Red meat went on ration on 13 March 2023. This was to be the beginning of the new diet imposed by the memsahib after my diagnosis of prostate cancer. I accepted the imposition philosophically, if not exactly ecstatically. It is, of course, written that if a person is sick in body, he must also be made to feel sick in mind too, by bland nutrition: a slop diet, to use a sailor’s jargon. Jane was unrepentant: red meat was bad for me; chicken was good; fish was even better; and meals would be dominated by vegetables from now on. I though of this last edict as I stirred my cauliflower pilau around the plate a few days later, and then I had one of those ‘hang on a minute…’ moments. I had read the thick medical documentation that had crashed through our letterbox in February and, actually, there was no serious mention in there regarding diet, other than that one should be sensible. Then the truth was revealed, quite brazenly, by Jane: our new dietary regime had nothing to do with my present malady. It was being imposed because Jane had been prescribed statins for the first time, the aim being to reduce the level of cholesterol in her blood. Jane was incensed by this development; indignant even. That she, a slim willowy figure who never ate junk food and rarely ate cream cakes (and traditionally exhibited low cholesterol) should suddenly have statins thrust upon her was – to her – a great insult. Moreover, it meant she had to add yet another pill to her daily intake of medication, exacerbating her pharmaceutical logistic burden. She had expostulated at some length on the subject but, when she had exhausted herself, she had made a private decision to tackle cholesterol with her customary zeal: red meat was to be limited to once a week, and this would apply to me too. And here I was thinking it was all to do with me. I did try the usual technique of the wan invalid: the sigh, the back of the hand passed across the forehead, the feeble wish that my last few months on earth might be blessed by a fillet steak; but that cut no ice with Jane. She told me to stop being negative and to eat those last broccoli stems.
The full bone scan went well. I was injected with a radioactive liquid, obtained from a large lead safe somewhere out the back, and I lay on a table while a camera took twenty three minutes to scan my 5’ 6” from head to toe, watched by a Dr No character behind armoured glass. Nothing to worry about there then. Later, I was told that, for the next twenty four hours I should pass water only in the sitting down position. I was profoundly impressed by this instruction, which I had never heard before. Was it, I asked, because of one of those quirks of anatomy – that the male bladder would be more completely emptied if one sat down? Had I been doing it all wrong for sixty eight years? No, was the reply, it was because men tended to spray when they urinated and the hospital did not want radioactive urine contaminating the floor. What cheek! I don’t spray – I have perfect aim at that toilet duck in the downstairs loo. Jane has not yet worked out why it needs replacing so frequently.
What an odd situation we have when a British prime minister is mocked because he dares to state that our children should understand mathematics better. A recent survey by YouGov found that about 60% of those asked felt no embarrassment in being poor at maths. I find the response to the prime minister’s statement to be astonishing and sad, though I suspect what he really meant is that people should be better at numeracy and arithmetic rather than the broader subject of mathematics. L’hôpital’s Theorem, Differential Calculus and even the Theorem of Apollonius may reasonably be described as not everyone’s cup of tea. However, the ability to work out percentages; to be able to calculate the cheapest deal when buying products of differing weights; and to understand the import of Means, Medians and Probability are skills that everyone should have. After reading the result of that recent survey I wonder if, perhaps, the motto of the country should be “proud to be ignorant”.
Alas, the snowflakes have graduated from university and some now populate the Civil Service. The British government has just lost another cabinet minister, this time not because of scandal or sleaze, but because he was too conscientious at his job. He was accused of bullying. Some civil servants claimed to be terrified of him, some claimed to have become stressed and ill working for him, and some complained of threatening behaviour because Raab held up his hand to indicate that a person should stop talking. Shockingly, he once referred to some work as, “useless and woeful” and ordered it to be resubmitted. Unlike some ministers in previous governments, who were well known to have shouted and raved, or to have thrown telephones or kicked gash bins around the office, Mr Dominic Raab’s crime was that he worked daily from 0700 to 2200 and some weekends, in the course of which he dared to hold the Civil Service to a high standard of output. Such an approach was deemed by a handful of civil servants as bullying. Quite correctly an independent enquiry into Mr Raab’s behaviour was instigated, led by a KC. Mr Raab stated that, if the enquiry found a single instance of bullying then he would resign. The enquiry found no instances of shouting, swearing or abuse; no evidence of threatening behaviour or violence; and no evidence that he targeted individuals (which, in my view, genuinely would be bullying). However, the enquiry concluded that the minister’s manner was intimidating and sometimes abrasive, which amounted to bullying. Keeping his word, Raab duly resigned his office of Secretary of State for Justice, stating in his resignation letter that, in his view, his approach to his work had been “inquisitorial, direct, impatient and fastidious” and he had never bullied anyone. It is another one of those irregular verbs isn’t it? I manage, He gives a direct order, You bully. You know, of all the Commanding Officers of HM ships under whom I served, some were unpleasant; many were unreasonable; all were very demanding. None was “nice”. Yet all were professional, first-class leaders for whom I had the greatest of respect. They all ran taut, efficient and happy ships. The Civil Service does not work like the Royal Navy (more is the pity) and I do not doubt that Mr Raab was, in naval parlance, a “hard horse”. However, in my experience one can respect a demanding and hard-working boss and give that extra effort if he considers one’s work not to be up to standard. As it is, I think we have lost a capable minister, and lacklustre work within the government machine will continue to be tolerated.
Jane is addicted to Traffic Cops, Motorway Cops and Police Interceptors on the television, God knows why. As I am sure you can infer, they are ‘fly-on-the-wall’ documentaries featuring many car chases and accidents, truculent criminals and violent thugs. We watched one episode the other day where the team were chasing a stolen van, which tore through residential streets at 90mph, cut dangerously across motorway lanes, and was finally brought to rest on its side in a country lane after failing to squeeze between five cars, damaging all of them. The occupants legged it, but were caught by the police and charged with a whole range of offences. At the end of the programme, as a follow up, the programme reported that the miscreants had been released without charge owing to “a lack of evidence”. Four pursuing police cars with CCTV, one police helicopter and five private vehicles seriously damaged, yet there was a “lack of evidence”? What we need is an active and energetic Secretary of State for Justice.
The BRITANNIA Royal Naval College has retired its fleet of picket boats, used for training Cadets in boat-handling, after a period of service of at least fifty years. The same boats were not used for that period of course – I believe the boats I trained in had come from battleships, a class of warship made obsolete after World War 2. Later picket boats were made from GRP as opposed to mahogany, but they had the same hull form and characteristic: about forty feet long, twin-screw, a high outside conning position, fore and aft cabins that were fitted with seating only. These handsome craft were used to train us in handling twin-screw vessels after having graduated from single-screw open-deck boats, most warships being of the twin-screw configuration. Being able to handle such a craft was an essential step for all us naval officers. Now, the College has replaced the picket boats by a fleet of dreadful-looking slab-sided catamarans with the shape of a shoe box. All the accommodation, including the helm, is inside and orders are given to the deck crew by a loud-speaker system that can be heard a quarter of a mile away. In fairness, all Royal Navy surface warships have had enclosed bridges since the 1950s, so conning from inside is realistic (if challenging) and the new boats do reflect that. I am not sure where the idea of a catamaran came from. I daresay the College is right in its selection, but could they not have chosen something better than a grey floating shoebox?
“Hello old friend”.
Thus, I addressed the lavatory pan as I stood in the “stand easy; take aim; five rounds in your own time – go on” position: legs apart, forehead resting against the cool tiled wall, while groaning a sigh of relief – a stance that will be familiar to most men as usually only being adopted after consuming five pints of Old Toby. I had taken to talking to the lavatory pan because it had, indeed, become an old friend, it having been visited every fifteen minutes for the previous three days. I was exhausted through fever and lack of sleep, but I still thought it important to show appreciation for services well done. But I am getting ahead of myself in this lavatorial saga. Perhaps I should start at the beginning in order to explain why a perfectly sane man should start talking to a sanitary fitting.
Seven days earlier I had, at last, received the excellent news that scans had shown my prostate cancer to have confined itself to that organ, and not gone walkabout. It was a huge relief, and immediately after the consultation Jane and I shot off to Kingswear to relax onboard APPLETON RUM. There was also a need to give the boat a good wash down and to pressure-wash the decks before a hosepipe ban came into force the next day. Yes, that’s right: a hosepipe ban in April, in Devonshire and Cornwall (the wettest counties in England), after the wettest January and March on record. The situation beggars belief. South West Water has imposed the ban in the south west peninsular of England until December, because its reservoirs are only 80% full and the company needs to preserve supplies for the visitors to the region in the Summer so that they can fill their swimming pools and jacuzzis. I despair. I shan’t repeat my rant of Blog 115 (summary: you are a commercial company and I pay you to provide me with sufficient water for my needs, the British Isles being surrounded by water and being graced by the wettest climate in Europe). I will only observe that the directors of South West Water will be among the first against the wall when the revolution comes.
I duly gave APPLETON RUM a damned good soogee and blasting, Jane polished the windows, and we finally settled down to give thanks to The Lord for my good news. As we sat in the saloon with our books, the rain started and came down in torrents. Excellent: welcome to Devonshire and its hosepipe ban.
In the week that followed, many jobs were done. I got stuck in the port stern gland compartment, but extricated myself by removing my left leg; the sun put its hat on, then took it off again; it rained. A normal week then, but we were happy. It was on the Bank Holiday Saturday that the fates decided that I was getting too cocky for my own good and needed a lesson in humility. We took APPLETON RUM away for a spin out to sea, taking with us Carole, our friend and cook/deck hand from our “chummy boat” at the adjacent berth (we thought she needed a break from throwing ropes and being told, “Look lively! Down slack on that back spring”). Down river we gently cruised, the sun shining, but the easterly wind a little chilly. Soon, Kingswear and Dartmouth castles were abeam and we were meeting the usual swell at the harbour mouth. We picked up speed, but it was becoming increasingly cool and uncomfortable and so we decided to return to the river. I then, quite suddenly, began to shake: a violent shivering combined with the inability to get warm. It was becoming increasingly important to abandon our cruise and get back alongside. This I managed, but immediately after we had secured our lines and reconnected shore power I went straight to my bunk with the electric blanket at full chat. There I shivered and shifted despite the input of the South West Electricity Board. I would normally have treated this malady with the standard Royal Navy Sick Bay technique of, “Take two paracetamol, get your head down and stop complaining”. However, what I also found was that, though the urge to urinate was strong and frequent, I was only passing a small amount of water – and that fairly painfully. What to do? No local GP surgeries were open because it was a Bank Holiday; there was nothing else for it but to go to Accident and Emergency (A&E) at the nearest hospital. Dear God – not that. I hate A&E, but – the truth is – I was too ill to care.
Raymond, the Master and Commander of our “chummy boat” next door (and other half of Carole), kindly offered to take us to Torbay Hospital and to wait for us, a service that was later to prove over and beyond the call of duty. The “Accident & Emergency” sign at the hospital beckoned like Charon, the ferryman of Hades, crooking his finger for his next passengers across the River Styx. Or so it seemed to me. I avoid A&E departments like the plague and experience (Blog 66) has not changed my aversion. Inside the small Torbay Hospital A&E were the inevitable halt and the lame, the pathetic mixed flotsam of sick humanity, the insane, the criminal, and the police. I joined them: a short, pathetic, figure, looking and feeling wan and woebegone, and wondering where the lavatory was. Jane sat with me and we braced ourselves for The Long Wait in Purgatory, though we were not ungrateful for whatever care the staff could give me. Actually, the service was good in the circumstances: staff were pleasant, methodical, sympathetic and professional. Time passed by. I was in ‘triage’ after half an hour, samples of fluid were taken, tests were made. I sat down again. More time passed by. An enormously fat young woman, followed by two police officers, wandered hither and thither, mouthing expletives and occasionally stripping half naked; a man in handcuffs with two two prison officers appeared, stayed a while, then drifted away again, untreated; anxious mothers with poorly infants lined up for attention; a young girl hopped in like Skippy the Bush Kangaroo; wheelchairs blocked the aisles. A normal A&E then, though the usual additional ingredients – drug addicts and drunks – were (thankfully) missing, it was, after all, only two o’clock in the afternoon. Finally, I saw the doctor, who was both kind and efficient as she jotted down my sorry symptoms and my history. The results of my blood test were not yet in, but she sent me for a chest x-ray in order to investigate the chronic dry cough I had had since January. Yet more time passed, during which time the lunatic and her two police officers finally left us all alone, more sick people came in, and we baked in the heat of an over-enthusiastic central heating system (at least I had stopped shivering). Finally, finally, the doctor came out and knelt at my feet. She told me that I had pneumonia, possibly with a urinary infection, and was a borderline case for admission.
“God damn my old sombrero!”, I let slip in astonishment.
The doctor went on to say that, as I otherwise looked not too bad, she would let me go home, where I should go to bed and rest. She handed over three boxes of antibiotics and we left A&E with alacrity. Outside, Raymond – despite our entreaties to go home – had waited for us for six hours. Greater love hath no man than this: that a man should sit for six hours in a hospital carpark for his friends. The rest of the saga is fairly predictable: we spent the night onboard, then Jane packed up our gear, stripped the bunk, loaded the car and drove us home. My own bed and my new friend, the en-suite lavatory pan, were very welcome. Jane is an absolute gem. I am still shaky and taking the tablets (as God said to Moses), but things are improving. The full results of the hospital blood test later revealed that I have a Urinary Tract Infection (UTI) overlaying the pneumonia. Now where did that come from? I thought only women caught it. Life is a mystery.
As I write, I am out of bed for the first time and I think I am over the worst of it. I continue to recover: one of God’s little soldiers just plodding through life and trying to bat away everything thrown at me, though apparently not always succeeding (I never was any good at games). Thank heavens I am not someone prone to self-pity, that’s what I say.
So that’s it. I’m off to watch the Yangste Incident on the television with Jane.
“Hoist battle ensigns! Full ahead both engines! Make smoke!”. Excellent.
“How many times have we seen this…?”, mutters Jane beside me, but, for me she will tolerate anything bless her.
Keep smiling and enjoy the Coronation. God Save the King
4 May 2023
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 
Keep writing and smiling and being kind to Mrs C 🥰 xx
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