“Stop eating those nibbles. Those nibbles are for the guests, not you. There is a distinct dent in that pile of crisps since I put the bowl out, and I notice three cheese straws are missing”
Thus spoke my good wife as we prepared to host yet another lunch with friends the other week. For my part, I could not believe that she had actually counted the cheese straws and retained a photographic memory of the shape of a pile of vegetable crisps, but there it was – my wife never ceases to surprise me. She was quite right of course, but I immediately ceased all jaw movement and adopted my innocent face. It has been a particularly busy few weeks for entertainment in the Shacklepin household, but we have enjoyed every minute of it. Where would we be without friends? Coincidentally, there has been some debate in The Times about etiquette and manners at dinner parties over the last few months, and the paper set out a list of Dos and Don’ts for its readers. I will not list them all here, but some of the genuine examples of Don’ts astonished me: there were some guests who turned with with a bottle of wine, but complained when it was not opened at the meal; there were similar guests who brought ‘a good quality bottle of wine’, noted that it had not been used for the meal, and asked for it back on departure; and there were some guests who arrived clutching a half-drunk bottle of wine ‘that had been lurking in their fridge for a few days’. Good grief. None of our guests have ever done that, but we did once have a friend who turned up with a six-pack of lager, that being his favourite tipple. We were a bit miffed because we had laid in a stock of the stuff, properly chilled, knowing he was coming (we don’t drink lager ourselves). We consider it our job, as good hosts, to anticipate all our guests’ potatory tastes and we lay in stocks accordingly. As for bringing gifts ourselves, we take a gift for the hostess or host (or both) on the basis of it being a present to use as they will. We do not expect to drink the wine or eat the chocolates that we bring – like all gifts we relinquish ownership when they are handed over.
The final example of guests and bad manners appeared in The Times today (16 May 2026). A correspondent called Lesley Thompson recounted that she had friends in California who had received guests who flew in from the UK, were treated to two weeks’ sightseeing, entertainment and board and lodging, then at the end of their stay scooped up the duty-free bottle of gin they had bought and took it back with them “as you haven’t opened it”.
As they say in Yorkshire, “There’s nowt as queer as folk”.
What on earth has happened to Marks & Spencers? Has the company been infiltrated by the Goths and Visigoths? Jane and I took a trip to the Big City the other day for some retail therapy (on her part) and, as always happens, we were sucked into Marks & Spencers by the tractor beam as we passed the door. Do other men have this experience? My wife drifts round the ladies’ fashions and the Per Una section, running her fingers over the material and muttering,
“Tat. Look at these colours. And this design. And look at the sizes – they are enormous…Who is buying for ‘Marks’ these days?”
Yet her experience never seems to put her off entering the store again. The mens’ department is not much better and there is very little, now, that I would consider buying unless I wanted to attract other men as a chum.
My main complaint with Marks & Spencer, however, is the state of the staff. Smart uniforms have disappeared and the staff apparently can dress in whatever they like: scruffy or torn jeans, misshapen tops, and dirty “trainers” have become the norm for staff in this once great British retail company. If anything, the customers are better dressed. Does Marks & Spencer not consider it important that staff can be readily identified? That they should feel bonded as part of a team by wearing a smart corporate uniform; that their manner and dress should reflect the company that employs them? I remember a time when a job with Marks & Spencers was a very prestigious position and much sought after: terms of employment were highly prized, females were given free regular hairstyling and all staff were smartly dressed and readily identifiable. Not now, it would seem. This could be the end of civilisation as we know it.
Well, I must say, things politically have taken a lively turn, for our expectation on tuning in to the news every morning has now changed from,
“What has Mr Trump done now?” to
“Has Sir Kier Starmer, the prime minister, gone yet?”
The Labour Party, which came into power as government of the United Kingdom in July 2024, has suffered severe losses in the recent local authority elections and Members of Parliament (MPs) are looking for a scapegoat for the loss in popularity. Who else to blame but the leader of the party? It does not seem to have occurred to them that the policies of the Labour Party – not just the leader of the party – might be causing significant resentment among the populace, with the resulting rejection at the polls. Poor Sir Kier: he is very unpopular in the country, many are said to dislike him, and he comes in for a great deal of personal abuse; yet I cannot resist feeling a little sorry for him. People forget that there is a human being and a family behind the persona of prime minister. I do not agree with Sir Kier’s party or his politics, nor do I find him terribly inspiring, but it must be acknowledged that he knocked the Labour Party into a condition that got it elected. Yet, less than two years later, his MPs want his head. It is like those events that Christians commemorate at Easter: one minute the populace is welcoming Jesus into Jerusalem with palm fonds and cries of, “Hosanna in the highest”, and a few days later the same people are shouting, “Crucify, crucify “.
I was a District and Town Councillor several years ago and quickly found that it was impossible to satisfy everyone. Moreover, the cut and thrust of it all could be vicious and very unpleasant. I take my hat off to anyone who volunteers to be a politician in this country. I also dread the the thought of who would replace Sir Kier as prime minister, for the potential candidates being touted as alternatives just don’t bear thinking about. Of course, as the United Kingdom is a parliamentary democracy and we have a prime minister, not a president, there will (unfortunately) not be a General Election: a replacement leader will be voted in within the Labour Party and he or she will simply slide into the role of prime minister. Nothing will happen until at least June, so we will now be treated to newspaper headlines of political manoeuvrings and shenanigans within the Labour Party for the whole of the Summer. Time to buy a new book, I think or – horror of horrors – indulge in conversation at the breakfast table.
The originator of the truism that Britain and America are two nations separated by a common language is uncertain, though most sources attribute it to George Bernard Shaw. What is not uncertain is the accuracy of the observation. Jane is very fond of a word association puzzle called Connections that is produced by The New York Times, and the calm of our breakfast table is often disrupted by Jane’s mutterings of, “What on earth does that mean?”, sliding her iPad across to me as I try to read The Times leader. Thus, the puzzle is a challenge not only to lateral thinking and association of words, but also in vocabulary. We don’t speak American, you see, nor do we follow American football, basketball or baseball. One of the most recent puzzles had us utterly baffled: one word was “hoagy”. Any takers from UK readers? We had to look it up in the end, of course. A “hoagy” is, apparently, a sort of baguette or what we would call a roll. The differences in our common language are, indeed, very baffling but it does add an extra layer of challenge to the Connections puzzle I suppose.
The rats are back yet again. Oh dear. We hoped we had eliminated them when the rat catcher came around in August last year (Blog 143) and charged us £150 for the work. Apparently more have crossed the English Channel in inflatable boats as our Summer approaches, and have established themselves in their old stomping ground. Jane and I host an informal bridge game every week with two ladies of a similar level of competence to us, and we were duly ensconced around the card table in the Garden Control Tower, aka the breakfast room aka the conservatory. We were discussing breast feeding, as I recall (fascinating what women talk about – I think I am getting a handle on my feminine side), when suddenly one of the ladies said,
“Oh look, a rat”,
pointing to the Camp for Homeless and Displaced Rats by our garden shed.
Jane, of course, went into her usual frenzy (I don’t think she likes rats). She leapt up and demanded that I deploy my air gun, purchased for that very occasion. With an air of panache I immediately took on the persona of Mr Macho in front of these adoring women and unholstered the Gamo GP-20 Combat pistol: 4 Joules of compressed CO2 firepower, a magazine of twenty rounds, and a 122 m/s muzzle velocity. Oh yes, this is the biz. Adopting the professional pistol-shooter stance and aiming into the undergrowth to flush the creature out so that I could get a clean shot at the beast, I let loose: BLAM-BLAM, BLAM-BLAM – two double taps, as we macho men say. They were good shots, for immediately four newly-formed rosebuds detached themselves from their stems and collapsed into the garden like felled pine trees in a Canadian forest. Oh heck. Jane was beside herself, the rat forgotten. Not only did I get a lengthy and very heated lecture on the evolution of plants, the nurturing of roses, and the months she had spent making our garden beautiful; she actually resorted to violence. She struck me – actually smote me on the left arm. I am sure I must have a bruise. I was quite shocked by such an unbelievable and disproportionate response after such a good shot. I wonder if I can get some counselling for the trauma? I might be able to claim the Personal Independent Payment (PIP) welfare benefit after developing PTSD, ADHD, MDD, E&OE, GAD, OCD, SAD, SED, or H&C . After all, everyone else is.
Of the rat, of course, no more was seen (maybe it is dead in the undergrowth, the victim of one of the shots that took out the rosebuds).
When not learning American or assaulting husbands, Jane is developing skills in plane-spotting – specifically B52 bombers of the US Air Force (USAF). Hardly a day goes by at breakfast time without the deep roar of jet engines and Jane leaping out of the door to peer skywards like an excited schoolgirl. I was dubious of Jane’s aircraft recognition skills at first, as it was my understanding that the B52 Stratofortress, which first entered service in 1955, must have been taken out of service many years ago. However, a quick dive into Wikipedia revealed that the USAF does, indeed, still have 58 operational B52s, or B52Hs to use the latest variant; the US also intends to upgrade the aircraft further by 2030, the new variant being the B52J. I did have a quick look at the aircraft that Jane indicated, and they did look like B52s (swept-back wings, four [very noisy] engines), but I am puzzled as to what they are doing flying over Melbury on an almost daily basis. The aircraft cannot be attacking Iran because there is currently a (very shaky) ceasefire on hostilities there and – in any case – Sir Kier Starmer has made it quite clear to President Trump that the Americans are not to use their bases in the UK for combat missions against Iran. Well, that told him, didn’t it (but then how would we know what is being done in a US airbase on UK territory)? Perhaps Mr Trump is practising bombing runs on Lundy Island in preparation for an invasion; better that the Americans hold the island, with its strategic position in the Bristol Channel, than those dodgy Russians with snow on their boots. Whatever, we are down to visit the International Air Show at RAF Fairford in July and maybe they will have some B52s for Jane to look at. I see from Wikipedia that USAF personnel have an affectionate name for the B52, which is rarely referred to as the Stratofortress these days: they call it the BUFF (Big Ugly Fat…er Fellow). How very descriptive and yet another useful addition to our growing American vocabulary.
Whatever happened to the good yarn, the exciting sea story? I don’t mean the excellent historical novels such as those by C S Forrester or Patrick O’Brian, I mean modern sea stories, written with authenticity and based on experience. As the son of a Master Mariner I was, inevitably, fascinated by all things to do with the sea in my youth and I spent much of my childhood onboard my father’s ships when they were in port. I picked up all the terminology of the Merchant Navy: there was the Old Man [the Master = Captain], the Mate, the Sparks [Radio Operator], the Bosun, the Donkeyman [auxiliary engine minder], the Peggie [Mess Boy] and, of course the Chief [Engineer]. The British Merchant Navy, at that time, was the biggest merchant fleet in the world and the Red Ensign flew in every port. There was then no shortage of authors of modern sea stories for adults and teenagers alike, and I read just about all of them: Gilbert Hackforth-Jones, Peter Dawlish, Douglas Reeman, Nicholas Monsarrat…Alas, a modern novel depicting life at sea accurately today is as rare as a long splice, but I think – at last – I have struck gold. Retired Master Mariner, Captain Michael Lloyd [www.humanrightsatsea.org/captain-michael-lloyd-rd-mnm-fni-rnr] has branched out from his usual non-fiction works such as The Complete Chief Officer and The Master’s Pocket Book to author four modern novels of the sea. Each is rich in authentic nautical detail, full of derring-do, and so thrilling that it is difficult to put one down. The first book is called, The Devil’s Cauldron (ISBN 978-1-85609-556-3, Witherby Publishing Group Ltd, 2012) and is about a British merchant ship caught in a civil war in the Congo. Others that follow are Broken Ship, Pirate Ship, Cruise Ship, and Convoy Ship. The first three are a trilogy and ideally should be read in sequence; the others stand on their own. I can strongly recommend all of them as a very good read, even if you have no interest in the sea. Cruise Ship is particularly worth reading if you are partial to going on cruises and have often wondered what goes on behind the scenes; that holiday in the Cotswolds will seem so much more attractive. So there you are: talk to your local bookshop or Mr Amazon, order the first book, settle down on the beach or by the fire, and revel in a damned good yarn.
Time passes, a year goes by, and it must surely be time for the Shacklepins to change their car again. The Volkswagen ID3 electric car purchased in April 2025 (Blog 141) cost an absolute fortune, has performed OK, and we quite like it, but Jane and I have concluded that we cannot love it. For the price, the car is somewhat deficient in the ‘bells and whistles’ that one would expect – particularly in parking aids; the ergonomics are disappointing and not what one would expect in German engineering; and – well – it’s another year isn’t it? So Jane and I have purchased an MG4 Extended Range electric vehicle, with similar range to the ID3, which comes with a 7-year warranty, lots of accessories and a considerably smaller price tag than the Volkswagen. It offers tremendous value for money and is a nice looking car to boot. MG is now a Chinese company, but as just about every other manufactured item today is made in China that is not a problem. The additional attraction to buying an MG, which I was not aware of when I first looked seriously at buying from the company, was that it offered a significant discount for members of the NHS, the Emergency Services, and members or veterans of the Armed Forces: I received a discount of just over £7,000 on my new car, reducing the price to about £26,000 (cf £40,000 for the ID3 last year). So if you are looking for a new car in Britain and you meet one of the criteria for a discount (the scheme is not just for the emergency services listed above), then I suggest you at least give MG a look. The discount scheme is called MG Affinity and details are at www.mgmotoraffinity.co.uk/. I collect the new car on 26 May and (naturally) it will be coloured battleship grey; I will keep you posted on how it performs.
So – we are off to north Wales next week on a coach tour organised by our local Arts Society. After the last excursion to Paris (Blog 145) Jane and I vowed to dwell a pause on coach holidays for a while, but this one offered very good value for money and packed a lot into the programme. Crucially, it did not involve long transit times, being confined to our own country. We haven’t visited Wales for quite some time, and it must be a good thirty years since we holidayed in north Wales, when we found the natives unwelcoming, the bogs prodigious and the rain plentiful. This tour should be very interesting, especially as Jane’s great grandmother came from Llanllyfni in Caernarfonshire – we might even be able to find a few ancestors’ graves if the rain holds off.
For now, Byddaf yn ysgrifennu atoch yn fuan.
16 May 2026.
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 