You know, there is something about electric hedge trimmers; like their brother, the pressure washer, they become habitual very rapidly and you always want to cut off a bit more foliage with them. I reflected on this as I gave a jolly good trimming to the berberis hedge the other week, swiftly followed by a damned good hack at the pyracantha that borders our modest property. The memsahib had been muttering about these tasks for some time and I had conveniently ignored her, gardening not being one of my favourite pastimes. Eventually, however, her persistence won through and I appeared at breakfast in my Gardening Rig (No 48) of stout working trousers, robust cotton working shirt, steel toe-capped boots, goggles, ear defenders, and face mask with hat on standby. I hate gardening, as I have declared in these musings many times. That garden hates me too, and it never resists the opportunity to scratch, impale, infect or infest me. I dress accordingly. It is not often that Mrs Shacklepin gives me carte blanche to use the hedge trimmers. I think the last time was when she authorised me to trim the back hedge of our previous house which contained some of her prized roses. To my credit, I did query the order, but she told me to go ahead. The result, of course, was the horticultural equivalent of the Valentine’s Day Massacre, with severed roses everywhere, but an incredibly level and well-trimmed hedge. Jane was apoplectic. That was in about 2001 and I have been very closely supervised ever since (footnote: the roses actually revelled in their punishment, like Scottish nationalists under the jackboot of Nicola Sturgeon, and produced fantastic blooms thereafter). Anyway, to return to 2023, the berberis looked good after its haircut and the pyracantha simply reeled under the impact of my assault, undertaken with the aid of The Big Step Ladders. I left Jane with a huge pile of extremely thorny detritus and the comment,
“Same time in twenty two years dear?”
I did not hear her reply.
So here we are, well into Summer at last. Inevitably the authorities have been warning us of extreme heat for the last two months, culminating in the latest terrifying term of an impending “heat bomb”, supported by weather charts coloured dark red, just like last year. In point of fact we in Melbury have been freezing under cold northerly winds and temperatures of 19C since April. The temperatures predicted for June were 27C, the sort of heat that the British seek when they go to the Costa del Sol or beyond. What is it with our modern civilisation, that the populace has to be warned about warm weather? Why can we not take a positive approach to this, what is, I am sure, to be brief hot weather?
“Gorgeous week coming up, folks: as hot as the south of France. Make the most of it”.
Instead, we get,
“Oh, my God. This is is start of the Earth frying because of global warming caused by you folk driving in petrol cars and having electric lights. Five years [again] before we all perish.”
What a miserable bunch of so-and-sos we have in authority. Just enjoy the sunshine, have a sip of water and put a hat on for heaven’s sake. Oh, and keep out of the sea – it’s freezing. As I write, we have had two weeks of balmy warmth (yes, warmth) at 29C. What is the problem?
Well, the washing machine gave up the ghost on a Thursday. I tried the usual engineer’s trick of a well-placed kick, but it still refused to work and – indeed – emitted a defiant smell of burning insulation. Oh dear. Our usual repair man opined that the machine had had a good innings after ten years of service, and suggested we get a new machine. I sighed: here we go – more money. Now, one would think that, in our modern consumer world, ordering a new washing machine would be a simple and quick process: go to the Which? website and locate the best machine; identify a good price online; order it; wait for it to be delivered and installed the next day (or near enough). Reality was far from it. John Lewis, our favoured supplier, could not deliver until the following Thursday; others could do no better. Finally, we found that Appliances Direct could supply and fit by the following Tuesday. It was not ideal, but it fitted in with our varied itinerary so we went ahead. After the firm had taken our money, we heard that actual delivery and installation (it is an integrated machine) would not be for two weeks. Oh, wonderful: what, pray, are we to do in the meantime? This set me pondering on what my mother had to do back in 1950: she had a large tub in the outhouse, filled with boiled water from kettles and pans (known as a “poss tub”), soap flakes, and the clothes were pounded manually using a broom shank known, inevitably, as a “poss stick”. The clothes were scrubbed on a washboard with Sunlight soap, wrung dry in a hand-operated mangle and hung out to dry on clothes lines strung across the back lane behind our house (there to be soiled again by the coal lorry delivering the coal). By the time I was about five she had graduated to an enormous free-standing washing machine in the kitchen, filled with a hose. The wringer (weighing several kilograms), operated via a dog clutch, was housed in a secret compartment in the base. I can remember sitting in front of the machine for two hours or so, watching and reporting the temperature gauge’s creep to full power – an early indication of my future life as an engineer. Now, of course, we just throw the clothes in a modern front-loader, press a button, and wait for it to beep when all is done. Or not. Anyway, to return to 2023, Jane and I contemplated what to do about our dirty washing. We tried asking a neighbour, and they showed every assistance short of actual help, granting us free access but warning that their machine might be full of dog hairs, like their house (clever ploy that – we ‘passed’ on the offer). We concluded that there was nothing for it but to use- wait for it – the local launderette. Oh dear. It has come to this. Have you ever used a launderette? Of course you have, perhaps when you were a student or single. We used them quite a lot when we had a narrow boat and cruised extensively on the inland waterways. With very few exceptions, they are something of an experience. Usually located in the poorest part of towns, they are rarely venues of welcome cheer and convivial affluence. Ours was no exception. We have visited it before when we take in our duvet for its annual clean (it is too big for a domestic washing machine): we give the manager a tenner and leave it with him to wash and dry. This time, we actually had to go into the premises and use a machine ourselves. We approached the laundrette gingerly. The paint was peeling off the door frame, the windows were dirty and the machines looked grubby. Tiles on the floor were lifting in places. It was the sort of place where you felt you should wipe your feet before leaving. Jane muttered that our clothes were likely to come out dirtier than when they went in, but we had no choice. In half an hour the job was done and we took the dhobying away to dry. Dear oh dear, why did the place need to be so tatty? Could the owner not give the machines a wipe down periodically, clean the windows and invest in a pot of paint? The whole experience brought home to us what it must be like for those poor people in a flat with no washing machine or tumble drier, and maybe that reflection was no bad thing. When we win the lottery, after bunging a few thousand to you, my faithful readers, I will set up a series of clean, decent, well-maintained laundrettes in our provincial towns; just because you are poor doesn’t mean you have to be dirty. Here at home, our new washing machine arrived last week. It is quieter than its predecessor and more energy efficient. It sat there for three days after installation, humming smugly with a green tinge as it worked its way through two weeks of accumulated dirty washing. Oh, the joys of modern domestic life.
This year, Jane’s birthday passed without the usual fanfare. We did dine in our favourite Dartmouth restaurant, Taylor’s (no dogs, no infants, no riffraff), as a combined event with my birthday (to come) in July. It was, as usual, absolutely perfect. This year I decided not to wear the No 5W Rig like I did in 2022 (the lightweight cream suit, the Panama hat, the Britannia Association tie [Blog 115]), but opted – instead – for the casual No 6 (Relaxed) Rig: the double-breasted navy blue blazer with gold buttons, the white trousers with the stitched Italian shoes, the short-sleeved pale blue shirt and (this may shock you, dear reader) – no tie or cravat. I kept the aviator sunglasses, naturally; how else could I unobtrusively observe the holidaymakers in their flip flops, Sports Direct shorts and Tee shirts who stared at the two of us as we strolled through Royal Avenue Gardens like the man and woman who broke the bank at Monte Carlo? We sat in the window bay of Taylor’s on the first floor (second floor for American readers) on a perfect summer evening, overlooking the Boat Float and watching the world go by. Jane had pan-fried scallops and king prawns with garlic butter to start, followed by fresh Torbay sole; I had the tian of shelled prawns and crab, followed by pan-fried sirloin of veal. All this was washed down with large glasses of a New Zealand Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc (not for paupers). We were so replete at the end of it all that we did not order a pudding, something unheard of for Jane, though perhaps just as well as the bill came to about £150. Yes, it was a touch expensive, but birthdays come only once a year, and welcome cancer news usually only once in a lifetime. We returned to the marina, as we had arrived, by the specially-hired Noss-Dartmouth ferry, which was also expensive at £18 for a return trip to Dartmouth, one mile away. Jane muttered, in retrospect, that it would have been cheaper for us to have taken the car across on the Higher Ferry, or to have walked, but I pointed out that the little Noss-Dartmouth ferry dropped us off only about 100 metres from our boat and enabled us both to have a drink. Still, methinks the little Noss-Dartmouth ferry is an indulgence that we will definitely have to ration in future. I wonder how Jane would feel about us taking our inflatable tender across to Dartmouth in future: would the wet patches from the spray be visible on her summer frock, or would her stilettos pierce the hull? I must ask her some time.
I was unable to offer my usual comprehensive Queen for the Day service to Jane on her actual birthday as we were scheduled to travel down to the boat again – this time for the last time before my spell in the microwave. I did, however, place a freshly-cut rose on the breakfast table. In hindsight, it was slightly over, with the odd petal falling off, but it was – perhaps – emblematical of a mature beauty as she approached the eve of her life (no, I did not voice that thought to Jane – I am not completely stupid). In a burst of magnanimity, I also offered to toast some bread for The Birthday Girl, which she duly accepted, directing my attention to the freezer where a loaf was on ice. I searched the freezer scrupulously and eventually found two slices of frozen white bread, which I toasted, cut into triangles and mounted in the toast rack, presenting it with a flourish to the breakfast table along with butter and local honey. I sat back, smugly, waiting for my five-minute praising. Jane looked at the toast.
“Toast’s a bit odd,” she observed.
“Not really,” I said, totally missing the understatement (or sarcasm, depending on your point of view). “Good idea of yours to freeze the crusts,” I went on blithely, ”waste not, want not eh?”.
“Horatio,” she said in a restrained voice, “Those crusts were stale white bread I was keeping to make breadcrumbs. I always have toast made from the seeded granary loaf stowed in Freezer Drawer 4”.
“Oh”.
I pondered on a positive response.
“They make nice thick slices though, don’t they?”.
She just sighed. Her words were unspoken, but I can mind-read: I’m hopeless, but I do mean well.
We only spent 2 ½ days on the boat this time, but the weather was hot and sunny and we exploited it to the full. We anchored in the tranquil Dittisham Mill Creek on the first night, then motored around to Scabbacombe Bay (north east of Dartmouth) to anchor again and for me to try out the New Wet Suit (Blog 114). Rigged in the suit, a face mask, snorkel and fins I duly plunged overboard and paddled around in the turquoise sea. I would like to report that I saw all manner of sea life: brightly-coloured fish, dolphins, the odd octopus, the occasional submarine; actually, however, all I saw was green water, the port propeller and the anchor chain. Never mind, it was a milestone in the career of Jacques Cousteau (English amateur version) and I thoroughly enjoyed it. All things come to an end, however, and we eventually weighed and headed back to Dartmouth to quaff a gin and tonic or two under a rigged awning on the quarterdeck. ‘Heat bomb’ be damned. Next day, APPLETON RUM was lifted out for her annual maintenance and some underwater repairs, commissioned at great expense. It will be lovely to see her again, all polished and watertight, when my treatment is over.
Politically, our ex prime minister, Boris, has gone. He resigned as an MP on hearing the result of a parliamentary enquiry into whether he had misled parliament regarding “parties” in his office during lockdown (conclusion: he had). He has not gone quietly. I, for one, am tired of the lockdown party stories now – there are far more important issues that parliament should be looking at. Of more concern is that a British government imposed such swingeing and draconian laws on its population, causing severe distress, mental illness and financial fallout that are still with us today. An official enquiry set up to examine the UK’s response to Covid19 is not due to report for several years, but is already showing signs of having pre-judged the issue and being biased in favour of the very lockdowns and social-distancing laws that I mention above. It was ever thus with UK government enquiries.
Elsewhere in England, two 13-year-old pupils at a school in Sussex have been called “despicable” by a teacher, and told to find another school, because they pointed out that a fellow pupil was – in fact – a girl, not a cat as the fellow pupil claimed. Apparently, self identification by pupils in schools is becoming more widespread, with some children identifying as horses, dinosaurs, cats and – in one instance – a moon. In such cases, of course, they only respond if addressed in the appropriate language. Helpfully, Bristol University has produced a guide for the many genders claimed to exist in English-speaking society, and the pronoun for a cat is apparently “nya” or “nyan”. I am not sure how you address a moon. I do not know which is worse: a growing infant population in need of mental help (or at least firm adult guidance and leadership), or a professional teacher who lowers herself to verbally abusing a child in a debate. Who would have thought that that fairy story about The Emperor’s New Clothes, which I read as a child, would become reality as I pass into my seventies?
So that’s it for now. I start my radiotherapy – my ten minutes in the microwave – half way through next week and the programme will continue to 26 July. When it is all done I will be a new man and definitely well cooked. Perhaps, when it is all over, I should self-identify as a baked potato – hard and crusty on the outside, yet soft and buttery in the middle. Is it me do you think?
20 June 2023
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 