The heat was hot and the ground was dry, as the tautological lyrics by the pop group America say. And, behold, the British establishment and its media have found something else to terrify us with. Yes, the UK has experienced a ‘heat wave’ and we are all doomed. Health warnings are broadcast, schools are closed, the weather forecasts are coloured deep red, thousands of Brits are predicted to die, and we are being told to drink water, stay indoors, or wear a hat and sunscreen if we must go outside. I wonder that They have not decided to impose yet another lockdown; after all, that seems to be the panacea brought out of the filing cabinet on these occasions, under the file heading ‘Do Something – This is Something’. To be sure, the temperatures experienced briefly in some parts of the country were the highest recorded at just over 40C, and even if we make allowances for the fact that they were at RAF Coningsby and Heathrow airport, where the radiation from the concrete runways can be expected to bump the figures up a bit, that is still something of a record. However, the temperatures have not been high for an extensive period, as they were in the other ‘heat wave’ in 1976, and to hear the Meteorological Office and the Department of Health nannying us one would think that a huge section of the British public did not travel abroad every year precisely to experience just such sunshine and temperatures. And before you say that, when abroad on holiday, we do not work in the heat I would observe that other countries do, and seem to function perfectly well in such temperatures: the USA, Spain, Italy, Australia, Middle Eastern countries…none of them grind to a halt when it gets hot. True, our engineering infrastructure is not designed to resist extreme temperatures: railway lines buckle, power lines sag, asphalt melts and few houses have air conditioning. However, most cars, large shops and many offices do have that luxury – unlike the situation 46 years ago. House insulation is much improved too. What is needed is advice on adapting using the facilities that we do have, such as not leaving doors or windows open in air conditioned buildings; chilling our homes overnight by opening the windows and sealing all shut, and closing curtains or blinds during the day to keep out the hot air; starting and finishing work or school earlier. In the longer term, yes, we need to design our infrastructure to cope with higher temperatures, but in the interim there is much that can be done and we could do without the State nannying and terrifying us yet again.
The hottest days in July found us on our boat in Dartmouth, yet again, in almost identical conditions experienced – to the day – as those last year. No 40C for us, just a very pleasant 28C maximum, offset by a cool sea breeze. We took APPLETON RUM to sea and anchored off a beach near Slapton Sands, accessible only by boat. The sea was a beautiful aquamarine and distinctly inviting, so I opted to go for the first swim of the year. Jane, naturally, declined to join me, the waters of the English Channel failing to come up to the standards of the Caribbean Sea and Alligator Pond where she was brought up and holidayed (not that Alligator Pond sounds terribly inviting). The water off our beach near Slapton was…refreshing. However, unlike Jane, I was brought up on summers on South Shields South Foreshore, washed by the bracing waters of the North Sea where no alligators could survive; I soon adjusted to the water off Devonshire that day and swam happily around the boat, diving to look at the propellers and resting by hanging on to the anchor chain. Soon, however, I tired of that and my mind wandered onto alternative employment. I looked at the beach, 100 metres away and decided we would launch the rubber dinghy and row ashore, there to relax on the secluded beach and take in the sunshine away from the motion of the boat. I put this suggestion to Jane, who looked dubious, but she was persuaded to agree by the promise of a stable platform, continuing sunshine, and the attraction of a quiet life from my nagging.
Splash. The dinghy was launched. In went the oars, the baler and (more gingerly and with great fuss), Jane. She did not have a bathing costume, this outfit being stored in a sealed container at home in a safe deposit box, which is never opened unless proceeding on holiday to destinations in the northern hemisphere south of the 45th parallel; instead she wore a pair of shorts, a polo shirt and a lifejacket. At least she left the cardigan behind. Off we set for the shore: two SOE agents landing on an enemy-occupied coast, but in broad daylight and with no warlike intent. Or possibly Sean Connery and Ursula Andress lookalikes reenacting a scene from Dr No (you decide). The sea was flat calm and the waves lapping the shore were minimal. As we reached the beach the dinghy surged forward on a wave and grounded on the shingle beach.
“Perfect”, I said, and prepared to disembark.
Whereupon the receding wave sucked us back off again into deep water. We tried to land twice more and the same thing happened; it was not at all what I expected, given the sea state, but there it was. For the fourth attempt, Jane offered to climb out as we grounded, taking the bow line with her; she would then pull in the dinghy so that I could get out too. We shot in and grounded. Jane climbed over the side and got one leg on the shore. Then, three things happened almost simultaneously: first, the dinghy was sucked back out (as expected); next, Jane lost her balance and sat with a loud splash in the shallows up to her waist; and, finally, with a sharp ‘bang’ and ripping sound, Jane’s automatic lifejacket burst into life – immediately endowing her with two enormous orange breasts like Mae West. I, of course, was swept back out to sea in the dinghy, doubled over with laughter.
In the melee that followed, Jane managed to roll over and completely immerse herself in the sea, but eventually stagger up the beach and pull in the dinghy, and I clambered out. The next problem then revealed itself. The beach was not sand, but a mixture of coarse and fine shingle, the former so painful on bare feet that you could hardly walk on it and the latter so fine that it was like quicksand, submerging the feet and legs half way up the shin. We sat on this unwelcoming and uncomfortable moonscape for a good five minutes, hanging onto the dinghy because there was nothing to secure the bow line to, and pondered on our ‘desert island’. I made one of my executive decisions:
“Best we row back to the boat then. No point in sitting here”.
However, launching the dinghy proved no simpler than landing it: paradoxically, every time we shoved it off and clambered in, the sea washed us back onto the beach again. In the end, I had to push the dinghy out with water up to my chest, then clamber onboard, rapidly grab the oars, and pull mightily to get away from the shore. Back onboard, it transpired that at no time had Jane realised that her lifejacket had inflated (it was pretty hard to miss). Moreover, when she had a shower and changed, she found that she had imported a fair quantity of shingle and pebbles in her knickers from her involuntary immersion. She kept two pebbles as mementos; I asked if I could have one of them for my personal collection, but she refused. I bet this never happened to Sean Connery and Ursula Andress, but it is their loss.
The ‘landing on a tropical beach for for sun, sea, sand and seclusion’ had not, perhaps, been the success that I had hoped it would be, but I was undeterred. Later in the week we motored around to Scabbacombe Bay, to the east of Dartmouth and, again, anchored just off the beach so that I could have a swim. This time we kept the dinghy (and Jane) onboard, but my imagination was inspired by the opportunity for further aquatic adventures. My mind cast back to my childhood to the adventures of Hans and Lotte Hass. For the benefit of younger readers (if any) I should explain that the Germans Hans and Lotte Hass were pioneers of underwater diving in the 1950s and featured in several documentaries on black and white television on the BBC (the only TV channel) for most of that decade. How would it be, I thought, if I acquired a wet suit, face mask, snorkel and a pair of swim fins (note: the professional ‘fins’ not ‘flippers’; I was nearly a ship’s diver once, you know)? I put the suggestion to Jane, citing the many adventures and opportunities that this would afford. Encouragingly, I did think I heard her mutter something like,
“…Lord, you make a mother glad”,
though she might have said,
“…God, not another fad”.
Whatever. She vetoed the purchase of a wet suit on the basis of cost which, in hindsight, was perhaps just as well as she might have been unable to resist the temptation of my hard athletic body encased in a tight-fitting black neoprene outfit (the rubber, you understand). Or possibly I might have looked like a beached walrus. The purchase of the mask, snorkel and fins went ahead grudgingly, however, and they arrived from Mr Amazon the other day. Things seem to have moved on since my day, and the mask is a very nifty full-faced affair with snorkel combined, rather like you see in SciFi films being worn by spacemen. I tried it out on arrival and decided to surprise Jane as she pegged out the washing. Unfortunately, as I appeared behind her looking like the Yorkshire Ripper on a bad night, she gave a mighty shriek and beat me with a pillowcase snatched from the washing line. Oh dear: in trouble again. Still, never mind: roll on our next trip to the boat, keep your fingers crossed that the sea is a bit warmer, and stand by for tales of underwater adventures, perhaps involving a giant squid. Or maybe a jellyfish.
Of course, not all our adventures have been waterborne. As a break, on one day we took the bus from Dartmouth to Kingsbridge by way of experiencing a new adventure. You may well ask how simply travelling on public transport from one small Devonshire town to another, a distance of a mere sixteen miles, is an adventure. If you do, then clearly you have never travelled on Devonshire roads in the South Hams. Up hill and down dale our bus rattled, on tiny narrow roads designed for horses and carts. At one point, the clearance between the side of the bus and the walls on either side was no more than six inches. Beside the coast, the land fell away from the side of the road with the prospect of a sheer and fatal drop if the bus missed a bend or the driver decided to sneeze. The bends in the road were so tight that only one vehicle could get around them at one time and frequently the bus had to stop while entire queues of traffic coming the other way had to back up. At one point we met a pantechnicon coming the other way and it was our turn: the bus, a single-decker, had to reverse 400 metres back though a village, past parked cars, and around a tight bend to make way for the bigger opponent.
Anyway, we eventually hove into Kingsbridge after one hour, yes, one hour to do sixteen miles. We had planned to stay on the same bus, on a future occasion, as it went on to Plymouth. However, that journey would have been three hours in total, with the prospect of a further three hours to get back. We thought one hour on that bus was quite enough. Kingsbridge proved to be a delightful little town, some miles inland, but with a creek that dried out at low tide. Unlike its close neighbour downstream, Salcombe, on the coast, it appeared to be undefiled by the yuppy maritime holidaymaker trade and we rather liked it. Unusually for these modern times, it was well provided with a variety of little independent shops: ironmongers, butchers, bakers, even candlestick makers. There was a nice market too, with a very good second-hand book stall. It was getting on for lunchtime so we decided to seek out a small brasserie or café where we could indulge in a modest repast. To our surprise, suitable establishments seemed hard to come by. Regular readers will note the defining adjective, ‘suitable’. To Commander Shacklepin, this means modest and quiet establishments serving imaginative light lunches without beef burgers, with a respectable clientele comprising no noisy children, no dogs and no rough men. Naturally, this eliminated every pub and most eateries in Kingsbridge as did exist. Up the steep High Street we trudged in a rain shower, seeking the impossible. We found only two candidates: one was long and narrow like a railway carriage, suitable, but full; the other was a delicatessen called Mangetout that seemed to fit the bill (I do think a French name gives a place a certain je n’ais ce quoi, and such a better choice than calling it the Cauliflower or the Snap Pea). We found a seat at a two-seater table and scanned the menu with relish. It all looked rather good and I elected for the croque-monsieur. And then my nemesis arrived: a mother with a toddler and a babe in arms sat some distance away from us and the baby started grizzling. I said nothing, resigned to the – now familiar – ordeal of being unable to enjoy my meal in peace and quite. Jane, however, perhaps sensing my resignation and long face, stood up and determinedly led us further into the restaurant, there to sit on a long bench at a long, refectory-like, empty table. We ordered our food and drink and relaxed as it arrived…just as nemesis to the power ten arrived in the form of a father, mother and two very small children.
“Do you mind if we sit here?”, asked the mother pleadingly, indicating the other end of our refectory table.
“No, not at all”, I smiled genially and mendaciously. ”Feel free”.
And so began God’s punishment on my misanthropic and paedophobic soul. Throughout lunch the little boy fidgeted and bounced on the bench, transmitting every movement to me. He climbed down frequently and wandered about. Periodically, the little girl screamed in that piercing, high-pitched, way that little girls do for no apparent reason. The parents were decent folk and genuinely tried hard to contain their brood; to be fair, they were just a normal family. But our meal was a washout and I couldn’t wait to move on. The food was excellent and good value for money, and we would definitely return to Mangetout…but not in the holiday season. Ho hum, that’s life. And God, I accept my punishment and promise to be a more tolerant man in future. Honestly.
Devon people are so laid back that they are practically horizontal. In the town we came across a policeman having a casual chat with a taxi driver while the latter simply stopped in the main road, with traffic behind him.
“Well now, my lover, how’s the wife?”
“ Not so bad, thanks Tom. She be at home paintin’ the shed. Lovely day i’n it?
“Oh, arrr”.
And all this with the cars piling up behind and patiently waiting.
After two hours we were ready to go back and experience the reverse of the ‘going’ trip. This time, we met a double decker bus coming the other way and our bus had to back up, pushing back all the cars behind it at the same time, like a train. The driver of the double decker got out of his cab and strolled casually back to assist and direct the reversing, but – get this, there was no antagonism or harsh language from either driver; it was all good humoured.
“There you be, boy! Thought we might have to pop in for an ice cream while we waited there.”
Having guided us back, the other bus driver, just as casually, strolled back to his bus and climbed onboard, no rush or haste, then squeezed passed us. A further encounter, with a camper van, proved more difficult and it looked like we were in a Mexican Standoff: the bus could not go back, being stuck on a narrow bridge on a curve, and the camper van seemed incapable of doing so. Eventually, some bloke in a car behind the camper van got out and directed the latter backward to a safe refuge so that we could get past, causing everyone else behind him to shunt backwards up the hill, round the bend, at the same time. Devonians are so laid back, they are almost horizontal: it must something they put in the water.
Well, I suppose I have to mention some things that are topical, if only for posterity. Few ordinary people mention Covid 19 now, apart from those who want something to worry about or have a vested interest. It is still around and, apparently, has generated some cases though I am unclear as to where the statistics have come from as we stopped mandatory reporting months ago. I understand the current batch of infections is high (I think one in fifteen Britons has it), but has peaked and the number is on the decline. Most of my friends have had the virus and all report the same thing: either mild or no symptoms, or the same unpleasant symptoms as influenza. The current strain of the virus is undoubtedly very infectious and, for a very small number of vulnerable people, still dangerous. But for the vast majority of people, most of whom have been vaccinated, it has reduced to being just another malady that has to be lived with. This is just as predicted by the epidemiologists months ago and vindicates their vaccination strategy. An emerging problem is the reduction of natural immunity to normal diseases such as influenza, particularly among children, caused by the lockdowns; but that is another story.
Following a series of senior resignations from his Cabinet, Boris Johnson has declared that he will resign as the UK prime minister as soon as a replacement has been elected. In the UK, which does not have an elected President but a prime minister who is ‘first among equals’, this means that the Conservatives Party (known colloquially by the historically derogatory term ‘Tories’) must simply elect a new leader to fill the post of prime minister. There is no requirement for a General Election. As it stands, two candidates are left, one of whom will be selected by members of the Conservative Party (estimated at some 160,000 strong) to be the leader and, hence, prime minister. I understand that the result of the ballot will be announced in early September. Both the candidates are worthy contenders, in my view: Liz Truss, the current Foreign Secretary, and Rishi Sunak, the former Chancellor of the Exchequer. Truss seems likely to be the winner as I write.
I thought I would try a little grooming. Notice my use of the modern down-with-da-boys terminology; I hope you are impressed. Until quite recently I thought that ‘grooming’ was something to do with horses. Then it took on a more sinister meaning when it was used to describe men exploiting teenager girls. Apparently, it means a third thing too. Initially, I had no idea what the woman in the up-market department store perfume area was wittering on about as she accosted me during one of my transits to the gadgets department. Then I cottoned on that she was trying to sell me perfumes and potions, and I was both astonished and slightly revolted at the same time.
“Look at me”, I said to the woman. “Grey hair, stout brogues, tweed jacket, tie; probably drawing a pension. Do I really look like the sort of person who would wear perfume and rub creams into my face?”
But she was undeterred, pointing out that lots of men ‘groomed’ themselves nowadays. Then Jane joined in and I was up against two of them. They bond, you know.
“You never wear aftershave”, said Jane, ”and your face is drying out and wrinkly.”
“Those are not wrinkles!”, I retorted in protest. “They are humour lines.”
This produced a snort in response.
“And the lines around my eyes”, I went on, “are the result of looking at a thousand horizons when I was Second Officer of the Watch in a destroyer.”
This produced another snort and a rolling of the eyes.
“Besides”, I added, “Englishmen don’t wear perfume and scent like Johnny Foreigner. Englishmen wash.”
I could have added that I had experimented with macho aftershave (not scent or cologne) in earlier years: Old Spice was a favourite at one time, and I had used a great deal of Brut in the 1970s because of its alleged aphrodisiac effect on women, I being a virile young fellow at the time. I cannot honestly say that Brut was terribly successful for me in that department: I must have been applying it incorrectly or it might have been the natural immunity of the women whom I met. Odd that – surely it could not have been he who was anointed at fault? Whatever, I rarely wore aftershave after that.
The incident with the Perfume Woman had obviously sown a seed with Jane, however, and it became apparent that she was not going to give up. It was her wish that I start grooming myself. Dear, oh dear. Where to start, and with what? Finally, during a trip to London, I identified something that struck a balance between masculinity and femininity. We called in to Taylor of Old Bond Street located, paradoxically, in Jermyn Street. Do you know it? It is a fine, long-established emporium for discerning gentlemen containing a cornucopia of aftershaves, creams and colognes. Between us, Jane and I compromised on a suitable aftershave balm and aftershave lotion in sandalwood. I parted with a significant amount of cash and transported the tiny bottles home as if they were nitroglycerine. The next day dawned. I shaved carefully with my wet razor, then applied the after-shave balm. Hmm, my skin did feel pleasantly soft, I thought. Then the sandalwood aftershave lotion: a dab here, a dab there; a splash under the chin for luck. I decided I would call it Jane Bait. Now to try it out. I sidled up behind Jane and kissed her neck. She started to tremble; she turned; tears of emotion were streaming down her face.
“My God”, I thought.”It really works. She’s taken the bait. Why didn’t I use this stuff before?”
I went to kiss her, but she started coughing then burst out laughing.
“I don’t know what you’ve got on”, she said, “but it’s making my eyes water. Did you bathe in the stuff? For heaven’s sake, wash it off”.
So that was that. Grooming. Women: you can never satisfy them.
“Your legs are flaky”, said my dear wife to me as I dried myself after a shower. I looked down at my firm muscular shanks.
“Flaky?”
“Yes. You should rub in some of my moisturising cream. It’s on my bedside table”.
“I’m not rubbing women’s cream on my legs”.
“Yes you are. Your skin is getting old and needs help. Get on with it”.
She can be very forceful sometimes. She commands, and I obey.
“And make sure you use the right cream. It’s the stuff on my bedside table”, she added with emphasis, no doubt alluding to that time when I used her face cleanser instead of sunscreen.
I shrugged and proceeded to apply the cream. I had completed 1½ legs when she re-appeared, looked puzzled, and picked up the moisturising cream. Her mouth fell open, but no words emerged. I confess, it is the first time I have seen my dear wife lost for words. Periodically she would move as if to speak, then stop again. A guilty look crossed her face. Finally, she managed to speak.
“This was the cream on my bedside table”, she said unnecessarily.
“Yes dear, and that is what I am using”, I replied smugly – for once, having listened properly to what she had told me to do.
“Right”, she said.
It turned out that, instead of directing me to the moisturising cream, she had inadvertently directed me to using her body lotion, an age-reversing cream so rare and so expensive that it might well have been derived from the milk of an Uzbekistan yak and smuggled through Afghanistan at huge personal risk; a cream which, had it existed 2,000 years ago, would doubtlessly have been brought as a gift for the baby Jesus by Balthazar. And I had lathered it generously on my short hairy legs. Jane’s dilemma was visible and an absolute picture. She was torn between berating me for using the wrong cream and admitting that she had given me the wrong instructions.
“Surely you must have read what it said on the bottle”, she tried.
“No dear, I have absolute faith in your instructions”.
“But…”, she spluttered, again lost for words.
“I obey the last order, dear”.
She gave up. I now have the legs of a 25-year-old, moist, supple and muscular; and, of course, perfectly formed.
Now if you will excuse me, it is time for a shower and the implementation of my new punishing cosmetic régime using Jane’s vast array of potions. I wonder what ‘depilatory’ means. Any suggestions?
1 August 2022
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 