions. We would have had strawberries and cream for pudding if someone hadn’t used them up for breakfast. After this repast we were, as you can imagine, ready to repair to the drawing room to collapse on the sofa and relax, perhaps watching something undemanding on the television. The former option was adopted, but Jane claimed she was not bothered about watching anything on the box; I could watch whatever I wanted while she read an improving book. And this is where I made my mistake. Magnanimous in my concern that she enjoy the last few hours of her birthday to the absolute limit, I insisted that she choose a television programme – whether live, recorded or on Amazon Video – that she would like to watch. To reinforce the offer and demonstrate my sincerity, I handed over to her the television remote control, like King John ceremonially handing over the Royal Seal to his Chancellor. To my mild disquiet, and with what I thought as an indecent lack of lengthy consideration regarding the benefits of simply reading her book, she grasped the control and declared her intention to watch the recording we had of the Jubilee Pageant and the Jubilee Concert. I am not a great one for pop music and modern concerts. As I have pointed out to Jane on numerous times, I was out defending the northern flank in the stormy Arctic Ocean when she was hitting the discos. I don’t know a Kink from a Door, a Smith from a Suede or Morrisey from mumchance. I missed out on culture by the selfless pursuit of doing my duty: a sacrifice made so that Jane and others could enjoy the blessings of the land with the fruits of their labours, not expecting any gratitude or medals…and not getting any either. But I digress. I sat through the Jubilee Pageant, which started well, but did go on a bit – I’ll swear some of the parade were going around for a second or third time. I sat through the subsequent concert featuring Diana Ross without complaint, indeed, Miss Ross gave a very good performance even if you disregarded her advanced age. But taken as a whole, Jane’s indulgence did start to get a bit wearing. The sun outside had set long ago and we sat in semi darkness, Jane clearly very happy and me feigning enthusiasm while surreptitiously completing a cryptic crossword on my iPhone. At last, it all ended and we switched on the lights. I breathed a silent sigh of relief and wondered to myself if we could still catch an episode of Midsomer Murders. Alas, Jane was already paging through the list of recorded programmes and had alighted on no less than six episodes of the Chelsea Flower Show, the first of which she selected with alacrity. It took all my willpower to suppress a despairing moan. So there I sat for another hour listening to Monty Don wittering on about bloomers and perennials, muck and mulch. I was just about ready to eat my right arm when, at last, it was all over. Jane had one hour of her birthday left but she decided to end it snug in bed. I said a silent prayer: there are only so many rhododendrons (or whatever) that you can look at. I think she enjoyed the day.

Now here is another of my occasional moral dilemmas for you to consider: should you praise an event or entertainment for how much pleasure it gives you, or for the effort that the entertainers put in (even if not terribly good)? We trekked over to Salisbury one evening to see a classical concert in Salisbury Cathedral. It was a bit of a long haul, but it was a light summer evening so the trip was not too onerous. The Bath Philharmonic Orchestra was due to play a number of classical pieces by Elgar and Debussy and the setting promised much. Indeed, as we sat there in the ancient cathedral with its inspiring architecture and the evening sunlight shining through the stained glass windows, the acoustics perfect, the performance sublime, the music washed over us and transported us away from the troubles of the world. However, what we had not noticed when we booked the event was that the concert was a joint venture with a local school and a collection of young people who also intended to entertain us with their music. Interspaced with the Elgar and Debussy movements were some – how can I put this – avant garde pieces that rather jarred with our tastes. At the end of these items, some members of the audience gave a standing ovation. We were totally nonplussed: it had not been that good; indeed, I am sorry to say that we thought the music was pretty awful and not at all corresponding to the theme we expected. We could only presume that the applause was for the youths’ efforts as opposed to the actual product. Jane and I looked at each other and another of our tacit mutual pacts was sealed: at the interval we sidled casually to the lavatories, then slunk nonchalantly through the cloisters to the open air and escape. We noted that a procession of other members of the audience were doing exactly the same thing, but still we felt rather guilty. But what would have been the point of sitting through something we did not enjoy? Should we have stayed for the second half and suffered in order to support embryo musicians, as if attending our child’s school concert? Of course, what we should have done was read the concert programme before deciding to book the event, then our consciences would not have been challenged. Whatever, we were offski, and enjoyed a very pleasant trip home across Salisbury Plain in daylight, on a summer’s evening, followed by a pleasant nightcap at home. Still feeling guilty.

We are back on the boat, which we have been visiting off and on, one week at a time. As I write, the rain is belting down and a northerly wind is gusting Force 4 to 5. No change for June there then. In all fairness, the weather hitherto had been not too bad. Thursday was a hot day at 27C. Pre-warned by the weather forecast, we took APPLETON RUM to sea in the forenoon and headed for Slapton Sands where, only the previous day, a dozen or so illegal immigrants from France had landed, to be collected by anonymous cars with blacked-out windows and then whisked off into the hinterland. The sea was glassy smooth and calm – so calm that we cruised along at the previously unheard of speed of a mere four knots. Jane was happy: no roar of the engines, no bouncing from one wave crest to the next, no kettles thrown onto the galley deck. What we in the Royal Navy call “signing-on weather”. Just west of Blackpool Sands (a popular local private beach) we dropped anchor in five metres of water and prepared to relax in the sunshine and just soak up the atmosphere. Then we started to roll: a wicked whipping roll that seems to be a characteristic of APPLETON RUM whenever we anchor at sea. There was no reason for it that I could see – no swell, no passing boats, no significant wind. Like a horse tossing her head, APPLETON RUM just heaved from side to side, 30 degrees or more each way. We could hardly keep our feet. After twenty minutes of this we gave up, weighed the anchor, and set course for Dartmouth, again at four knots, and we did not roll at all: baffling, totally baffling. Like last year in the heat (Blog 98), we cruised up river and anchored in Dittisham Mill Creek and prepared for another day of warmth and tranquility: peace, perfect peace, G&T on the quarterdeck, no rolling. Bliss.

The next day dawned with a clear blue sky, the promise of another hot day, and a brisk southwesterly wind that would offset the heat nicely. Jane surveyed the scene around our anchorage and expressed the desire to take the inflatable tender up Dittisham Mill Creek (it being an hour after high tide) in order to explore where the rich people lived. I was a bit more dubious, as the creek completely dries out at low water and I had no wish to be stranded in mud for six hours in the heat. I was also doubtful of the depth of water. We compromised by agreeing to the expedition, but leaving the outboard motor behind, lest its propeller foul the river bed. There are no prizes for guessing who was manning the oars. However, the situation balanced itself out when Jane found she had to sit in the stern facing me, would not sit on the inflatable hull because of the outboard motor mounting lugs sticking into her cute little derrière, and so chose to sit on the bottom deck of the tender. The drawback to this position became apparent when suddenly she cried out that her shorts were wet because of the water slopping around in the bottom boards, closely followed by the revelation that the water had soaked through her knickers too. I expressed my deepest sympathy, naturally, as I heaved on the oars against the ebbing tide and we crawled our way up the creek. I do not suppose you have ever pulled an inflatable tender (we do not row a boat in the navy, we pull it), so take my word for it: it is not easy. For a start, you are facing the wrong way when pulling the oars, and that makes heading in the right direction tricky. Few inflatables have a keel, so they are very hard to steer, having a tendency to skid all over the water instead of going in a straight line. In our case, in addition, one of the oars has its blade not quite at 90 degrees to the rowlocks, so that it does not bite into the water as well as the other. Net result: we tended to go around in a circle, with Mrs Wet Bum giving frequent direction changes as if she were conning a battleship. In the end, I turned the tender around and moved stern-first, pushing the oars like boatmen do in the Mediterranean. The tender still had a slight bias to one side, but at least I could see where I was going and could correct it accordingly. The downside was that more water splashed over the stern and soaked Jane’s bottom a bit more, but I felt sure that she thought the discomfort was worthwhile when measured against the delights of a very placid and scenic Devonshire creek with touches of Daphne du Maurier and the potential to meet a handsome French privateer. The return journey was easier, as we simply drifted down with the ebbing tide in the creek; it only became harder when we entered the main river and I had to pull with all my might to get back to the boat without being swept down river in the general direction of France. Like all tidal rivers, when the Dart ebbs it does so with a vengeance and the current was a good 1½ to 2 knots. At last, we managed to hook on to APPLETON RUM and hoist in the tender. Jane went off to change her lower clothing and then the two of us collapsed in the shade to quaff an ice-cold lager. It was very hot, but not as hot as it would have been if we were ashore or alongside. The wind blew mightily and reached Force 6 at one point, but as the evening drew in it moderated sufficiently for us to weigh the anchor and return to our berth alongside, there to have long showers to wash off the many layers of caked-on sunblock. The sun really can take it out of you and we were as exhausted as if we had completed a ten-mile hike, but there are compensations: we sat on the upper deck and watched the sun go down as we sipped glasses of Pimm’s. Excellent.

19 June 2022