Blog 127. After You With Those Crayons

So that was summer.  It was 5C outside our house last night and the central heating is back on for the winter. For Jane, out go the skirts, shorts, sandals and sun tops; in come the trousers, socks, jumpers and (soon, I dare say) vests.  We calculate that we, the Shacklepins, had only about thirty days of what we would call “summer”, that is to say days that were sunny, warm and with light airs such that you could sit outside comfortably and enjoy a drink or eat al fresco.  Half of June met the criteria; July was a disaster, on the whole, and August and early September offered us dribs and drabs.  True, when it was a Good Day the sun was pretty hot with temperatures up to 30C; but overall it wasn’t brilliant for us.  Of course, others have been luckier or unluckier, depending on your point of view: it was pretty hot in southern France and Spain though (according to the natives) not exceptionally so; forest fires (caused by arsonists or power cables, not spontaneous combustion) raged through the Greek islands and Hawaii, ruining many a holiday; and I believe that Death Valley in California was a little warm.  Later, heavy downpours and storms lashed the UK, but here in Melbury we watched the heavy grey clouds circling us like Red Indians circling a wagon train, but hardly any rain fell – until three days ago, when it finally tipped it down.  The media and the paranoid had a field day with the weather, of course: apparently the oceans were boiling, which would take some doing as water boils at 100C at atmospheric pressure; July was claimed to be the hottest on Earth for 100,000 years, but as the Earth was undergoing an Ice Age 100,000 years ago, July 2023 being hotter than then would not be difficult.  I am also a bit doubtful about the accuracy of the thermometers used by our ancestors in those days, sitting in their caves and painting themselves blue.  But there you are: few people ever question these statements, because they fit the narrative that we are all going to die unless we stop eating meat, keeping warm, making steel, travelling, and refining petroleum. 

I finished my last session of radiotherapy at the end of July and literally skipped down the corridor from that oncology department after ringing the customary bell with great vigour.  Since then, I have been monitored monthly and my PSA level – a measure of whether I still have prostate cancer –  has been consistently zero which, I hope you will agree, is good news.  I have been quite lucky as regards the after effects of my nether regions being blasted with radiation for four weeks, so things are not too bad.  There are a few irritations, but I won’t burden you with them and – let’s face it – they are better than the alternative.

Naturally, the first thing Jane and I did when we left the hospital was to hit the Big City for a slap-up lunch..  As my treatment rolled on, we had pondered for quite some time on the choice of venue for this celebratory lunch, but we finally decided that the lucky establishment would be Côte – the restaurant chain with establishments in several British towns and cities.  It was, perhaps, an odd choice given that our Big City is graced with a good range of individual restaurants, large and small, some of Michelin standard; but we concluded that Côte, for all its corporate image, offered not only the best value, but also promised a good range of quality food that we were familiar with.  It was tried and tested.  An added bonus was that the restaurant was offering a free cocktail if you chose from the à la carte  menu, and this fitted well with our celebrations.  I hoovered down Steak Tartare to start with, followed by the Breton Fish Stew for the main course and Creme Caramel for the pudding.  They were all excellent, the service was very good,  and the bill for the two of us (including a glass of wine) came to about £63 including service charge.  Were we being unimaginative and unadventurous by choosing Côte?  Probably;  but we came away very satisfied by the lunch and did not feel that we had been seen off, as we have occasionally felt on leaving top-end restaurants. 

Of course, our next stop after this culinary event was a return to my motor yacht at Noss Marina on the River Dart, which had been laid up ashore in Kingswear for five weeks, missing her Master and Commander while suffering the indignity of having her bottom cleaned and anti-fouled by complete strangers. She looked beautiful on the bright summer day, having also been waxed and polished while ashore. Soon she was afloat again and we were motoring her back to her berth on the marina, where we were given a surprisingly enthusiastic welcome. It seems that, while my boat was laid-up ashore, the marina had taken advantage of the commercial opportunity by offering my empty berth to another boat temporarily. The owner of this interloper had (so I was told by my welcoming neighbours) owned two small dogs that had yapped continually every day for five weeks and, when the owner had taken the dogs for a walk up the pontoon every evening, they had ceremoniously urinated on every shore power electrical connection and mooring line on the way. Never before have I received such a welcome. What is it with boat owners and dogs? I have never understood the philosophy of keeping a smelly dog on a tiny boat, allowing it to annoy neighbours, or permitting it to defecate on the pontoon without clearing it up, let alone taking it to sea. But there you go – I am in the minority on this issue: the damned sea dogs are everywhere; it was the same on the inland waterways and it is the same in seaports.

Well, we have acquired yet another inflatable dinghy or tender, making it Tender Number 3. Regular readers will recall that we acquired our first tender back in August 2020 (Blog 58) after a carefully planned and persistently executed campaign waged against Jane’s willpower, the aim being to enable us to ferry ourselves ashore when at anchor or at a buoy.  Tender No 1, while small, light and easily stowed, proved to be just a little too tender for everyday use – that is to say we were in danger of capsizing whenever we used it.  We sold that on in June 2021, and upgraded to Tender No 2 (Blog 95) – a second-hand craft of more robust construction and stability which came complete with an outboard motor.  Tender No 2 has served us well, on the whole, but Jane has never been entirely comfortable with it because of its tendency to rear up its bow when under full power, to develop an alarming list when there is only one occupant, and to drench her in salt spray when under way.  Seeing this a challenge to my naval architecture knowledge (and the opportunity to buy yet another gadget for the boat), I set about identifying Tender No 3, which would be slightly bigger, have a keel, and generally be more buoyant, stable and dry, particularly when single-manned.  To my surprise, Jane endorsed my recommendation for a 2.4m craft costing £590; those soakings and wet bottoms must really have got through to her.  The Seago 240 Airdeck, which we commissioned in August, has proven to be a much better beast: stable, well-constructed, biddable and dry.  It will also take three people as opposed to the previous boats’ “2+1”.  As a maiden voyage I took it down to Dartmouth with Jane for a shopping expedition and it was a different sort of experience altogether.  Jane declared herself much happier with the boat’s safety and Tender No 3 has now been duly entered onto the ship’s books as a member of the Shacklepin family.  In the meantime, No 2 tender has been auctioned off in aid of charity and, I am sure, will enjoy a gentle retirement in land-locked Barsetshire.

Our spell afloat in APPLETON RUM had to be curtailed in early August because we had planned to visit my brother and sister-in-law in South Shields that month.  My sister-in-law had been diagnosed with cancer of the eye and sinuses and, she being 93, we were pessimistic of her chances of surviving the year.  To our surprise, she had consented to the operation to remove her eye and, by August, she was recuperating at home, though having to be readmitted to hospital fairly frequently because of dizzy spells. 
We had originally set out to visit Tyneside back in April, having planned the trip down to the last detail and the last cell on the spreadsheet as required by any driver of an electric vehicle (EV).  Long-term readers of this blog will recall my last venture North two years ago, which involved an overnight stop in Doncaster, a convoluted tour of the EV charging points in England and a great deal of stress; a 320 mile journey that would normally take 5 hours in a conventional car took us 24 hours (Blog 100).  This April we set off well-prepared and managed to get as far north as Wiltshire before Jane hit a deep pothole and burst the nearside tyre.  We then spent four hours on a grass verge, being buffeted by heavy lorries and playing I-Spy, before the RAC – or rather an RAC contractor – finally turned up with a replacement tyre and charged us £324 for the privilege.  The tyre had only cost me £120 new, two months earlier. By that time, most of the day was over and it was clear that we had run out of time for the adventure North, so I aborted the mission.  We limped home, which we had left six hours before, and I composed emails of complaint to Wiltshire Council and the RAC in the hope of compensation (of which more later).  Anyway, to return to August, I actually considered hiring an ordinary car for the trip North, but the cost was prohibitive.  We could have gone by train, but I had already spent my fortune on a house, a wife, a car and a boat so the treasure chest was empty.  Then I hit on what turned out to be a brilliant idea: I suggested to Jane that we fly up to Newcastle from Bristol just for the day.  One day would be long enough to socialise with my brother and visit my sister-in-law in hospital, and we could be home and back in our beds by about 2200.  We would miss out on sightseeing, walks and some nostalgia, but we would achieve our main aim of boosting the morale of the troops.  I did some research on the EasyJet website and tweaked a few dates here and there.  Do you know, the trip (leaving Bristol at 0700, arriving Newcastle at 0800; then leaving Newcastle 1845 and returning Bristol 1945) cost only £120 in total.  Of course we still had to pay £38 for parking at Bristol Airport, but the cost was still very favourable (EV charging costs are currently something of the order of £0.20/mile if you use rapid on-road chargers – more expensive than petrol).  So off we went: no luggage of course, so an easy transition through security and onto the aircraft.  In fifty five minutes we were landing in brilliant sunshine on the Costa del Geordie – it had actually taken us longer to get from home to Bristol Airport than it did for the flight.  I was very impressed, despite having done the trip before.  We had the usual difficulty trying to get a couple of simple day tickets for the Tyneside Metro from a machine in the airport concourse, the optimum type identified by research on the Internet not being listed when we came to the actual machine, and a stream of returning Tyneside holidaymakers in sombreros, shorts and flip flops chuntering in the queue behind us; but we ended up with some sort of ticket in the end and flopped onto the Metro.

Now, you haven’t met my brother have you?  Of course you haven’t.  My brother is eight years older than me and – how shall I put it – he doesn’t waste his money on boats.  Or car parks.  In fact he doesn’t spend money at all if he can avoid it.  When I had told him of our plans to fly up to South Shields he offered no comment.  I already knew he would not offer to collect us at Newcastle Airport, 22 miles from his home, because he would either (a) have to drive through Newcastle, where it was well known that the traffic system was designed to take the unwary into labyrinthine back lanes manned by rough scoundrels and ne’er-do-wells from North of the River or (b) travel through the Tyne Tunnel, where he would have to pay – wait for  it – A Toll, both ways.  Either way, airport parking for my brother was a no-go. So I told him that we would take the Metro and get off at the nearest station to his home, namely Seaburn, which is actually in Sunderland.  There was a silence.
“Problem?”, I asked.
“Well, I’ll have to pay for parking in Sunderland.  And there might not be any parking spaces. And I don’t know where that station is.  And  I don’t like the mackem tackems [a derogatory term used by Tynesiders for Wearsiders]”.  I think he ran out of excuses at that point.
He suggested we get off in South Shields main Metro station, where he would pick us up.
I explained that we would have to change trains to go to South Shields,  whereas the Seaburn train went straight through and, in any case, surely the parking problem would still arise?  Apparently it didn’t. 
So it was, we finally rolled into the town of my birth, still in the sunshine, and as we descended the escalator from the station to the street I noticed two things: one was my brother, duly waiting for us, and the other was a group of four men, naked to the waist and covered in tattoos, sitting on a bench and uproariously drunk on Newcastle Brown Ale. It was 0900 in the morning. I turned to Jane and said,
“Welcome to South Shields”.
The mystery of the parking was soon explained when it turned out that my brother had parked in a disabled bay in a Morrison’s supermarket, half a mile away.  It is lucky that we had no luggage.  
If my brother does have a monetary weakness then it is a penchant for Country and Western Music and a love of all things American.  The former manifests itself in the fact that his car was chosen because it was the only model of Prius that still had a CD player, and the latter in his tendency to wear a MAGA Donald Trump hat in public.  I do shudder occasionally –  I’m sure you understand.  Did we really come from the same mother’s womb? But hey – he’s my brother.  Blasted by the music of Chet Atkins at full volume we headed for a short nostalgic walking tour of the main harbour and seafront to see how the old place had degenerated since I took my hand off the tiller back in 1969.  There was not much in the way of conversation – Jane and I were deafened by the twang of guitars.  

I must say the entrance to the River Tyne, enclosed by two fine piers – each almost a mile long, is a vista that never disappoints.  To the north side is the North Pier, Tynemouth and North Shields, with the ruins of Tynemouth Priory and Castle, and the monument to one of Lord Nelson’s captains, Lord Collingwood, dominating the skyline.  If you have ever watched the television detective series Vera, then this is where the series is based.  To the south side of the harbour is the South Pier and South Shields, the inner harbour entrance marked by a short pier with a red lighthouse called The Groyne, and featuring a small beach – perhaps half a mile long – with beautifully fine sand.  When I was a child, this beach was called (inevitably) The Little Beach and it was much favoured by the family because it was protected from dangerous currents and the worst of the swell by the enclosing two piers.  Beyond the South Pier, which has a fairground at its base, is a further mile of unspoilt beach of smooth fine sand known, in my day, as The Big Beach.  Further south is Marsden Bay with another stretch of sand and the unusual (perhaps unique) Marsden Grotto: a hotel set in a cave and accessed by a lift on the cliff face.  As we stood on the north promenade, that day in August, I was delighted to see the harbour looking so good in the sunshine.  It felt almost surreal that, three hours before, Jane and I had been in rural Melbury in the dark, yet now, here we were in almost a Mediterranean setting: ships in the offing; the sea a deep blue and the sky without a single cloud.  We took in a coffee on the promenade (guess who paid for it) and just watched the world go by before strolling back through the parks to where my brother had parked the car (disabled bay behind a Turkish restaurant and take-away – no fee).

My sister-in-law, Marion, was back in hospital, having collapsed a few days previously and we managed to negotiate visiting her slightly out-of-hours so that we could catch our return flight.  We parked 400 metres from the hospital, on a council housing estate (no fee) and made our way in via a small pedestrian entrance next to the dustbins and the mortuary.  Marion was in a private room and looked remarkably well in the circumstances.  Although her eye had been removed, the scars were minimal and it just looked like she had her eye closed.  The plastic surgeon had done an excellent job.  I asked if they had let her keep the eye, perhaps in a jar of formaldehyde, but apparently they hadn’t. The only problem Marion had was that, because of the work on her face,  it was lopsided as if she had had a stroke.  The follow-up radiotherapy had also caused her to lose all sense of taste and the ability to create saliva, so she wasn’t eating.  Despite these problems she was still in good spirits, and managed to berate my brother for his lack of hospitality skills at his house (guests offered two stale biscuits for lunch while he ate half a pastie in front of them).  It was good to see her, and I hope our visit perked her up (she is now back home again);  but it was also rather poignant, for Jane and I were conscious of the fact that this might be the last time we saw her.

Our duty done, and conversation with my brother having run out, it was time to return to the airport for our flight home. The Metro whisked us back without mishap and we were in the departure lounge somewhat earlier than necessary, at 1700. Totally relaxed, and waxing poetically about this new (to us) method of domestic travel, we drifted around, had a coffee, tucked in to a light supper, and generally indulged in people-watching. The cloud on the horizon formed at about 1800, forty five minutes before our scheduled departure: FLIGHT DELAYED ONE HOUR. Oh dear. Thirty minutes later, FLIGHT DELAYED TWO HOURS. The novelty of the airport departure lounge was fading rapidly. One seasoned fellow passenger, who was flying to Belfast and whose flight was also delayed, shook his head sorrowfully.
“You want to watch this”, he said.”When they delay at this time of night they sometimes cancel the flight altogether”.
Oh great. Thanks Eeyore. Desperately I started clicking through my iPhone looking at what the airline’s obligations were and for the location of the nearest hotel. My gloomy Belfast companion redeemed himself a bit by showing me how to manipulate hitherto unknown features of the EasyJet app that would show me where our delayed aircraft was and when it could be expected. Time passed by, and the departures board clicked to FLIGHT DELAYED THREE HOURS. Bars and restaurants in the airport began to close, other flights (including the one for our friend from Belfast) had long departed, and it was apparent that the human flotsam left with us in the departure lounge were all for Bristol. Bored children ran amok, infants grizzled, louts stretched out on benches: my kind of living hell. PING! A text from EasyJet said we would each be entitled to a £3 voucher for food on presentation of a boarding pass. I looked around for food outlets and found only the stationer W H Smith open. With others, I perused their snacks. Do you know, £3 was not even enough to buy a single sandwich? Jane chose a packet of crisps and I eventually found that I could buy some sort of chicken pastie for exactly £3 (it tasted like marinated cardboard). Bored, I scoured the EasyJet app with my newly acquired skills and found that our aircraft was finally on its way from Bristol, having made its way there from Faro in Portugal, of all places. At 2200 we shuffled aboard our globe-trotting aircraft and took our seats. It was then that I received the final piéce de résistance of my adventure, the icing on the cake that had now gone stale: behind me sat a two-year-old girl who screamed in a high-pitched voice, and kicked the back of my seat, for the entire one hour flight. Her mother had no control of her, and admonishments were replied to with a defiant, “NO”. Oh frabjous joy, Callooh Callay. We hit the runway at 2315 and drove home through deserted roads, finally getting to bed at 0100. Wow, what a mini adventure that was. The pilot of the aircraft explained, when we were onboard, just what had caused the delay. Our intended aircraft in Bristol had been taken out of action because a baggage truck had driven into it and dented the fuselage. There were no spare aircraft, so an incoming flight from Faro was sent on to sort us out after disembarking its passengers, instead of flying on to the south of France. The aircrew were somewhat bemused to find themselves in Newcastle instead of Cannes or wherever. Ho hum.

And now we come to the crux of my shaggy dog story, dear reader.  I was describing our adventure to a friend, who is a retired airline captain, and he pointed out that, under EU Regulation 261, we could claim compensation for a three hour delay.  I observed that we had already received our £3 food voucher, but he thought that the fixed compensation was rather more than that.  I checked with the EasyJet website and it outlined the procedure for claiming for delays caused by “exceptional circumstances”.  The procedure was on-line and merely required passenger name and flight details.  I filled in the form and sent it off.  Within five minutes I had an acknowledgement, and within another ten minutes EasyJet accepted my claim and said the money would be in my bank account in four days.  Ha!, I thought, another £3 each I dare say.  Three days later I looked at my account and saw that I had been credited with £440: £220 each.  You could have knocked me down with a feather. The return airline tickets had only cost me £120, so I was £320 up on the deal.  Who would have thought it?  Good old EasyJet. But wait – there is more.  Four months after submitting my claim to Wiltshire Council for my shredded tyre, caused by a pothole, the Council paid out in full for the cost: £324.  A week later, the RAC apologised for the delay in attending the breakdown in April and acknowledged that I should not have been charged for the call-out element of the bill presented to me by their contractor; I received a cheque for £120.  I’m in the money!  It is almost enough to offset my expenditure of £590 on that new tender.

The bedside light came on, waking me up at 0200, and Jane declared,
“I’m sorry.  I am going to have to call an ambulance.  I have pains in the chest and pins and needles in my arm.”
“Crikey,” I thought, this sounds like the real thing – though not entirely unprecedented as we had had the same problem almost exactly three years previously in 2020 (Blog 59).  We already knew that she suffered from atrial fibrillation (uneven and racing heartbeat).  Maybe it is the purchase of inflatable boats that sets her off.  This time, Jane dialled the numbers while I dressed myself, ready for the green team and a probable trip to Accident and Emergency (A&E).  The emergency operator was very good, and took her painstakingly through the usual algorithm, ending with the question,
“Do you have any aspirin?”
“Yes”, says Jane, collecting a rarely used bottle from the medicine cabinet.
“What strength is it?”, asks the operator.. 
Peering at the label, Jane replied something about so many grains, which puzzled the operator as they had never heard of that unit for medicine.  Closer examination revealed that the aspirin had been acquired in Florida in 2009 and was long expired.  A further search turned up some soluble aspirin with a British label.  That had expired in 2003, but  Jane put it under her tongue anyway.  We don’t use a lot of aspirin, as you can gather, and those bottles were consigned to the gash bin the next day. 
The paramedics duly arrived and did their thing, and then pronounced what Jane did not want to hear:
“Sorry, it’s A&E for you.  Your case is complex”. 
It would be, of course; the patient is Jane.
Off she went in the ambulance with me following in the car, the ambulance getting lost in our housing estate and having to make two three-point turns to get out into the wide world.  We rolled up at A&E at about 0345 and I was allowed to accompany Jane into a cubicle after she had had blood tests and triage. There we sat and sat, as you always do in A&E, twiddling our thumbs and waiting for someone to come.  Eventually a nurse informed Jane that her blood test had revealed that she had not had a heart attack, but they would run another test just to make sure.  There was a long waiting list to be seen by a doctor, apparently, but Jane was number seven on the list and she would probably be seen at about 0930.  Jane sent me home at 0630 after being told the result of the blood test and the probable consultation time; she could see no point in me waiting and the pain in her chest had long gone.  I departed into the cold morning, paid the £5 hospital parking fee (absolute disgrace!) and went home for breakfast.  Jane was finally seen at the time predicted, not by a doctor, but by a ‘Consultant Nurse’ who sent her for an X-Ray of her aorta and a CT scan of her entire torso.  Both came back clear.  She was finally given a clean bill of health at noon, when I collected her,  after she had been dosed with Gaviscon and another drug for acid reflux – a chronic problem that she has had for several years and which eventually led us to be disembarked from QUEEN MARY 2 as a medical emergency in Adelaide (Blog 10 et seq).  I was puzzled by this diagnosis because the gastric problem had been finally nailed by Jane’s gastroenterologist after exhaustive tests after the Australia trip in 2017.  The solution had been for her to take a small dose of amitriptyline – a mild anti-depressant – which had been found to work well in similar cases.  It then emerged that Jane had recently been trying to reduce her usage of this drug because she saw it as a stigma (“I am not depressed!”) and because she does not like taking regular medicine. I suggested that the recent episode was a re-emergence of her old problem, caused by not taking the medicine.  She had the grace to admit that I was probably right.  I did not labour the point as she had had punishment enough: the free trip in an ambulance had proved to be very uncomfortable – like riding in the back of a lorry, she said – and the boredom of waiting in an A&E cubicle for eight hours had not been pleasant.  Still, she is alive and back with us, and – of course – taking the tablets.

Looking back, Jane fared better than our neighbour, who is a policewoman (police officer?). She had started to suffer a rapid and uneven heartbeat that was most uncomfortable and distressing, and she suspected that it was atrial fibrillation like Jane had.  She came around to borrow Jane’s KardiaMobile EKG Monitor, obtained from Amazon (Blog 93), in order to record one of her episodes as proof for her GP.  It seems that the doctor was not convinced by our neighbour’s self diagnosis and so had offered her, free, on the NHS… a colouring book.  

Say what you like about the NHS, it is the envy of the world, it gets its priorities right and it never wastes money if it can help it – unless, of course, it is hiring Equality Diversity and Inclusion officers for millions of pounds while doctors and consultants are on strike, seeking higher wages.  As I said to our neighbour, “After you with those crayons”.

23 September 2023

PS Our neighbour did have atrial fibrillation and is now on a mammoth regular dose of heart pills.

Blog 126. Pressing Concerns

Well,  I hope I never have to go through that again.  It was a supreme test of my stamina and endurance, such that I wondered if I would ever see normal life again.  The ennui was as bad as the physical torture that I suffered but, at last, it is all over and I can endure life to the full again.  What’s that? The radiotherapy for my prostate cancer?  Good God, no.  That’s still rolling on and hasn’t been too bad.  No, no, I was writing about having to sit through Wimbledon on the television with the memsahib for two weeks, this being the one event in the entire year that she refuses to miss.  I have written about this before, of course (Blogs 95 and 96 et al), but this time it is different.  A side effect of my treatment is said to be fatigue.  Although I have not suffered that exactly,  it is true that I have been rather lethargic and disinclined to do much of anything.  The  result is that,  instead of pottering in my workshop where I would normally escape every afternoon, I have collapsed onto the sofa in the Drawing Room where – of course – Wimbledon has been well and truly under way from 1400 until (potentially) 2300 every weekday.  The tennis itself hasn’t been too bad (apart from the grunting on court); rather it has been the bouncing up and down, the running commentary and the shouting from Mrs Shacklepin, sitting next to me, that has tested by spirit:
“Why did you do that?”
“Double fault. Double fault. Double fault.  Go on, have a double fault…”.
“Nooooo…!”
“Get on with it!”
“Out.  Great!”
“Bugger it!”
“Bloody hell, he’s broken him!”
“Oh, God, that’s it.  He’s blown it.”

Curiously,  Jane favours only the male players; she considers women’s tennis to be little potatoes and not worth watching, which seems to me to be rather disloyal to the sisterhood. As far as I can fathom she likes someone called Lebedev, who is Russian, Camnorrie, who is English, and someone called Brodie (who I thought was a character in an old television drama called The Professionals).  She quite likes a bloke called Alcatraz too.  She doesn’t like a man called Jockerwitch because he bounces the ball too much and always wins.  Her dislike of the last player does not prevent her from watching him however.  Anyway, at last, it is over for another year and I can live normally once more – or fairly normally.

The three weeks of radiotherapy (to date) have been more of a monotonous routine than a burden: 
Up at 0600; 
Make Jane a cup of tea to bring her up to periscope depth; 
Drink half a litre of water; 
Execute enema routine; 
Drive to the Big City Hospital in the rush hour (sixty minutes); 
Check in to the radiotherapy department; 
Drink another half litre of water; 
Wait half an hour with legs crossed, and clothes peg on standby; 
Drop trousers, ease down pants, and lie on a hard bench while the radiographers play The Golden Shot with my torso [“Up a bit, left a bit… Lined up. Take cover!”]; 
Be blasted with radiation for ten minutes; 
Rush to lavatory on completion [“Anyone who can’t swim, up on the stairs!”];  
Go home for breakfast.

Any male readers (or women with penises) genuinely interested in the whole process may be assured that radiotherapy treatment for prostate cancer is painless and (in my experience) free of any side effects other than a need to visit the urinal at frequent intervals immediately after the treatment. It is true that I was initially embarrassed by the sartorial inelegance of padding into the treatment room without shoes and trousers, but I overcame this by ensuring that I always wore white socks (their tops neatly turned down), and by ensuring that my underpants had been properly ironed.
Jane very kindly comes with me for moral support and to drive in case (ahem!) I need to find a convenient tree on the journey there or back.  My son, Rupert, came down from Hertfordshire last week and very kindly stood in for Jane for two days, which I thought jolly decent of him; we enjoyed a good period of bonding and shared an expensive breakfast in The Big City after one session. Jane and I are usually home by about 1030 but, by the time we have then finished our belated breakfast and read the newspapers, we find it hard to work up the energy to do much else with the day.   In any case, the weather in July has not been particularly encouraging for external activity.  Indeed, so far, July has been pretty awful, with high winds and heavy showers, though the temperature has been about average for the time of year.  The Meteorological Office reported the other day that June had been the hottest month on record and that July would be hot too.  This made me wonder if the forecasters are living on Venus, or possibly Mercury, for the report bears no relationship to the weather in my part of Britain.  I believe this is called ‘gaslighting’: the practice of convincing someone that a situation is totally different to their own perception of reality.  June was, indeed, not too bad, with a few hot days and temperatures in the high 20s, but it certainly was not exceptional.  Still, we pay billions of pounds to the Met Office to predict the weather, so the report must be true, mustn’t it?  It also fits well with the new religion of belief in man-made climate change, so that just about wraps it up for any discussion on that issue.  We don’t want any blasphemy here, thank you.

Anyway, to return to my ten minutes in the microwave, all has gone as well as one can expect and I am two thirds of the way through, with a week-and-a-half  and only seven (out of the original twenty) zaps still to go.  My PSA level (an indicator of prostate cancer) has dropped to zero and soon I will be free so that my life can move forward into broad, sunlit uplands.  Or into a cool, wet, windy August.

I ask you: can there be anything more difficult to iron than a woman’s skirt?  Trousers: no problem; shirts: a doddle; even our large French 8-person tablecloth the size of a frigate’s topgallant sail is relatively straightforward.  But a woman’s skirt or dress?  What a pain.  They are full of pleats and fiddly bits and have a surprisingly large area when you take into account that they are, essentially, a cylinder or truncated cone.   I was thinking of this, muttering to myself, as I slogged through several of the memsahib’s summer frocks the other day, ironing  (as part of Dhobying) being one of my duties in the Shacklepin household along with Decks and DIY.  I manage to fit in these jobs at the same time as my high-level demanding responsibilities as Strategic Planner, Television Remote Control Operator and Executive Command.  On this occasion the ironing burden was exacerbated by Jane having surreptitiously added several summer skirts and dresses, extracted from winter storage, to the pile for ironing – they being badly creased after twelve months folded in a drawer.  I ploughed on, finished the last skirt with relief, then picked up the next item in the pile.  It was a fitted cotton blouse. I sighed: I had found something worse to iron than a skirt.
One could reasonably assume that I would be relieved of my duties for at least the duration of my radiotherapy treatment to combat prostate cancer, two of the side effects being lethargy and fatigue.  However I ended up with the job because I had complained of being cold and had plaintively asked that we light the gas fire.  This plea from a poor invalid in a state of vulnerability, was greeted with refusal and incredulity by Jane because it was July.  She immediately turned my weakness to an advantage by suggesting a form of occupational therapy to warm me up, namely the ironing. 

I certainly walked into that one.

Nine days to go…

16 July 2023

PS. Alcatraz won.

Blog 125. The Baked Potato

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

Blog 124. Just One of God’s Little Soldiers

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

Blog 123. Zap!

Spring has come, that is to say we have passed through the vernal equinox: the time when night is as long as the day.  We are back on British Summer Time and, although our body clocks are all ahoo, it is all sunshine and light from now on.  Honestly: trust me on this.  A further sign of Spring is that the days have warmed up slightly and Jane has started to paint her toenails, which is always a good indicator.  Stage 2, the shedding of her vest, may take a little longer.  The Deep Cold Snap predicted by the gloomy press never happened for us (though it may happen yet). To be fair, I understand there was a good dollop of snow across the Pennines and in the area that I call The Midlands, and midlanders and southerners call The North.  If you are born on Tyneside, as I was, then you know you are in The North.  A glance at a map of England will reveal that Manchester and Leeds lie half way up the country, hence they are in the Midlands as far as I am concerned.  Of course, even this is a typical Englishman’s outlook, for if you look at a map of Britain you will see that Thurso, Wick, Inverness and Aberdeen are actually in The North, and Tyneside is in the Midlands.  When you consider it that way, it is no wonder that the the Scots get upset about Manchester and Liverpool being rejuvenated under a government programme to revive “The Northern Powerhouse”.   When Jane and I lived in Scotland in the mid 1980s, even we got annoyed at the way the television programmes, the weather forecasts and the road improvements seemed to be aimed purely at southern England.  My biggest memory of living up there was having to go to work during a (English) Bank Holiday, with all the television schedule geared up accordingly (I think a James Bond film was showing – there usually was).  My second memory was going to work in a hailstorm in June.  Scotland had its own Bank Holidays, and still does, but it never managed to get its act together as a country: individual towns and cities did their own thing, so you could have a Bank Holiday in, say, Glasgow, but not in nearby Paisley.  It was an odd set up. 

It is also the third anniversary of Covid19 restrictions first being imposed in Britain and the start of publication of these blogs (Blog 35). Re-reading those blogs recently, I was amazed at how our lives changed. Did we really meekly comply with all those draconian measures imposed by the government? Did we really accept the British police fining people for simply walking in the open air? Did we really queue for hours outside supermarkets to buy essential foodstuffs? Did we really stand outside our houses at 2000 every night and rattle pots and pans like mindless drones in support of The Great God, the NHS? Yes, we did, and even today there are some people who think we did not restrict ourselves enough or – for that matter – who think we should still be living a hermit-like existence, avoiding contact with our fellow men, and covering our faces. Recent revelations of the Health Secretary’s WhatsApp records by the Daily Telegraph have confirmed my suspicions that many of the restrictions were based, not on science, but on the projection of power or to save face. I was right in my belief that the aim of government was to scare the living daylights out of everyone by propaganda, and the legacy remains in that many people still believe that a virus which, at its peak, had only a 0.1% likelihood of killing you in a year, was a deadly epidemic that would wipe out the world. Our economy is in a mess; our children have mental health problems and huge gaps in their education; our workforce is reluctant to go back to work; it is virtually impossible to get a face-to-face GP appointment; and there is an enormous backlog of patients awaiting hospital treatment. Still, we came through it. There were many success stories, most notably the UK’s vaccination programme, but what a blessed relief it is that it is over. Covid19 is still around, of course, but it has mutated to a more benign form and – for most of us – results in symptoms little different from influenza. Restrictions were finally dropped in England fourteen months ago. All my friends have had Covid19, most more than once despite being fully vaccinated, but Jane and I have been been very lucky and not succumbed once (unless you count that time in January 2021 when I tested positive without symptoms [Blog 78]).
So – what of the future? What will the press and government latch on to next to scare the living daylights out of us? Another deadly virus? A comet heading for Earth? Climate change? My money is on the last of those, as it has endless possibilities for fuelling our anxieties: sea levels rising, power outages, a ban on dairy and meat, drought, water shortages, famine, or (currently, in the UK) a shortage of tomatoes and cucumbers. Dear, oh dear: please, no; don’t deprive me of the tomatoes and cucumbers. I will tell you one thing: no way will I ever again lock myself up at home or accept being unable to sit next to a friend on a park bench.

March has been a busy month.  We brought the boat out of her slumber early on by giving her a good wash down, replacing the proper bedding, completing a few jobs and staying overnight.  We also took delight in visiting the new marina Facilities Building or ‘Control Building’ which – at long last – has opened fully.  Regular readers will recall that this structure has been eagerly awaited for years and its completion was long overdue.  Much was promised and the frustration of waiting was exacerbated by watching the framework and roof go up relatively quickly, but the fitting out dragging on.  Well, now it is finished and, I must say, it really is rather splendid.  Futuristic in style, the building has the marina Reception and main entrance at the riverside end, with a berth-holder’s lounge on the floor above, both with panoramic picture windows overlooking the river.  Behind Reception is the swish, modern, shower and toilet block, and behind that there is a small café (yet to find a tenant).  Access to the whole set up is by key fob so that only berth-holders can gain entrance to the facilities (not for paupers, then).  For the first time since we moved to Noss Marina in 2019 we can begin to see what the new setup will look like: the soft lights, the paved walkways, the contemporary village feel.  Of course, Mount Crushmore (the remains of the old shipyard buildings) is still there and the foundations for the apartment block, boutique hotel and the houses have yet to be laid, but – as Winston Churchill famously said – this is not the end; it it not even the beginning of the end; but it is the end of the beginning. 
Mid March took us to Bury St Edmunds to attend the funeral of a very dear friend who, quite literally, dropped down dead at the age of 64.  He was lean, fit and apparently healthy, but he died anyway and our trip to Suffolk to pay our respects and console his widow has to be recorded as the low point of the last decade. 
Late March found us back onboard APPLETON RUM again and we took her to sea for the first time in 2023.  We were blessed with a beautiful sunny day with little wind and a modest temperature of 13C; the opportunity was too good to miss.  Like horses, diesel engines love to be exercised or worked hard and the worst thing you can do with them is run them on light load.  As we passed the Dartmouth harbour limits I gradually wound open the throttles and gave the boat her head.  The stern went down, the bow came up and soon she had a fine bone in her teeth as we creamed along at 14 knots, shaking off the cobwebs, weeds and barnacles of winter.  We headed for the fishing port of Brixham this time, across a green sea with very little swell: an hour’s journey soon accomplished.  Being limited by time, we did not berth in the harbour, but I did take the boat right in to check out the visitor moorings for a future time.  Then, it was back to Dartmouth for tea and a run ashore in the evening in the Floating Bridge with our old friends Raymond and Carole.  Excellent.  The next day brought torrential rain, with wind Force 3 from the south east, but – hey – we were in Devonshire: what else can you expect? The interlude was still well worthwhile and next time we will stay a week to really get back into the swing of things.

So there I was, sitting in a special chair in the hospital of The Big City, trousers down, feet in stirrups, main armament trained fore and aft, tompion in, the whole mounting lashed up out of the way and secured for sea.  Between my legs, a specialist nurse did things to my groin with needles and stuffed a probe up my bum.  As pastimes go, it was almost surreal, but – after all – we all need a hobby.  I had earlier read the procedure for a biopsy of my prostate with growing incredulity, and had bemoaned the forthcoming event to Jane as being somewhat undignified.
“Welcome to a woman’s world!”, had been the somewhat tart response.
Not a lot of sympathy there then, or even empathy.
Actually, the procedure – undertaken under local anaesthetic – was not painful at all, just a bit uncomfortable.  There were a few thumps and clicks in the target area and, within about ten minutes, it was all over.  I dressed, was given a cup of tea and a biscuit, and allowed to go home.  I opted to hear the result by telephone rather than come in to hospital again. 

Twelve days later the telephone call came at the appointed time. The specialist nurse informed me that I have high grade prostate cancer and must start treatment immediately.  Bit of a bugger really, if you will forgive my Anglo Saxon.

I must say, my gob was well and truly smacked. On a scale of risk that has the lowest reading of 3+3=6 and the worst of 5+5=10, I have a prostate cancer reading of 4+5=9 or Grade 5. It is lucky that it was not 3+5=6, or I could have been labelled as innumerate as well as cancerous.
[Note to self: must remember to tell that genie that, when I said I wanted to excel in everything I did, this was not the sort of thing I had in mind].
There and then, on the telephone, I was given two options: surgery to have the prostate removed or hormone treatment with radiotherapy. I asked about the third option of ‘do nothing’ and was told, after a sharp intake of breath, that the type of cancer I had was of the rapid-growing type, so it would spread to the rest of my body if I took no immediate action. I thought I would ‘pass’ on that one, so I opted for the ‘hormone treatment with microwave’. I wonder if the machine goes ‘ping’ when it is finished? I must say, for all the faults that one reads of the NHS in the press, the system moved like greased lightning in my case. Within three hours I had received a dose of hormone pills from my GP and an appointment had been made for a hormone injection, to be administered the following week. I was a bit surprised to receive the subsequent injection in the stomach, but I could think of worse places to have it and – surprisingly – it did not hurt at all. Apparently, the hormones inhibit the testosterone in the body that feeds the cancer, and the treatment kills prostate cancer cells wherever they have gone. The down side is that Mr Frisky will be frisky no more and may develop tender breasts among other side effects. I found myself admiring cushions and candles in a shop the other day and started eyeing up pretty brassieres in Marks and Spencers last week. Well, not really: actually, I have suffered very few side effects at all, nor am I in any pain or have any symptoms of illness The last point is telling for any male readers: best get yourself a PSA test and keep a check on it all; you may get no other warning. Anyway, as I write I have had a CT scan to assess the nature and extent of the beast; tomorrow I have a bone scan, after being injected with radioactive fluid so that I can be seen better in the dark. I am also invited not to sit near children for a few days after the scan, but that is not a problem – I never have any such intention. If the cancer has confined itself to my pelvic area, then the radiotherapy and hormone route will fix it. It will comprise four weeks in the microwave on weekdays starting in late June and hormone injections for the rest of my life. If, on the other hand, the cancer has decided to go walk-about through my lithe, muscular body, then I would rather not think of the next step. Results in mid April.

After the shock of the diagnosis Jane and I repaired to the drawing room and I switched on daytime television to watch something mindless to take my mind off the shock of it all.  The first thing that came on was an advertisement for the Co-operative Funeral Service.  The irony just follows me around.

So that’s the situation.  I pondered for quite some time on whether to burden you with this news, ‘to reach out to you and recount my journey’ as they say in the latest, hip, dreadful phraseology.  My initial view was to say nothing; there are few things more tedious than reading of other people’s medical problems – one’s own are always far more interesting, and my initial aim of these blogs, way back at Blog 35, was to try to take readers’ minds off the Covid 19 epidemic with a cheerful story of everyday country folk.  But then I thought that there were some surreal and almost humorous experiences that might be be gleaned from my situation and that might be worth recounting; the feet-in-the stirrups episode has, perhaps, been the high point so far.  I also thought my experience might be a salutary lesson to male readers to get a PSA test for prostate cancer and not bury their heads in the sand like I did.  I may not have had any symptoms but, equally, I did not set out to look for trouble either.  Here am I, one year after my first marginal PSA result, waiting to be microwaved.  Ping!  I will let you know how I get on.

28 March 2023

Blog 122. Suffering is Good for the Soul

Out of the impenetrable darkness, a disembodied voice spoke:

“I can’t feel my nose.”
though, to be more accurate, what it actually said was:
“I garnt veel by doze”,
the voice being Jane’s and she being afflicted with a stinking head cold.
We were back on the boat – the first visit in 2023 – and we lay rigidly in the freezing cold cabin, snuggling together, trying to get warm. Jane had bravely volunteered to come with me when I expressed the intention of checking on our little money pit to make sure that she was still afloat and, no, I did not coerce or pressure Jane in any way. I rather think that she didn’t trust me on the boat on my own, believing that I would fall overboard or something, leaving her to take over the onerous tasks of laundry, ironing and floor cleaning at home in perpetuity. On the plus side of Jane coming, I thought the fresh sea air might do her some good in her affliction, to clear her head as it were; to break her out of the sick person’s malaise.
We had originally planned to set off for the coast very early in order to ensure that we arrived in Kingswear during daylight, thus giving us time to do things onboard on arrival day such as start up the engines, take the boat to sea, beat up Slapton Sands in the absence of wind or swell. If time then remained, and progress with charging our electric car was favourable, we might then just manage to get back home on the same day. However, it soon became apparent that such a plan was unworkable: temperatures would be below zero the next morning, and Jane herself would be somewhat below par too. Moreover, I was doubtful that we would be able to recharge our electric car in anything less than six hours, even with an interim recharge on the way down and on the way back. In short, sensibly, we would have to stay overnight onboard – a decision which solved several problems, but created others: on what would we sleep, what would we eat and how would we wash? We had landed all our bedding at the back end of last year to preserve it from dampness and mould during the winter months, and Jane was loath to put it all back onboard again quite so early, though we had dehumidifiers running in the cabins. I had also drained the fresh water system onboard to prevent frozen pipes. We pondered on these new problems and concluded that we would just have to ‘make do’. We had a double sleeping bag onboard which we had used in lieu of bedding in early boating days, but we had abandoned it when it proved to be too thin to keep us warm; we had kept it in case any guests should wish to avail themselves of our overnight hospitality in our spare cabin (they never have). Supplemented by our electric over-blanket, the sleeping bag would be fine for us. I could reconnect the freshwater system for washing and drinking, though showering might be a little too adventurous. Finally, Jane said she would take down a pre-cooked meal for us to eat that night. Problems solved. We set off for the boat in the early afternoon.
We found APPLETON RUM in remarkably good condition when we boarded in the evening twilight: not much green mould, no guano on the upper deck, the interior dry, and not as cold as we expected. I flashed up the heating system and reconnected the fresh water in record time, unrolled the sleeping bag and covered it with the electric blanket set to ‘pre-heat’, and soon we were as snug as bugs in a rug. Well, fairly snug, for we can never get the saloon up to the sub tropical temperatures that we enjoy at home and, outside, the temperature plummeted. After supper, we sat and read for a while before repairing to our cosy little sleeping bag, wrapped in its electric blanket. So far so good. But have you ever slept in a sleeping bag? Of course you have, at some time, I’m sure. You will recall that sleeping bags are – well – tight bags: all constricting and zippy. We settled down warm and tolerably well at the start; the problems came when one or the other of us wanted to get out to use the heads during the night. These events led to much heaving around – pulling the partner from their slumbering position – followed by muttering in the dark about zips, a loud ZZZZIPP sound, a brief hiatus of peace, then the reverse of the above procedure as the itinerant sleeper returned to the fold. I came back from the heads at one stage, could not find the opening in the sleeping bag, and found myself settling down comfortably under the mattress cover instead, leaving Jane exposed on top of a flayed sleeping bag. That state of affairs was not tolerated for very long and I was told in no uncertain terms to ‘stop messing about, get into the bag and do those zips up’. Finally, at some time in the early hours we found ourselves in the situation described at the beginning of this paragraph: half awake, with only our noses exposed, and freezing. I was dispatched to the cold saloon to turn on the boat heating. It was -4C outside and zero inside. Why do we do these things?
Later, well wrapped up and taking my customary espresso on the quarterdeck after daylight dawned, I viewed the scene around me. There was no wind. A black river surged sullenly past the boat, presumably in two minds whether to freeze or not. The pontoon was a winter wonderland of white frost, smoke rose vertically from the chimneys of the houses across the river in Dartmouth, and not a soul was stirring in the floating marina (including my dear wife, snuffling quietly in the now capacious sleeping bag). I examined the development work ashore through my binoculars and could see no change from last November: the pile of rubble from the demolished shipyard buildings (nicknamed ‘Mount Crushmore’) was still there; the Facilities Building that would one day house Reception, the shower block and a small café appeared to be still half finished; and little men wearing hard hats and driving dumper trucks were still driving aimlessly to and fro. Plus ça change. Apparently, the Facilities Building is due to be finished by the end of February and the new hotel foundations will be started at the beginning of March. I will believe it all when I see it. Finishing my coffee, I stepped ashore gingerly to single up our mooring lines in preparation for going to sea and immediately found a snag not noticed on our arrival the previous evening: our anchor windlass was missing, removed by the marine engineer as part of a (now aborted) plan to replace it with an electric version. No windlass meant no anchor; no anchor meant ‘no go to sea’ unless you have absolute faith that marine diesel engines left idle for two months will not break down (don’t be silly). So that was that: best we go home then. When Jane finally emerged from her cocoon we tidied everything up onboard, sealed up the boat again and departed at about lunchtime.

The next day I came down with Jane’s head cold. We share everything in our marriage.

The birds went on holiday a few weekends ago.  I don’t mean the 1960s pop group, I mean ‘the birds’: our feathered friends.  I know this because the RSPB declared the weekend Great Garden Bird Watch Weekend and so our avian friends legged it.  Or is that ‘winged it’?  For the benefit of any non-British readers, I should explain that, periodically, the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (RSPB) declares such a weekend and invites people to record the number and types of birds that visit their garden over any arbitrary one-hour period.  This is so that the RSPB can subsequently declare that the lesser spotted reed warbler is dying out because of Climate Emergency which, in turn, is caused by us eating meat and dairy,  driving cars, heating our houses, taking holidays and generally enjoying ourselves (I may exaggerate here slightly).  All through the year the birds flutter in and out of our garden, encouraged by our bird feeders: great tits, blue tits, goldfinches, dunnocks, blackbirds, starlings, robins and house sparrows; every RSPB Garden Bird Weekend they disappear.  It is a mystery.  My theory is that they have a link into the RSPB website and they hide out of sheer devilment. 

Now here is another of my dilemmas that I occasionally throw into these blogs.  It is not an ethical problem this time – I suppose it is more of an artistically intellectual one.  Should we endure art, as oppose to enjoy it?  Should we, for example, slog through an ‘improving book’ because we perceive that we should be reading it (or our book club recommends it), rather than because we actually enjoy it?  Should we visit avant garde art galleries like The Tate because we think that we should, rather than because we really do get something out of it?  Should we listen to pieces of classical music that we don’t enjoy: the ‘horrible’ bits as well as the ‘nice’ bits?  I raise this because I read an article in The Spectator magazine the other day, written by a professional musician, decrying the ‘dumbing down’ of BBC Radio 3 and dismissing contemptuously the new ‘popular’ classical radio stations such as Classic FM.  The author’s argument (my inference, put simplistically) was that we should listen to the long tedious and boring parts of musical movements or compositions as well as any bits that we might actually like.  I just don’t get it: why must we persist with art that we don’t like, once we have given it a good go?  Moreover, why dismiss a classical radio station just because it is ‘popular’ or favours ‘easy listening’?  Is music only worthwhile if it is ‘difficult listening’?  An ordinary person who did not have the opportunity to study music at school or university might listen to the ‘popular’ classical stations, enjoy the music and, thereby develop a thirst to try the more challenging compositions. Similarly, a person who enjoys reading contemporary novels might well feel the urge to move on and try the more classical literature of Scott, Austen, Dickens or Thackeray.  Suffering for art?  Seems a bit odd to me.  Perhaps it is something left over from the Puritan era.

Speaking of books, have you noticed how noisy and unpleasant public libraries have become? They are no longer silent havens where you can browse through books at your leisure and immerse yourself in another world in comfort; they are now meeting places, children’s play areas, and community halls that happen to have a few shelves of books in them. The last feature is quite significant: British libraries no longer have many books in them. We have a brand new library in Melbury, opened with much fanfare, but it is part of the new sports centre, set in an open plan layout with the sports centre reception. It also has fewer bookshelves than the previous library. Consequently, any avid bibliophile trying to choose or enjoy a book is assailed by the noise of bustling foot traffic, receptionists bawling at deaf pensioners who want to go swimming, people swapping gossip about the latest goings on in their street, and children shrieking at the tops of their voices. Look, it’s a library: all I ask is to be able to find a good book from the pathetic selection on offer and browse through its pages, or to do some local research in the reference section – all set in a quiet background so that I can concentrate. It is not too much to ask. I can actually get a better atmosphere and a better range of books if I visit the independent bookshop in our Big City, often with a free cup of coffee thrown in. I am old enough to remember a time when public libraries were wonderful sanctuaries of peace, with many books to chose from and the environment to enjoy them in. Yes, they could be a bit intimidating if you dared to speak, but that is a case of ‘horses for courses’: if you want to chat or let your children run amok then go to the local Costa Coffee, where you will feel very much at home. Leave public libraries for the bibliophiles. Of course, I realise that that battle was fought and lost a long time ago and that things will never be the same. I merely point out that we have lost something special, and it is a particular loss for the poor in our society who cannot afford to buy books on a regular basis and so rely on the public facilities.

Since autumn last year there has been a continuous run of modern American romance films on the television, the ones before Christmas inevitably having a festive theme.  You know the sort of thing: young woman returns to home town in the mid west of the USA at Christmas to inherit her grandfather’s business after a broken relationship in The Big City; meets Hunk; doesn’t get on with his arrogance; manages to discover his sensitive side; falls in love; end.  The memsahib watches these films occasionally because she is a romantic at heart.  I sometimes watch them with her because it gives me an insight into female behaviour and time spent on reconnaissance is seldom wasted.  The thing that gets me with all these films (and there must be hundreds of them) is that they all feature beautiful slim young women with perfectly coiffured hair, munching away on a doughnut or sitting outside in an American winter wearing not much more than a mini skirt and a scarf.  The male lead in the stories is also invariably a tall, dashing, dark-haired chap with a muscular torso and a half-shaven face, his coat (if he is wearing one) half open.  It is all so unbelievable.  Have you seen the temperatures in the mid west of the USA in winter? Wyoming at -19F (-28C), South Dakota  -16F (-27C), Montana -16F (-27C) – to name just three states plucked at random on a day in January.  It really puts our prissy ‘Beast from the East’ British weather into context.  There is no way people could sit outside in a mid western state of the USA in winter wearing little more than a smile: they would have hypothermia in two minutes.  Nor could women keep that beautiful figure if they stuffed their faces with American doughnuts.  And what is it with tall dark-haired men and this half-shaven look?  Can’t they afford a razor?  Didn’t their mummies ever tell them to do up their coats properly and tie that scarf?  The couples in these films never look normal or appear flawed.  They could do with a few life-like characters to make the stories more credible: male leads of modest height;  clean-shaven with fair hair greying at the temples; of comfortable build; with a firm yet sensitive personality, GSH and sound sartorial taste. I am available at reasonable rates.

Lord, how this head cold is dragging on.  These things have always been a fact of life, especially in winter, such that we can accurately predict them: “three days to come, three days on, and three days to go”.  This one is lasting much longer than nine days and several friends have testified independently that, if you get the latest strain, it can last for weeks.  Moreover, just as you think you are coming out of it and try to do more, the effort sets you sliding back down the snake again.  It is no big deal in itself: there is no fever, or aches and pains, or sore throat, or headache: just the usual bunged up nose and occasional cough.  But you wake up every morning full of it and think to yourself, “isn’t it about time this thing went now?”.  Jane and I went for a short walk into town and back the other day – only five miles – because we had cabin fever and felt we needed the exercise.  When we got back we were exhausted and ended up sleeping for ten hours that night.  According to a virologist writing in the Daily Telegraph recently, this phenomenon is a direct consequence of the lockdowns that we have endured over the last three years: by not mixing with other humans we have not been catching the thousands of viruses that are naturally skulling around and consequently our immune systems have got out of practice.  It is, in short, payback time.  Ho hum.

Incidentally, in the medical world a scientific review (the Cochrane Review), routinely examines and assesses all the medical studies available to assess how various diseases are transmitted. After a recent review of all the available statistically-sound random studies, it has just reported that, regardless of what pathogen or what presenting symptom, there is no evidence that either medical or surgical masks make any difference to transmission. Interestingly, it is what the UK Chief Medical Officer told us way back at the beginning of the CV19 pandemic in early 2020 before he did a U-turn under political and media pressure. Told you so.

Oh great. I have just heard the news that the result of my recent MRI (Blog 121) scan indicates that I should have a biopsy to check out my prostate. A needle up the backside – just what the doctor ordered and something to look forward to like a hole in the bum. I can hardly wait. Ouch!

I am suffering an attack of the ear worms again (Blog 101), only this time, instead for singing the jingle for Esso Blue on a continuous loop, I am locked in a version of Delilah by Tom Jones.  The song has traditionally been sung at Welsh rugby matches by Welsh supporters because they like the song. Not any more or, at least, not officially.  Welsh Rugby Union has banned the singing of the song by the official choir at Welsh rugby matches because the lyrics refer to a woman being stabbed for infidelity and, hence, encourage violence against women.  An MP and the local Chief Constable have waded in with their support, quoting how many women statistically are stabbed to death by their partners and stating that another song should be favoured instead.  Good grief: only a person suffering from extreme paranoia could really believe that the words of a 55-year old song have led to, or could lead to, the murder of a woman.   It would seem, however, that such a mental condition has, indeed, afflicted key organisations in Wales – a principality which I always thought was endowed with sound judgement and robust common sense.  Fortunately, the Welsh rugby fans do not appear to have caught the paranoia, for they were apparently belting it out defiantly at a recent match.   There may be some hope for the Welsh after all.


As for me, my ear worm affliction is compounded by the fact that the song doing the loop in my head is the matelot version of Delilah:

“I saw the light on the night that she peed out the window…”

Oh dear.  The trans police will be after me now.

7 February 2023

Blog 121. I Give You a Toast for 2023

The toast rack is back. Perhaps I should explain: proper report and all that. You see, insidiously, the breakfast routine has grown slack over the last few years – another sad consequence of the Covid19 pandemic and its associated lockdowns. Over time, the practice has been allowed to develop of the breakfast toast being served, already buttered and anointed, on a side plate instead of being presented properly in a rack for the recipient to indulge in the traditional Marmalade Ceremony at the table. I have no doubt that this ready-made approach has been deliberately instigated by the memsahib in order to control and ration my food intake: she has already commented unfavourably on my practice of asking for butter and peanut butter on my toast, and I have suspected for some time that the marmalade is also being rationed, both reductions being with the aim of reducing cholesterol and sugar in my diet. So, 2023 being but a few hours old, I decreed that we should return to a proper breakfast routine. Henceforth, I declared, the slices of toast would be cut rectangular, with the crusts cut off, and placed in the toast rack; side plates and butter knives would be placed in advance in the breakfast room, along with the butter dish, its knife embedded in the butter like Excalibur. Pots of marmalade, honey and peanut butter on saucers with serving teaspoons would complete the ensemble. Warming to my theme, I explained to Jane that this return to a civilised wardroom breakfast would not only set the high standard appropriate to my station in society as a naval officer, but also enable us to start the day properly fortified. I took the opportunity to remind her of the correct procedure: one anoints the side plate with a spoonful or more of home-made marmalade (or peanut butter or honey according to whim); one adds a generous portion of butter; one transfers a slice of toast from the rack to the side plate and cuts off a small piece; one butters it, smears it with marmalade (or whatever) and one eats it. We could, I conceded, forego the reading racks for the newspapers, which would normally be propped up in front of us, technology having invented iPads. Completing my brief, I smiled winningly knowing I could count on her full support.
Do you know, she expressed some reluctance to comply with the new directive? Moreover, she actually dismissed my proposal and described the procedure as a ‘clart’ (a Tyneside term that she clearly has picked up from me, meaning, in this context, ‘an unnecessary fuss’). I was shocked. A lengthy, but unproductive, discussion followed until I was, perforce, compelled to set the table myself, then enter the kitchen and personally set the raw toast in its rack before placing it on the table. As I sat at my place, butter knife in hand and gazing at the accoutrements with great anticipation, she had the temerity to lean over me and say emphatically,
“This is a house, not a manor”.
There is definitely an insubordinate streak in that girl; what her poor father must have had to put up with.

So here we are with the best part of January out of the way, thank heavens.  We always find the month interminable because the weather usually precludes any outdoor activity: rain makes fields  a quagmire so we cannot go hiking, and biting winds deter us from leaving the comfort of our drawing room.  Christmas passed quietly for us. We were originally looking forward to celebrating it alone, but we felt sorry for Jane’s brother, who is single and had just broken up with his female companion, so we invited him to join us.  He initially declined (God forgive us: sigh of relief), but he then changed his mind at the last minute, and we could hardly refuse.  He arrived on Christmas Eve.  The English weather was its usual damp self, but we did manage to get out for the traditional walk on Christmas Day during a lull, sticking to the small country roads to avoid the mud, and taking a well-tried 5-mile circular route.  Half way around the circuit the heavens opened, not with the usual English persistent drizzle, but with a full steady and lengthy downpour that was clearly in for the day.  Unprepared, we were totally drenched.  I lent Jane my cap to keep her head dry, but consequently had to suffer the deluge bare-headed, so that my hair went all frizzy and I worried, at one point, that I might be getting split ends again.  The rain soaked through my waxed Barbour jacket, ran down my neck, saturated my underwear and trickled into my boots.  When we finally got back to the car it was unnecessary to remove our boots as we normally would: they had been washed clean and spotless.  We did, however, have to remove our saturated jackets lest they soak into the car upholstery.  Thinks: must get that Barbour jacket re-waxed.
The only snag with Jane’s brother being with us was that the two siblings have similar interests.  They spoke Plant for most of the time, occasionally breaking into Bird for good measure.  I did feel a bit out of it sometimes, but overall we totally relaxed, drank too much, ate well and enjoyed some good games (lost at chess three times).  Brother-in-law was gone after Boxing Day and we settled into that twilight, limbo, world that lies between Christmas and New Year.  As is our custom, we did not celebrate New Year in a big way, but we did force ourselves to stay awake to see-in 2023 with a drink.  We thought the London fireworks display was very disappointing: more a political celebration of wokeness by London’s mayor than a disinterested welcome to a new year.  Is there no escape?

Britain is still wallowing in its nostalgic revival of industrial unrest and, so far, there has been little progress in resolving the situation. Being fairly healthy, not being regular users of the railways or Royal Mail, and having finished our academic education quite some time ago, we have not been unduly affected; but the working or sick members of the population undoubtedly have. Teachers have now joined the strikes, which will inhibit ordinary parents from working because of the need for child care, as well as further weaken the education of a generation already badly affected by lockdowns. Given the prevailing high energy prices and mortgage rates I would have thought most strikers would not have been able to afford to lose a day’s pay, but there it is. The NHS was already struggling with a backlog of patients as a result of the cancellation of treatment during lockdown; the usual annual winter crisis exacerbated it; and the strikes by staff have provided the icing on the cake – though some cynics have suggested that the service was already so bad that the strikes have barely been noticeable. Examples have abounded in the press of people left injured and untreated in their homes or on the streets, of patients lying on trolleys in hospital corridors for days, of ambulances queuing eight deep outside A&E waiting to disgorge their passengers. Interestingly, most of the examples quoted have involved geriatrics so perhaps the NHS is quietly practising what amounts to a form of unofficial euthanasia. The examples may be true, but I can only report that it has not been my experience. I recently was referred by my GP to our local hospital to investigate a possible serious condition; I received an appointment within two weeks; I saw the consultant punctually and was out again in ten minutes; I was examined, and I received an appointment for a subsequent MRI scan two days later. The scan will be at the beginning of February. In short, the whole process was smooth, efficient, prompt and (relatively) painless. Maybe I am just lucky, though Jane had a similar successful experience just a few months ago at the same hospital. As it happens, the press have reported that the ambulance queues for A&E have started to fall now, though they are still unacceptable. I imagine the public have recognised the futility of dialling 999 following the government warnings of the delays involved, and are resigned to dying in their own beds. Still, on the plus side, there have been widespread strikes in Europe too – some in health systems – so we are not alone; also, Covid is no longer on the tips of the tongues of the general public (zealots and the paranoid excepted) and the dreaded face masks are hardly ever seen now. Every cloud has a silver lining.

We do seem to be living in an age when someone somewhere in authority wants to ban things.  Have you noticed?  We saw the extremes in this approach in the recent epidemic, when people were banned from moving around or – in some countries – were threatened with losing their livelihood if they refused the Covid vaccine, the last despite the fact that being vaccinated does not stop transmission of the virus. We are still suffering the turmoil surrounding the right to free speech, with our seats of learning banning speakers or authors who do not conform to the prevailing illiberal woke mob view, and some academics dismissed from their posts for the same reason.  The dictatorial approach has now moved on to nutrition, with all schools in Scotland removing meat from their school dinners “to combat climate change”, mirroring action by Oxfordshire County Council’s switch to “all vegan no choice” food at council events.  The latest cry for banishment to emerge is by the head of the UK Food Standards Agency, who claims that taking cake into the office is as bad as passive smoking, and should be banned (reason: “excessive obesity in the UK”).  This last is an odd and specious argument: passive smoking threatens the health of other people around the smoker because they cannot help breathing in the smoke; there have been no instances, ever, of someone passively putting on weight simply because someone brought a slice of cake into the office.  My theory is that the power that was over-hastily invested in national and local government to combat Covid has given every petty-fogging little official, politician or zealot a taste for blood and power: a demand to ban things allegedly “for the greater good”.  It is a very worrying and insidious trend in a free society where freedom of choice is paramount,  and we should resist it accordingly.


The latest news on the gossip front is the Duke of Sussex’s total condemnation and betrayal of his family, and the intimate details of his personal life, revealed in his autobiography Spare (of course, actually written by a ghost writer, the Duke being a bit wanting in the literary and academic stakes). It is a book that just keeps on giving, though I think the title was badly chosen: Aah Didums would have been a better choice. I have not read the book (nor have I any intention of adding to the Duke’s royalty payments by doing so), but we have been drip-fed extracts in the national press and I have read a few of them. We have been treated to salacious details of where the Duke lost his virginity – to an older woman apparently, how exciting! (note to self: must drive over to Wiltshire and look at that field behind the Rattle Bone Inn); we have been told how his big brother allegedly pushed him over and “broke his necklace and the dog bowl”; we have been told of the squalor of having to live, free-of-charge, in a cottage with IKEA furniture in the grounds of Kensington Palace in central London; and we have been allowed to share his experience of getting frostbite on his todger during a visit to the Arctic. I thought the last revelation was undoubtedly the most fascinating, especially when the Duke further revealed that he had treated his injured member with soothing cream from Elizabeth Arden because the smell reminded him of his mother. Oedipus would appear to be alive and well and living in Montecito in California, USA. It is lucky Princess Diana was not a regular user of Vicks Vapour Rub, that’s what I say.

What a grey day!  We have had thick freezing fog all day and a temperature that only managed to struggle manfully to the dizzy heights of 0C at noon after registering a chilly -5C this morning.  I was up at 0-crack-sparrow this morning to take the car for a walk and to have it fitted with four new tyres (there’s £500 I will never see again).  While this was being done by the skilled artisans of the Acme Tyre Company I treated myself to a bracing walk around an icy industrial estate for an hour in the fog and the dark.   Jane, meanwhile, slumbered on – do doubt dreaming of pittosporum or similar – and only stirred when she realised that her morning cup of tea was missing from the bedside table beside her.  Note: the tea, not me.  I received an indignant text half way through my walk in the fog, asking why I had not woken her before I left.  She claimed that her concern was that she might not have enough time to prepare a cooked breakfast for my return, but I wasn’t fooled: Jane’s day is simply not the same unless it starts with a mug of tepid tea that has been allowed to cool by her bedside while she struggles to rise to periscope depth.  The cooked breakfast was delicious, by the way, duly enhanced by the feeling of smugness that surrounds one who has been up before everyone else in the family.

Off to the boat next week to see how she has faired over the last few months, to check out the dehumidifiers and to see how much progress – if any – has been made with the marina development.  Jane reckons we might be able to take the boat out to sea as the wind is forecast to be not too strong.  For my part, I shall be breaking out the trusty pea jacket, the submarine sweater and the seaboot stockings.  Oh, and not forgetting the electric blanket.

Snuggle down and be patient: the days are getting longer.  By the way, is anyone else still waiting for Christmas cards?

21 January 2023

Blog 120. A Little Story for Christmas

It was a bad winter that year. Rationing had ended in Britain only a few years before, but food was still scarce. Coal was in short supply and the snow was piled high in the streets, driven by Arctic blizzards. Stoically, folk went about their business as they always did, clearing the pavement in front of their houses, wrapping up well in overcoats, hats and scarves, galoshes on their feet, and queuing companionably for the corporation buses; few people owned cars or even telephones. Schools, shipyards and offices did not close because of bad weather and none could afford to miss a day’s work. Children, of course, loved it: the snow, the blizzards, the sheer joy of Christmas at home with their mummies and daddies and their presents. All children, that is, except one little boy, who did not have a daddy that Christmas. His daddy was at sea, braving the storms and blizzards, the cold and the wet, to bring a cargo home to England. The little boy worried about his daddy a lot when he was away, about him being shipwrecked and not coming home. His hymn book at school had a picture in it of a ship being overwhelmed by big waves and it always made him cry when they sang “Eternal Father strong to save” in school assembly. He also hoped his daddy would be warm enough now that his white seaboot stockings were hanging on the mantelpiece at home, waiting for Santa to fill them. Perhaps Daddy would be home on Christmas Day; Mummy said he might be – it depended on whether or not his ship had taken shelter. The little boy didn’t really understand that: how could a big ship like Daddy’s fit into a shed? Christmas Day dawned, and still no daddy. The little boy played with his Christmas present – a little car – but it just wasn’t the same. After breakfast he thought he would go down to the harbour and stand watch for Daddy’s ship. Wrapped up well in his little overcoat and scarf, a fur cap on his head and Wellington boots on his feet (Mummy was most insistent), he made his way across town to the Pilots’ Watchtower, high on the hill overlooking the harbour, dragging his sledge behind him. Daddy had made that sledge from some old boxes washed up on the shore and it was very special to him. Alas, there were no ships in the offing. The air was sharp and clear, the sky blue and the beach covered in thick snow, but the wind was bitter and the breakers crashed on the shore, driven by a sullen black swell. That water looked cold. He occupied himself by making a snowman, lost in his own little world and no longer thinking of storms and shipwrecks and pirates or not seeing his daddy again. Then, suddenly, as if gifted by second sight, he looked up. There, crossing the harbour bar a mile away, between the two piers, was a ship, salt-stained and rust-streaked, rolling in the swell, but undamaged by the storms. It was his daddy’s ship! He was sure of it. As the ship drew closer into the river, the boy could see him on the fo’c’sle head in his old duffel coat, his officer’s cap at the familiar jaunty angle. The little boy’s heart leapt. Abandoning his snowman he rushed home as fast as he could through the snow to tell Mummy, then he ran down to the town hall bus stop where he knew his father would appear, for the buses still ran on Christmas Day.

Then the moment came. A trolley bus drew up and there was his daddy on the platform, no doubt all bristly and smelling of ships, like he always was, clutching his battered old grip. The little boy thought that his heart would burst. With tears in his eyes, he ran to his father, threw his arms around his legs and cried out,
“My Daddy, my Daddy.”
His daddy was home and safe.
Together, hand in hand, they trudged home in the snow to their Christmas dinner with Mummy by the fire.

And do you know, for as long as he lived that little boy never forgot that day: the day that his daddy came home from sea on Christmas Day in the snow. It was the best Christmas ever. Presents are all very well, but it is family and friends and love that make this time of year really special.

Happy Christmas to all my readers and friends, wherever you may be.  As Tiny Tim said, God bless us, every one.

24 December 2022

Blog 119. The Plum Pudding

We started on the sauce at 1100: an hour before the sun was over the yardarm, but – hey – it’s Christmas. By ‘sauce’, of course, I refer to the Harvey’s Medium Dry Sherry that we were quaffing, our traditional tipple while decorating the Christmas tree. Yes, it’s that time again.
We acquired the tree from the local farm nearly a fortnight ago (Blog 118) and it has been stored in the garden shed in a bucket of water ever since, lashed to several uprights using a spider’s web of ropes and secured with a round turn and two half hitches. I am not sure why we bought the thing so early, but the purchase satisfied the memsahib’s wishes and that made for a happy ship. Finally, the great day came for shaking the tree out of its stupor and baking it to death in a centrally-heated house. After much ergonomic debate the drawing room furniture was swapped around, moved again, swapped a third time, then finally arranged into its Christmas positions; the large round waterproof mat was laid on the carpet in the Designated Tree Location; I was despatched into the frozen darkness of the garage loft for the power lead extensions and electric timers; the drawing room french windows were thrown open to let in some Arctic air; and the shed was unlocked for The Ceremonial Entry. The Entry proved difficult. The water in the bucket had frozen solid so we were forced to move not only the tree, but its hefty bucket, full of ice, also. Some busy chipping with a cold chisel and hammer was necessary before we could get the tree into the house, and then we found that the tree had a distinct list to starboard. The cause was soon traced to a bent leg on the Christmas tree stand and I was despatched again, this time to a freezing cold garage, to knock the stand back into shape with the aid of a machine vice, a blow lamp and a heavy hammer. At last, all was vertical, the french windows were shut and out came the three huge boxes of decorations. Did you know that there is a hierarchy in Christmas tree decorations? Me neither. However, Jane was most insistent: we would use only the high class baubles and trinkets, the ones made of glass, first. Also, the little baubles were for the top, the larger ones for the bottom. The angel was not to reach its ascension until last. The cheap and cheerful decorations in the box (including my favourite little yellow and green aeroplane) were to remain there. I was baffled: why, I asked, did we not therefore ditch the cheap and naff stuff instead of keeping it, thereby reducing the number of boxes from three to one? This suggestion was dismissed with a stern look and an assertion that I was being a Clever Dick again – something which, apparently, I did every year at this time. I shrugged and pretended to hang baubles on the tree while Jane followed behind me and repositioned them. ’Twas ever thus. We managed to perch the new fairy angel on the top (Blog 118), though she hung precariously there with (this time) a list to port as if gazing down on us in benediction. We found our original and long-serving angel in one of the decorations boxes, which begged the question of why we had bought the new doll fairy angel in the first place: I could have bought some stainless steel shackles for the boat with that £17, but very wisely I held my tongue. I was already gaining a reputation for being seasonally difficult. At last, all was finished: the vast tree was decorated, girdled with many turns of Christmas lights, the sherry glasses were drained, the pine needles were vacuumed up, the choir from Kings College, Cambridge had sung its last carol, and the CD had moved on to Nat King Cole’s Christmas Album. Ready in all respects for Christmas.

Are the British and the Spanish the only nations that drink sherry? Surely not? Jane and I rather like it as an aperitif, traditionally drunk before the Sunday roast or – as outlined above – always when decorating the Christmas tree. We have ours chilled, in a schooner, as that adds an extra something to it. Being fortified wine, it is quite powerful stuff – it is advisable not to have more than two glasses on an empty stomach if you want to avoid a headache or pouring custard onto the Sunday joint instead of gravy; but, taken in moderation, it is a good start to a meal and very civilised. I have always found the dry sherries – the Fino – to be a bit like aviation fuel, best employed in driving a gas turbine, while the sweet sherries – like Harvey’s Bristol Cream – to be a bit too sweet; but really it is a case of different ships, different cap tallies: a matter of personal choice. The word ‘sherry’ is, of course, an Anglicised version of Jerez, the region in southern Spain where the grapes are grown. I believe it originally became popular in Britain after Sir Francis Drake sacked Cadiz (the rascal) and plundered many barrels of the stuff, then found it very palatable. Harvey’s in Bristol is possibly the best known of several English firms that blended and sold sherry, and has been going since 1796, though the company is now part of a larger conglomerate. Until comparatively recently, you could go on a tour of the Harvey’s warehouse in Bristol and sample the product; alas, all the blending of Harvey’s sherry is now done back in Jerez. Incidentally, the Spanish would pronounce Jerez as ‘Hereth” or something like that, the ‘z’ being pronounced as if one has a lisp. According to a very clever friend who speaks Spanish and knows these things, the ‘z’ is pronounced that way only because a previous Spanish king did, indeed, have a lisp and the rest of the country followed his pronunciation out of loyalty and, perhaps, to ease any embarrassment on his part. A sort of Iberian version of the King’s English, I suppose. I believe the lisp is not used in Spanish-speaking countries outside of Spain (though I may be wrong). So there you are – what a mine of information I am.

Unusually for December, England is going through something of a cold snap at the moment and it was -8C outside our house overnight last week.  The heating is thrumming away as I write and this morning we awoke to a light dusting of snow, like icing sugar on a cake.  The press are having a field day, of course: What?  Cold weather in winter? Whatever next? Climate Emergency! Stop burning that wood and coal!  The British media have moved on from their rather tired meteorological headline of “The Beast from The East” and are now referring to “The Troll From Trondheim”.  Full marks to whoever thinks these things up.  To be sure, it has been a bit parky and you don’t linger outside for too long.  We have broken out the Arctic clothing.   Jane and I went to a carol service last Friday and were suitably togged up, but she was so cold when we got back to the car that she couldn’t stop her leg from shaking and I had to take over the driving.  The electric car came into its own, however, and supplied instant heat to the interior, the steering wheel and the seats; it had already justified its purchase when I had pre-heated it at home in the garage before leaving. 

The carol service was at my Freemasons’ lodge and we were encouraged to wear outrageous Christmas apparel.  I was all for going dressed as Balthazar, but was dissuaded from doing so by Jane on the basis of her not wishing to be associated with an idiot.  In the end I went for my Mr Pickwick outfit (No 13 Rig) of tweed coat, green checked waistcoat, fob watch, bright green corduroy trousers, cream Charles Tyrwhitt shirt, and a bow tie featuring dancing penguins; the whole ensemble topped by a woolly bobble hat in the shape of a plum pudding.  Jane opted for an outrageous fluorescent red sweater with a fat penguin on it, bought from ‘the cheap shop’ in the High Street, her head topped by a pair of antlers mounted on an Alice band.  I thought we cut quite a dash as a couple, but the antlers came off very early on as they were uncomfortable, and Jane confiscated my nice plum pudding hat halfway through the ceremony, citing a lack of dignity for the occasion.  Unfortunately, my lodge no longer has an organist so musical backing was provided by professional choristers on a series of CDs, fed into the hifi system by a brother pressed into service as an impromptu DJ.  This would have worked well had the choirs had the same version of carols as we did, used the same verses and in the same order, and kept to a familiar tempo.  Alas, these criteria were not universally met and we found ourselves belting out some hearty verses on an entirely different channel to the background music.  Still, what we lost in the karaoke stakes we made up for in enthusiasm.  The accompanying lessons and readings (one read by moi) were very moving and thought-provoking.  Mind you, the whole lodge was like a refrigerator – so cold you could see your breath and everyone wearing their top coats, hence my attachment to the plum pudding so unceremoniously removed by Jane.  At least it was warmer in the dining room, where we tucked in to a hearty chicken curry followed by apple crumble.  And do you know, I made such a good job of my reading from St John Chapter 1 (according to the organiser) that he asked me to take over as organiser for the carol service next year.  Well, that’s what he said. Anyone know a good organist?

Britain is on strike – a hark back to those halcyon days of the 1970s and 1980s when I was a slim, fresh-faced naval officer stopping gun runners in the Irish Sea, had more hair, and I’m Only a Poor Little Sparrow was in the charts.  Oh happy days.  To date (I think I have this right), postmen, railmen, nurses, lecturers, driving examiners, teachers, ambulance staff, Border Force officers, baggage handlers and some bus drivers are on strike on various days, demanding more pay.  GPs are thinking about joining them. What is left of our Armed Forces will have their Christmas leave cancelled in order to fill some of the critical tasks spurned by civilians who are on a higher salary than the average squaddie.  I am sure that plucky British Tommy, Jolly Jack Tar and Biggles are all delighted to be helping out – a refreshing break from that 24/7 tedium of defending our shores on a fixed salary with no overtime. Inflation (currently about 11%) is one cause, of course, but there is also the whiff of militancy in the air of a trade union organisation intent on bringing down the elected government, just like forty-odd years ago, as evidenced by the relish with which some union leaders have stated that ‘they will bring  Britain to a standstill’.  Nurses, the Armed Forces and six other public sector professions are served by Independent Pay Review Bodies which recommend levels of pay, based on the nature of the job, unsocial hours, and competition from other professions.  The Bodies exist to compensate for the fact that some of those professions cannot (eg police, Armed Forces), or should not (eg nurses, paramedics), take industrial action. While the government is not obliged to implement the recommendations made on pay, it usually does so if it can afford it.  Nurses and NHS staff have received annual pay rises and are scheduled to receive an annual increase of at least £1,400 a year from April 2023; they have rejected that and are demanding a 17.5% increase instead.  The prime minister has stated that, if all the public sector workers’ demands were to be met, it would require funds amounting to £1,000 per British household.  Put simply, the UK cannot afford it.  As it stands, make no bones about it, people are going to die because nurses and ambulance workers are refusing to work. When I was a serving naval officer, my fellow servicemen and I sometimes felt hard done by because of the hours worked and the conditions we lived in; while the pay was adequate, we would always have welcomed more and sometimes the government could not implement the full recommendations of the Pay Review Body.  However, we did the job as a vocation, a profession and with a sense of duty. It was what we signed up for, with our eyes open.  We would never have neglected that obligation and nor would the present serving officers, men and women.  Don’t fall over on the ice, folks.  If you do then you will lie there until the next corporation rubbish lorry comes around in the New Year to take the corpse away.  As long as the bin men don’t go on strike, of course.

Where do you come from?  Have you ever voiced that as a polite opener at a formal social gathering where you don’t know the interlocutor?  You have to start somewhere, and it is an improvement over the usual English ploy of discussing the weather. It is a ‘hook’, if you like: a means of getting the conversation going.  Jane often uses it, either with foreign-sounding waiting staff in a restaurant or – enthusiastically – with black people who have a Caribbean accent: she wishes to establish a rapport with them as a fellow West Indian and talk nostalgically about goat curry, rice and peas, salt fish and akee or whatever.  Well, she is going to have to curb her enthusiasm from now on because, apparently, asking someone where they came from is racist.  A black British woman born in London as Marlene Headley, but now calling herself Ngozi Fulani, was outraged to be asked the question by Lady Hussey, an 83-year-old former Lady in Waiting to the late Queen Elizabeth II, at a charity function in Buckingham Palace.  Ms Fulani was wearing traditional African dress and her name badge was on display at the function hence, presumably, the assumption by Lady Hussey that she was African.  Unfortunately, Lady Hussey compounded her initial error of opening a conversation with Ms Fulani by not being able to reconcile the answer to her question with the woman’s African name, traditional African dress and (presumably) her south London accent.  Or, perhaps, she was slightly deaf, being 83, and had not heard the reply properly.  She persisted with supplementary questions, later described by Ms Fulani as “an interrogation”.  Indeed, the verbatim account of the conversation (later splashed around the conventional and social media) seemed to have been recalled with a remarkable degree of accuracy, leading to at least one newspaper suggesting that the event had been taped.  Whatever, Lady Hussey has resigned from her new position as a companion to Queen Camilla, and the Royal family has disowned her as a reward for her 60-odd years of loyal unpaid service.  The rest of us have learned two lessons, namely that loyalty to the Royal family does not work both ways and that you should never ask a person where they come from, even if they are Scottish, Welsh, Lithuanian or whatever.  Shocking weather we’re having at the moment, isn’t it?

Mind you, asking someone where they come from can be misinterpreted in other ways.  I did hear of the genuine story of a little boy who was ‘helping’ his father with a DIY job when the boy suddenly said,
“Daddy, where do I come from?”.
Oh Lord, thought the father, the question has finally come.  Why couldn’t he ask his mother?
Anyway he embarked on a long and winding story that involved hamsters and rabbits, touched on bees, and finally got down to the meat of the matter in graphic detail.  The boy listened, spellbound, with the occasional look of revulsion and then said,
“I only asked because Peter, the new boy at school, says he comes from Chapel-en-le-Frith.”
Nice one Dad.

So, anyway, I was sitting here in my eyrie of a study, batting this stuff out to you good people while the clashing of oven trays below indicated that Jane was indulging herself in a bake-fest (cheese straws, I believe).  Outside, the snow fell as a fine ‘snow drizzle’ and the temperature plummeted in sympathy.  Just as I was getting into a full flow of literary indignation she appeared at the door.
“I’ve been thinking”, she said. 
I put down my quill pen with a sigh, recognising the precursor of Another Job For Horatio.
“Do you think we should clear the front step?  Apparently it’s going to freeze again tonight”.
Now any married man worth his salt (no pun intended) will recognise immediately that this question was couched in womanspeak, the coded means by which women pretend to ask a question of their menfolk, while actually giving an instruction.  “Are you going to have another cup of coffee?”, for example, is decoded as, “I would like a cup of coffee.”  I have learned this from long experience. I am not insensitive, you know.  I have learned these things (third scar on the left at the top, as I recall). 
So I looked at her and I came to the point.
“You mean ‘stop writing that blog, put a coat on, get a shovel and clear the front step’?”, I said.
“Oh no.  I was just asking your opinion.  I can do it.  Of course, I shall have to get changed…”,
(at this point, I’ll swear she passed the back of her hand over her forehead in her Elizabethan gesture of, ‘…though I have the body of a weak and feeble woman’).
“OK.  I’ll go.  Boring old blog anyway”. 
Out I went in the freezing cold with a stiff broom, skidding on the thin snow.  She came out onto the front step, protesting and ostensibly offering moral support, but actually checking that I was doing the job properly (“…missed a bit over there”).  Back in the kitchen with a warming cup of tea I protested that she had interrupted the flow of my writing, my Hemingway moment.  How could I produce these literary insights, this original thought, if she kept interrupting me like this?  Was Bernard Cornwell asked to shovel snow when writing Sharpe’s Waterloo?  Was Agatha Christie asked to sew a button on Mr Christie’s shirt when she was batting out The Mysterious Affair At Styles?  Did she not realise that my vast readership would be disappointed by the offering this month, would detect a discontinuity in the flow?
“You’ve been up there for hours on that blog.  Time you gave it a rest.”
Ah ha.  This was the nub of it.  The message had been double-coded, Commanding Officer’s Eyes Only.  I should have noticed.  The double-hidden message, between the lines, had been,
“Get yourself back down here pronto.  I want someone to talk to and help with the crossword”.
She is missing me, bless her. 

I leave you with a traditional carol:

While shepherds washed their socks by night
All seated on the ground
A bar of Sunlight soap came down
And glory shone around.

Girls, do you know why you love your menfolk so much? It’s because we never grow up and we need your help. It triggers your inherent maternal instinct.

Keep smiling and try not to be offended by others – it’s Christmas and it’s what Jesus would have wanted. What’s more, we have another exciting year yet to come. At least, I hope so. Merry Christmas to you all and – if you are in Britain – don’t get sick or break anything whatever you do.

Now, where did she put that plum pudding hat?

12 December 2022

Blog 118. Here Comes Santa Claus

“Don’t be a grump.  It’s payback time”.

Thus spake Mrs Shacklepin as we transited from a windswept overflow carpark, trudged through mud and gravel, and overtook droves of yummy mummies pushing prams to the entrance of The Big Garden Centre.  Naturally, I terminated my mild verbal observations immediately and pondered on the reference to ‘payback time’.  I had wondered if that bacon and egg breakfast had been too good to be true, and I had been right to be suspicious – how could I fall into the trap yet again?.

We were visiting The Big Garden Centre to find an angel.  One might reasonably expect to find such a heavenly being in the local church, given the right conditions, and it would probably have been a milder experience; but, no, it wasn’t a real angel that we sought, it was one for the top of our forthcoming Christmas tree.  You guessed that already, didn’t you?  I normally avoid The Big Garden Centre near our town like the plague because it is always such an ordeal to go there. I had not visited for years, encouraging Jane to go without me, perhaps taking a little friend for company, so that she can look at the plant pots, the tiger lilies, the cushions, the candles and the bags of John Innes No 3 without hindrance.  There was a time when The Big Garden Centre sold stuff only for the garden (hence the name) and it was congested even then.  Over the years, however, bits have been added to the place so that now it is less of a Garden Centre and more of a vast emporium set in the countryside: a children’s playground; a self-service restaurant that specialises in roasts (OAP discount); a pet centre; a water feature; a butcher’s, a baker’s, a candlestick maker…all have been added.  You name it, this place now sells it (except, possibly, Yorkshire fittings and spark plugs).  On the day we visited – the 22 November, take note – The Big Garden Centre had added ‘A Winter Wonderland’ to its attractions, hence the yummy mummies (most of whom were not so yummy) and, of course, us.
Well, I have to say, ‘A Winter Wonderland’ it most certainly was.  We entered a vast warm black tent that could have housed several tribes of Bedouin and still have room for Ali Baba and his forty thieves.  Life-size dioramas with moving robotic animals and androids formed the centre pieces of many little grottos. They were tucked away between vast shelves packed solid with every shape and kind of glittering, brightly lit, Christmas tree decoration you could imagine; the whole experience underpinned by Christmas music played on a continuous loop.  It must have cost the proprietors millions to buy the stock.  There were Santa Clauses, there were fairies, there were ballerinas, there were tin soldiers, there were reindeer and there were stars.  All the ornaments, including the baubles (which were the size of cricket balls), were far too big for the average suburban Christmas tree: they would look fine on a Christmas tree in Chatsworth or Windsor Castle, but would bring down that five-foot Douglas Fir balanced precariously on a stand in 5 Railway Cuttings, Little Minging.  However, that seemed to deter no-one, for the place was packed: packed with mothers, grandmothers, tiny children and a fleet of pushchairs – the last advancing two and three abreast like a miniature re-enactment of Boadicea leading the Iceni chariots against the Roman Ninth Legion. I, of course, was the only man there unless you counted the security guard.  Jane and I dived into this tortuous cavern and twisted our way through grotto after grotto, tripping over toddlers and appearing gratuitously in several family photographs.  We searched and searched for the perfect archangel, seraph or seraphim for the top of our Christmas tree; we would even have settled for an ordinary common-or-garden cherub or cherubim (we are not snobs when it comes to the Heavenly Host), but could we find one?  Nope.  I can only assume that they were all up there with Jesus, shaking their heads at the way the boss’s birthday is celebrated these days and looking at the date.  Eventually, we concluded that we would have to compromise.  Would a fairy or a ballerina fill the role, I asked?  The memsahib was not happy with such sacrilege; it really had to be an angel.  But we had to make a decision.  We finally settled on a figure that might (with a bit of imagination) be an angel: it was a model of a pretty young lady with golden wings (good start), though the long red velvet dress with gold edgings and low bodice with spaghetti straps suggested a less than chaste or pious outlook.  Maybe she was a fallen angel.  Whatever, we went for it.  Then came the hard bit: how to get out of this Winter Wonderland?  The long and winding road that leads to your door might never disappear for The Beatles, but it almost did for us.  Of course, there was a reason for that: the proprietors wanted us to pass through all those other bits of The Big Garden Centre that I mentioned earlier before we reached the checkout.  Up hill and down dale we metaphorically trekked; past the confectionery department offering Penguin Poo; past the fairy lights and the reindeer flashing like Souter Lighthouse; past the inflatable Santas; past the butcher and the cushions and the candles, the Barbour jackets and the little rabbits…Curiously, the route did not take us past a single tree peony or plant pot, for which I was grateful, though I think even Jane was fed up by that time, and anxious to get out.  We parted with £17 for a cheap doll with wings and we were offski, back through the mire to the car.  One ordeal over; one dodgy angel up (or she will be soon).

Do you know the difference between and optimist and a pessimist? I have asked this before. An optimist gets up in the morning, leaps out of bed, throws back the curtains and says,
“Good morning, God!”.
A pessimist crawls out from under the covers, peers out through the curtains through gummed-up eyes and says,
“Good God! Morning.”
I wonder which of these stereotypes the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD) fits when it states that the UK will be the worst performing major economy over the next two years, after Russia? Well, I’m not having that sort of talk – why, there’s that settlement on the far side of Jupiter that’s forecast to do much worse than us. What’s more, I see no sign of any recession as I walk around the streets of our provincial towns. The ‘Social Housing’ up the road (21st Century euphemism for ‘Council Houses’) are bristling with BMWs and Audis; my neighbour has just spent a weekend in New York with her eighteen-year-old daughter for a quick bit of retail therapy (as you do); you cannot get a builder or tradesman for love nor money – they are all booked up for months ahead; a chap I know spent a lovely holiday in the Maldives this year (I have always found Marsden Bay to be bracing and perfectly adequate, myself); we enjoyed lunch with an old friend in Cirencester the other week and the restaurant was packed solid on a Tuesday; and last week we treated ourselves to a breakfast in (brace yourselves) Wetherspoons, and found the place heaving with young mothers and their offspring. Don’t get me wrong: I do not begrudge people enjoying themselves and spending their hard-earned cash; I just find it hard to reconcile the consumer spending I see around me with gloomy forecasts by international agencies. The thing is (I am going to do my old person’s thing here), when Jane and I were newly married forty years ago we could not go out to eat or take a holiday at all for many years; we could not even afford to buy a coffee on the High Street and we certainly could not afford to take our child out for a meal. I remember Jane telling me, on one memorable occasion, that we only had £1 left in the bank account to last us until the end of the month. The mortgage rate was 15% and whenever that rate went up by ½ % it meant another £100 on our monthly outgoings. Finances were tight then, in the 1980s. My point is that things are bad now, but they have been far worse and we will weather the storm, as we have done before. The baffling thing, to my mind, is that a recent poll suggested that the majority of people blame the present government for the UK’s economic state. If, by that, they mean that paying most of the working population 80% of their salary to sit idly at home for two years during Covid has bankrupted the country then – strictly speaking – they would be quite right; but, given the hype at the time, any other government of whatever colour would have done the same thing. In the words of Dickens’ Mr Micawber, something will turn up.

I feel I owe it to my readers to explain that little repast in Wetherspoons – I do, after all, have certain standards to maintain. For the benefit of any non-UK readers I should explain that J D Wetherspoon (to give it its full title) is a pub chain founded by an entrepreneur called Tim Martin in 1979. It specialises in providing traditional, good value food and drink in premises sympathetically converted from old buildings. There is a branch in our town, Melbury, that has been created from a beautifully refurbished 19th century pub, previously a dive favoured by rapscallions and n’er-do-wells. The end result is astonishing and the pub is now popular with families of all ages, the rougher elements having been told that they are no longer welcome. Regular readers will recognise that Wetherspoons would normally be (how can I put this) somewhat ‘of-the-people’ for my tastes (I am not a regular pub customer anyway), but I have to admit that the food is excellent value, the staff cheerful and efficient, and the surroundings usually well found. You can get fish and chips for £9.90, steak & kidney pudding for £8.40 or ham, egg and chips for £7.90 – all with an included alcoholic drink. And get this: the food is not of poor quality or skimped on quantity; it is good stuff. Just to put these prices in context, we have seen a ploughman’s lunch (cheese, pickle and a hunk of bread) offered in other pubs for £15; fish and chips for £18. Jane and I went for breakfast in Wetherspoons because it has become a sort of tradition whenever our car is being serviced: we put the car in to the garage to have its innards looked at, walk into town, and pig-out on the fat boy’s breakfast. My breakfast cost me under £5, with unlimited cups of coffee, and was thoroughly enjoyable. The only fly in the ointment of this culinary extravaganza was the young toddlers running riot in the pub as I tried to eat; breakfast (as I have said on many an occasion) is a meal to be taken quietly, without conversation, preferably while reading The Times. Still, you can’t have everything.

Have you ever wondered how people survived in the previous centuries, when they didn’t have electricity? Vote for the Green Party and you’ll find out (only joking).  No, seriously, how did they get by with just candlelight?  We are currently taking part in a series of experiments with our electricity supplier to see how much electricity we can save by avoiding using the grid at peak times: the supplier will pay us for every kWh saved over a one hour period, measured against our usual consumption at that time.  Never being ones  to waste an opportunity, we went mad and switched off absolutely everything except our modem, sitting there trying to read and write by the light of two candles. It was virtually impossible.  Lights (especially LEDs) take very little power, but I spared nothing – even the fridges and freezers were shut down for the hour.  The last time we did this, we gained (like the UK entry in the Eurovision Song Contest)  nil pois, which astonished me as we would normally have the electric oven running full chat at that time for dinner in the evening.  So this last time it was ‘make or break’ and if we still make no savings then the deal is off.  Those candles don’t grow on trees.  In case you are wondering, by the way, I spent the time writing this blog on my iPad; Jane was somewhere in the room, but I was never entirely sure where.

See if you recognise this:

“Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean”

No, it’s not a poem about the British population during lockdown.  It’s from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Coleridge.  It goes on with:

“Ah! well a-day! what evil looks
Had I from old and young!
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung”

Recognise it now?  It is where we acquired the phrase, “Water, water everywhere nor any drop to drink”.  It is a grim and stirring tale; so stirring, in fact, that the University of Greenwich has deemed it necessary to warn its students about its horrors.  Apparently the students will read about “human death”, “supernatural possession” and (worse) “animal death”, which could be deeply traumatising for them. Oh, bless.

I see that menopausal women on the staff of the NHS are to be given time off on full pay to help them cope with their condition, and if you think I am going to comment about that then you have another thing coming.

Well, the plimsolls are back.  I refer, of course, to Jane adorning her feet again with gym shoes, or ‘trainers’ as I believe they are known in the vernacular.  I thought I had weaned her off these hideous excrescences of the cordwainer’s craft but, no, they had only lain dormant in some cupboard somewhere, in a state of stasis as it were, like Dracula.  She has taken to wearing them because she has started to suffer planter fascist-itis, or some such, on her foot – a consequence of her sloughing around in a pair of furry down-at-heel slippers in the house (another item of footwear that I deplore, though – naturally – I never mention it).  She needs a heel on her shoes, you see, on account of the fact that she has a high instep (this is my feminine side coming out).  She actually did revert to a smart pair of court shoes and skirt earlier in the week, befitting for the wife of an officer my rank and seniority.  The court shoes helped ease the pain and – as I pointed out to her – emphasised a very elegant calf.  Alas, I thought I heard her mutter something about a little encouragement going a long way with me and shortly after that the elegance was terminated.  The pumps are back and she is bouncing around the kitchen in denim jeans like some demented gym mistress.  I shall have to say something, it’s no good.

Tempus fugit, and the weather is exactly the same as when I concluded the last blog: black as your hat in mid afternoon, wind Force 4, rain coming down in stair rods.  Pity poor sailors on a day like this.  I’m off downstairs for a nice sensible cup of tea in front of the fire with the gym mistress.

No, you can’t put that tree up yet.  It’s still November for heaven’s sake.

24 November 2022