I first became aware of a major crisis developing in the kitchen when I saw Jane scuttling past the drawing room carrying a sink plunger. It was 2130 and supper had completed long ago; indeed, it was at that time in the day when I normally sat in the armchair, burping quietly as my digestive system processed the delicious food that Jane had prepared, aided by the catalyst of a glass of wine or a wee dram of single-malt whisky; it was not the time for energetic activity. Moreover, the sight of Jane walking past while clutching a sink plunger was as incongruous as seeing the Pope walk past clutching an AK47. The plunger is not a Jane Utensil, it is a Horatio Tool. Jane does food; I do decks, dhobying, drinks and DIY. Briefly, I wondered if I was hallucinating and glanced questioningly at my glass of Old Pulteney, but frantic muttering from the kitchen confirmed that I was not dreaming and I felt compelled to intervene.
A plumbing nightmare awaited me. The main kitchen sink was half full of dirty water and the adjacent half-sink – used for the garbage disposal unit (GDU) – was a quarter full of leftovers from breakfast, lunch and supper. Jane was pumping frantically away at the main sink to no avail and it was clear to me that the Shacklepin digestive process would not be allowed to gurgle its gentle and majestic way to my colon that evening. I sighed, rolled up my sleeves, removed my shoes and socks, and metaphorically girded my loins for a night of indigestion, filth and a damned good soaking.
My first reaction was one of curiosity: why on earth was Jane wielding the sink plunger when, in accordance with the Contract of Marriage Act of 1982 (First Amendment), plumbing was my domain? I was touched by her reply. She had taken onboard a recent discussion during which we had agreed to a certain softening of the demarcation of duties in order that each partner would be able to exist in the event of the other’s demise (this is the sort of matter-of-fact discussion that happens to married couples as they get older). Finding that the kitchen sink was not draining away, she had resisted the urge to call Mr Fixit and had, instead, resolved to ‘jolly well deal with it herself’. Usually, a sink plunger is the cheapest and most successful means of clearing a sink blockage but, alas, through no fault of her own, Jane was not successful with it and nor was I. Surveying the scene, it seemed to me that there was but one option left (and that risky) if I were to avoid a complete strip-down of the sewerage pipe system: if I filled the GDU half-sink and then gave the GDU a good thrunge, it was just possible that I could blast the blockage though using the GDU as a pump. The risk, of course, was that the thrunge would blast itself back through the system and make a bigger mess. I considered carefully and then thought, ‘what the hell – go for it’. I put my hand over the blocked sink drain to stop the stuff blowing back and duly pressed the GDU button. Oh dear. The GDU hummed, the system quaked, and then it demonstrated its objection to the rough treatment by spewing mashed vegetables, meat and other nameless viscera out through the overflow pipe, into the sink, and all over the draining board and work surfaces. I switched off the GDU and, in the horrified silence that followed, Jane and I looked at the result of my experiment. Instead of being partially full of clean-ish water, both sinks were now full to the brim with what can best be described as mechanically-created noisome vomit. Oh well, it was worth a try, I suppose. There was nothing else for it but Operation Dismantle. From under the sink, out came the bottles of surface cleaner, bleach and silver dip; a bag of dishwasher tablets; a clutch of disused washing-up sponges (retained ‘just in case’); and an old sock of mine that had been missing for two years. Jane was dispatched for a bucket and some old towels while I rummaged in my plumbing drawer in the garage for the rarely-used flexible drain coil. I looked at the snakes’ wedding that was the under-sink pipe system and shrugged: time to knuckle down and get stuck in. The bucket was stuffed under the pipes and I started to unscrew the first of the ‘U’ bends, ordering Jane to stand well clear. Well, let me tell you, Niagara Falls wasn’t in it. Into the humble kitchen bucket (capacity ten litres [two gallons]) poured the entire contents of the two sinks, later calculated to be thirty two litres [six gallons]. Dirty water was everywhere with me, in the midst of the deluge, trying to plug two ‘U’ bend outlets with my hands like the little Dutch boy trying to plug a dyke. Jane rushed to and fro as the side show in this water carnival, emptying the bucket into the utility room sink and frantically trying to mop up the overspill with old towels and sponges. I looked down ruefully at my white chinos, fresh on that morning, now soaked with dirty water. Ho hum. Eventually, the cascade diminished and I was able to take apart the whole pipe system, rod it through, then pass each section to my able assistant to be washed in the utility room sink before being replaced. Boy did those pipes stink. Finally, it was all done: the pipe system, now internally immaculate, was reassembled; the water was mopped up; the cleaning products were returned to their dank little cave under the sink; and my chinos were deposited in the washing machine. As I stood there in the kitchen in my underpants and bare feet, the ship’s clock in the drawing room struck eight bells: midnight. Jane and I looked at each other: what an evening – so much more entertaining than watching television and – joy – I had found that missing sock. I wondered where the other one was now?
The flexibility in demarcation has, of course, worked both ways and, it being Wimbledon week, I have been appointed Chief Cook and Bottle Washer for the duration. So far, things have gone quite well, with such delectations as Marinaded Neck of Lamb, Pan-fried Hake in Lemon and Butter Sauce, and Chicken Tikka Masala gracing our dining table by my fair hand. None of this has been without adult supervision, of course, for Jane has a deep suspicion of the atrocities that she believes I may be committing in her kitchen, and has taken to appearing – like a wraith, silent and sinister – at the worst moment (“Not that pan – that’s my omelette pan!”). Her presence has not been unwelcome, of course. She was very good with the Elastoplast the other day when I grated my finger along with the ginger into the Chicken Tikka Masala (adding a new flavour to the traditional Indian dish). She also ended my endurance test of reducing down a sauce, stirring constantly with the hob at full forcing rate (there’s twenty minutes of my life that I will never see again), by the simple expedient of tipping a splodge of gravy granules into the pot, thickening the sauce in two seconds flat. Last night I graduated (or deteriorated) from serving the culinary equivalent of heady champagne and reverted to the equivalent of home-brewed beer: we had good old traditional Toad in the Hole with Onion Gravy and fresh greens. As to Jane, she has been ensconced, as usual every year at this time, in a darkened drawing room, shouting at the tennis on the television. You would be quite shocked at the language and the partisan behaviour. Unlike last year, however, when I was undergoing radiotherapy for cancer and unable to escape the tennis, I can retire happily to my Man Cave and reduce lumps of wood to piles of sawdust. It is most satisfying.
Elsewhere in the UK, the madness continues. A woman has won a case against her employer, His Majesty’s Revenue and Customs (HMRC), for harassment and she will shortly receive a suitable sum in compensation. The employer’s crime? Wishing the employee a ‘Happy Birthday’ and enquiring after her health. The narrative is that the woman took time off work because of stress and, when her birthday came up, her manager (no doubt wishing to cheer her up) wished her a Happy Birthday by email. She replied that she did not celebrate birthdays and would he please not send her emails, a request which was agreed. Time passed by with her still off sick, and a new manager took post. He had not been told of the ‘no emails’ policy and so he sent several messages enquiring after her well-being, including another ‘Happy Birthday’, especially as she had – by then – been off work for a considerable time. She then took HMRC to an industrial tribunal, claiming harassment and racial prejudice (she was a black Frenchwoman of African origin), and won on the first count. The moral of the story? Don’t wish your employee ‘Happy Birthday’, don’t enquire after their health and – oh – just keep the salary coming in.
Summer came to Melbury for a day a week or so ago, then moved on to Greece to roast the Athenians and Ionians with 40 degrees of Celsius heat. There is still time for a true summer to establish itself in Britain, of course, but the Longest Day has been and gone, and the northern hemisphere is tilting further and further from the sun’s direct gaze as July moves on. Jane (Miss Caribbean 1951) is beside herself in despair, and threatens to burn down the UK Meteorological Office with a bonfire of unused sun tops, skirts and that sun dress that she bought cheap from Seasalt in March. If asked to summarise the weather in our bit of the UK in 2024, I think I would describe it as The Year of the Wind. The temperatures were below average in May and June, and when they did pick up occasionally, or the sun came out, they were always offset by a cool wind. As I write, after a long spell of dryness (and wind) we now have rain (and wind), which is good for the garden.
In the days of the sailing ships, of course, wind was very welcome most of the time and mariners were very adept at predicting the weather. Nowadays we rely on the weather forecasts, a service pioneered by Admiral Fitzroy in the 19th century. I encountered my first experience of a mariner’s ability to predict the wind and weather when I first went to sea with my father. I was nine years old, the minimum age for a trip with him, and I was thrilled to bits with the whole experience: the navigation, the ship-handling, the radar, learning the points of a compass – even the watchkeeping through the night. But the skill that impressed me the most was the weather forecast written on a label on the chronometer over the chart table. It said, “WIND ON MONDAYS”.
It’s a true story, but – come on – I was only nine.
There are still no buyers for the boat, but we did have one couple who viewed the interior for thirty five minutes (we have CCTV), which was quite encouraging as it suggests they were genuinely interested in the accommodation (either that or they were stealing the binoculars and several items of Jane’s [new and unused] summer clothing). The mains freshwater in the Brixham peninsular is now, at last, clear of cryptosporidium contamination after South West Water, assisted by water companies from all over Britain, flushed the entire system continuously for about six weeks. It must have cost the company millions to identify the fault, fix it, install additional filters, flush the reservoirs and mains system, provide customers with free bottled water and refund customers’ bills – and all because of one defective valve in a farmer’s field. I expect the next thing South West Water will do is declare a hosepipe ban.
It is my birthday today and there can now be no doubt that I will not see the age of 32 again (or, for that matter, the ages of 52 or 72). Jane took me out to lunch in The Big City to a mystery restaurant, which turned out to be rather pleasant Italian place by the river, overlooking the weir. It was a perfect location, not only for the geographical view, but also for people watching. For this occasion I wore the full No 6 Rig of double-breasted navy blazer; blue, maroon and white striped tie with matching breast pocket handkerchief; cream chinos; blue short-sleeved shirt; and tan elastic-sided boots (rain was forecast). I was all for wearing the aviator sunglasses too, despite the overcast, as I thought it made me look cool and mysterious; this, however, was vetoed by Jane on the basis that she did want to be seen with a poseur. Jane herself wore a summery red top and white skirt ensemble with matching sandals and I like think we brought a little touch of class to the passengers on the Park and Ride bus as they shuffled onboard in their T-shirts, scruffy shorts and trainers. Have you noticed that bus queues in Britain are quite different these days? I believe the British are renowned internationally for their sensible approach to queuing for a bus but, in actual fact, you never see that practice nowadays. What happens is that, instead of forming a long line with the first arrivals at the embarkation point and the newcomers tagging on the back, people now just stand there in a large amorphous cluster, centred vaguely on where the bus stops, sometimes as much as a metre or more apart. They then coagulate into a solid phalanx to board the bus when it arrives. But here is the interesting bit: they all know who was ahead and behind them in the arrival stakes, and woe betide anyone who tries to barge in front. There will rarely be an altercation in such circumstances, for that is not the British way. Instead the miscreant will be given filthy looks or be subjected to loud sarcastic asides as they jump the non-existent queue. Such sarcasm will be lost on Johnny Foreigner, of course, who rarely knows that he or she has done anything wrong.
Anyway, back to that restaurant, which proved to be very welcoming (Italians are so good at that) and very atmospheric. I had the Italian equivalent of Steak Tartare, followed by Grilled Sea-Bass with a side salad. Jane had Summer Burrata comprising burrata, cantaloupe, parma ham and breadcrumbs followed by Ravioli Al Barbacaprino, comprising beetroot, goats cheese and walnuts. She said she could not find the parma ham or the walnuts, and the cantaloupe was just a juice; very picky, my wife. For my part, if the food was a little disappointing and dry, the occasion made up for it with the pleasure a man gets from being seen in public with a beautiful and smartly-dressed woman. We amused ourselves by speculating on our fellow guests: what nationality was that couple?; look at those three twelve-year-old boys on their own (one with the diamond ear stud) confidently ordering a meal; why is that man sitting at a table indoors with a lady and wearing a baseball hat – is it going to rain?; oh dear, elbows on the table. Heaven knows what they made of us, if they noticed us at all: a beautiful rose with a prickly thistle next to her, perhaps. At least we stood out in what amounted to a sartorial waste ground. All in all, it was an excellent day out and I am still pleasantly amazed at the number of cards I received from friends: thirteen in total. It just goes to show that I have not offended as many people as I thought – or at least, not quite.
Well, as predicted in Blog 133, the United Kingdom now has a new government and the outgoing Conservative Party has been cast into the outer darkness, unlikely to see power again until after I am dead. I may exaggerate there slightly (theoretically, I could live to be over a hundred), but you get the gist. I make no comment, other than that I await, with great anticipation, the solutions that the new government proposes to deal with the country’s many problems. It always puzzles me when well-known celebrities, actors, sportsmen or even industrial companies expound their partisan political opinions publicly and (often) unpleasantly. They never seem to realise that, in doing so, they are alienating or insulting half of their fan base or their customers. Besides, in what way does the ability to remember lines in a play, strum a guitar, or kick a ball around qualify these people to have a credible political opinion? Have an opinion by all means (and we all do), but keep it to yourselves. In the same vein, I offer no comment on the forthcoming American presidential election. I have two distant cousins in that country, one a fervent Democrat and the other an equally fervent Republican. I also have a healthy readership in the USA. Who am I, a mere Englishman, to comment on the political machinations of that fine and friendly country? It would be an impertinence. Mind you, my Democrat cousin did recently ask if Britain and King Charles would have America back as part of the Empire, to which I replied that it was possible provided the USA pay the arrears for those taxes lost when those Bostonians poured all that tea away. She is currently having a whip round in North Carolina to raise the funds.
I did say earlier that I would make no comment on the political dilemma in America, but I hope our cousins across the pond will forgive me for just one tiny disinterested Anglo-Saxon observation. From what I saw in that television debate between Biden and Trump, I reckon the Democrat Party is well and truly buggered.
I’m off for a glass of Glen Moray to celebrate my birthday. Have a good summer and don’t fret about politics. As Dickens’ Mr Micawber always says,“Something will turn up”.
10 July 2024
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 
wow!! 51Blog 136. Who Would Want A Photograph of Mr Grumpy?
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