Gosh, what a glorious summer we are having here in Melbury. It started at the back end of June and it seems to be continuing (with a break) well into July. We had 34C (93F) in our back garden the other day and it has been a real treat to get up every day to find the sun shining, just like when we were on that holiday in Portugal all those years ago. Breakfast (fresh fruit salad with Greek yoghurt, as you ask) on our patio has been an absolute delight. Fortunately it has remained relatively cool at night, so we have been able to replenish the inside of the house with cold air and get a good night’s sleep. Of course, the doom-sayers are having a field day: the end is nigh, the ice caps are melting, the Farne Islands will shortly be underwater and (as I saw a headline the other day) the fish are dying in the sea, presumably producing poached salmon without the aid of a saucepan. At one point in June schools, and even National Trust properties, were closed – the latter presumably because the three-foot thick stone walls of country houses and castles were likely to crumble in the heat. All for an air temperature that is less than blood heat, and nothing compared to the temperature in, say, Oman, where people do manage to function perfectly well.
Get a grip.
To be sure, as I have mentioned before in these blogs, the temperatures are extreme for England (Scotland has not had it quite so hot) and our houses, offices, factories and schools are not designed for such a climate. Also, temperature alone is not the deciding factor for human existence – humidity plays a major part (I will spare you the lecture on thermodynamics – I had complaints last time). Having lived for quite a few years now on Earth, I think it is fair to say – purely from an individual subjective perspective – that very hot summers are not unusual in England, but they have become more frequent. On the other hand, the high tide marks on the cliffs, beaches and jetties of my native South Shields are no higher than they ever were, so don’t build the Ark just yet. You can, of course, adopt the current favoured hypothesis that this change in climate is caused by us eating beef, cheese and butter; drinking milk and yoghurt; burning fossil fuels in power stations, aircraft, ships, lorries and motor cars; making anything from metal or plastic; and burning wood in stoves in our cottages on cold winter nights. Feel free to believe that, but I can predict now that adopting such an extreme impractical approach will make as much difference to the British climate as King Canute being told he can stop the tide from overwhelming those Farne Islands I mentioned earlier. Some have suggested that the UK adopting such a stance, while minor in itself, will set an example to the rest of the world. Yeh, right; the sun set on that concept when the schools stopped celebrating Empire Day in the 1950s. Avoiding waste, recycling goods and conserving energy are common-sense measures that any sensible society should practise, but the important actions we should be taking now are to adapt to the way things are, rather than trying to counter the planet’s natural climate cycle that started millions of years ago: better insulation of buildings; solar panels on all new builds, particularly factories; massive investment in tidal power and energy storage; fit new houses with inward-opening windows and external shutters; install air-conditioning with reversible heat pumps in buildings. As far as the current warm weather in England is concerned, the easiest approach – which no-one seems to have thought of – is simply to change working and school hours to earlier in the day, when it is cooler: start work or school at 0600 or earlier and work through until 1300, then finish for the day. It is the routine that my wife, Jane, worked when at school in Jamaica and is similar to the Tropical Routine that I worked in warships when serving in hot climes. Oh yes, and order shops to shut their doors when they have their air conditioning running at full blast; stop wasting energy and trying to air condition the atmosphere.
So far, the Shacklepin household has faired quite well in the heat with our routine of the house shut-down during the day, then all the doors and windows thrown open at night. I think the most we have suffered is about 24C (75F) internally overnight and we have not needed to deploy the one fan that we own. It does seem to me, however, that these hot summers are likely to become a regular occurrence and so I am trying to persuade Jane that we need to install air conditioning in the Drawing Room and the Main Bedroom. Trying to obtain a quotation for the work has (unsurprisingly) proved to be difficult, but I finally have succeeded in finding a contractor who will come around and assess the task, the final work likely to take place in October or November. My guess is about £5k. I will let you know the outcome.
Now this is interesting (stop groaning at the back). Many people think that air conditioning involves simply cooling the air, but – actually – proper air conditioning works by chilling the air in a room, causing any moisture in the air to condense-out and be drained away; the dryer air is then re-heated to an ideal temperature for humans to feel comfortable (typically 22C [72F]). Not many people know that, and not many systems do it.
Well, the knives are out for the Old Age Pensioners (OAPs) again. I say ‘again’, because there seems to be a general pejorative theme in the Press at the moment that OAPs are a burden, a nuisance, and life would be so much easier if they weren’t around. Perhaps I am being over-sensitive, but I read of old people being ‘bed blockers’ (semi-permanent in-patients in hospitals who clog up the NHS); I read of old folk with poor eyesight or poor technical know-how causing delay at cash machines; of loquacious senior citizens causing queues at supermarket cashiers; of old people actually drawing their Old Age Pension and being the biggest drain on the welfare purse; or, generally, of old people simply ‘being in the way’. Come to think of it, I might have levelled a few of those criticisms myself (Blog 147), but that does not make it right. In some societies older people are generally revered and respected for their past contribution and wise counsel, and looked after by their families, but that is no longer our way in Britain. The latest threat to the old folk in the UK is the attack on the ‘Triple Lock’. For the benefit of non-UK readers, the ‘Triple Lock’ was a measure brought in by a coalition government in 2011 to ensure that those who receive the UK State Pension (currently starting from age 66, soon to be 67) receive an income that will keep up with the general cost of living. Every April, the pension is increased by either price inflation (measured by the Consumer Price Index), average wages, or 2.5% – whichever is highest. The principle is sound but, the fact is, the country simply cannot afford it. People are living longer and are, on the whole, fitter than they were when the Old Age Pension was instituted in 1908; moreover, there are insufficient working people to fund the pension. The pensioners will claim, correctly, that they have been paying a compulsory contribution towards their pensions since the age of 18 (‘National Insurance’); however, various governments spent that pot of money years ago, as it was not ring-fenced. Well, of course they did. It is inevitable that things must change, but it is important that the pension keeps up with inflation lest the income of millions of OAPs fall below the poverty line. The current payment for those born after 1951 is of the order of £996 per calendar month, but that is taxable and has to cover rent, food, heating and so on. I am sure some sort of compromise arrangement can be devised to overcome the problem of resources. Alternatively, there is always compulsory euthanasia: snuff out everyone when they get to the age of, oh, I don’t know, 40 perhaps? Or 70 when people stop regular work? That would solve a whole list of problems in one fell swoop, though all those burning corpses would muck up the country’s carbon footprint. But, then, who would be around to tell you the salty stories about the old days, or look after the grandchildren?
So, that’s it. As I predicted in Blog 148, Sir Kier Starmer, First Lord of the Treasury and the Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, has resigned after poor popularity ratings and pressure from his Labour party. Shoe-horned in, without any General or party election, Mr Andy Burnham, previously the mayor of Greater Manchester, will almost certainly replace him – though we do not know when. It is an absurd situation that a man who, over a month ago, was not even a Member of Parliament can simply step into the post of being the head of the government of the UK but there it is. Mr Burnham, whose sartorial aspirations stretch no further than a black tee-shirt, wants to move the prime minister’s office from the UK capital, London, to ‘the North’. My first thought was that Inverness or Aberdeen must be very pleased at the prospect of all the jobs that will come with it. But, wait, ‘The North’ apparently does not refer to the north of Britain, where the mainland ends at Thurso and Wick; it does not even refer to the north of England, such as Berwick or Carlisle; no, it refers to that big city in the middle of England that thinks it is in ‘the north’, Manchester. I am sure Mr Burnham is a very nice man and that he will bring peace, harmony and prosperity to an impoverished and under-defended Britain. For my part, I can hear only the beginnings of a deep gurgling sound as my country disappears down the lavatory pan. That euthanasia option is looking attractive. Only joking, of course.
Poor Henry. He worked hard for the short life that he had but, in the end, his prospects were poor and – alas – he has moved on to Another Place. Henry, regular readers will recall, is – or was – the Flymo Robot Lawnmower that I foolishly bought in December 2024 (Blog 139). He had a few teething problems during the initial setup, memorably deciding to go off piste and savaging Jane’s herbaceous border on one occasion, but he soon settled into a domestic routine and did a good job. The thing is, however, our lawn is only about 20 square metres in area and putting a robot lawnmower on it was rather overkill. I was told this by Jane early on, and I acknowledged it at the time, but you see Henry is (was) A Gadget and I felt the urge to breathe life into his little orange carcass. I love gadgets. So why, you may ask, has Henry been ‘let go’, as they euphemistically say in Human Resources? Well, our lawn never recovered from the drought of last year despite my desperate attempts to reseed it. It had also become very uneven, lumpy and unattractive. Jane and I discussed the matter last month and we came to the conclusion that we needed a new lawn: a high-quality section of fine grass that would not look out of place on Centre Court, Wimbledon or the Ninth Green at St Andrews. Such a specimen would need expert lawn-mowing with the appropriate stripes which poor Henry, munching his way around in his random manner, could not give us. No, sorry, Henry had to go. I sold him on eBay and, as far as I know, he is enjoying new freedom on someone’s lawn in Leicestershire.
Regular, more astute, readers will, I am sure, be ahead of me at this point by asking,”Oh, dear, what has he bought instead”. Aha! I undertook considerable research in order to identify a suitable lawnmower that would cut well, be reliable, leave stripes on the lawn and be suitable for a small area. No, I did not buy a sit-along behemoth (don’t be silly), nor did I buy a noisy two-stroke petrol contraption weighing half a ton. I actually found a bargain from the Rolls Royce of lawnmower manufacturers in the UK, Hayter [www.hayter.co.uk]. I now have a top-notch Hayter battery lawnmower, with battery and charger, that cost £499 after a 9% discount and includes a free strimmer (yet to arrive). The current offer lasts until the end of July, in case you are interested. I will let you know how I get on.
A new lawnmower of such a pedigree cries out for the perfect lawn I mentioned earlier, and so, last week, we employed a local lawn specialist to remove our old grass and re-turf the area. The contractor has done a very professional job with rotavating, preparing and levelling the lawn base, then laying the turves like a new carpet. We now have a green sward that sits there, virginal, flat, beautiful and weed-free, smugly sucking up the tonnes of water with which I indulge it, late night and early morning; meanwhile Jane’s plants in the borders droop their heads and look at the newcomer with resentment as it slates its thirst with the best Wessex Water after the day’s heat, for they are only allowed a bowl of soapy water or a watering can of collected rainwater on an occasional basis. I felt bound to say to the assembled greenery,
“Be nice to the new baby now”.
Beeeep! Swish… Trundle, trundle, trundle…
“Cleaning downstairs”, said a very nice English lady’s voice.
A sinister green laser beam swept across the hallway, probing left and right as if looking for grubby alien lifeforms – or possibly dirt. Yes, the Dyson Spot & Scrub AI Robot Vacuum Cleaner was off on a mission.
You could be forgiven for thinking that I had had enough of robots after Henry’s defenestration, but you would be wrong. I do, after all, have a reputation among my friends as being Mr Gadget. I have always wanted the Dyson robot vacuum cleaner, which normally retails at more than £1,000 (so it must be good), but it was unaffordable. However, I suddenly found that it was on sale at a huge discount, and I could not resist its purchase. This beast, with its all-seeing green eye prowls along our ground floor silently and discreetly, like a well-trained butler, first sweeping up the detritus that the Shacklepins shed on a daily basis, then running through a second time and washing the floor (it doesn’t wash the carpets – it can tell the difference). On completion of its mission, it off-loads its dust and carpet debris into a cyclonic hopper, pumps out its dirty water into a sullage tank, then fastidiously cleans its rollers like a Cheshire cat, ready for its next task. Just to rub it in how dirty we are, it sends a text to us, telling us, smugly, that it has finished its task and highlighting where the dirtiest places were (slightly irritating, actually). Crikey, I am spending money this year like a sailor on shore leave but, hey, what fun I am having. It is my birthday today and – let’s face it – I could be dead tomorrow. Might as well spend it while I can.
Rupert, our son, has come up trumps this year with the birthday gift of a Swan Teasmade. Remember those? Oh, too young or not British…OK. Well, the Teasmaid is an appliance which you load with water and tea before you retire for the night then, at ‘Call The Hands’ (0700 or whatever) the water boils, syphons itself into the teapot, and produces a hot brew of tea, ready to be poured out for the memsahib while she is at Deep Diving System Test Pressure in order to bring her up to periscope depth. One may also imbibe oneself if one is in the mood (which one usually is). The machine is brilliant (I tried it out this morning) as it saves me stumbling downstairs in my pyjamas in the early morning, fumbling around with the kettle and teapot, emptying the dishwasher, and generally undertaking what might reasonably be called Early Morning Activities (EMAs). I must say I am very pleased.
For my birthday, I asked that we return to Bath – my old stomping ground – for a slap-up lunch. I chose my usual formal summer No 5W (Relaxed) rig comprising my lightweight cream tropical suit, a Charles Tyrwhitt short-sleeved shirt, my stitched Italian moccasin shoes, the Lock & Co panama hat and – daringly – no tie – for the occasion. We duly drove up there in air-conditioned splendour and utilised the Park & Ride facility on the outskirts of the city. Bath was never easy for traffic and parking, but it appears to have become worse under the present city council to the point where the local burghers might just as well put up a sign at the city boundaries saying,
“Don’t even think of driving or parking in our city”.
A speed limit of 20 mph seems to feature everywhere and parking in all those little side streets that used to be available for an hour’s shopping is no longer possible for non-residents.
When I was first appointed to the Ministry of Defence in Bath, back in 1981, it was quite simple to pop into the city centre and park a car at lunchtime; now, it is virtually impossible. That’s progress for you.
Anyway, Jane and I enjoyed an excellent lunch at The Beckford Canteen, a misnomer if ever there was one, for there was not a self-service tray or servery in sight. The service and food were excellent (we have been before, some time ago), the air conditioning was just right, and the carafe of vinho verde went down a treat (for me). Jane very kindly drove home, a journey entertained by her frequently swearing at the car for telling her that she was driving over the speed limit.
Now here is an interesting question: how often do you change your sheets on the bed? It’s OK, you don’t have to reply and be embarrassed; it is a rhetorical question. We were chatting away with a couple of our female bridge partners the other day, from which it emerged that they only changed their sheets once a month. Moreover, if successive guest came to stay they sometimes did not change the sheets between the two arrivals. Really? Oh dear. We change our sheets and pillow cases every week, including the top sheet that protects the duvet; we change the duvet cover itself every month, which we think is quite daring. But no fresh sheets and linen for guests? Yuk.
I eyed the half bucket of cold water speculatively and mischievously. Should I, or shouldn’t I?
Jane and I operate a routine in hot weather whereby we collect the ‘stray’ water from the shower in a bucket as the stream is warming up to the desired tepid temperature. After showering, the contents are poured onto the garden by the simple expedient of tipping the bucket out of the window, like medieval maidservants emptying their master’s daily effluent into the street sewer (this tends to startle the postwoman if she is passing). In this particular instance, Jane was conducting her ablutions in the shower first, a damp pink figure faintly visible in the shower cubicle, sluicing soap and shampoo around like a car wash. As I measured – with my eye – the gap above the shower door against the diameter of the bucket of cold water in my hand, I was just about to make a decision, when, suddenly, a voice from within the cataract said,
“Don’t even think about it”.
What I want to know is, how did she know?
10 July 2026
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 