Blog 117. At Bertram’s Hotel

In Agatha Christie’s At Bertram’s Hotel, the author describes a hotel that is still run as good hotels were years ago: plenty of smart, polite and attentive staff; roaring fires; comfortable rooms and armchairs; excellent food; an absolute delight to visit.   Our experience with staying at the Victoria Hotel in Sidmouth, Devonshire last month almost mirrored Christie’s book, but, although the fictional Bertram’s Hotel is later revealed to be too good to be true, I am pleased to report that there is no sinister side to The Victoria at all.  It really was good.  
The hotel is an impressive red-brick Edwardian building built on five floors at the beginning of the 20th century on Sidmouth’s seafront.  The extensive gardens, tennis courts, corner towers, balconies and covered portico project an image of an empire long gone, but – thankfully – this is not reflected in the fabric and decor of the establishment.  Unlike similar places, where the standard of service, decoration or repair have so often been allowed to fade, the Victoria proved to be immaculate inside and out, and very efficient.  Ray, the concierge, resplendent in his uniform with top hat, welcomed us at the entrance; comfortable sofas and armchairs were scattered throughout the warm lobby and the lounge, where picture windows offered a fine view of a rather turgid sea and a wind-swept Lyme Bay; staff hovered unobtrusively, but were alert and quick to bring refreshment or help with luggage as requested.  We were delighted to discover, on checking in, that we had been given an upgrade and our room on the first floor included a balcony overlooking the sea, a double en suite bathroom, two large armchairs and plenty of space.  A vast curved alcove on one wall housed the defunct central fireplace (now disguised by a television), with fitted wardrobes on either side, beautifully crafted in the original yew.  A large fitted chest of drawers on one side, also in yew,  complemented the whole outfit.  The door to the bathroom led to a walk-in shower and washbasin, but there was a further door that led into an inner chamber containing a bath, washbasin and WC.  The external doors and windows were all double-glazed UPVC and were very effective at sealing the room against the brisk Force 4 wind that was blowing outside and the roar of the surf on the beach.  The room had a small fridge containing fresh milk for making tea or coffee, which we thought was a nice touch, and fresh flowers decorated the side table.  We later explored the hotel and discovered that it had an impressive spa and indoor swimming pool in the basement (exclusive for hotel guests) and a large outdoor pool in the rear garden, complete with bridge that gave it a Venetian flavour.  The outdoor pool had poolside-suites for larger families, and there were tennis courts and a putting green: plenty to do for all generations.  Contrary to my earlier belief, the hotel did take children and I imagine it would be fairly bustling in the summer, but October was definitely off-season and our fellow guests were somewhat, how can I put this, at the senior end of the human age spectrum.  Later, we dined in a fine dining room, entertained by a quartet every night, gentlemen diners encouraged to dress in jacket and tie (I only noticed two Bohemian and anarchist dissenters during our stay, and glared at them every evening).  The food was excellent.  I think a great deal of the hotel’s success was down to the fact that it was part of a small chain of hotels that was family-owned and that the management team were omnipresent, alert, attentive and efficient, yet discreet.

Oh dear.  I have just re-read that paragraph and have realised that it sounds like a publicity brochure for Brend Hotels.  No, I do not get a discount for writing this, though the chance would be a fine thing (I write with a nom de plume).  The hotel and our stay there really were that good.  Just to offset the glowing report and to prove that not everything was absolutely perfect (few things are for les Shacklepins), I can comment that our room would have benefitted from having fresh coffee and a cafetière instead of the mundane instant coffee that did not fit with the luxury of the hotel; the breakfast coffee was bland and tasteless; each two-seater dining room table was linked to a sister table, but separated by a frosted glass partition – no doubt to maximise space, but restricting one’s view and making the dining experience somewhat claustrophobic; finally, having taken the trouble to bring a selection of ties for the stay, and advising a friend who joined us on one night to dress accordingly, I was disappointed that the hotel did not enforce the smart dress rule – it did offer an alternative, informal, dining room, or the loan of jackets and ties to the sartorially challenged, so there was no excuse.  Otherwise, though, pretty good.  Of course our half-board stay of three nights did cost us a bob or two, but we thought it was worth it and Jane – in particular – enjoyed the break from cooking.

We had visited Sidmouth before, when we stayed with our friends Selina and Thomas, who moved there some years ago. We had also visited the Victoria for lunch a few times when we met some other old friends holidaying there. The town rose to prominence during the early 19th century when bathing in the sea (now called ‘wild swimming’) became popular. Royalty were frequent visitors, and traces of their visits may be found on the many heritage plaques decorating the historical buildings throughout the town. One terrace of buildings hosted relatives of the late Tzar of Russia for a short while. There is no harbour or pier, only a long shingle beach and the very small estuary of the River Sid that gives the town its name. To the east and west, cliffs rise up steeply to form part of the Jurassic Coast and the South West Coastal Path. The small town (pop. c12,500) comprises a good mix of independent shops, coffee bars, cafés, restaurants and hotels, all in the best possible taste. Unusually for a modern British seaside town, there is no ‘tat’, or none that I saw; visiting Sidmouth is like stepping back in time, but in a nice way. When Jane and I visited the sky was grey, the rain was a permanent threat and an occasional reality, and the onshore wind was blowing a hooley; spindrift whipped off the offshore breakers, the sea churned up the shallows into a brown stain, and the seafront was dominated by the constant noise of breaking waves on a shingle beach. In typical English fashion, hardy folk – mostly over 60 – paraded up and down the promenade, heads and backs bent, hats firmly on their heads, walking sticks deployed, clearly determined to enjoy themselves no matter what (“mustn’t grumble…”). After the obligatory battle along the promenade, Jane and I explored the inner parts of the town and were very impressed by the range and quality of the architecture. We found little streets with tiny individual cottages decorated by filigree woodwork and beautiful gardens, almost as if lifted out of a book by Tolkien; we found fine Georgian terraces with their own promenade like Royal York Crescent in Bristol; we found grand, unspoilt houses originally built for the gentry but now hotels or public buildings; and we found some lovely places to live, built in the 1930s style and totally beyond what we could ever afford. There used to be a railway station in Sidmouth, but it was closed in the Beeching cuts of the 1960s. In the mid 1800s, the good burghers of Sidmouth apparently insisted that the railway station be built away from the centre of town because they did not want to encourage the visit of hoi polloi from London – or anywhere else, for that matter; Sidmouth was for royalty, for people of class. Yes, we decided, Sidmouth would be a very good place to live if only we could get rid of the tourists and – of course – if we could afford it.

After Sidmouth we moved on to Plymouth to stay with our old friends Benjamin and Margery, who were too slow to come up with an excuse as to why we could not stay.  We wanted to catch up on the news of the family and the general state of affairs in the city where I once lived and was based in for ten years.  We also wanted to complete our traditional homage to the shrine of Plymouth Gin Distillery, the oldest working distillery in England and maker of my favourite tipple.  We headed for the distillery first, driving through heavy traffic and even heavier torrential rain, to play that fun game known to all electric vehicle (EV) owners: hunt the charging point.  This is a super game that only EV owners can play: you start with a certain amount of electricity in your car battery – let us say something small, like 10% of its capacity – then you spend your time using up that 10% driving around in circles in an unfamiliar town or city, looking for EV charging points listed on the GPS or an app, but actually not existing.  The winner is the one who manages to find a point and plug in before the battery dies, though several marks are lost if the driver loses his temper with his navigator in the process.  Jane and I drove round and round The Citadel in Plymouth three times and twice through The Barbican (scattering tourists in all directions) seeking an EV charge point.  We transited two carparks and missed one No Entry sign; we passed Plymouth Hoe twice.  Nope: not there.  In the end, we drove on to Millbay Docks, Plymouth’s commercial ferry port, and – lo – there stood the jewel in the city’s crown (well, it was to me): four EV charging points, all unoccupied, in a free and empty carpark.  It was like finding an oasis in the desert.  The analogy ended there, however, for the rain was pouring down in sheets, the wind was whipping it horizontally, and I did not have the correct app on my iPhone to operate the EV chargers.  Oh, yes, and just to add to it all, I was getting desperate to pass water.  As mentioned in blog Blog 100, you need a special card, or an app on your iPhone, to access most EV charge points though a few will accept a credit card direct.  I currently have twenty eight apps on my mobile phone for this purpose and the list is growing.  The EV chargers in Millbay Docks needed yet another app, which I had to download, then register an account, then familiarise myself with.  Imagine, if you will then,  the pouring rain on a grey October day, the wind buffeting the car, a short-tempered fellow plugging in an electric cable, while crossing his legs and being unable to get a new app to work on his iPhone, and you will get the general picture.  Fortunately for Jane, I had dispatched her across the road to a nearby dockside café The Dock, advising her not to speak to any rough sailors offering to show her a golden rivet on the way.  I joined her later, soaked, spitting blood, tripping over a door sill and generally prepared to rip someone’s head off;  but I was immediately calmed by the ambience and views from the café, which served a very good coffee and sandwich. Outside, the wind and rain continued, boats in the nearby marina heaved up and down, and Plymouth Sound  was obscured by squalls but, behold, all was calm in my inner soul (after I had found the Gents’ lavatory).  We never did get to Plymouth Gin that day – we returned on the morrow when it wasn’t raining.   No, we had had enough of the weather: we repaired to our accommodation with Benjamin and Margery.

You know, of all the top hotels in the world, the Coral Sands in the Bahamas, the Grand Park Kodhipparu in the Maldives, The Ritz in London… none can compare with staying with good friends and enjoying their hospitality. We settled in rapidly, the wine flowed, and Margery produced a delicious chicken dish – seemingly without effort. The conversation never stopped as we caught up on the latest news. All went well until I raised an interesting topic that I had read in The Times a few days previously regarding a campaign by some women demanding that all women’s sanitary products should be issued free. Never one to be backward in coming forward on topical subjects, I voiced the authoritative opinion that nothing was ever ‘free’: someone, namely all the rest of the population who pay taxes, would have to pay for it. Why, I posited, should the tax-paying public pay for sanitary products for all women between the ages of, say, twelve and fifty, when many could afford to buy the items themselves? Should men have free razor blades too?
Well, let me tell you, this was like Guy Fawkes Night when you light the blue touch paper and retire immediately. A lively discussion followed, during which Margery put forward sound cogent reasons why the proposal should be endorsed (the sanitary products, not the razor blades), supported in her view by a rather treacherous Jane and a very large cake slice, the latter dangerously close to my left ear. Benjamin, presumably from experience, very wisely kept out of it and helped himself to another glass of wine. In the end I was convinced by Margery’s arguments, which were founded on logic and the properties of stainless steel, and I conceded that she was quite right. Gosh, you can’t beat a good hearty discussion among friends.

I still think men should get free razor blades though.
What?

On the next evening we all went out for dinner at Bistro Pierre in Royal William Yard, Plymouth. Bistrot Pierre is a small chain of English restaurants that offers good French-style food at a very fair price, and they used to have a restaurant in our nearest Big City that we often frequented. In my naval days, Royal William Yard in Plymouth was a working naval victualling yard dating from Nelson’s time, but the Ministry of Defence sold the estate some years ago and it it now a thriving enclosed restaurant/night club/apartment complex – all located in the ancient buildings. The idea sounds good, but the reality not quite so. We rolled up at 1900 in the pitch dark and could not, initially find a parking place in the crowded walled complex. When we eventually found one, we joined a queue to pay for parking at a nearby machine – at seven o’clock at night. Apparently the Plymouth parking wardens are renowned for their zeal and never sleep. We then groped our way to the restaurant, guided mainly by the stars: the girls stumbling along in their high heels and the men apparently leading confidently, but actually following everyone else. Bistrot Pierre, set in what was – essentially – the ground floor of a vast 18th century warehouse, was heaving and deafening. To add to the general clamour, our table was next to a large group of maybe ten people, all jabbering and shouting at once; I think it was someone’s birthday. The noise level was so bad that I actually tore off part of my serviette and stuffed bits in my ears. Our waitress was working very hard (as I say, the place was packed) and the food was all right, but the enjoyment of a meal is dictated by several factors other than the quality of the food: ambience, conversation, relaxation, people-watching. With the exception of the latter, all failed. We were glad to get out of there – the peace outside was absolute bliss. Never again.

Well, I suppose I have to write about some current affairs in the UK though things are happening so fast that I am in danger of losing several prime ministers between blogs.  Rishi Sunak is now our new prime minister and we can, I hope, heave a sigh of relief for a period of stability and calm.  I must be the only person in the country who feels sorry for Liz Truss, the shortest-serving UK prime minister in history, with a tenure of 49 days.  As I wrote in an earlier blog, Truss made no secret of what her policies would be during her election campaign for leadership of the Conservative Party, yet Conservative MPs put her name forward for Stage 2 of the process when party members voted for her in preference to Sunak.  When she became prime minister she did what she said she would, the financial markets went bananas, sterling plunged, and she was forced to resign.  Now the woman is pilloried as if she were the devil incarnate.  It reminds me of the scene at the first Easter when one moment it was “Hosanna in the highest” and the next day it was “Crucify, crucify”.  My take is this: there is a human being at the receiving end of all this abuse; have a bit of compassion.  She meant well, she thought she had support for her policies and she did her best.  We all make mistakes – including those people who voted for her.

The culinary policies of the Shacklepins have moved on and we now subscribe to an outfit called Hello Fresh.  I expect you have already heard of the concept – Jane and I are always behind the curve of popular social practice.  Just in case you are unfamiliar with the idea, however, I will explain it.   Hello Fresh (there are other companies that do the same thing) is, essentially, cooking by numbers.  You pay so much a week for whatever number of days’ worth of food and whatever number of people to feed, and the company selects random meals for you – sending you the ingredients for each meal and the instructions on how to prepare them.  You can have a totally random choice or you can filter the field to ‘just vegetarian’, ‘just fish’ or whatever.  You can also override the random selection and substitute your own alternatives from a list supplied.  Jane had been aware of the company for some time, but had dismissed it with a snort of derision, just as Rembrandt might have dismissed a gift of a ‘Paint by Numbers’ set: she was perfectly capable of cooking on her own, thank you.  However, the task that Jane hates the most (after ironing) is deciding on the menu for the week; she loves cooking, but she hates deciding what to cook.  Hello Fresh gets round that problem by randomly producing the menus for the week, with the added bonus of producing the ingredients too.  We only have Hello Fresh meals for three days a week, but the load on her shoulders seems lighter already – the more so for the fact that I have been taking an interest and helping with the cooking every time.  The meals work out at £5.08 per person per meal, which I think is not too bad a price, and every meal we have had so far has been delicious.  So there you are: an interesting alternative to cooking, especially if you are single or your children have abandoned you, like ours.

We are back in Greenwich Mean Time or, to give it its proper name, Universal Time Co-ordinated (UTC).  I won’t be changing my terminology, despite the fact that UTC came into being in 1972.  Right on queue, the biannual arguments are banging back and forth regarding whether we should just stick to one time system all year, preferably British Summer Time/Greenwich Mean Time (delete according to preference).  I declare for the GMT camp for the simple reason that at 12 o’clock noon GMT the sun is at its zenith in Greenwich, that is to say true noon according to the sun.  The downside of moving to GMT, as we do every late October, is – of course – that dusk comes earlier (typically 1630 in southern England at the moment) though sunrise is earlier too (typically 0715 at present).  Although we are a small country, the variations in sunrise and sunset north to south, east to west, do cause some problems (children returning from school in the dark, for example), but there is a very simple solution that the objectors of time change seem not to have considered: why not simply change the office and school start and finish times, as required?  I look forward to my nomination for an MBE.

“Three different socks, two pairs of knickers and one pair of underpants!”
Thus spoke my dear wife, holding up the items like trophies as she stomped down the pontoon to return to the boat one morning. 
Sipping my habitual cup of pre-breakfast espresso on the quarterdeck of APPLETON RUM, I eyed her tolerantly, and smiled.
“And good morning to you, too, dear,” I said. 
She clambered onboard. 
“God, you’re hopeless”, she huffed.  “I can’t trust you to do anything.” 
With that, she scuttled down below, still clutching her smalls.
I had been detailed off the previous evening to leave the warmth and comfort of the boat and battle my way up the 300m pontoon in the howling wind and rain to the marina facilities building, there to collect our laundry which had been tumble-drying for the last two hours.  Jane did not want to go because the wind might disarray her carefully coiffured hair, newly fashioned after our evening shower.  Suitably attired, I had completed the task only to find, during the mistress’s subsequent audit, that several odd items were missing from the bundle I brought back.  She stated her intention of revisiting the laundry the next morning and searching the machines.  The result, I have just described.
“Ho hum”, I thought,“I won’t be given that job again then.”  I finished my coffee philosophically and repaired below for my bacon butty.
Yes, we completed a final week on the boat in the run up to winter.  As expected, the weather was not the best and we only managed to leave the berth once in a very stormy week.  There were some sunny intervals, but mostly the wind was above Force 3, surging APPLETON RUM against her pontoon, snatching at her warps and creaking her fenders.  I can get under way under such conditions (and have done), but there is not a lot of pleasure in cruising in high winds in a motor yacht, even in the river.  We did complete one important job, however, namely to top up the boat’s fuel tanks for the winter – a task necessary in order to minimise condensation and, hence, water contamination in the fuel.  This would be the first time we had used the marina’s new self-service fuel pontoon, and I approached it with some trepidation.  Wow! What a job that was.  The tide was ebbing strongly and water was roaring around the fuel pontoon in a raging torrent as I edged APPLETON RUM alongside.  However, my trusty fo’c’sle officer, Jane, is a well-practised hand at lassoing cleats and she secured the head rope after only one throw.  Nevertheless, I found I needed two head ropes, a back spring and a doubled up breast to secure the boat safely.  You have no idea what I am talking about have you?  Translation for landlubbers: the boat needed lots of ropes to tie her up and hold her steady against the strong current.   Anyway, in went the diesel, round and round went the gauge on the pump like the depth gauge in a suicidal submarine, down and down went my bank balance.  Finally, we were full, £500 had disappeared from my assets and we were all set for winter.  I thanked my lucky stars that our fuel tanks had been only one third empty.  What did I say in my last blog about ‘Bring On Another Thousand?’

So here we are, Guy Fawkes Night and that ghastly American import, Halloween, out of the way with a clear run to Christmas: 49 days to go.  Although mid afternoon, it is as black as your hat outside, the rain is coming down in stair rods, the wind is sweeping in from the west, and we are snuggled down in our little nest here in Melbury.  England: where better a place to live?  Well, 12,000 Albanian immigrants seem to think so, so it must be true.
I feel the urge for a sherry coming on.  Turn that light out!  Don’t you know there’s an energy crisis?

6 November 2022

Blog 116. God Save the King; God Save the Prime Minister.

“So let me just get this clear in my mind: you want another prime minister? What did you do with the last one we gave you? Oh, she’s no good despite her winning the month-long selection and election process laid down by the Conservative Party? What’s that – you want to do the whole thing again? You have to be joking”.
So runs a very concise summary of what many British citizens must have running through their minds at the moment along with, “Blimey, surely even the Labour Party will be more organised and united than this lot”. The fact is, in the last six years the UK has gone through three prime ministers with the current one predicted to be gone by Christmas. One threw his toys out of the pram when the children did not follow his grown-up advice regarding Brexit; one said she would honour the Brexit referendum result, but then conveniently ignored it; one got Brexit done and steered us successfully through an epidemic, but then was hounded out for having a drink and a cake; and this current one has been in power for one month, one week and one day, and is likely to be ditched for doing exactly what she said she would do when campaigning for leadership of the party. I despair. Like much of the rest of the world, the UK is in a financial mess after the idleness and spending that resulted from the Covid epidemic, fuelled by Russia’s invasion of Ukraine and an energy crisis; and the MPs of the Conservative Party – instead of rallying around the leader that they so recently selected – are squabbling among themselves. Frankly, the party does not deserve to run the country, for it cannot even run itself. I am reminded of an assessment of part of the civil service once given by a soldier in the British Army,
“Couldn’t pour p**s from a boot with the instructions written on the sole.”
As I write, the first human sacrifice has been made to try to assuage the criticisms of the government: poor old Kwasi Kwarteng was sacked as Chancellor of the Exchequer after only 38 days in office – the shortest tenure in British history if you discount interim post-holders and those who died at their desks. A shame, as he seemed very clever, was in complete step with Liz Truss and was a staunch supporter; also I had only just managed to learn how to spell his name. Who knows how many other dismissals will follow though – as I wrote earlier – the word on the street is that Truss will soon follow. I claim no knowledge of economics, but then Kwasi Kwarteng has a PhD in history of economics and look where that got him. I would only say that I could follow the logic of the Truss/Kwarteng approach and thought it was worth a go. Hey ho. That 1% cut in income tax would have been nice, but what you never had you don’t miss.
The irony of the situation is that the Labour Party, if in power, would almost certainly borrow masses of money just like the Conservative Party has done though, instead of offering tax cuts to encourage growth and investment, they would probably throw the money into the bottomless pit that is the non-functioning NHS and re-nationalise the railway, energy, communications and water companies so that we can be held to ransom by the trade unions once more. Excellent: I do so long for those good-old days of the 1970s.

Just to add to this jolly news, the media have lurched from stories of spontaneous combustion in our towns and villages caused by a “heat wave” and a “climate crisis” (Blog 114), passed through the tales of cracked reservoirs and hosepipe bans caused by drought (Blog 115), and now predict – with relish – that we are all going to freeze to death because there will be no electricity or gas to light and heat our homes.  Predictably, there has been a run on candles and correspondents have written to The Times demanding that the government publish leaflets telling us how to put on another jumper and keep our doors and window shut.  I suppose we could always burn the leaflets.  Clearly, in the words of Private Frazer in Dad’s Army, “We’re doomed.”  For my part, I have taken – once more – to skimming through the digital newspapers and not bothering to read the articles on war, energy, finance or politics.  There was a time when I conscientiously read these things in the morning and spat toast and marmalade in expostulation, ranted at Jane, and kicked over the gash bin; then, one day, I had a ‘road to Damascus’ moment and realised that – as an ordinary bloke – there was not a damned thing I could do about most of these things, so there was no point in getting worked up about them.  Since then I have saved a fortune in Valium tablets.

The death of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II hit us hard, as it did most other people in the UK and Commonwealth.  She was a very old lady and we all knew she would die soon, yet somehow she seemed invincible and we thought she would always be there – a quiet figurehead guiding us gently and setting the standard to which we should all aspire. It is almost as if she set herself the final tasks of enjoying her jubilee and welcoming her last prime minister, before quietly dying.  To most of us in Britain she was the only monarch we knew – certainly that was the case for me despite the fact that I was born in the reign of King George VI.  Her face was on stamps and coins and other currency; envelopes were labelled “On Her Majesty’s Service”; warships were “Her Majesty’s Ship”; my cap badge and the buttons of my uniform bore the Queen’s Imperial State Crown, not the King Edward’s Crown.  Now it is all gone and we are into a new era in which ignorance is bliss: I read the other day that King Charles will be “coronated” next year.  Try “crowned” you idiots.  Anyway, King Charles gave a good sovereign’s speech and we must move on.  I think we gave Queen Elizabeth a good send off; Jane and I watched the entire funeral on the television and I could find no fault with any of the ceremonial, which was impeccable.  Mind you, we were maxed-out on funerals by the time it was all over.  Does anyone know who those ladies were who were leading the cortège wearing court shoes and carrying billiard cues?  Their stamina could put us all to shame.

So, here we are in mid October. All that hot weather that I wrote about in the last blog disappeared almost overnight and Britain returned to its seasonal state once more ie “it might rain”. It is a shame, because I did manage to buy that wet suit that I alluded to in Blog 114, but the autumnal weather has meant that I have been unable to try it out. Jane had forbidden the purchase of such an outfit, you will recall, citing the shortage of funds as the main reason. Naturally, I accepted her wise counsel. However, we were shopping in Lidl one day and I was told to stop following her around and saying, “What do you want now?”, then dispatched to the centre aisle to go and amuse myself. European readers will recall that the centre aisle in the supermarket Lidl is a pot pourri of mixed goods: a positive cornucopia of bargains, cheap but good-value clothing, and tools that men never knew they needed, all headlined by the warning, “When It’s Gone It’s Gone”. There, in the middle of this treasure chest, was a wet suit being sold for £39.99. What a bargain! I had seen suits advertised on the internet at prices ranging from £150 to £500 (hence the memsahib’s ban on a purchase). This could not, surely, be overlooked. I pondered for a considerable time (purely hypothetically you understand) on the correct size for me: height would be a key dimension, as I am quite compact and one would not want the crotch of one’s wet suit to be dangling in the region of one’s knees; equally, I am of a muscular chest size out of proportion to the standard beam of a man of my height (I was once described, overall, as being ‘of comfortable build’). I finally concluded that – if I were to make a purchase – and only if – then I would chose based on height and let the chest size sort itself out, these things being meant to be tight fitting.
“What are you doing?”
I jumped, guiltily, as Jane materialised silently, like a genie, beside me (how does she do that?)
I gestured casually at the wet suit and indicated the price.
“…absolute bargain at less than £40, but of course, I understand…you know best”
I sighed and put on my hung-dog puppy face and went to walk away.
“Oh for God sake, get it then,” she said in capitulation.
Reluctantly, I added the wet suit to the shopping cart.
At home I was anxious to try it on. Not being of a sporting disposition, I have never worn a wet suit before: if there had been such things in the 1960s on Tyneside when I used to swim in the North Sea, the owner of such an outfit would have been called “a Nancy”, so it would have been non-U anyway. With difficulty I clambered into the suit and zipped it up. Fortunately, it had a small ‘M’ logo on the front that helped with orientation and encouraged the wearer in the belief that he had turned into Marvelman. Or possibly Mighty Mouse. I found the collar to be a bit high and it forced my head back and very upright, like the wing collars that we used to wear in the evenings when I was a Cadet at Dartmouth; my arms also stuck out oddly, but hey, I reasoned, for the price these are small niggles and I will soon get used to them. I waddled robotically to the top of the stairs and called Jane to come and admire her aquatic hero.
“Yes, very nice dear,” was her noncommittal comment. ”Collar looks a bit odd”, she added helpfully, then returned to baking her cakes or whatever she does in her laboratory. Wives can be so discouraging, don’t you find? I waddled back into the bedroom and managed, with difficulty, to get out of the thing. It was only then that I read the instructions (men never read instructions or ask for directions, did you know that girls?). Ah. It seems I had put the suit on back to front – hence the stiff collar (should be at the back) and the odd arms. Honestly, how was I to know that the zip went at the back? It is illogical – how would you do it up if on your own? It also transpired that there was a larger ‘M’ logo, which went to the front and brought Marvelman to full life, which was most pleasing. So there you go: the full scuba kit now lies in a locker onboard APPLETON RUM, simply waiting to be given its sea trial. I can hardly wait.

Any member of the boating community will tell you that the word ‘boat’ is but an acronym for Bring On Another Thousand, and so it has proved with my own motor cruiser (actually recorded by the British Register of Shipping as a ‘Motor Yacht’, which I find very gratifying).  All boats with an inboard engine draw sea water into the boat to cool the engine, discharging it afterwards.  All boats with a fitted heads (= lavatory) also draw in water to flush the pan and the effluent is discharged overboard at sea.  These connections to the sea must be isolated using valves, or cocks, known as sea valves or sea cocks which – naturally – are located in the bottom of the boat in the bilges.  I had been having difficulty in opening and closing the sea valves in APPLETON RUM for some time, a process exacerbated by having to hang upside down into the engine compartment with arms outstretched to their full extent in order to undertake the task.  When I found that the valves were so stiff that I was actually bending the operating levers rather than moving the mechanism I realised that the they would have to be replaced.  However, to do that the boat would have to be lifted out of the water and chocked ashore.  And that is where the “bring on another thousand” came in”.  Lifting out and re-launching vessel: £600; replacing three sea valves: £750.  Thank God it’s only money, that’s what I say.  Ho hum. Lucky I bought that wet suit when I did.

We had an interesting time last month visiting a racehorse stables during National Racehorse Week. What’s that? Never heard of it? Neither had we. Jane came across an advertisement for this annual event somewhere, and as part of the activities you could sign up to be given a tour of a local racehorse stables. Well, we knew nothing about racehorses other than what we had read in Dick Francis books: we have never been to a racecourse, never been in a betting shop and never betted on a horse. True, I had done a little riding when I was a Sub Lieutenant as I thought it might be useful in my naval career one day (well, you never know…). I used to hack across Dartmoor every Wednesday afternoon and, naturally, I had all the accessories: the cream jodhpurs, the highly polished riding boots, the hat, the quirt. I did try continuing my recreation when I was home on leave in South Shields, galloping a horse along the South Foreshore, but was called “a big pouf” by a local ruffian as I returned to the stables, and vowed then to confine my equestrian skills to Dartmoor where my sartorial elegance invited no comment. I digress. The thing I learnt from horse riding was that horses were generally not called ‘Trigger’, that they had complete minds of their own, and that they loved throwing you off. The last never happened to me, but my best chum, Christian (aka Hand Major – see Blog 67), who accompanied me once, was sent flying into a ditch by his nag. I have often wondered since if this changed his genes and explained why his later-to-be-born son joined the Parachute Regiment. Anyway, to continue my saga about National Racehorse Week, we tried to sign on for a visit to the nearest racehorse stables, but they were fully booked. In the end, we managed to get booked into a stables a considerable distance away, near Amesbury in Wiltshire. I pondered for some time on what to wear for this event. The jodhpurs and black riding boots were long gone, but I did have a pair of elastic-sided ankle boots that would fit the bill; the beige cavalry twill trousers were an automatic choice; the tweed hacking jacket with double vent, naturally; the Charles Tyrwhitt twill checked shirt complemented by the maroon National Trust tie… I did not own a brown trilby, but I did have a range of tweed flat caps and chose one to match the coat. Thus attired I drove with Jane to Wilsford Stables, pacing our journey to arrive exactly at the appointed time, as directed on the joining instructions. In my mind’s eye I saw myself strutting purposely through the stable yard on my personal tour with Seamus Mullins, the owner, asking searching and intelligent questions about fetlocks and martingales, odds and penalties, while dodging piles of manure. When we arrived I was gobsmacked. An enormous field by the stables was already full of cars and more were arriving by the minute (so much for our precisely timed arrival, achieved by waiting in a lay-by en route for seven minutes). I thought it was going to be a personal visit with, perhaps, just half a dozen other country chaps like us (note, ‘chaps’ not ‘blighters’). Far from it. What looked like the whole of Wiltshire was there: complete families with pushchairs, grandparents and dogs. There was cake. There was tea. And do you know, most of them wore jeans and ‘trainers’. I couldn’t believe it after all my effort with my ensemble. Never mind, once I had overcome my shock (“Stop grumbling”, said an unsympathetic wife) we enjoyed a very good tour. We patted the very sleek-looking horses in their stables, had a fascinating lengthy chat with one of the jockeys, and watched a farrier shoeing one of the horses. This last was a very impressive demonstration of what proved to be a lengthy and very skilled process. The shoes he was fitting on the racehorse were actually aluminium alloy: very light yet robust. Different sizes are needed for different horses, just like for humans, and they are cold-forged into the precise shape of the horse’s hoof on site (‘on the hoof’ you might say). The hoof itself has to be trimmed and levelled to take the shoe and the nails are hammered in at an angle for security. Each shoe must have taken about an hour to fit and we were assured that the whole thing would have to be done again in a few weeks’ time. I was intrigued by the whole process. Later, there was a demonstration of how racehorses are trained and looked after from foal to retirement, taught how to jump in steeplechases and so on. Overall, it was a most informative morning and Seamus Mullins and his staff must have gone to a great deal of trouble to organise and run the whole thing; it was very much to Mullins’ credit bearing in mind it was all free to the public and purely an educational exercise. Jane and I vowed to participate again next year (we are now ‘on’ the system) though, perhaps next time at a stables nearer to home. If you are interested, and live in the UK, go to www.nationalracehorseweek.uk/ for information – the event happens every September apparently. By the way – they do not send retired racehorses to the knacker man for dog food; they sell them to nice people who look after them in the horses’ final years. Yes, of course I asked.

Oh dear, Jane has been in the wars yet again.  Almost a year to the day since she fell over on a walk in Devon (Blog 105), Jane did the same thing again as we trekked down a rough country track.  Down she went like a guardsman on parade, only this time her face took the impact, bursting her lip, grazing her nose and damaging her glasses.  Mindful of my mistake last time, when I simply grabbed her by the armpits, heaved her upright, dusted her off and told her she was fine, this time I let her lie for a bit to recover her senses.  Blood poured from her mouth and down her face, into her lovely blond hair and ear.  She looked awful, but at least she hadn’t broken anything.  The problem was, we were half way around a seven mile walk and there was no alternative but to carry on: no access to a cold compress or basic first aid.  Onward we plodded.  Poor Jane: she looked like a cross between Daffy Duck and Adolf Hitler, but she is made of strong stuff and she is gradually recovering, saving all her kisses for me (assuming she forgets that reference to Daffy Duck and Herr Hitler).  She is almost back to normal as I write, but her chest still aches from the impact and repairing her glasses will cost almost as much as repairing my boat.  It’s a funny old thing isn’t it?  When you are a child you are falling over all the time, but mummy kisses it better or swabs it with Dettol and you are running around again, unmarked, a few days later.  When you are older, recovery seems to take forever and the whole thing is much more traumatic.  Jane reckons that part of the reason is that when you are older you have further to fall, and she is probably right.

Anyway, we have just celebrated our 40th wedding anniversary and to mark the occasion we are off for a few days in a hotel in Sidmouth.  This is unusual for us as we normally hire a self-catering cottage on holiday, it being cheaper and free of constraint. The downside, of course, is that such a holiday offers no break for Jane, who still has to cook.  The hotel we have chosen ticks all the boxes in terms of luxury and cuisine, no children screaming or vaulting over the sofas, no shorts or leisure suits, no dogs in rooms; it even has a dress code requiring gentlemen to wear a tie for dinner.  Excellent – sounds like my kind of place.  I will let you know how we get on.  After that we are imposing ourselves on some old friends in Plymouth, my old stomping ground, for a few days then back to the boat in the hope of an Indian summer.  I can’t wait to try out those new sea valves and that wet suit.

17 October 2022

Blog 115. The Man From Del Monte

It is quite simple really: I pay money to a private contractor, a water company in this case, to provide me with clean, potable water and to take away and treat the sewage and grey water that I produce. It is a contract. I don’t want to hear the contractor’s sob story of how its Chief Executive is on the bread line with a £2M salary and having to sell the second Rolls, or how their bonus of £496,000 is inadequate for the jolly hard work that they do. I just want water, as agreed. What I don’t want is the same old climate change argument that this heat wave is all my fault and that the current drought has come about because the grubby public and I are using too much water. I will use whatever I want and I need; I am paying for it. The British Isles are in the temperate zone, with a generally moist climate; there is no shortage of water falling on these islands taken over a year, and the quantity has not changed in centuries. If all else fails, the islands are surrounded by water. What is needed is better use of the resources, better investment, and better maintenance of the infrastructure. Oh, and better oversight by HM government on the private companies to ensure that they do their jobs properly. It has been revealed that Thames Water’s desalination plant, built several years ago and the only one in Britain, still stands idle and has never been commissioned beyond the trial stage, presumably because of the running cost. Yet the company recently paid £2.8M as a “golden goodbye” to its Chief Executive when he was ousted for poor performance and a further £3.1M as a “golden hello” to the incoming CEO (the one on £2M a year). The current helpful advice from the company to its customers, having imposed a hosepipe ban, is not to wash themselves, but to wipe themselves down with a damp cloth. The phrase “let them eat cake” springs to mind or perhaps the company would like its customers literally to remain as “the great unwashed”. As it happens, my water supplier is Wessex Water, which has a very good reputation for efficiency and draws 75% of its water from aquifers in which there is no shortage of water. Demand for water in my region is actually down in comparison to dry periods in earlier years and no hosepipe ban is envisaged. Nevertheless, my general point still stands: I pay; you supply.

Having said all that, we should not be wasting water any more than we should be wasting energy or any other resource.  The difficulty comes in defining ‘wasting’.  I do not consider having a shower, or even a bath, to be ‘wasting’ water, but leaving a tap running in a public lavatory, for example (a not uncommon occurrence), is. In the future, our buildings could be better designed. Why do we use pure potable water to flush our lavatories? Why not use collected rain water or, perhaps, processed grey water from washing and bathing?  Could we use a vacuum system that sucks away the sewage, using only a small amount of water to clean the pan?  How much water is wasted running a tap until the water gets hot?  In Finland they have a continuous circulating hot water system that ensures that the water comes out hot immediately.  Having served in the Royal Navy I am well-versed in the need to conserve water.  In ships, the water is extracted from the sea either by distilling or by reverse osmosis; the quantity extracted is finite.  In steam ships, the water distilled has to be of a very high purity and its primary function is to replace water lost in the steam propulsion plant; water for personal use is a secondary consideration and would be rationed if necessary.  If we took a shower at sea we wet ourselves all over, turned off the water, soaped ourselves down, then rinsed quickly.  The Royal Navy has no steam ships left, other than nuclear submarines, but the same principle applies and fresh water is a precious commodity.  Here in Shacklepin Towers we are doing our bit, though I do not consider us to be “Green” in any way, at least not politically.  We usually flush the lavatories only once a day (“if it’s brown, flush it down; if it’s yellow, let it mellow” as quoted by Shearsmith and Pemberton in their Inside Number 9 comedy drama).  We keep a bucket in the shower to collect the initial water that would otherwise be wasted when we wait for it to get hot.  We now have a washbasin in the kitchen sink that collects stray water from rinsing china or hand-washing.  We use this collected water on Jane’s precious garden or for flushing the lavatory, and it is surprising how much is collected that way.  Stop rolling your eyes; as Kermit the Frog said in The Muppets, it’s not easy being Green.

You will gather from the previous two paragraphs that the UK remains in a heat wave, with clear skies and temperatures in the mid thirties a daily occurrence.  It is absolutely lovely, though – perhaps – it could be a little cooler.  We have implemented our ‘cool house’ policy, as described comprehensively in Blog 51, filling the house with cool air and sealing it in for the day early every morning.  As a result, we have temperatures of only 23C inside when the air temperature outside is 35C.  Mrs Shacklepin, believe it or not, wears the ubiquitous cardigan indoors and at breakfast time.  A formal drought has been declared in some regions, though this has no legal significance other than re-emphasising to the public that water is short.  Jane saw one customer at our local Lidl coming out of the supermarket with a shopping cart completely full with bottles of water and some supermarkets have decided to ration bottled water.  Stand by for panic buying, though heaven knows why as the water coming out of our taps is pure, tasteless and entirely potable.  A fool and his money are soon parted.  The media, of course, fuels the paranoia by reporting these things, just as it did with the petrol shortages many months ago.
Life in the heat wave is, in some ways, similar to the lockdown imposed on us two years ago: it is so hot and so enervating that you are disinclined to do anything outside or to travel unnecessarily. Walking in the countryside (our usual recreation and exercise) is ‘out’ for us.  Even sitting in the shade is uncomfortable and, after the initial euphoria of enjoying the sun, we have now taken to  reading in the cool darkened drawing room or taking a siesta in the manner of those who live in the tropics.  Jane thinks it is amazing that parents allow their children to play in the sun when it is at its peak, sometimes half naked and possibly without wearing sunblock.  In the Caribbean, where she was born and spent her childhood, the family went to bed for a few hours in the afternoon and ate all their meals inside; barbecues were unheard of.  The thing is, I suppose we British are so used to  our summers being a washout that we still cannot believe that every day will be sunny, with no need to take an umbrella.  Even after over a month of constant sun and no rain, you still see people sunbathing in the parks or on the beaches; it is as if they cannot believe their luck and want to make the most of it before the rain comes – and quite right too, for – make no mistake – this hot spell will not last forever.  I seem to recall that, when we had the very prolonged heat wave in 1976, it ended with six weeks of heavy and continuous rain in September and beyond.  Make the most of this, but be generous with the sunblock, drink lots of water and try to avoid the midday sun.  Unless you are a mad dog or an Englishman, of course.

Jane is a member of our local Art Society and we signed up for their annual day trip to A Place of Artistic Interest. This year, the place (or rather places) of interest was Marble Hill in Twickenham, the artist J M W Turner’s country house across the road, and Frogmore Cottage on the Crown Estate at Windsor – this last, for a brief period, the home of the Meghan and her husband before they decided that California was much nicer. We duly mustered for the coach at 0800 in front of Melbury town hall and I eyed up our fellow passengers as one does the fellow patients in a doctor’s waiting room. The first thing I noticed was that they were all – how can I put this – of a certain age, which I suppose is understandable for a trip scheduled for a weekday. I muttered about going on a day trip with ‘the old people’ before Jane hissed at me to stop grumbling and look at myself in a nearby shop window. Oh. The second thing I noticed was their manner of dress: definitely a cut above, even for casual wear on a hot day, with not a pair of Sports Direct shorts, a baseball cap or a pair of trainers to be seen. Finally, I noticed the accents: cut glass vowels and not a yokel accent anywhere. This, I thought, is perfect: decent people, definitely pukka sahibs and PLUs: my kind of folk. I boarded the coach contentedly. I must say, buses have improved enormously since those rattle and bang, graunch and grind buses with ‘Royal Navy’ on the side that took us Naval Cadets from Dartmouth to expeditions on Dartmoor in 1969. This one had full air conditioning, smooth suspension, comfortable seats and a lavatory. The young driver wore a smart waistcoat, white shirt and tie. It was all very ‘executive’ and made the journey to Twickenham very comfortable, almost a treat.

Marble Hill House is a fine square mansion built on the banks of the River Thames at Twickenham by Henrietta Howard, the Countess of Suffolk. Her husband, the Earl, was – by all accounts – a drunken, adulterous and cruel man: a cad, in one word, and her marriage was both unhappy and debt-ridden. With considerable foresight, Henrietta realised that the childless Queen Anne, who was then on the throne, would be succeeded by the German House of Hanover and so she travelled to Germany and managed to ingratiate herself with Caroline, the wife of the soon-to-be George I. Her charm worked and she was recruited to the royal household as a lady-in-waiting, managing to have her husband recruited to George’s household at the same time. In due course, Caroline became Queen Caroline as her husband was crowned George I of England, and the family left Hanover. A sympathetic listener, Henrietta caught the eye of the Prince of Wales (soon to be George II) and became his mistress. She separated from her dreadful husband, but was unable to get a divorce in those days because it would have required an Act of Parliament. However, despite the separation, she did gain the title of Countess of Suffolk when her rake of husband succeeded to the title of Earl of Suffolk. After several years, George II decided to trade Henrietta in for a new model but, very decently, he settled a generous financial settlement on her, carefully entailing it legally so that her husband could not access it. She used the money to build Marble Hill in 1727, her husband died five years later, and she remarried the Hon George Berkeley with whom she enjoyed, at last, a very happy marriage. By all accounts Henrietta was a charming intelligent woman, good company and a popular socialite, and Marble Hill House hosted many intellectual visitors including Alexander Pope, Horace Walpole and John Gay. When Henrietta died in 1767 she was buried with her second husband at his family home, Berkeley Castle.
The house itself was designed in the symmetrical Palladio style, a very comfortable and handsome building built in white stone over three floors. One could almost imagine oneself living there until our guide pointed out that there were only five bedrooms, no kitchen and no bathrooms. A kitchen did exist at one time, but it had been knocked down over the course of history; a bathroom simply did not exist in those days: the nobility used chamber pots which were emptied by lesser mortals and disposed of God-knows-where (the river perhaps, or on the fields as fertiliser). And as to bathing, they bathed as infrequently as once a year and men shaved once a week – no one could claim that they wasted water in the eighteenth century. The roads at that time were so poor, impassable or plagued by highwaymen that parties of visitors to Marble Hill would invariably come by boat, the Thames being about 400 yards away. No-one knows why the house is called Marble Hill; the public park where the house stands is as flat as a pancake and there is no marble to be found anywhere nearby.

Turner’s House – Sandycombe Lodge – proved to be a tiny house designed and built by J M W Turner in 1813 as a country retreat for the artist and somewhere he could indulge in his favourite hobby of fishing. It has been very carefully restored after a prolonged period as a private residence, with many original features retained. Some of Turner’s paintings and sketches were on view, but I’m afraid I am not a fan and even the paintings of nudes proved unfathomable to me. I must be a Philistine. Our guide was very knowledgeable and gave us a comprehensive history of the house, but it really was very tiny, with only one living room, one and a half bedrooms (the ‘half’ currently used as a gallery) and – again – no bathroom. There was a small garden: it had once run to several acres, but the rest of the original plot and – indeed – the surrounding area, was now taken up with houses of the Victorian era. Sandycombe Lodge was worth a visit, especially if you were a Turner fan, but we were round there and out again before you could say “The Fighting Temeraire”; in any case, it was the designated lunch break on the tour and we wanted to get back to the café at Marble Hill before the rush.

Lunch was a disaster.  The location of the café (an old stable block beside Marble Hill House) was good, but the choice in the small self-service café was abysmal and unclear.  We could find no normal sandwiches on offer (unless you count quorn as normal) and, in the end, we settled for toasted cheese and ham sandwiches.  This was a mistake: apparently there was a run on toasted cheese sandwiches (not surprising as there was little else to choose) and it would take twenty minutes to fulfil the order.  So we sat and we sat, and we drank our ginger beers, and time passed by.  Finally, after twenty five minutes we were summoned to collect our treats.  We examined them incredulously.  Mine comprised two slices of white bread, toasted only on the outside and containing a Kraft Cheese Slice of processed cheese and one slice of plastic ham, the cheese slightly warm.  Jane, being dubious about the quality of the Cheddar cheese on offer for the sandwich had very carefully chosen Brie as her cheese filling, so hers was marginally better though the ham was no different from mine.  We finished these cheeky little dainties in no time and Jane declared herself still hungry, but I was damned if were going to wait another half an hour for more food even if we had the time.  I promised her an ice cream later if she was a good girl.  Drained and unsatisfied, we dragged ourselves back across the baked and shrivelled park to our waiting coach with its air conditioning going full blast.  Bliss.

Frogmore House in the grounds of Windsor Great Park, was the highlight of the tour. It is a substantial royal residence built in white stone over three floors and with ten bedrooms and was used for the wedding reception of Prince Harry and Meghan. It is still in use by the royal family, but can be visited in organised groups by appointment in August, and by the general public on designated “Charity Open Days”. Our guide was absolutely excellent: smart, knowledgeable and professional as – indeed – were all the staff there. The original Frogmore Estate (derivation: Frog’s Mere, the area having quite a high water table) was owned by Henry VIII and used for hunting. The house itself was built in 1684 for the nephew of Charles II’s architect (a good uncle to have), but was leased by the Duke of Northumberland, one of the many illegitimate sons of that randy so-and-so, Charles II. It was bought by Queen Charlotte, wife of George III, in 1792 as a country retreat: somewhere she could escape from the hurly burly of nearby Windsor Castle, and also somewhere she could take her daughters away from the temptations and wandering eyes and hands of the male court. Her daughters were employed in the sensible pastimes of embroidery, painting, drawing, reading and botany; the results of their expert embroidery may still be seen on the stairs carpet, and their very professional painting and knowledge of botany may be observed on the personally decorated walls. The eldest daughter, Augusta, inherited the house and lived there until her death in 1840. Queen Victoria’s mother, the Duchess of Kent, then moved in and stayed until she died, the house thereafter being used by the royal family as an occasional residence ever since. One room in the house contains the dining table and other furniture and photographs from the Royal Yacht BRITANNIA, removed when the latter was decommissioned; it had a very pleasant masculine feel and bore the hallmark of the late Duke of Edinburgh, whose uncle, Lord Louis Mountbatten, was born at Frogmore. The estate, which normally is closed to the public, is still much-used by the royal family as a quiet escape for exercise and reflection (it is about one mile from Windsor Castle). Queen Victoria’s Tea House stands nearby; it was built to provide refuge and refreshment to Her Majesty when she visited Prince Albert’s mausoleum and her mother’s mausoleum nearby to pray on a daily basis. We saw both mausoleums, but they are closed to visitors. Albert and Victoria’s Mausoleum, built in haste, is structurally unsound because of rising damp and attempts are currently being made to dry it out using constant-running central heating. Apparently, it may be some years before the building is dry enough to repair the brickwork, the plasterwork, the friezes and the decorations inside. Such repair will be funded by the royal family, not the public purse. Overall, Frogmore was well worth the visit and we learnt a great deal but, boy, did we bake: it was about 35C and the interior of the house was like an oven. That air conditioned coach home was very welcome and we staggered into Melbury at 2000, done to a turn. But what a day!

The hustings for the next leader of the Conservative Party and, therefore, the next prime minister continue apace and I, for one, am now heartily sick of it. Votes are being collected from signed up members of the party, estimated to be about 160,000 in number, so it makes no difference what the vast majority of the country wants. That is not to say that I disapprove of the election process, it is merely to say that the daily articles in my newspaper by each of the candidates are becoming so pointless that I no longer read them. In the red corner we have Rishi Sunak the former Chancellor of the Exchequer: son of Indian immigrants ejected from Africa who arrived in the UK virtually penniless, but made good; sent their son to a top public school (Winchester) where he flourished and went on to a top university (Oxford) then became a billionaire, a personable, intelligent man, good communicator and snappy dresser (even if he does wear brown shoes with a dark suit and his trousers are too short). As prime minister he would have us all wear hair shirts in order to balance the books after the huge debts incurred by lockdown. In the blue corner we have Liz Truss, the current Foreign Secretary: a Yorkshire lass who went to the local comprehensive school but, again, went on to Oxford university and became a politician who has held several cabinet posts; likeable, down-to-earth, attractive, but with less than ideal communication skills and a slightly grating accent. As prime minister she would cut taxes and borrow money to ‘prime the pump’ and get the economy going again: she promises that we can have our cake and eat it. Truss appears to be the current front runner, according to the press, but the media has no way of knowing which way party members will jump – even the number of members is unknown. Whatever.

Can a book harm you, other than by dropping on your head?  The madness of ‘wokeness’ continues to entertain, with Aberdeen University still coming out on top.  ‘Anything to do with France’ now appears to invoke a cautionary ‘trigger’ warning to undergraduates undertaking the university’s French module, with that nation’s entire colonial history, its experience of World War 2 and – of course – that bloody revolution when the proletariat chopped off peoples’ heads sending a shudder down the academics’ spines.  Apparently the poor vulnerable students may feel threatened by the grisly stories to be imparted to them, hence the warning.  Perhaps it would be better if the government sent letters to every person at the age of eighteen warning them that Life can be a very upsetting experience and that in the next sixty years or so they will see, read and hear things that will upset them, turn their stomachs, or generally make them feel unsafe; then we can have done with this trigger warning nonsense.  I have recently bought a book published by the British Library as a reprint from the 1930s, a ‘who-done-it’ detective story of the type of which I am very fond.  The foreword of the book comprises a warning by the publisher stating:
“The original novels and short stories reprinted in the British Library Crime Classics series were written and published in a period ranging, for the most part, from the 1890s to the 1960s.  There are many elements of these stories which continue to entertain modern readers; however, in some cases there are also uses of language, instances of stereotyping and some attitudes expressed by narrators or characters which may not be endorsed by the publishing standards of today.  We acknowledge therefore that  elements in the works selected for reprinting may continue to make uncomfortable reading for some of our audience…the following stories are presented as they were originally published with the inclusion of minor edits made for consistency of style and sense, with pejorative terms of an extremely offensive nature partly obscured.”
Good grief.  I am a mature adult.  I know that our ancestors did horrible things in the past and I know that they wrote things that, today, might be considered offensive.  It is to our credit that we are much better now and try to treat our fellow man with more respect.  I do not need to be given a patronising warning before I open an old book.  I am a grown up.  I think that anyone who is offended or “feels threatened” by old literature should not bother reading it at all or, perhaps, see a psychiatrist.  We already have a situation where at least ten major UK academic institutions have withdrawn over 1,000 books from their recommended reading lists or from their libraries in case “they harm or offend students”.  Such books include the works of Chaucer, Shakespeare and Dickens.  Why not go the whole hog and burn them, like Hitler did?  We are in danger of expunging our history and literature, and of bringing up generations of young people who think they have a right never to be offended or challenged; and the worst offenders are not the students themselves, but the very establishments that should be setting adult standards, such as universities and publishers. It would be laughable if it were not so tragic.

The first thing that seems to go out of the window in Britain when the weather is hot is sartorial standards and, let’s face it: there wasn’t much there to defenestrate in the first place. Jane and I went for lunch at The Ivy the other day, an up-market restaurant where the food is usually good and the service impeccable. The restaurant dress code is ‘smart casual’. As we enjoyed our special treat in this classy restaurant we gazed around at our fellow diners. One woman wore a vest and brightly striped pantaloons with flip flops as if she was taking a break from the circus; her male companion wore tight running shorts and espadrilles, as if he had just come off the beach. It got worse: at another table a tubby woman overflowed from a pair of Levi’s that were a size too small for her and her male companion wore a nylon football jersey complemented by baggy shorts with elasticated waist, and flip flops. I despair: does not a special occasion, dining in an expensive restaurant and attended by smartly dressed professional staff, demand a little effort on your part? And if a restaurant takes the trouble to state a dress code, should it not enforce it – otherwise, what is the point? I am not asking for white tie and tails here, just a smart shirt, trousers and shoes for men, with optional jacket and tie.
Of course one can, perhaps, go a bit over the top. Jane and I received curious glances as we strolled through Dartmouth for a celebratory birthday dinner at Taylor’s restaurant one evening last month. I had chosen my No 5W rig: the cream tropical suit, the pale blue Charles Tyrwhitt short sleeved shirt with Britannia Association tie, the casual stitched Italian shoes, the whole ensemble topped by the aviator’s sunglasses. It began to dawn on me, as I passed among the sports shorts, vests, bikini tops, bell tents and flip flops on The Embankment that I must be the only man in Dartmouth – nay in the whole of England’s south west peninsula – who was wearing a suit and tie. Who was this man with the attractive high-heeled woman on his arm, one could sense hoi polloi minds wondering? A millionaire ashore from his yacht for an evening in an expensive restaurant with his latest flame? A film star displaced from Monte Carlo?
Or was it the Man from Del Monte?
Hmm. Maybe skip the tie next time …’when ignorance is bliss’ and all that.

Keep drinking the water and remember: shower with a friend. Anyone care for a peach?

15 August 2022

Blog 114. It Felt Good To Be Out Of The Rain

The heat was hot and the ground was dry, as the tautological lyrics by the pop group America say.  And, behold, the British establishment and its media have found something else to terrify us with.  Yes, the UK has experienced a ‘heat wave’ and we are all doomed. Health warnings are broadcast, schools are closed, the weather forecasts are coloured deep red, thousands of Brits are predicted to die, and we are being told to drink water, stay indoors, or wear a hat and sunscreen if we must go outside.  I wonder that They have not decided to impose yet another lockdown; after all, that seems to be the panacea brought out of the filing cabinet on these occasions, under the file heading ‘Do Something – This is Something’.  To be sure, the temperatures experienced briefly in some parts of the country were the highest recorded at just over 40C, and even if we make allowances for the fact that they were at RAF Coningsby and Heathrow airport, where the radiation from the concrete runways can be expected to bump the figures up a bit, that is still something of a record.  However, the temperatures have not been high for an extensive period, as they were in the other ‘heat wave’ in 1976, and to hear the Meteorological Office and the Department of Health nannying us one would think that a huge section of the British public did not travel abroad every year precisely to experience just such sunshine and temperatures.  And before you say that, when abroad on holiday, we do not work in the heat I would observe that other countries do, and seem to function perfectly well in such temperatures: the USA, Spain, Italy, Australia, Middle Eastern countries…none of them grind to a halt when it gets hot.  True, our engineering infrastructure is not designed to resist extreme temperatures: railway lines buckle, power lines sag, asphalt melts and few houses have air conditioning.  However, most cars, large shops and many offices do have that luxury – unlike the situation 46 years ago.  House insulation is much improved too.  What is needed is advice on adapting using the facilities that we do have, such as not leaving doors or windows open in air conditioned buildings; chilling our homes overnight by opening the windows and sealing all shut, and closing curtains or blinds during the day to keep out the hot air; starting and finishing work or school earlier.  In the longer term, yes, we need to design our infrastructure to cope with higher temperatures, but in the interim there is much that can be done and we could do without the State nannying and terrifying us yet again.

The hottest days in July found us on our boat in Dartmouth, yet again, in almost identical conditions experienced – to the day – as those last year. No 40C for us, just a very pleasant 28C maximum, offset by a cool sea breeze. We took APPLETON RUM to sea and anchored off a beach near Slapton Sands, accessible only by boat. The sea was a beautiful aquamarine and distinctly inviting, so I opted to go for the first swim of the year. Jane, naturally, declined to join me, the waters of the English Channel failing to come up to the standards of the Caribbean Sea and Alligator Pond where she was brought up and holidayed (not that Alligator Pond sounds terribly inviting). The water off our beach near Slapton was…refreshing. However, unlike Jane, I was brought up on summers on South Shields South Foreshore, washed by the bracing waters of the North Sea where no alligators could survive; I soon adjusted to the water off Devonshire that day and swam happily around the boat, diving to look at the propellers and resting by hanging on to the anchor chain. Soon, however, I tired of that and my mind wandered onto alternative employment. I looked at the beach, 100 metres away and decided we would launch the rubber dinghy and row ashore, there to relax on the secluded beach and take in the sunshine away from the motion of the boat. I put this suggestion to Jane, who looked dubious, but she was persuaded to agree by the promise of a stable platform, continuing sunshine, and the attraction of a quiet life from my nagging.
Splash. The dinghy was launched. In went the oars, the baler and (more gingerly and with great fuss), Jane. She did not have a bathing costume, this outfit being stored in a sealed container at home in a safe deposit box, which is never opened unless proceeding on holiday to destinations in the northern hemisphere south of the 45th parallel; instead she wore a pair of shorts, a polo shirt and a lifejacket. At least she left the cardigan behind. Off we set for the shore: two SOE agents landing on an enemy-occupied coast, but in broad daylight and with no warlike intent. Or possibly Sean Connery and Ursula Andress lookalikes reenacting a scene from Dr No (you decide). The sea was flat calm and the waves lapping the shore were minimal. As we reached the beach the dinghy surged forward on a wave and grounded on the shingle beach.
“Perfect”, I said, and prepared to disembark.
Whereupon the receding wave sucked us back off again into deep water. We tried to land twice more and the same thing happened; it was not at all what I expected, given the sea state, but there it was. For the fourth attempt, Jane offered to climb out as we grounded, taking the bow line with her; she would then pull in the dinghy so that I could get out too. We shot in and grounded. Jane climbed over the side and got one leg on the shore. Then, three things happened almost simultaneously: first, the dinghy was sucked back out (as expected); next, Jane lost her balance and sat with a loud splash in the shallows up to her waist; and, finally, with a sharp ‘bang’ and ripping sound, Jane’s automatic lifejacket burst into life – immediately endowing her with two enormous orange breasts like Mae West. I, of course, was swept back out to sea in the dinghy, doubled over with laughter.
In the melee that followed, Jane managed to roll over and completely immerse herself in the sea, but eventually stagger up the beach and pull in the dinghy, and I clambered out. The next problem then revealed itself. The beach was not sand, but a mixture of coarse and fine shingle, the former so painful on bare feet that you could hardly walk on it and the latter so fine that it was like quicksand, submerging the feet and legs half way up the shin. We sat on this unwelcoming and uncomfortable moonscape for a good five minutes, hanging onto the dinghy because there was nothing to secure the bow line to, and pondered on our ‘desert island’. I made one of my executive decisions:
“Best we row back to the boat then. No point in sitting here”.
However, launching the dinghy proved no simpler than landing it: paradoxically, every time we shoved it off and clambered in, the sea washed us back onto the beach again. In the end, I had to push the dinghy out with water up to my chest, then clamber onboard, rapidly grab the oars, and pull mightily to get away from the shore. Back onboard, it transpired that at no time had Jane realised that her lifejacket had inflated (it was pretty hard to miss). Moreover, when she had a shower and changed, she found that she had imported a fair quantity of shingle and pebbles in her knickers from her involuntary immersion. She kept two pebbles as mementos; I asked if I could have one of them for my personal collection, but she refused. I bet this never happened to Sean Connery and Ursula Andress, but it is their loss.

The ‘landing on a tropical beach for for sun, sea, sand and seclusion’ had not, perhaps,  been the success that I had hoped it would be, but I was undeterred.  Later in the week we motored around to Scabbacombe Bay, to the east of Dartmouth and, again, anchored just off the beach so that I could have a swim.  This time we kept the dinghy (and Jane) onboard, but my imagination was inspired by the opportunity for further aquatic adventures.  My mind cast back to my childhood to the adventures of Hans and Lotte Hass.  For the benefit of younger readers (if any) I should explain that the Germans Hans and Lotte Hass were pioneers of underwater diving in the 1950s and featured in several documentaries on black and white television on the BBC (the only TV channel) for most of that decade.  How would it be, I thought, if I acquired a wet suit, face mask, snorkel and a pair of swim fins (note: the professional ‘fins’ not ‘flippers’; I was nearly a ship’s diver once, you know)?  I put the suggestion to Jane, citing the many adventures and opportunities that this would afford.  Encouragingly, I did think I heard her mutter something like,
“…Lord, you make a mother glad”,
though she might have said,
“…God, not another fad”.  
Whatever.  She vetoed the purchase of a wet suit on the basis of cost which, in hindsight, was perhaps just as well as she might have been unable to resist the temptation of my hard athletic body encased in a tight-fitting black neoprene outfit (the rubber, you understand).  Or possibly I might have looked like a beached walrus.  The purchase of the mask, snorkel and fins went ahead grudgingly, however, and they arrived from Mr Amazon the other day.  Things seem to have moved on since my day, and the mask is a very nifty full-faced affair with snorkel combined, rather like you see in SciFi films being worn by spacemen.  I tried it out on arrival and decided to surprise Jane as she pegged out the washing.  Unfortunately, as I appeared behind her looking like the Yorkshire Ripper on a bad night, she gave a mighty shriek and beat me with a pillowcase snatched from the washing line.  Oh dear: in trouble again.  Still, never mind: roll on our next trip to the boat, keep your fingers crossed that the sea is a bit warmer, and stand by for tales of underwater adventures, perhaps involving a giant squid.  Or maybe a jellyfish.

Of course, not all our adventures have been waterborne. As a break, on one day we took the bus from Dartmouth to Kingsbridge by way of experiencing a new adventure.  You may well ask how simply travelling on public transport from one small Devonshire town to another, a distance of a mere sixteen miles, is an adventure.  If you do, then clearly you have never travelled on Devonshire roads in the South Hams.  Up hill and down dale our bus rattled, on tiny narrow roads designed for horses and carts.  At one point, the clearance between the side of the bus and the walls on either side was no more than six inches.  Beside the coast, the land fell away from the side of the road with the prospect of a sheer and fatal drop if the bus missed a bend or the driver decided to sneeze.  The bends in the road were so tight that only one vehicle could get around them at one time and frequently the bus had to stop while entire queues of traffic coming the other way had to back up.  At one point we met a pantechnicon coming the other way and it was our turn: the bus, a single-decker, had to reverse 400 metres back though a village, past parked cars, and around a tight bend to make way for the bigger opponent. 
Anyway,  we eventually hove into Kingsbridge after one hour, yes, one hour to do sixteen miles.  We had planned to stay on the same bus, on a future occasion, as it went on to Plymouth.  However, that journey would have been three hours in total, with the prospect of a further three hours to get back.  We thought one hour on that bus was quite enough.  Kingsbridge proved to be a delightful little town, some miles inland, but with a creek that dried out at low tide.  Unlike its close neighbour downstream, Salcombe, on the coast, it appeared to be undefiled by the yuppy maritime holidaymaker trade and we rather liked it.  Unusually for these modern times, it was well provided with a variety of little independent shops: ironmongers, butchers, bakers, even candlestick makers.  There was a nice market too, with a very good second-hand book stall.  It was getting on for lunchtime so we decided to seek out a small brasserie or café where we could indulge in a modest repast.  To our surprise, suitable establishments seemed hard to come by.  Regular readers will note the defining adjective, ‘suitable’.  To Commander Shacklepin, this means modest and quiet establishments serving imaginative light lunches without beef burgers, with a respectable clientele comprising no noisy children,  no dogs and no rough men.  Naturally, this eliminated every pub and most eateries in Kingsbridge as did exist.  Up the steep High Street we trudged in a rain shower, seeking the impossible.  We found only two candidates: one was long and narrow like a railway carriage, suitable, but full; the other was a delicatessen called Mangetout that seemed to fit the bill (I do think a French name gives a place a certain je n’ais ce quoi, and such a better choice than calling it the Cauliflower or the Snap Pea).  We found a seat at a two-seater table and scanned the menu with relish.  It all looked rather good and I elected for the croque-monsieur.  And then my nemesis arrived: a mother with a toddler and a babe in arms sat some distance away from us and the baby started grizzling.  I said nothing, resigned to the – now familiar – ordeal of being unable to enjoy my meal in peace and quite.  Jane, however, perhaps sensing my resignation and long face, stood up and determinedly led us further into the restaurant, there to sit on a long bench at a long, refectory-like, empty table.  We ordered our food and drink and relaxed as it arrived…just as nemesis to the power ten arrived in the form of a father, mother and two very small children.
“Do you mind if we sit here?”, asked the mother pleadingly, indicating the other end of our refectory table.
“No, not at all”, I smiled genially and mendaciously. ”Feel free”.
And so began God’s punishment on my misanthropic and paedophobic soul.  Throughout lunch the little boy fidgeted and bounced on the bench, transmitting every movement to me.  He climbed down frequently and wandered about.  Periodically, the little girl screamed in that piercing, high-pitched, way that little girls do for no apparent reason.  The parents were decent folk and genuinely tried hard to contain their brood; to be fair, they were just a normal family.  But our meal was a washout and I couldn’t wait to move on.  The food was excellent and good value for money, and we would definitely return to Mangetout…but not in the holiday season.  Ho hum, that’s life.  And God, I accept my punishment and promise to be a more tolerant man in future.  Honestly.

Devon people are so laid back that they are practically horizontal.  In the town we came across a policeman having a casual chat with a taxi driver while the latter simply stopped in the main road, with traffic behind him.
“Well now, my lover, how’s the wife?”
“ Not so bad, thanks Tom.  She be at home paintin’ the shed.  Lovely day i’n it?
“Oh, arrr”.
And all this with the cars piling up behind and patiently waiting.

After two hours we were ready to go back and experience the reverse of the ‘going’ trip. This time, we met a double decker bus coming the other way and our bus had to back up, pushing back all the cars behind it at the same time, like a train. The driver of the double decker got out of his cab and strolled casually back to assist and direct the reversing, but – get this, there was no antagonism or harsh language from either driver; it was all good humoured.
“There you be, boy! Thought we might have to pop in for an ice cream while we waited there.”
Having guided us back, the other bus driver, just as casually, strolled back to his bus and climbed onboard, no rush or haste, then squeezed passed us. A further encounter, with a camper van, proved more difficult and it looked like we were in a Mexican Standoff: the bus could not go back, being stuck on a narrow bridge on a curve, and the camper van seemed incapable of doing so. Eventually, some bloke in a car behind the camper van got out and directed the latter backward to a safe refuge so that we could get past, causing everyone else behind him to shunt backwards up the hill, round the bend, at the same time. Devonians are so laid back, they are almost horizontal: it must something they put in the water.

Well, I suppose I have to mention some things that are topical, if only for posterity. Few ordinary people mention Covid 19 now, apart from those who want something to worry about or have a vested interest. It is still around and, apparently, has generated some cases though I am unclear as to where the statistics have come from as we stopped mandatory reporting months ago. I understand the current batch of infections is high (I think one in fifteen Britons has it), but has peaked and the number is on the decline. Most of my friends have had the virus and all report the same thing: either mild or no symptoms, or the same unpleasant symptoms as influenza. The current strain of the virus is undoubtedly very infectious and, for a very small number of vulnerable people, still dangerous. But for the vast majority of people, most of whom have been vaccinated, it has reduced to being just another malady that has to be lived with. This is just as predicted by the epidemiologists months ago and vindicates their vaccination strategy. An emerging problem is the reduction of natural immunity to normal diseases such as influenza, particularly among children, caused by the lockdowns; but that is another story.
Following a series of senior resignations from his Cabinet, Boris Johnson has declared that he will resign as the UK prime minister as soon as a replacement has been elected. In the UK, which does not have an elected President but a prime minister who is ‘first among equals’, this means that the Conservatives Party (known colloquially by the historically derogatory term ‘Tories’) must simply elect a new leader to fill the post of prime minister. There is no requirement for a General Election. As it stands, two candidates are left, one of whom will be selected by members of the Conservative Party (estimated at some 160,000 strong) to be the leader and, hence, prime minister. I understand that the result of the ballot will be announced in early September. Both the candidates are worthy contenders, in my view: Liz Truss, the current Foreign Secretary, and Rishi Sunak, the former Chancellor of the Exchequer. Truss seems likely to be the winner as I write.

I thought I would try a little grooming. Notice my use of the modern down-with-da-boys terminology; I hope you are impressed. Until quite recently I thought that ‘grooming’ was something to do with horses. Then it took on a more sinister meaning when it was used to describe men exploiting teenager girls. Apparently, it means a third thing too. Initially, I had no idea what the woman in the up-market department store perfume area was wittering on about as she accosted me during one of my transits to the gadgets department. Then I cottoned on that she was trying to sell me perfumes and potions, and I was both astonished and slightly revolted at the same time.
“Look at me”, I said to the woman. “Grey hair, stout brogues, tweed jacket, tie; probably drawing a pension. Do I really look like the sort of person who would wear perfume and rub creams into my face?”
But she was undeterred, pointing out that lots of men ‘groomed’ themselves nowadays. Then Jane joined in and I was up against two of them. They bond, you know.
“You never wear aftershave”, said Jane, ”and your face is drying out and wrinkly.”
“Those are not wrinkles!”, I retorted in protest. “They are humour lines.”
This produced a snort in response.
“And the lines around my eyes”, I went on, “are the result of looking at a thousand horizons when I was Second Officer of the Watch in a destroyer.”
This produced another snort and a rolling of the eyes.
“Besides”, I added, “Englishmen don’t wear perfume and scent like Johnny Foreigner. Englishmen wash.”
I could have added that I had experimented with macho aftershave (not scent or cologne) in earlier years: Old Spice was a favourite at one time, and I had used a great deal of Brut in the 1970s because of its alleged aphrodisiac effect on women, I being a virile young fellow at the time. I cannot honestly say that Brut was terribly successful for me in that department: I must have been applying it incorrectly or it might have been the natural immunity of the women whom I met. Odd that – surely it could not have been he who was anointed at fault? Whatever, I rarely wore aftershave after that.
The incident with the Perfume Woman had obviously sown a seed with Jane, however, and it became apparent that she was not going to give up. It was her wish that I start grooming myself. Dear, oh dear. Where to start, and with what? Finally, during a trip to London, I identified something that struck a balance between masculinity and femininity. We called in to Taylor of Old Bond Street located, paradoxically, in Jermyn Street. Do you know it? It is a fine, long-established emporium for discerning gentlemen containing a cornucopia of aftershaves, creams and colognes. Between us, Jane and I compromised on a suitable aftershave balm and aftershave lotion in sandalwood. I parted with a significant amount of cash and transported the tiny bottles home as if they were nitroglycerine. The next day dawned. I shaved carefully with my wet razor, then applied the after-shave balm. Hmm, my skin did feel pleasantly soft, I thought. Then the sandalwood aftershave lotion: a dab here, a dab there; a splash under the chin for luck. I decided I would call it Jane Bait. Now to try it out. I sidled up behind Jane and kissed her neck. She started to tremble; she turned; tears of emotion were streaming down her face.
“My God”, I thought.”It really works. She’s taken the bait. Why didn’t I use this stuff before?”
I went to kiss her, but she started coughing then burst out laughing.
“I don’t know what you’ve got on”, she said, “but it’s making my eyes water. Did you bathe in the stuff? For heaven’s sake, wash it off”.
So that was that. Grooming. Women: you can never satisfy them.

“Your legs are flaky”, said my dear wife to me as I dried myself after a shower.  I looked down at my firm muscular shanks.
“Flaky?”
“Yes.  You should rub in some of my moisturising cream.  It’s on my bedside table”.
“I’m not rubbing women’s cream on my legs”.
“Yes you are.  Your skin is getting old and needs help.  Get on with it”.
She can be very forceful sometimes.  She commands, and I obey.
“And make sure you use the right cream.  It’s the stuff on my bedside table”, she added with emphasis, no doubt alluding to that time when I used her face cleanser instead of sunscreen.
I shrugged and proceeded to apply the cream.  I had completed 1½ legs when she re-appeared, looked puzzled, and picked up the moisturising cream.  Her mouth fell open, but no words emerged.  I confess, it is the first time I have seen my dear wife lost for words.  Periodically she would move as if to speak, then stop again.  A guilty look crossed her face.  Finally, she managed to speak.
“This was the cream on my bedside table”, she said unnecessarily.
“Yes dear, and that is what I am using”, I replied smugly – for once, having listened properly to what she had told me to do.
“Right”, she said.
It turned out that, instead of directing me to the moisturising cream, she had inadvertently directed me to using her body lotion, an age-reversing cream so rare and so expensive that it might well have been derived from the milk of an Uzbekistan yak and smuggled through Afghanistan at huge personal risk; a cream which, had it existed 2,000 years ago, would doubtlessly have been brought as a gift for the baby Jesus by Balthazar.  And I had lathered it generously on my short hairy legs.  Jane’s dilemma was visible and an absolute picture.  She was torn between berating me for using the wrong cream and admitting that she had given me the wrong instructions.
“Surely you must have read what it said on the bottle”, she tried.
“No dear, I have absolute faith in your instructions”.
“But…”, she spluttered, again lost for words.
“I obey the last order, dear”.
She gave up.  I now have the legs of a 25-year-old, moist, supple and muscular; and, of course, perfectly formed.

Now if you will excuse me, it is time for a shower and the implementation of my new punishing cosmetic régime using Jane’s vast array of potions.  I wonder what ‘depilatory’ means.  Any suggestions?

1 August 2022

Blog 113. Mercy Mistress.

The memsahib has taken to wearing horn-rimmed spectacles instead of her usual gold-rimmed designer pair, and I am finding the new headmistress look to be very threatening, intruding on my safe space. I feel I should complain to somebody, though I am not sure to whom. The headmistress appearance reminds me of Miss Fair, the headmistress of my infant school in 1956, who would threaten you with The Strap if you were sent to her for naughtiness. I do not recall any child actually being lashed by this instrument or, indeed, of any child who actually saw it; but the threat was enough to strike terror into the heart of any five-year-old and there was no disobedience in those days. I read recently that about 40% of primary school teachers admit to not marking pupils’ homework, partly for the obvious reasons such as they are too busy or cannot be faffed to do it, but also – significantly – because they apparently are concerned that marking a pupil’s work as wrong is too negative and may upset the little darlings, traumatising them for the rest of their lives. I am at a loss to understand how children will ever learn from their mistakes under such a policy and, as to life-long trauma and their mental health, I submit that it would be nothing compared to the memory of being threatened with a strap while five years old, an experience still remembered 65 years later. Corporal punishment was, of course, the norm for my generation, with the cane being administered for quite minor misdemeanours from about the age of nine. Unlike the apparent practice in public schools, where pupils were flogged on the buttocks, the state schools that I attended caned you on the hand, which bruised rather than stung, and the pain lasted for days. It was quite a good ultimate deterrent for misbehaviour, but my experience was that it was over-used and often administered unfairly. I was caned once (along with several others) for not remembering the formula to calculate the area of a circle; on another occasion the entire class of 40 was caned for absolutely nothing (I think some teachers enjoyed the power). The swimming instructor at the public baths (my secondary school did not have its own pool) was fond of hitting us with a short length of hosepipe for errors: I was whacked for doing the breast stroke kick incorrectly, though I had never actually been taught it in the first place. Were these punishments unfair? Undoubtedly. Did they scar me for life? Hardly. And at least I know that the area of a circle is Pi x radius squared, and I have an RNLI life-saving certificate for swimming,

Anyway, to return to those horn-rims, that headmistress image of Jane still scares me. I tried representing my trauma and my concern for a safe space to Jane, but she gave me a headmistress look, which set me off again. Fortunately, the horn-rims are only temporary while her usual gold-rimmed, ‘please-may-I-have-an-extension-to-my-mortgage’ frames are being fitted with new lenses, so back to normal soon.

My first thought, lying there on my back in the garage/workshop after falling from the loft ladder, was to call for my dear wife. They tell me that the common cry of soldiers who have been horribly injured in war is for their mother but, thankfully, I was not in that tragic condition, besides which, my mother is long gone, so calling for her would do no good at all. As it happens, calling for Jane in the main house did no good either: I tried using my mobile phone, but her mobile number went unanswered and our landline was engaged. This, I muttered, was typical: the first time I need help and she’s gossiping on the phone to some friend about tradescantia or something. Ho hum – I metaphorically shrugged my shoulders, stood up, dusted the sawdust from my trousers and hobbled back to the house, remembering to develop a pronounced limp because of my sprained ankle. As it happens, Jane had the perfect excuse because it turned out that she had been answering a call from an old friend who had called to tell her that her husband had died. My sprained ankle and bleeding wrist couldn’t trump that one. I have no idea why I fell – accidents, by definition, occur when you least expect them to. I think my ankle gave way on the last rung of the ladder and I tumbled down, cutting my arm on a sharp piece of machinery in the process. I am, of course, unhurt apart from the twisted ankle, so no flowers or messages of sympathy please. Oh, you weren’t going to bother anyway? Fair enough.

Incidentally, to make things quite clear, I fell; I did not “have a fall”. My godson, who is far too clever for his own good, once observed that there must be a certain age when one graduates from, “He fell over” to “Oh dear, he’s had a fall”. I have not yet reached that age, thank you.

The incident did make me think of just how much we men depend on our wives. How did we manage before we were married? I always remember the experience of a fellow officer of mine when I was serving in an aircraft carrier. He was a pilot who managed to get himself locked in in the Officers’ Club of the US Naval Base in Mayport, Florida (I believe a good time had been had by all, and he had fallen asleep behind a sofa or something). His immediate reaction, when he found that he could not get out, was to pick up the telephone and to call his wife who, of course, was still in the UK where the time was 0500. Strangely, his plea for help was neither welcome nor successful.

The recent sequel to the film Top Gun (Top Gun – Maverick, starring Tom Cruise) has received good reviews and revived the interest in naval aviation. I understand that the original film did wonders for recruitment to the USN (who quite blatantly set up recruiting booths in cinema foyers where the film was showing) and I daresay its sequel will be just as successful. Jane and I went to see it and thoroughly enjoyed it. Though the action is very similar to Star Wars and the story is a bit slow at first, the action sequences are quite spectacular and make up for the minor shortcomings. I can testify from experience that the depiction of naval aviators, of whatever nationality, is entirely accurate: arrogant, cocky, exceptionally brave and completely crackers. One naval pilot once told me that being catapulted from the deck of an aircraft carrier was the next best experience after sex. He did not comment too much, however, on the experience of receiving a “cold shot” ie of the aircraft not taking to the air but, instead, dropping off the front of the flight deck and the ship running over the top of the aircraft while it is underwater. In such cases, the best practice was to wait in the cockpit until the ship had passed over (you could tell by the shadow overhead and the noise of the ship’s propellers), then eject underwater. Ejecting before the ship’s propellers had passed overhead meant being fired into the bottom of the ship or being shredded. As I said earlier, they are all completely crackers and irritatingly successful. Of course the uniform helps: the flying suits with the badges like Dan Dare, the RayBans, the wings on the sleeve or breast, the air of casual panache…all are calculated to make women swoon (I am less sure about the effect women aviators have on men – make them feel inadequate I should think). The aura that these aviators exude is such that, inevitably, some of the other members of the ship’s company in an aircraft carrier would like to embrace it and – perhaps – embellish their own roles onboard. When the old HMS ARK ROYAL visited Mayport some time in the 1970s, the ship’s company was tickled pink after an announcement was made on the ship’s main broadcast following the arrival of a lady at the gangway seeking her young man whom she had met in a bar the night before:
“The chef who flies Phantoms, report to the for’ard gangway”.

This year is the Platinum Jubilee of the succession to the throne of Queen Elizabeth II and what a celebration it has been. Jane and I missed all the pageants, celebrations and street parties because we had decamped to the boat, but we did dress ship overall (ie put up a few flags) and recorded the television extravaganzas for viewing later. I must say that, despite my generally cynical outlook as I approach my dotage, I was both impressed and moved by many of the events that we watched later. It was clear that an immense amount of planning had gone into all aspects of the official celebrations and organising security for the events must have been an absolute nightmare; but the enthusiasm and professionalism displayed by everyone was heart-warming and inspiring. Trooping the Colour was particularly spectacular, and I could empathise with the soldiers taking part: unless you have served in the Armed Forces you cannot appreciate just how difficult it can be even to stand perfectly still for a few minutes without fainting, let alone march together or complete complex manoeuvres. On the spectator side, there was an awful lot for the royal family to sit or stand through and the Queen herself was unable to attend every event, relying heavily on her close family to represent her. What Her Majesty thought of the noisy concert that bombarded Buckingham Palace in the evening will never be known (perhaps she wore ear plugs), but her subjects seemed to enjoy the occasion immensely and The Mall was packed solid. Overall, the whole jubilee seemed to bring the British together as a whole and to be proud of our queen and her total dedication to the job as underpinned by her solemn oath given 70 years ago. When the jubilee was over, the National Union of Rail, Maritime and Transport Workers reiterated that it would implement a series of strikes on the railways and London Underground and “bring the country to a halt”. The unity was good while it lasted.

After the Jubilee, another great lady celebrated her anniversary. I refer, of course, to Jane’s birthday, which we celebrated at home. Once again she was made Queen for the Day and granted all manner of privileges: a lie in to a time of her choosing; tea in bed when called for instead of at Call the Hands (0700); sparkling wine with breakfast; a freshly plucked rose on the table; fruit salad; scrambled egg on sourdough toast. I made a bit of a faux pas by serving her fresh strawberries in her breakfast fruit salad – alas, they were earmarked as pudding for the supper that evening. Also, apparently you are supposed to extract the stalks before serving, but – heh – full marks for trying. As an outing, I took Jane across into Wiltshire to visit Chisenbury Priory, a country manor open under the National Garden Scheme (the entrance fee goes to a local charity) and she was in her seventh heaven. The house was a 17th century edifice built on the site of an ancient priory and the garden was beautifully-kept, very varied and huge. Tea and cake were also available, taken in a marquee on the lawn. Lovingly, Jane touched every flower and pronounced the identity of every plant as we walked around. How she remembers them all I have no idea. The sun shone, the tea and cake were excellent and she was able to admit that, for once, it did not rain on her birthday. We had a barbecue for early supper: fillet steak from the local farm shop supported by lamb kebabs and sausages, preceded by a couple of glasses of Pimm’s and washed down with some excellent Maclaren Vale 2019 Shiraz from one of the Dominions. We would have had strawberries and cream for pudding if someone hadn’t used them up for breakfast. After this repast we were, as you can imagine, ready to repair to the drawing room to collapse on the sofa and relax, perhaps watching something undemanding on the television. The former option was adopted, but Jane claimed she was not bothered about watching anything on the box; I could watch whatever I wanted while she read an improving book. And this is where I made my mistake. Magnanimous in my concern that she enjoy the last few hours of her birthday to the absolute limit, I insisted that she choose a television programme – whether live, recorded or on Amazon Video – that she would like to watch. To reinforce the offer and demonstrate my sincerity, I handed over to her the television remote control, like King John ceremonially handing over the Royal Seal to his Chancellor. To my mild disquiet, and with what I thought as an indecent lack of lengthy consideration regarding the benefits of simply reading her book, she grasped the control and declared her intention to watch the recording we had of the Jubilee Pageant and the Jubilee Concert. I am not a great one for pop music and modern concerts. As I have pointed out to Jane on numerous times, I was out defending the northern flank in the stormy Arctic Ocean when she was hitting the discos. I don’t know a Kink from a Door, a Smith from a Suede or Morrisey from mumchance. I missed out on culture by the selfless pursuit of doing my duty: a sacrifice made so that Jane and others could enjoy the blessings of the land with the fruits of their labours, not expecting any gratitude or medals…and not getting any either. But I digress. I sat through the Jubilee Pageant, which started well, but did go on a bit – I’ll swear some of the parade were going around for a second or third time. I sat through the subsequent concert featuring Diana Ross without complaint, indeed, Miss Ross gave a very good performance even if you disregarded her advanced age. But taken as a whole, Jane’s indulgence did start to get a bit wearing. The sun outside had set long ago and we sat in semi darkness, Jane clearly very happy and me feigning enthusiasm while surreptitiously completing a cryptic crossword on my iPhone. At last, it all ended and we switched on the lights. I breathed a silent sigh of relief and wondered to myself if we could still catch an episode of Midsomer Murders. Alas, Jane was already paging through the list of recorded programmes and had alighted on no less than six episodes of the Chelsea Flower Show, the first of which she selected with alacrity. It took all my willpower to suppress a despairing moan. So there I sat for another hour listening to Monty Don wittering on about bloomers and perennials, muck and mulch. I was just about ready to eat my right arm when, at last, it was all over. Jane had one hour of her birthday left but she decided to end it snug in bed. I said a silent prayer: there are only so many rhododendrons (or whatever) that you can look at. I think she enjoyed the day.

Now here is another of my occasional moral dilemmas for you to consider: should you praise an event or entertainment for how much pleasure it gives you, or for the effort that the entertainers put in (even if not terribly good)? We trekked over to Salisbury one evening to see a classical concert in Salisbury Cathedral. It was a bit of a long haul, but it was a light summer evening so the trip was not too onerous. The Bath Philharmonic Orchestra was due to play a number of classical pieces by Elgar and Debussy and the setting promised much. Indeed, as we sat there in the ancient cathedral with its inspiring architecture and the evening sunlight shining through the stained glass windows, the acoustics perfect, the performance sublime, the music washed over us and transported us away from the troubles of the world. However, what we had not noticed when we booked the event was that the concert was a joint venture with a local school and a collection of young people who also intended to entertain us with their music. Interspaced with the Elgar and Debussy movements were some – how can I put this – avant garde pieces that rather jarred with our tastes. At the end of these items, some members of the audience gave a standing ovation. We were totally nonplussed: it had not been that good; indeed, I am sorry to say that we thought the music was pretty awful and not at all corresponding to the theme we expected. We could only presume that the applause was for the youths’ efforts as opposed to the actual product. Jane and I looked at each other and another of our tacit mutual pacts was sealed: at the interval we sidled casually to the lavatories, then slunk nonchalantly through the cloisters to the open air and escape. We noted that a procession of other members of the audience were doing exactly the same thing, but still we felt rather guilty. But what would have been the point of sitting through something we did not enjoy? Should we have stayed for the second half and suffered in order to support embryo musicians, as if attending our child’s school concert? Of course, what we should have done was read the concert programme before deciding to book the event, then our consciences would not have been challenged. Whatever, we were offski, and enjoyed a very pleasant trip home across Salisbury Plain in daylight, on a summer’s evening, followed by a pleasant nightcap at home. Still feeling guilty.

We are back on the boat, which we have been visiting off and on, one week at a time. As I write, the rain is belting down and a northerly wind is gusting Force 4 to 5. No change for June there then. In all fairness, the weather hitherto had been not too bad. Thursday was a hot day at 27C. Pre-warned by the weather forecast, we took APPLETON RUM to sea in the forenoon and headed for Slapton Sands where, only the previous day, a dozen or so illegal immigrants from France had landed, to be collected by anonymous cars with blacked-out windows and then whisked off into the hinterland. The sea was glassy smooth and calm – so calm that we cruised along at the previously unheard of speed of a mere four knots. Jane was happy: no roar of the engines, no bouncing from one wave crest to the next, no kettles thrown onto the galley deck. What we in the Royal Navy call “signing-on weather”. Just west of Blackpool Sands (a popular local private beach) we dropped anchor in five metres of water and prepared to relax in the sunshine and just soak up the atmosphere. Then we started to roll: a wicked whipping roll that seems to be a characteristic of APPLETON RUM whenever we anchor at sea. There was no reason for it that I could see – no swell, no passing boats, no significant wind. Like a horse tossing her head, APPLETON RUM just heaved from side to side, 30 degrees or more each way. We could hardly keep our feet. After twenty minutes of this we gave up, weighed the anchor, and set course for Dartmouth, again at four knots, and we did not roll at all: baffling, totally baffling. Like last year in the heat (Blog 98), we cruised up river and anchored in Dittisham Mill Creek and prepared for another day of warmth and tranquility: peace, perfect peace, G&T on the quarterdeck, no rolling. Bliss.

The next day dawned with a clear blue sky, the promise of another hot day, and a brisk southwesterly wind that would offset the heat nicely. Jane surveyed the scene around our anchorage and expressed the desire to take the inflatable tender up Dittisham Mill Creek (it being an hour after high tide) in order to explore where the rich people lived. I was a bit more dubious, as the creek completely dries out at low water and I had no wish to be stranded in mud for six hours in the heat. I was also doubtful of the depth of water. We compromised by agreeing to the expedition, but leaving the outboard motor behind, lest its propeller foul the river bed. There are no prizes for guessing who was manning the oars. However, the situation balanced itself out when Jane found she had to sit in the stern facing me, would not sit on the inflatable hull because of the outboard motor mounting lugs sticking into her cute little derrière, and so chose to sit on the bottom deck of the tender. The drawback to this position became apparent when suddenly she cried out that her shorts were wet because of the water slopping around in the bottom boards, closely followed by the revelation that the water had soaked through her knickers too. I expressed my deepest sympathy, naturally, as I heaved on the oars against the ebbing tide and we crawled our way up the creek. I do not suppose you have ever pulled an inflatable tender (we do not row a boat in the navy, we pull it), so take my word for it: it is not easy. For a start, you are facing the wrong way when pulling the oars, and that makes heading in the right direction tricky. Few inflatables have a keel, so they are very hard to steer, having a tendency to skid all over the water instead of going in a straight line. In our case, in addition, one of the oars has its blade not quite at 90 degrees to the rowlocks, so that it does not bite into the water as well as the other. Net result: we tended to go around in a circle, with Mrs Wet Bum giving frequent direction changes as if she were conning a battleship. In the end, I turned the tender around and moved stern-first, pushing the oars like boatmen do in the Mediterranean. The tender still had a slight bias to one side, but at least I could see where I was going and could correct it accordingly. The downside was that more water splashed over the stern and soaked Jane’s bottom a bit more, but I felt sure that she thought the discomfort was worthwhile when measured against the delights of a very placid and scenic Devonshire creek with touches of Daphne du Maurier and the potential to meet a handsome French privateer. The return journey was easier, as we simply drifted down with the ebbing tide in the creek; it only became harder when we entered the main river and I had to pull with all my might to get back to the boat without being swept down river in the general direction of France. Like all tidal rivers, when the Dart ebbs it does so with a vengeance and the current was a good 1½ to 2 knots. At last, we managed to hook on to APPLETON RUM and hoist in the tender. Jane went off to change her lower clothing and then the two of us collapsed in the shade to quaff an ice-cold lager. It was very hot, but not as hot as it would have been if we were ashore or alongside. The wind blew mightily and reached Force 6 at one point, but as the evening drew in it moderated sufficiently for us to weigh the anchor and return to our berth alongside, there to have long showers to wash off the many layers of caked-on sunblock. The sun really can take it out of you and we were as exhausted as if we had completed a ten-mile hike, but there are compensations: we sat on the upper deck and watched the sun go down as we sipped glasses of Pimm’s. Excellent.

19 June 2022

Blog 112. Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah

Fog. Thick, cloying, damp fog, silent and sinister, surrounded us. Despite being only few hundred yards from Dartmouth castle, we immediately felt as lost and isolated as if we were in the middle of the Atlantic. And it was not a nice feeling.

We had taken APPLETON RUM away from her moorings for a shakedown after her long winter rest. Ever the prudent pessimist, I tested the engines in a modest run up river first before turning at Dittisham and heading for the sea. The plan was to cross the harbour bar and, if the swell was moderate (ie if Mrs Shacklepin could stand upright without hanging on to the boat structure), to do a full power run to get the engines good and hot and to try to blast off the accumulated weed and marine life on the boat’s bottom. Dartmouth and the harbour mouth had appeared a little misty and surreal earlier that morning, with fog – like candy floss – shrouding the castles and filling the river valley, yet leaving the hills on either side clear. However, this had started to burn off in the watery sunshine by the time we headed down river, and I reckoned it would be all clear by the time we arrived. The swell was not too bad as I opened up the power and headed for the Castle Ledge Buoy that marks the north eastern edge of the channel into Dartmouth harbour; it was, however, sufficiently noticeable for Mrs S to veto a longer sea excursion and, in any case, the mist was still prevalent. I therefore decided to turn at the buoy and return to the harbour. We shot past the buoy, spun round in a roaring turn like an MGB that had just beaten up a train on the German-occupied French coast…and ran straight into thick, impenetrable fog. It really did reappear that quickly. The rocky coastline that had been closely visible less than a quarter of a mile away had gone, visibility was down to about 100 metres and it felt as if we had been wrapped in a cold, grey, wet blanket. I immediately dropped our speed and assessed the situation. I have been at sea in fog many times, of course, but that was always in a warship with a Captain, two officers-of the-watch, several lookouts, two radars and a full Operations Room plotting team. Here, I was in a 10m motor boat with no radar and one lookout. Fortunately, I did have GPS which gave my position and a suggested course to get back into harbour, which I immediately followed. I switched on the navigation lights (for all the good it would do me). Strictly speaking, I should have been sounding the siren for a prolonged blast every two minutes, but this proved to be impractical as I concentrated on the navigation and keeping a sharp lookout. Occasionally, yachts and other small craft emerged from the fog before veering sharply away as they sighted us, and disappearing again. At one point there was a brief break in the murk, revealing menacing rocks quite close on the starboard side. We crawled gently on, feeling our way through the harbour entrance. We never did see Dartmouth or Kingswear castles at the harbour entrance, despite them being only about 400 metres apart; we missed One Gun Point and Warfleet Creek; indeed, the fog only started to clear slightly when we were coming up to the Lower Ferry, level with Dartmouth town itself. Emerging from the mist, we glanced around us at land and civilisation once more. Jane looked at me, and I at her. There was an unspoken pact between us: we won’t be doing that again.

Easter onboard has tended traditionally to be a very pleasant time for us as we scrub the boat after a long Winter, get used to living onboard again, and re-familiarise ourselves with our favourite walks and haunts – all set against the backdrop of warm Spring weather. This time, the weather was certainly sunny as usual, though it was offset by a cool north easterly wind. Sadly, we also had a tragedy at the marina when a fellow boater had a heart attack on his boat. We became aware of some commotion on the pontoon and looked over at the shore to see an ambulance parked on the quay. Two paramedics marched purposefully down the pontoon past us and then, so it seemed, the whole world erupted. Within the space of about five minutes the Devon Air Ambulance clattered overhead, hovered, then landed in a shower of dust and rubble on a section of waste ground in the marina; with a burst of foam, an RNLI lifeboat creamed up the river, shot into the marina and slewed alongside one of the pontoons; more flashing lights on the quayside heralded the arrival of another ambulance; sirens trumpeted the arrival of a Coastguard Rescue Land Rover and Command car; more flashing lights and sirens preceded the arrival of a police car. The only emergency service not there was the Fire Brigade. In the marina there was one paramedic first-response vehicle, two ambulances, an air-ambulance helicopter, an RNLI lifeboat, two Coastguard Rescue vehicles and a police car. The pontoon looked like a scene from the old children’s television series Trumpton or possibly a model town made with Lego: it was populated by ambulance paramedics in green overalls with face masks but no hats; helicopter paramedics in red overalls and flying helmets; RNLI crewmen in lifejackets, white helmets, and yellow wellington boots; Coastguard Rescue personnel in blue overalls and blue hard hats; and policemen in black uniforms with stab vests and pepper spray. Oh yes, and there was also the marina manager wearing a hard hat, lifejacket and a fluorescent tabard. It could not be said that effort had been spared to save the poor man on the pontoon behind us, but I am sorry to say that, despite immediate CPR by a neighbouring boater and a member of the marina staff, and all the efforts of the emergency services, he died. Tragically, the man was with his grand-children and wife when it happened and it must have been a traumatic experience for them. He did have an existing heart condition and his wife later said that he was known to be on borrowed time; but it must still have been a terrible experience for her and her family. One reads in the newspapers of a failing NHS and poor ambulance response times but, I must say, the response at that marina was astonishing.

As is usually the case, I had a few jobs to do onboard that kept me frustrated, bruised, grazed and fully occupied for a couple of days before I emerged, elated at my success, to enjoy Devonshire in the Spring. There is a very good walk that we often do, leaving the marina and into Hoodown Wood towards Kingswear. The route takes us around Waterhead Creek into the hamlet of Kingswear, then follows the coastal path towards Kingswear castle and onward to Pinewoods. There we escape the coastal path and take a permissive road northwards into the countryside, joining Mount Ridley Road that takes us back into Kingswear again. From Kingswear, we skirt the high Hoodown Wood and follow the lower railway embankment north, with the river on one side and steam trains on the other, to the Higher Ferry slipway, then up Bridge Road and back to the marina. It is a good circuit and only about seven miles in total, but one must bear in mind that all walks on the Devonshire coastline involve climbing long steep hills, descending long steep hills, and climbing back up again. On this occasion, when we arrived back at Kingswear railway station we were definitely ready for a rest. As it happens, we needed some sandwiches for another walk that had been planned for the next day and, as we had no bread or fillings onboard, these would best be obtained from Marks & Spencers across the river in Dartmouth. Normally, we would have walked along the embankment and caught the Higher Ferry across the river – this route because we have a season ticket and the fare is cheaper. This time, however, I suggested we go off piste: I proposed that we take the passenger ferry across from Kingswear station, which would take us straight into the heart of Dartmouth. There was a minor debate about the financial wisdom of such a departure from normal practice, but I made one of my executive decisions in a magnanimous gesture.
“Blow it”, I said. “We are on holiday. We will pay the £3 fare”.
Revelling in our new departure from conventional practice free of financial restraint, we crossed the river, raided Marks & Spencers’ sandwich counter and made our way north to the Higher Ferry.
Dartmouth Higher Ferry is a floating bridge that links Kingswear, in the east, to Dartmouth in the west, as part of the A379 linking Torbay to Plymouth. It has been running, off and on, since the 1700s, but has been replaced once or twice since then and is now a modern diesel powered vessel. Unlike the Dartmouth Lower Ferry, which is a floating bridge towed by a breasted tug (a feat of skilled boatmanship well worth watching), the Dartmouth Higher Ferry drags itself across the river on semi submerged wires. It is the larger of the two vessels and we usually take it to get across to Dartmouth. And so it was that we waited patiently at the slipway waiting for the ferry to berth and noting the strong flooding tide that was pushing her sideways against her guiding wires.
“Hmmm”, I thought, “she might be secured by wires, but methinks there is a lot more to conning that ferry than most people think”.
The ferry sashayed up to the slipway, but could not get lined up straight despite the use of her side-thruster. Then she started to oscillate, yawing from side to side. She backed off and tried again. Then it dawned on me: it was a Spring low tide and there was insufficient water for her to beach: she was grounding before she could get right in. Eventually, she did make it up to the slipway to lower her ramp and discharge her vehicles, but we were stopped from boarding: the service would now be terminated for at least an hour until the tide rose sufficiently. Oh dear.
Wearily, Jane and I plodded back along the Embankment to the main town and the prospect of catching the passenger ferry (fare another £3) back over the river, and a two-mile walk. It would be fair to say that Jane was not a happy bunny. Her feet hurt, her legs ached and unspoken thoughts were emitting from her like gamma rays from a block of uranium, saying,
“And Its All Your Fault!”
I am a sensitive soul, you know. I can tell these things.
But then I had an inspiration: the Dartmouth to Dittisham ferry runs half-hourly and will call at our marina by request. I rang them up: yes, there was a boat alongside leaving in twenty minutes. We boarded, ate our sandwiches in the sunshine, set off, and were dropped off actually on our pontoon within sight of APPLETON RUM. Oh the bliss, the luxury. We hobbled along and scrambled onboard for a nice sensible cup of tea.
“How much was the ferry?”, she asked.
“Ah. It was £7 for the two of us.”
“So it has cost us a total of £10 to cross the river for expensive sandwiches and come back again, instead of just walking straight back?”
“Yes”, I said philosophically, “but we have two luxury Marks & Spencer prawn and mayonnaise sandwiches in our bellies, we have just enjoyed a nice walk on which you did not fall over, and we have used a personalised water taxi service. Let us be content: we are on holiday. Time for a gin?”

Have you ever wondered who governs our country? I don’t mean whether it is the Labour or Conservative party, or even the Liberal Democrats. I don’t mean Parliament. I mean who actually calls the shots? It is a rhetorical question. You see, there have been a lot of instances recently where a government minister has decreed that something is to happen, but the organisation that should act on it says the equivalent of something like,
“Thank you very much, but we aren’t going to do that.”
For example, the Department of Health decrees that hospitals should now allow hospital visitors and should abandon the social distancing rules originally brought in to combat Covid, but some hospital trusts have declared that they will not conform. The Department of Education decrees that universities are to return to face-to-face lectures and tutorials, but many are continuing with distant learning. The government declares that civil servants are to return to their offices, but as many as 75% of staff are still “working from home”. New criminal laws are passed, but the Association of Chief Police Officers lays down which laws the police will actually enforce. I find it utterly baffling. Who is paying these people? Who holds the purse strings? Who is running this railway? I daresay it is my armed forces background that causes my bewilderment and frustration: I am, after all, but a simple sailor. Like that centurion in the bible who sayest to a man, “Go”, and he goeth I expect the elected government to operate the same way. It seems to me that Parliament decides how the country is to be run, tells its officials to implement the policy, and there an end. A department, agency, university, school or government establishment refusing to conform should have its Chief Executive (or equivalent) dismissed and replaced by someone who will do as he or she is told. We are, after all, paying their wages. But there you are: put me in charge and we would have a revolution within a week. Mind you, I already have a list of those who will be the first up against the wall when that revolution comes.

I have not commented on the Covid situation for some time, partly because I have been threatened with pain of death by the Editor in Chief and proprietor if I start moaning about face masks again.  For posterity, however, it is worth reporting that infections from the new Omicron variant are still quite rife in the UK, but are in free-fall, as are related hospital admissions and deaths.  Most people seem to have either experienced the illness or to know someone else who has had it. Everyone I have spoken to who has contracted the virus has reported to have had either no symptoms at all (like me) or a headache, sore throat, lethargy or feeling not quite right for three days – though it has usually taken up to ten days to yield a negative test result.  Some people take longer to recover and people with existing weaknesses are still vulnerable.  England dropped the legal requirement to wear face coverings and to practise social distancing in January, though coverings are still insisted upon in medical settings such as hospitals, doctors’ surgeries, opticians and dentists (the last, I find particularly odd).  “Track and Trace” (the facility to record where you have been and to trace people who may have picked up the virus from you) has been abandoned.  Vaccine passports – the proof that you have been inoculated – are not required anywhere (except if going abroad in some cases).  Covid lateral flow test kits are no longer issued free to the general public in England and there is no requirement to report the test result.  There is no longer a legal requirement to stay at home if infected (though it is recommended).  Overall, the feeling I get from asking around is that most people seem to think we should get on with life and live with the virus by being sensible.  

I will not dwell on the appalling invasion of Ukraine by Russia with all its attendant brutality and atrocities: you can read about that in the newspapers.  I hoped I would never see war in Europe in my lifetime, but there it is: with one stroke the president of Russia has set his country back forty years or more and has totally abandoned all civilised values.  Most people thought it inconceivable that one European country would still invade another in the 21st century.  Alas, the events in Ukraine prove that you cannot assume a damned thing.

With the coming of the sunshine, Jane has decreed that we should revive an earlier plan – agreed during a moment of weakness (or perhaps intoxication) – of spending one day a week in a different town or visiting a property: “going for a drive”, as my parents would have called it in 1960. Much discussion followed, notably because of our new requirement to take into account the range of our electric car, or the availability of charging points at the destination. We finally agreed on Exbury Gardens near Southampton, a private garden owned by the Rothschild family. I reckoned we could just about make it there and back without running out of energy. Jane loves gardens. Gardens are to Jane what a boat chandlery selling stainless steel deck fittings and cordage is to me. And so it came to pass that we set off on a bright sunny day full of anticipation and hope.
The journey took us, without incident, through the New Forest, with its roaming wild horses and ponies, to join a convoy of vehicles whose occupants clearly had the same destination in mind. I was incensed. Who were these people, travelling in school term time in the middle of a working week? They could not all be on holiday or retired, surely, and why weren’t those children at school? Very poor: we had hoped to have the gardens to ourselves (I was never good at sharing toys when I was a child, either). Whatever, Exbury Gardens proved to be near Lord Montagu’s little pad at Beaulieu (for the benefit of any non-English readers, this is pronounced Be-YOU-lee to rhyme with ‘newly’ – it is one of those little things that we English do to annoy the French after 936 years of Norman occupation ie we mangle their language). The gardens are on the shore of the Beaulieu river and were created, along with Exbury House, by Lionel de Rothschild just after the First World War. They have been enhanced since by successive descendants in the family and now include a small-gauge steam railway. The gardens, but not the house, are open to the public for a modest fee. The carpark was already half full when we arrived at 1030 and a queue of the halt and lame was already lined up at the ticket office, shuffling forward to the single window. Jane had booked and paid for the visit in advance, but someone (it would be inappropriate for me to reveal his name) had deleted the details from the joint email account viewed on her mobile phone so some human contact, explanation and grovelling would be required. I nominated Jane as being the most likely to succeed in such intercourse without upsetting anyone. As it was a windy day, I repaired to the Gents’ lavatory to put some toilet water on my hair while these negotiations progressed. Jane was successful in her negotiation, but was annoyed at having to queue with the hoi polloi who had just arrived on spec; usually these places have two ticket counters: one for members or those with pre-booked tickets, and one for customers who are paying on the day. Not at Exbury, apparently, though the (single) receptionist was doing a splendid and cheerful job in difficult circumstances. As it happens, armed with the paper substitute for our e-ticket, we just waltzed into the gardens past the queue of pensioners and also-rans. No-one checked our ticket as we entered and there was no physical gate. If we were dishonest and cheeky then I suppose we could have just walked in for free, but we are readers of The Times and The Daily Telegraph: we don’t do that sort of thing.
My plan on entering was to institute my standard U-boat square search pattern, such practice being efficient in all other situations where there is an exhibition, show or outdoor venue to peruse: it ensures that all aisles, stalls or paths are covered and we can depart confident that everything has been seen. However, for some strange reason Jane insisted on wandering at random along the many paths, smelling blossom, taking photographs, dallying, and generally behaving in a disorganised manner: most extraordinary behaviour, but that’s what gardens do for you. In fairness, the gardens were beautiful and very colourful, being populated mainly with well-established rhododendrons and azaleas. The colours were vivid, with bright blue, red, yellow and white flowers predominating; the scent of the smaller azaleas filled the air and it was a very inspiring experience. The grounds extended to about 200 acres, so were big enough to explore without running into other people or shuffling along as if shopping in IKEA. Naturally, we dived off the main paths and so were able to enjoy almost a personal experience. The river walk to the south was particularly enjoyable as it had a fine view of the tidal and peaceful Beaulieu river, with its moored boats and birdlife.
Despite the randomness of the exploration we did manage to cover every path, nook and cranny and reluctantly joined one of the main paths littered with old folk and strange people in shorts and flip-flops heading for the exit. I say ‘strange’ because there was a brisk northerly wind blowing, it was 12C (54F), and distinctly cool in the shade. What has become of British sartorial standards? However, I fear that battle was fought and lost some time ago – I merely mention it in passing. There was a quite reasonable looking café/restaurant on site outside the gardens called “Mr Eddie’s”: a title which initially put me off as it suggested fast food of the pizza or burger variety, but in fact it was named after Edward Rothschild, who had done so much to enhance the gardens after WW2. We went in, but it soon became apparent that the establishment suffered from the format so common in Britain: it was self-service. The routine was that you found a table (inside or out), noted the table number, queued for twenty minutes, ordered your food, then (presumably) returned to your table to find someone sitting there. I have never understood this setup. Why could we not be like the French, with their professional waitress or waiter service? I suppose, if you had a spouse, partner or chum then you could dump them at the table as an army in occupation, spreading the chairs with coats, haversacks and other impedimenta and, indeed, that was what most people seemed to do; but as to what you were supposed to do if you were single or had a partner unwilling to act as a doorstop, heaven only knows: eat your baked potato while standing semi upright in the cold and leaning against a tree, presumably. Whatever, as you have probably guessed, we abandoned the eating section of the visit after waiting five minutes in the dining queue and, finding ourselves at a loose end, decided that there was nothing left to do but go home.

Incidentally, re-reading that last paragraph, the Beaulieu river is the only instance that I can think of, offhand, where we say use the word “river” as a suffix, as they do in the USA and Australia. We would normally use the word as a prefix like, “the River Beaulieu” just as we say, “the River Thames” or “the River Rhine”. Interesting that.

Now tell me: what is it with women and donkeys?  Why must they go all gooey whenever they see these equine variants?  We passed a patch of common land in the New Forest inhabited by these creatures and I was immediately ordered to stop in order that Jane could take many pictures of “the little donkeys and their foals”.  I had to pull off the road in a shower of dust and wait patiently while she took numerous photographs of these creatures from close range.  Bizarre.  Totally bizarre.  And she later lost the photographs from her iPhone.

It is one of those characteristics of life, a corollary of Murphy’s Law perhaps, that when one wishes to travel on British roads one will inevitably encounter (a) a tractor, (b) a horse box or (c) a car towing a caravan. And the drivers of these vehicles will always harbour an ambition to lead a Lord Mayor’s Show. Our departure from the donkeys was characterised by the first of my list: not one, but two tractors – each towing a large container of unidentified malodorous organic material. Along the New Forest ‘B’ roads we trundled at 15 mph, the carriageway being too narrow and too speed-limited to overtake (the wild horses, you understand). Eventually, we came to the main ‘A’ trunk road where, we hoped, the tractors would exit to a field, but no such luck. On the convoy rolled, like an exotic Eastern caravan transiting from the Orient to Europe bearing Marco Polo on a camel. Up hill, and down dale, through forest and pasture, we trundled on – the procession growing longer and longer and, I would guess, stretching as far back as Exbury. Where on Earth was Farmer Giles and his farmhand going? To Southampton? To John o’ Groats? We must have crawled down that road for twelve miles, over an hour, with not a hope of overtaking on the busy road. Eventually, a dual carriageway appeared and we managed to shoot past at 70 mph, along with a goodly portion of the motoring public. Heaven knows where those tractors were heading, but taking them on such a long journey was utterly ridiculous. Why couldn’t the farmers travel in a Nissan Qashqai like everyone else?

One of the problems of being of mature age with a wealth of experience (ie old) is that I tend to scrutinise every historical drama of the 20th century to the nth degree for anachronisms.  It is just unavoidable. As far as I can tell, the film and television industries appear to be quite good at getting the period detail correct before the 20th century, but when they make a drama that encroaches on living memory their success rate is dismal.  I was not alive during WW2 (honestly, I wasn’t), but I can remember life in the early 1950s, ten years later.  At that time, Britain was still recovering from a long war and everything was shabby.  Food rationing was in force until 1954.  Some houses were quite literally falling apart and most internal plasterwork was cracked because of shock damage.  Paint was peeling and woodwork was rotting after six years of no maintenance.  Bombed sites were everywhere.  The people were poorly dressed in clothes that had been mended several times.  Bathrooms with running hot water were a luxury, and outside lavatories were common.  Only rich people bought and drank wine, and they obtained it from a vintners. Olive oil came from a chemist and you put it in your ears. All women permed their hair and men’s hair had short back and sides; they all looked old, even those in their twenties.  It is rare that a film or drama encapsulates that atmosphere accurately, though there are some good exceptions: Vera Drake, a film set in 1950 about an abortionist and starring Imelda Staunton, was one of the best I have seen for costume, scenery and drama;  A Private Function, starring Michael Palin and Maggie Smith, was another perfectly accurate depiction of life during rationing in a Yorkshire town in 1953.  For some reason, the commonest failure by film makers is usually the men’s haircuts: you see films about WW2 in which there are slim young men with their modern five-o-clock shadows and coiffured hair flying a Spitfire, as if they had been simply plucked from 2021 and transported back in time.  Their uniforms on set are neat and well-pressed and rarely show the wide trousers, high waists and baggy battledress that existed in reality.  I mention all this because we were watching a new drama the other day, a dramatisation of Why Didn’t They Ask Evans? by Agatha Christie.  Set in the 1930s, it was well acted, but – for some reason – the scriptwriter had decided to make the main male character an ex Royal Navy Lieutenant in his mid twenties, with a chum who was black, had a moustache, and was an ex Midshipman “on a naval pension”.   They got the naval salute right (unlike the British Army and RAF we salute with the palm down, like Americans), which made their moustachioed Midshipman – who appeared older than his chum, the Lieutenant – all the more baffling.  A Midshipman is two ranks below a Lieutenant and, in the 1930s, would typically be still in his teens; he would certainly be nearly ten years younger than a Lieutenant and neither would be eligible for a pension.  And no-one in the Royal Navy wears a moustache (Blog 56); even if the “retired” Midshipman had grown one since, he would not be seen in uniform with it.  The final death knell for the costume department came with the Midshipman’s uniform: a bizarre concoction with brass buttons around the sleeves like that worn by a Chief Petty Officer.  Yes, yes, I know I am being a pedant about something most people wouldn’t notice, but it is an affliction that I have to bear, and I rather suspect that others of my age will have the same problem.  The fact is, basic errors in costume and historical accuracy destroy the credibility of a production, whereas accurate depictions add to the atmosphere and greatly enhance the dramatic experience.  To this day, I can still remember the bleak and austere setting of Vera Drake and the hunger-inducing food rationing depicted in A Private Function.  Retired Midshipmen indeed.  Hrrmph.

“If those birds continue to eat that bird food, I will take it away!”
So spoke Jane the other day as we munched our toast and marmalade in the breakfast room, aka the Garden Control Tower or conservatory.  I raised an eyebrow.
“The pigeons!” She explained, with some ire.
Yes, Mr Pigeon is back (Blog 47).  He and his mate are sitting on her plants, eating the little birds’ food and generally being a nuisance.  Already Jane is reaching for the air pistol – a worrying development as she does not know one end of the weapon from the other.  Hey ho, Spring has come.  We had a warm spell the other day and, to my amazement, Jane appeared downstairs with polished bare legs, painted toenails, sandals and a light summer skirt.  Two hours later she was back upstairs putting on a vest, trousers, socks and a Fairisle sweater, having experienced the atmosphere outside when she went out to exterminate a few slugs and snails.  The weather had “taken a turn”, as they say though, looking back at Jane’s diary and my old blogs, it is performing almost exactly as it did last year: sunshine, not much rain, cold wind, cold nights.  Bird life is teaming in Shacklepin Towers and we wake to the beautiful call of the blackbird.  Our bird feeders attract goldfinches, great tits, blue tits, house sparrows, dunnocks, chaffinches, starlings and one grey squirrel.  Less welcome are the galumphing great wood pigeons, magpies, crows and jackdaws but – as I told Jane – they are all God’s little creatures, just like us.  It is nesting time and already blue tits have taken residence in our oldest bird box, ready to hatch in early June.  They spurn the nice new precision-made box that I constructed last year, preferring the more ancient battered structure bolted to the shed – heaven knows why (maybe it is the family home).  Great tits have taken residence in the bird box designed for sparrows. Fledgling blackbirds are already trying to fly, and one landed on Jane’s shoulder the other day as she was fiddling with the clematis.  It is a wonderful time of the year in England. Zip-a-dee-doo-dah.

Meanwhile, among the humans the general madness continues.  Edinburgh Napier University is instructing midwives on how to deliver babies from a “birthing person” who has male genitalia (it must be a very long lecture).  A children’s book has been pulped by the publishers because one of the characters in the story, transported magically into a souk with his friends, says something like,
“Keep together – this place looks hostile.”
Apparently the phrase (taken out of context) was regarded as Islamaphobic despite the author being married to a Muslim.
Will the idiocy ever end?  Beats me, but it does provide us with hours of amusement, and we must be grateful for that. 

Now, if you will excuse me, I have been ordered to go out into the garden and scare off a few pigeons.  I am a man of many talents.

30 April 2022

Blog 111. Janet and John Go On Holiday

We forgot the napkins and napkin rings.  I know, I know: how could we forget such a fundamental addition to our luggage for a self-catering holiday?  We had remembered the Self-Catering Attaché Case with its chopping board and moulded slots for the Sabatier cook’s knives, the corkscrew and the essential herbs and spices; but we had forgotten the napkins.  Dear oh dear. But, there it is: perforce, we had to spend the next five days eating at the table feeling strangely naked and ill-equipped.  Fortunately, adaptability has always been one of our strong points so we soldiered on, feeling slightly risqué and daring at meal times, practising our new-found Bohemian behaviour.

March ended with warm sunshine and mild Spring weather; the implementation of British Summer Time; and freezing temperatures with snow showers.  We of the older generation used to refer to this as “The British Weather”, with the occasional adjective before the word “British”; but now, as we live in times when someone must be blamed for everything unpleasant, the phenomenon is called “Climate Emergency” and it is All Our Fault for heating our houses, eating meat, travelling on holiday and generally enjoying the fruits of our labours.  Oh, what it is to live in the 21st Century.  

It was the first proper holiday for the Shacklepins in two years, and we rented a little cottage in Shropshire.  By arrangement with the owner we were able to charge our car on arrival, so avoiding the need to top up with electricity en route. It is amazing how this little thing made our journey to and from Shropshire so pleasant and stress-free.  We motored gently up on the minor ‘B’ roads and quieter ‘A’ roads, avoiding the motorway, and mostly coasting along at 40 mph – to all intents and purposes as if we were driving a little Austin A30 through England in 1955.  Lest you feel this conjures up an image of a certain type of irritating driver, I should explain that whenever another car appeared behind us we either pulled in to let it pass, or sped up to the speed limit to avoid holding anyone up.  Surprisingly, traffic was remarkably light for most of the journey so we were able to enjoy the drive with little disruption.  Shropshire is an absolutely delightful county: it has some lovely traditional market towns that are rich in independent shops and largely unspoilt by modern development; the scenery is superb; the traffic is relatively light; the people are smiling and welcoming.   Our cottage was on an estate near Ludlow, close to the Wenlock Edge, a 1,000 foot escarpment that runs north easterly for about 20 miles from Craven Arms to Much Wenlock, with The Shropshire Way running along the top.  We were perfectly placed to indulge in long walks along the public footpaths adjacent to the cottage, to explore the estate where we were staying, or to visit the nearby towns.  The cottage itself was a cosy single-bedroomed lodge that met the prerequisite that it did not allow dogs – a criterion remarkably hard to find in rural hotels and self-catering accommodation.  It is not that I dislike dogs per se: I genuinely recognise that they can make excellent companions and become (in the eyes of their owners) part of the family.  A good friend of mine once responded to my prejudice by pointing out that you are always assured of a warm welcome home if you have a dog, and I was suitably chastened by his remark.   However, I have yet to find a dog owner who did not think that their pet was a sentient being (“Say hello to Uncle Horatio”, “I’m not its uncle: it’s a dog!”).  Nor have I ever found a dog owner who did not think that their dog was always well-behaved and obeyed commands; did not believe that it was just being friendly when it jumped all over you with its slobbering mouth, dirty paws and filthy bottom; that it was just giving you a nip when it bit you; and that rules and signs did not apply to their particular dog.  It has been my experience that hotels and cottages that allow dogs retain that wet dog smell, are sometimes covered in hairs or – worse – are contaminated with urine.  I realise that I am in the minority here, but when it comes to holiday accommodation one seeks facilities that are at least as good as, and as clean as, one’s own home: it is a matter of “horses for courses”.

Oh dear.  I think I have just alienated 75% of my readership, and it wasn’t that big to start with.  Still, it makes a change from moaning about face masks doesn’t it?

Anyway, to return to our canine-free accommodation (bit of a rant there – sorry about that). Our cottage was spotless and blessedly warm. Mrs S is very fussy about the warmth, having been born in the Caribbean – she even complained at one point that it was too warm in the cottage, an unheard of experience in my married life. The owner had very kindly left us a “welcome pack” comprising local milk and butter, bread, marmalade and a small bottle of wine, which was well received. The french windows of our bedroom opened out onto a balcony and a delightful view of a valley populated by a few sheep and only one small farm. A single-track road wound its way up the dale near the cottage, but there was very little traffic and the whole scene exuded peace and tranquility, broken only by restful birdsong.
Of course, not all was perfect (few things are for the Shacklepins). The owner of the estate was a converted zealot to the Green religion and was just a little a bit of a fusspot, one of those people who is fond of little notes being posted everywhere: “Please separate out the recycling into the correct boxes”; “Remember: boiling a full kettle wastes energy”; “Please do not leave the television on standby”; “Please place hot pans here”; “Please do not wear shoes in the cottage”; ”Please make tea in the teapot, not the cups”; “Please strip the bed and bag the washing before leaving”. We would have done all those things on our own initiative without being reminded of them. The owner had met us on arrival and was friendly and helpful, but they pointedly stood about ten feet away from us when we emerged from the car and backed away when we went to shake hands, which made us feel a bit embarrassed and uncomfortable: one of the many sad social consequences of the epidemic. These were only mild observations, but two other minor shortcomings soon became apparent: in our haste to book an ideally-located place we had overlooked the fact that the cottage did not have a dishwasher and that the bathroom was located on the ground floor, below the main accommodation. We could live with doing the washing-up by hand, but the trek to the bathroom during the night proved to be a real headache: ironically, and perhaps inevitably, we found ourselves getting up far more frequently than usual to use the lavatory and this involved scuttling through the freezing living room then negotiating the narrow winding staircase in the dark before returning to the bed to wake the other partner. Blessedly, the bed was very comfortable, but the whole procedure did make for a disturbed sleep.

Day 1 of the holiday found us scrambling up the very steep side of an escarpment, followed by a long climb that took us on a circular walk northwards. Climbs are unusual for us, as Barsetshire has few hills, but we managed the ascent in stages and wallowed in the smugness that comes from hearts beating at 140/minute and standing on what seemed like the top of the world. Our walk took us past a distinctive Elizabethan manor house, Wilderhope Manor, now owned by the National Trust and used as a Youth Hostel. The building, with its characteristic Elizabethan chimneys and solid limestone walls appeared to be deserted, but this assessment was contradicted by steam emerging from a central heating vent. The public could tour the manor, but it was not open on the day that we passed through. Apparently, it was originally the home of the Smallman family, and one Major Thomas Smallman lived there in the 17th century during the English Civil War. A supporter of King Charles I, he was locked up in his own manor by Cromwell’s forces, but he allegedly escaped by means of a secret passage in the walls, which sounds intriguing. He was pursued, but evaded capture by driving his horse over a precipice on Wenlock Edge (inevitably known as “Major’s Leap”), killing the animal, but allowing him to escape back to the Royalist forces in Shrewsbury. His statue in Shrewsbury has since been pulled down and thrown into the River Severn by supporters of the Equines Matter movement because of cruelty to horses. (I made that last bit up). I thought the manor was distinctly forbidding and creepy, even in daylight, and I, for one, would not have cared to spend the night there: there was just something about the place. We rapidly moved on and made our way back to the cottage along the valley bottom, through sheep pasture, crossing and re-crossing a twisting stream, completing just over five miles (a mere bagatelle), but also having climbed over 460 feet. We were a little footsore and definitely out of condition, and I thought collapsing onto the sofa with a sensible cup of tea and a ginger biscuit would be the ending of a perfect day. Alas, Mrs Shacklepin was in tourist mood and insisted that we take the car and explore the market town of Much Wenlock.

What a lovely sleepy old town Much Wenlock turned out to be!  We parked easily and strolled through the narrow main street past ancient Tudor buildings to the small main square.  Although a market town with a significant history and granted its charter in 1468, Much Wenlock seemed barely larger than a village (population about 2,800 in 2011).  This rather added to its charm and we delighted in just drifting around the streets in the sunshine.  There were the ruins of an abbey, which dated from the 7th century, but we did not visit them as we thought the entrance fee a bit steep.  The Guildhall was also architecturally impressive – apparently within a few days of being opened in 1546 the assizes held therein condemned two men and an 11-year-old girl to be hanged, probably for stealing.  We did get that cup of tea – in a teashop called Tea on the Square, a lovely café with very efficient, friendly, service and some gorgeous carrot cake.  The walls of the teashop were decorated with a fresco of the town, which had been very well executed, and the customers seemed mostly to be gentlewomen of a certain age.  I felt like I was in a scene from an Agatha Christie book, and it was all rather comforting.  I could live in Much Wenlock:  it had a lovely “feel” to it, everyone smiled at you and everyone seemed happy. 

The next day found us in Ludlow, another very distinctive, though larger, town with a good mixture of independent shops, fine architecture of the Tudor and Georgian era, a lively market and an impressive castle. Ludlow Castle was once the ancestral seat of the Duke of York of Wars of the Roses fame before he lost his head and had it stuck on a spike outside York. I have always found English nobility to be a bit of a paradox in terms of their titles and ancestral homes: the Duke of York had his castle in Ludlow, Shropshire; the Duke of Devonshire has his seat at Chatsworth in Derbyshire; and the Duke of Norfolk has his seat in Arundel in Sussex, to give just three examples. Foreigners must find it all very confusing, as do I. Even the Wars of the Roses are a bit misleading: as a child I used to think that they were wars waged simply between two adjoining counties, Lancashire and Yorkshire – one bunch with a red rose saying “eeh, bah gum” versus another bunch with a white rose saying “eeh, bah gum” (the accents sound the same to me) but, of course, that is not the case. You live and learn. The weather had turned on the day we went to Ludlow, and a bitter northerly wind with traces of sleet swept through the town. We circled the castle (still too mean to pay the entrance fee, but we had visited before), descended to the picturesque riverside, explored the streets and tut-tutted at the price of houses in the estate agents’ windows. Ludlow was another town where we felt very comfortably at home and would cheerfully have settled but, nope, couldn’t afford to live there either.

We decided to make Day 3 a “town visit day” too.  This was contrary to our usual practice on holiday, whereby we usually alternate “walking days” and “visit days”.  I don’t know why we broke the rhythm.  We headed for Bridgnorth, which was reputed to be worth a visit, but we got off to a bad start because I broke yet another of my rules that have been establish after years of experience:  Shacklepin’s First Rule for Visiting an Unfamiliar Town – park in the first carpark you come across. On this occasion, the entrance of the first carpark we came across was blocked by some old bloke who could not get the entrance barrier to rise.  Although the most patient of souls, I declared that we would move on to the next carpark and, thereupon, committed us to a stop/start drive through narrow medieval streets blocked by double-parked vans and lorries, and populated by pedestrians with a Shropshire death wish.  Then the sleet came down. Twist and turn, stop, start, round a one way system, miss a turning, round again, past the medieval town hall for the second time…until finally we broke out of orbit and found the next carpark, miles out of town and across the river.  I’m afraid I cracked at that point.  I told Mrs S that I had now seen Bridgnorth: been there, done that, don’t want the tee shirt.  We did not stop, but drove on to the next scenic place on the agenda, Ironbridge.  Poor Bridgnorth, I never really gave it justice and I don’t suppose I ever will now.  And all because I broke that First Rule for Visiting Unfamiliar Towns.

Finding Ironbridge proved to be a bit of a problem.  We set off all right and skirted the outskirts of  the new town of Telford (named after Thomas Telford, the famous engineer and road builder), which we been advised was not worth visiting.  I thought it might be a good idea to top up the car battery as we had, by then, travelled quite some way, so I asked Jane to find a suitable charge point nearby.  We duly parked next to a KFC outlet on a retail park, plugged in, and pondered on how to kill the next 20 minutes.  No, we did not go into the KFC, but I did need the lavatory, so we battled our way through a minor snow flurry to the nearby Aldi supermarket (no lavatories and, my dear, the people).  So we came out of there and moved on to an adjacent Lidl supermarket.   There, we pretended to look at the goods before entering the single lavatory together, explaining to an astonished member of the public who was waiting outside when we left, “It’s OK, we’re married”.  After this exciting tour of modestly-priced Mercian retail outlets we walked back to the car which was smiling contentedly after its refreshing gulp of Joules.  Onward to Ironbridge.  
Then we found that the road to Ironbridge was closed and a diversion was in force.

We tried to follow the diversion signs.  We really did.  But after several circuits of the the local ring road and two dual carriageways the novelty of Telford’s environs was wearing off rapidly.  Given the earlier Bridgnorth and retail park experience, I offered the opinion that, perhaps, we should reconsider our itinerary.  Actually, I think I may have said, “Stuff this for a game of soldiers, let’s head back to the cottage”.  And, lo, as I took the road signposted Much Wenlock that would lead us cottage-wards, there was a sign for Ironbridge further along.  It was as if the town had capitulated and said, “You don’t get away from me that easily, buster.”  So we followed the sign.

Ironbridge is famous for – well – guess what – its iron bridge: the first such construction in the world.  Designed by one Thomas Pritchard and built by Abraham Darby in 1779, it was manufactured from prefabricated cast iron in nearby Coalbrookdale using iron, coal and coke on an industrial scale – the beginning of the Industrial Revolution.  Construction would not be allowed today, of course, because it burnt that nasty coal, involved noxious smelting, and used dirty iron ore.  I suppose, by modern standards, Ironbridge should not exist and Shropshire folk should still be crossing the river in coracles.  Whatever, the bridge still stands today and spans Ironbridge Gorge over the River Severn.  It is now closed to motorised traffic, but pedestrians and cyclists can still cross it and admire the view.  It was very impressive, even by today’s standards, though I did keep wondering about how brittle that cast iron with its large grain size would be in sub zero temperatures (one of the hazards of being an engineer).  The riverside of Ironbridge had a number of architecturally unusual shops around a small square, almost set into the steep sides of the gorge.  However, as they all demanded face masks on entry and a maximum of three customers at any one time, we gave browsing a miss and they lost out on our custom (that pencil, rubber and fridge magnet may never be sold now).  Clearly, the phrase “Living with Covid”, or the news that restrictions had been relaxed in January, had not penetrated as far as Shropshire and I could only presume that the messenger from Bristol had been waylaid on the road north by remnants of the Royalist army escaping from the Battle of Worcester.  Virtually all the houses in Ironbridge hung on the side of the very steep gorge, and there was a fine church near the summit.  It all looked awfully precarious to me, but I suppose the natives are very fit and not risk-averse.  Having avoided the unwelcoming shops on the riverside, I suggested to Jane that we explore further, and so we set off up an extremely steep narrow road that led to the top of the gorge.  I don’t know what the gradient was, but it felt like 1:3.  Huff, puff, pause to rest; huff, puff, pause to rest; up we trekked, like Jack climbing up the beanstalk.  As we approached the very top I noticed a certain reluctance among the party, a slowing down, a lack of stamina.  I looked at Jane and was reminded of the lyrics of that song, The Runaway Train:

The rails were froze,
The wheels were cold,
And then the air brakes wouldn’t hold,
And Number Nine came rolling down the hill.

Number  Nine, in the form of Jane leaning on a lamp post, looked very likely to be rolling back down the hill at any moment.  She saw me looking at her.
“Why… on… earth…”, she gasped as she held on to a lamp post, “are…we…going…up…here?”
“Why, to explore the rest of the town, of course: the main drag; the market square; the centre of it all; because it’s there”, I replied in the manner of Sir Edmund Hilary conquering Everest.
She took a deep breath and gazed at me with incredulity.
“Horatio”, she said, “that was the main town.  At the bottom.  That’s all there is.”
She had been before, you see. In 1959.
“Oh.”
I considered our options and made an executive decision.
“Best we go back down again then.”
So we took the next narrow lane back down the hill, this time hanging on to lamp posts to avoid sliding down.  I stopped humming The Runaway Train and started whistling The Grand Old Duke of York.
So that was Ironbridge.  Very nice.  Very impressive.  A bit cold.  Not much to it.  If you’ve seen one bridge you’ve seen them all.  We got back into the car, satisfied, with wobbly leg muscles, and drove back to the cottage for a nice cup of tea and a hobnob biscuit.  Lovely.

Our final day was The Big One: the hike along the 200-mile Shropshire Way that includes Wenlock Edge. We parked the car and set off along a narrow road leading to the Edge. Up and up we went, pausing every 25 metres to recover our breath, with auxiliary hearts jogging on cold suction. There was a bitterly cold wind from the north, but the sun shone and there was virtually no traffic. Eventually we reached the crest and joined the Shropshire Way, leaving the road and taking a path north through a wood awash with wild garlic and sprinkled with violets, primroses, wood anemones and celandines. The path twisted and turned, passed through fields, then dived back into woodland again. There was an odd bit when the path took a dive down a valley side into another wood – I am wary about losing height on a walk as it inevitably means having to regain it again later. However, that was the Shropshire Way, so down we slid, eventually levelling off and continuing along the hill side. It was not, of course, our intention to walk the whole 200 miles – we decided that we would loop back at a convenient point based on time and distance travelled. The opportunity came when a footpath left the trail and cut up steeply through the woods towards the crest again. This proved to be no mean climb, for we were hanging on to tufts of grass, shrubs and trees and trying not to look down as we scrambled up to the top, occasionally on all fours. Eventually we reached the top and stumbled out of the wood onto a road which was fairly busy with traffic. The footpath was supposed to continue across the road, through the grounds of a house, then down through a field into the dale. Alas, all we saw was a very solid fence. It appeared that the householder had tired of strangers wandering through his garden and so had very quietly removed the “public footpath” sign and fenced off the path. We pondered on what to do next. There was no way we were going back into that wood and there was no way we were going to take our lives into our hands by walking along that main road. In the end, we simply marched into a field next to the house and trespassed our way to the other end, eventually joining another footpath and becoming legal again. Now, our walk was pretty much on the level and it took us across fields with cattle grazing, through a dairy farm and along a straight farm track. Underfoot, the going was somewhat – how can I put it – rather glutinous and noisome. Jane mincing her way delicately through the mud and the manure was a fine demonstration of ladylike behaviour, balance and control in challenging circumstances, but she made it through in the end (she took ballet classes at the age of eight, you know). Soon we were heading back up a track to Wenlock Edge again, regaining height and joining another path known as Jack Mytton Way for our return leg. The novelty was beginning to wane a little by this time: we had not enjoyed our romp through the cattle field and the dairy farm, which had been poorly signposted, and the need to climb again was not entirely welcome. Fortunately, another National Trail, the Jack Mytton Way, ran level along the top of the escarpment and, from there, we eventually, broke away to take a footpath back down to our original narrow road through a field of rape. Tired and weary, we limped back to the car and returned to the cottage.
“Right”, said Jane.”How far have we gone?”
I consulted the GPS and had to do a double take.
“About nine miles”, I said, somewhat incredulously.
“NINE MILES”, she said. “Is that all? Let me see that. It feels more like nineteen miles!”.
I showed her the digital map. We had been walking for 3½ hours, that was all. It felt like we had been going all day. However, we had also climbed about 690 feet and descended 725 feet over three separate hills, so that had to be worth something. Either way, we were, as the saying goes, completely knackered.

We were booked to stay another two days but, what with the weather closing in again and various other factors, we decided to go home early.  We had visited everywhere we had planned to, completed all the walks that we wanted to, and were suffering from bathroom-en-suite withdrawal symptoms.  We drove home as we had arrived: through sleepy highways and byways, past green fields and Spring flowers in the sunshine.  Tired little teddy bears.

And so to bed.

6 April 2022

Blog 110. Just Don’t Make Me Laugh.

“Come on.  Don’t die on me now.  You were looking all right yesterday”.

I was deeply touched by Jane’s remarks in the Breakfast Room, aka the Garden Control Tower, as I entered Day 8 of my convalescence, sitting there in the corner in my dressing gown and slippers. Then I realised that she was talking to a plant pot containing something small and green. The plants have invaded the Breakfast Room again, just like last year (Blog 89) and there can be no doubt where I sit in the pecking order.

I am not, it is fair to say, feeling at my best at the moment. I was lulled into a false sense of high expectation of a rapid recovery from my hernia operation by remarks made by friends, and by the fact that the operation was undertaken as a Day Case under a local anaesthetic.
“Absolute doddle”, I thought, “A quick slit, slap a patch on it, stitch it up and I’ll be as right as rain in two days”. I wish.
Here I am, ten days since the damage control repair, and still in pain, hobbling round the house like Quasimodo. Sitting down is a major wince-making evolution, getting up again worse, and as to the previously simple task of visiting the lavatory, well, don’t ask. The only encouraging bits I can see at the moment are the fact that Jane is treating me like a valuable, fragile, Fabergé egg and that, at last, I am beginning to feel just a little improvement. At least I can sleep almost through the whole night now, though sneezing, hiccuping and laughing are non-preferred events. Fortunately, I don’t feel like laughing much..

The operation itself was a breeze.  I was seen punctually at the clinic, taken through the pre-operative checks, undressed, draped myself in one of those undignified gowns that are open at the back, and walked through to the operating theatre under my own steam.  I met the surgeon, ascertained that I was the first on his list for the day and was reassured that he had overcome any post-weekend hangover and his hands weren’t shaking; I have always found it useful to establish a good rapport with someone who is about to cut you open.  The procedure was screened off from me (just as well as I would probably have fainted) and was entirely painless.  I swapped stories with the surgeon, told salty anecdotes to the nurses, and in 40 minutes it was all done and stitched up. I swung my legs off the operating table and walked, entirely normally, into the post-operative ante room.  There, I was given a packet of dead fly biscuits and a cup of coffee, which I thought jolly decent.  Much to my surprise, the post-operative nurse said that I had done well to stay the course: apparently it was quite common for men to walk into the theatre, lie down on the table, then get off again rapidly and beat a retreat.  Anyway, a comprehensive recovery programme was explained to me: no less than three types of pain killer were prescribed (that bad, eh?) and then I dressed and bounced out into the arms of Jane, who was sitting, anxiously, in the waiting room.  I was fully mobile and walked down the stairs and out to the car unaided; at home I ate a hearty supper, watched a little television, and trotted up to bed at about 2200.  Then, as the anaesthetic wore off, it was as if a little voice had said in my ear,
“Welcome to hell”.
I was in absolute agony.  I could not get comfortable despite the pain killers; I could not get to sleep, and neither could Jane.  At 0200 I went to the lavatory, did what was necessary, became confused, and promptly collapsed – demolishing the lavatory roll holder in the process.  Poor Jane, built like a fragile flower, could not get me up and I was forced to return to the bed ignominiously on all fours – there to groan, toss and turn for what remained of the night. I persevered manfully for the rest of the week and dressed every day with tie or cravat before going downstairs (standards, standards).  I even accompanied Jane to Marks & Spencers to buy victuals for a special Valentine’s Day dinner. By Friday I thought things might just be improving a little and it was time to remove the dressing.  All looked healthy down there except that everything from navel to thigh was very swollen and coloured red, yellow, blue, purple or black.  It being Friday I thought I would have a glass or three of wine (Blog 109)  while Jane and I corresponded with friends on Facetime. That was my big mistake: it started the agony all over again, with another sleepless night, setting my recovery back three days.  In hindsight, I suppose the alcohol opened the blood vessels and simply increased the swelling and pain.  Speaking to my post-operative nurse, who rang for a follow-up consultation on Monday, I discovered that I really shouldn’t have been out of bed, let alone hitting the bottle or visiting St Michael.  She said some patients recovered quickly, but some took a little longer; it looked like I fell into the latter category. Just my luck.   Jane, of course, has been absolutely super in looking after me, offsetting my pain with stories of what it is like to be a woman and pregnant (having two bags of set concrete stuck to your chest, and childbirth being like visiting the lavatory to pass a football are the graphic bits I remember).  The stories served to convince me that changing sex to a woman is not a good idea, not that I needed convincing (look at the queues to visit the ladies’ loo).  They also made me reflect on the aspect of human nature that believes that a good way to sympathise with someone’s pain is to top their experience with tales of an even worse one.  Ho hum.  At least I have time, as I lie in bed, to write to you good folk.

One of the few good aspects of convalescing is that you are indulged by your loved ones and you are King for the Duration.  On my return from the clinic Jane sat, without complaint, through Miss Marple, Midsomer Murders, Trucking Hell, Wheeler Dealers and even a short bit of The Battle of Midway.  When, however, I tuned in to Dad’s Army I sensed a disturbance in The Force; a short intake of breath from the person sitting next to me; a shuffling in her seat.
“Is this not the film”, she said with just a slight touch of asperity in her voice, ”that we bought as a DVD and that we were so disappointed by that we stopped watching it and threw it out?”
“Well, yes”, I said.  “I thought perhaps I might give it a second chance”.
She made no reply, but I sensed from the way she fidgeted that Jane’s tolerance of The Sick Person’s choice of television programme was finite.  I switched off the set.  Since then, on my own in bed, I have been able to indulge myself again, but the pleasure is hollow.  Let’s face it: British daytime television is dire, and evening television is not much better.  If ever you need encouragement to recover from an illness, just switch on a television set.  

I did see one television programme that stirred my memory.  The ex MP Michael Portillo was doing one of his episodes of Great Railway Journeys, a programme which aims to visit various parts of Britain by railway, using an old volume of Bradshaw’s Guide from the 19th century as a reference.  It is a gentle, but quite entertaining programme and the episode I saw involved him visiting a defunct coal mine in Wales.  It reminded me of a visit to a Nottinghamshire coal mine that I had made as a junior officer.  The Royal Navy very much favours these industrial visits, at least for its engineer officers such as I.  The Service takes the view that serving officers should have as rounded an education as possible as well as have an appreciation of the people and industries that the Royal Navy protects and serves.  I was a Sub Lieutenant at the time and it would have been in the early 1970s.  I was not phased by the prospect of visiting (what was then) a modern coal mine and, indeed, I thought it would be interesting as my grandfather, great-grandfather and great-great grandfather had all been coalminers.  It proved to be more than interesting: it was appalling.  The trip down in the lift was no problem: wearing our own (white) overalls, we were kitted out with helmets and lamps, searched for matches or lighters, then descended a very long way.  The first revelation was that the actual coalface was about three miles away from the base of the shaft and we had to get there, a journey that took about half an hour.  There was no transport as such; we travelled on the  conveyer belt that had brought the hewn coal back from the coalface.  This was achieved by lying on a platform next to the moving belt then rolling smartly onto it.  At the other end, we alighted by a reverse of the earlier procedure, though we had to be quick if we wanted to roll onto the platform rather than join the coal on the way back.  Looking back, it was a Health and Safety Officer’s worst nightmare, but then (in what I still think of as the fairly recent past) it was perfectly normal.  If I thought the transportation system was a little crude, I at least thought the basic mining technique would be modern, with automatic machines doing all the work.  I could not have been more wrong.  As we walked towards the actual coalface the headroom became lower and lower.  I am 5’ 6”, but even I soon had to stoop, then double over to make progress.  Finally, almost on all fours, we reached the coalface.  There was a machine doing a lot of the hewing, but it was supplemented by men, bare-chested, wielding pickaxes.  I was appalled to find that coal mining had hardly changed in 100 years; it was a complete revelation to me.  When we returned to the surface we were as black as chimney sweeps and it took two showers to get rid of the dirt.  My white overalls never quite recovered.  The experience left me with a deep respect for coal miners and a sense of bafflement as to why they wanted to hang on to their industry in the strikes that followed in the next decade.  Now, deep coal mining in Britain is all gone and the pits have been built over.  Given the conditions that I encountered 50 years ago, that is no bad thing.

Visits to coal mines by junior naval officers must have been going on for quite some time.  The late naval author John Winton tells the story of a midshipman on a cruiser who was dispatched on such a visit and, on his way back to the ship, met a senior officer who had completed a game of golf and had been invited to stay on for dinner by his host.  The officer asked the midshipman to take his golf clubs back to the ship for him.  As the midshipman came up the brow carrying the clubs,  he chanced to meet the Captain, who was waiting for a guest.
“Been playing golf then, young Gilpin?”, asked the Captain in one of his rare jovial moods.
“Oh no sir”, said the midshipman innocently, ”I’ve been down a coal mine”.
The Captain stopped the midshipman’s leave for a month. Honesty is not always the best policy.

We completed quite a few industrial visits as junior officers, and they all included a very modest degree of hospitality ranging from a simple cup of tea to lunch in the workers’ canteen. The hospitality never extended further than that and it would have been improper if it had (though the chance would have been a fine thing). That said, I never forgot the industrial visit to Vickers Shipbuilders in Barrow-in-Furness. Vickers was building the aircraft carrier HMS INVINCIBLE at the time, as well as being the sole builder of British nuclear submarines; the company was a big contractor for the Ministry of Defence and I was later to visit the site regularly in design appointments during my career. On this first visit as a junior officer we were shown all the various parts of the shipyard and passed from manager to manager until, half way through a meeting with one man, at 1200 the hooter blew. Yes, this firm must have been the last in the country to summon and dismiss the workforce by hooter. To our surprise, we were dismissed and invited to return at 1400: cast out into Barrow in Furness to fend for ourselves. At that time Barrow in Furness (biggest dog turds in the north west) was not exactly the sort of place where you could ‘do lunch’. Pubs did not serve food – unless you counted a packet of pork scratchings – and, in any case, they all looked distinctly rough. There were no restaurants, no McDonalds or Burger King, no Costa Coffee and no cafés that we could find. Ten of us roamed the industrial town streets in our natty civilian suits, looking incongruous and out of place, seeking somewhere – anywhere – that could provide us with food. In the end we found a Salvation Army hostel that served us a decent lunch, for a modest price, on trestle tables covered with newsprint acting as a tablecloth. I have donated to the Salvation Army ever since.

In later years, as an MOD Project Officer, I was allowed to take lunch in the shipyard’s Managers’ Restaurant, a fine dining room panelled in oak and with waitress service.  At 1300, the buzz of conversation would cease as the main broadcast sprang into life with BBC Radio 4, the one-o’clock pips, and the headlines.  Apparently this tradition had been going on for decades and, the first time I heard the headlines, I half expected to hear the announcer say at the end,
“…and from one of these missions, one of our aircraft is missing.”
One lunchtime in Vickers, after the headlines had died away, there came a tinkling of a glass and a call by a senior manager for everyone’s attention.  It seemed that old Sid Perkins (not his real name) was due to retire today and his retirement party would be held that evening.  Old Sid had joined Vickers in 1933 and had worked as a draughtsman, then design manager, in the run up to, and throughout,  WW2, continuing to the present day.  He would be presented with his gold watch at the party that evening and all managers were encouraged to attend and wish him well.  I thought it was a very touching announcement and felt for this man, whom I had never met, but who must have seen so many social and industrial changes in his career.  At my next visit, I asked how the retirement party had gone.  The party, apparently, had proceeded very well until, late in the evening, poor old Sid dropped down dead. 
And do you know what the first question the senior management and personnel department of Vickers asked the next day?  Had Sid died before midnight (ie while still in employment) or after?  It affected the amount of widow’s pension, you see.  

Yes, I have long memories of Vickers Shipbuilders (now Bae) and Barrow in Furness.  Thank heavens I don’t bear a grudge, that’s what I say.

No talk of Covid this time, nor of Boris; just all about me (I knew you’d be interested): woebegone and stoical, hoping someone will come along, take pity, and slip me a dose of morphine.  Fat chance.  Still, onward and upward as they say; mustn’t grumble. Just don’t make me laugh.

16 February 2022

Blog 109. There was a cake…and singing.

“All clear!”, Jane called from the kitchen.

“What?”, I asked, looking up, startled, from reading a fascinating article in a technical paper about the ductile brittle transition temperature in mild steel.
“All clear!”, Jane repeated. ”The clearing away after dinner is done.  You can come out now.”
Oh dear: in trouble again.  I left the dinner table and entered the kitchen warily.
“Oh, have you cleared away?  Sorry, I was embroiled in this interesting article…why didn’t you say what you were doing?  I thought you were just preparing the pudding.”
Needless to say this launched a long diatribe from her about the stresses of life, having to clear away the dishes after having spent several hours preparing and cooking a Sunday roast dinner…There was a distinct sarcastic element to her reprimand that told me that I was seriously in trouble.  Naturally, I apologised sincerely and unreservedly.  I explained that I had been distracted; had not realised what she was doing; it had been a delicious meal; the parsnips, in particular, beautifully roasted; she was much appreciated…If she considered my contribution ‘in the round’, I feebly suggested, she would see that I was not all bad: the early morning tea, emptying the dishwasher every day, warming her cold feet in bed, the jolly tunes I whistled every morning, those breakfast fruit salads as a treat…I put my arms around her waist from behind as she stood at the sink, by way of reinforcing my apology, but backed away rapidly when a soapy sponge came round, aiming for my face.  The gesture seemed to start her off again.  I did try wincing at the pain from my old war wound from the Falklands (when I fell off that chair in the Ministry of Defence), but that cut no ice with Jane.  I was in the wrong and I couldn’t deny it.  God, this will cost me.

Well!  What a time to be writing a blog!  There is no shortage of material at the moment.  I hardly know where to start.  Perhaps the obvious target is the drunken debauchery that allegedly went on in No 10 Downing Street, starting nearly two years ago, when the rest of the country was confined to barracks with lockdown (I will ignore the possible impending invasion of Ukraine by Russia – after all, everyone else has).  No less than twelve “parties” have been reported to have taken place, with more breaches of the (then) law probably still to be revealed.  The national press, on all sides, has been slavering over the stories with all the relish of dogs let loose in an abattoir.  As far as I can gather, most of Britain is bitterly annoyed – nay, furious – at what went on. 
I confess, I am struggling to put a positive spin or to give an even-handed account of the continuing saga, but here goes (for posterity).  It seems that while the people of Britain were severely restricted in their personal liberty over the last two years because of unprecedented laws imposed  to combat Covid19, some civil servants and special advisers working in the seat of government at No 10 Downing Street occasionally had social gatherings, either in the garden of the house or internally.  Some drink was taken.  The prime minister, Boris Johnson, attended some events, notably a birthday party arranged by his wife.  There was a birthday cake.  Worse (and I was particular struck by this shocked revelation in the press), there was – it is claimed – singing (a rendering of “Happy Birthday”).  These events occurred at various times, but all of them when ordinary folk could not socialise – even outside; could not attend funerals or comfort loved ones; were limited to exercising only once a day; could not sit in a park, on a promenade or a beach; were stopped and questioned by police at roadblocks; and were literally pursued by police drones while walking in the desolate Derbyshire Dales.  The inference is that these draconian Covid19 isolation rules were considered necessary to scare the living daylights out of the masses and ensure obedience, but were not applicable to those who actually invented and imposed laws on those masses: “Do as I say, not as I do”.  At the time of these social get-togethers, on-the-spot fines of £100 were rigorously issued by the police on ordinary citizens who infringed the isolation laws, with fines of £12,000 imposed on organisers of illegal parties. 
In the interest of even-handedness, I have to observe that neither the prime minister nor any member of his elected government appears to have organised any of these gatherings, though Boris Johnson did attend at least two (including his own birthday party): the organisers and main attendees were public servants and political advisers.  The events occurred at a time when ordinary clerical workers were told to work from home where possible, but key members of the civil service still had to come into 10 Downing Street to operate the machinery of state; they had been working intensely and closely together in ‘bubbles’ (to use the terminology in vogue at the time), day after day; there was little additional risk of the spread of infection as a result of chatting over a glass of wine.  I am not a lawyer, but this seems to create a grey area in terms of what took place in some instances: when does chatting at work become a social gathering?  The whole matter has been the subject of a very thorough investigation by a senior civil servant, who has produced quite damning conclusions on what took place.  It would be nice if this could be treated as an internal disciplinary matter by the civil service with major reorganisation or penalties imposed, the relevant staff removed, root and branch, and the matter closed.  Alas, it would appear that the very people tasked with any reorganisation or discipline may be among those under scrutiny.  Externally, a Deputy Assistant Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, no less, has also been appointed to head a police investigation into two-year-old potential offences that could (and perhaps should) have been dealt with by an ordinary constable at the time, issuing on-the-spot fines of £100.  Certainly the police providing security in No 10 Downing Street seem to have been aware of what was going on, judging by the way they apparently provided evidence to the enquiry with great enthusiasm; why did they not act or raise concerns with their superiors at the time?
Whatever, the whole thing – inevitably labelled “party gate” by the press – is not only a complete mess, it is all an absolute disgrace and the prime minister is deemed responsible for what went on in his office.  His response to the allegations was apologetic, but robust, evasive and barely credible: he claimed that either he did not know what events were taking place, or was not told that the events were contrary to (his) laws.  Or possibly both.  His reaction was not well received by parliament (including many of his own party) or the country as a whole. It seems to me that, to misquote Shakespeare, there is something rotten in the state of the entire Downing Street attitude and organisation, and the prime minister must take responsibility for it. Johnson used to be very popular with the ordinary man in the street because he seemed as flawed and human as the rest of us.  He led his party to victory with a high majority in the general election; he successfully implemented Brexit after the referendum; he  presided over an extremely successful vaccination programme and England has emerged well from the epidemic.  Sadly, however, this latest scandal may be the straw that broke the camel’s back in a long series of gaffs, U turns, tax increases and distinctly un-Tory new policies.  My feeling is that the Conservative party will hoof Boris Johnson out of his office with a vote of no confidence, but – never say die – the man seems to have the hide of a rhinoceros and the luck of the devil.

After all that it seems rather tame to announce that England has dropped Plan B Covid restrictions and we can all enter buildings without a vaccine passport or without a face mask again though, like last July, many people continue to wear the latter as it gives them comfort and reassurance. In Scotland, the devolved government is spending thousands of pounds to saw off the bottoms of classroom doors to improve school ventilation as a precaution against Covid. This, no doubt, will ensure that pupils die of pneumonia or fire instead of Covid, though the face masks they are compelled to wear may provide some extra warmth. An in-depth study by Johns Hopkins University in the USA has concluded that lockdowns had negligible effect in reducing mortality from Covid. The English government has dropped the plan to dismiss any members of the NHS who have not been vaccinated, it being acknowledged that people can still pass on the virus, whether vaccinated or not. Covid cases will no longer be reported after April. Covid deaths are now significantly below the average figure for influenza, hospital admissions are dropping, as are positive cases though the number remains high. From talking to friends and neighbours who have suffered the omicron variant of Covid recently it would appear that – for most people – the symptoms are headache, sore throat, temperature swings, lethargy, fatigue and headache, with recovery after a week to ten days. I do not think we have the virus beaten but, after a long two years, I think we have knocked it down to being bearable and treatable. Certainly, as I have written before, I think we will have to learn to live with it just as we have with the many other diseases on the planet.
Just as a matter of scientific interest, the remote Pacific island of Kiribati has encountered its first Covid cases and has gone into lockdown. An aircraft from nearby Fiji is thought to have brought the virus in, but all the passengers were fully vaccinated and masked; they were tested three times in Fiji (all negative) before departure; they were quarantined in Fiji for two weeks before departure; they were further quarantined and tested on arrival. Yet 36 out of the 54 (two thirds) of passengers who had been onboard the aircraft subsequently tested positive and the virus has spread to the island’s population. Despite the lockdown, the infections are spreading, but there have been no deaths.

Jane and I are still socially isolating towards the end of a two-week quarantine period, the precursor to my minor operation on Monday and required to ensure that I do not bring Covid into the medical centre: a sensible, if over the top, ‘belt and braces’ precaution until you read of the unfortunate inhabitants of Kiribati in the paragraph above.  We have still been out on walks during the very unseasonal mild weather, but our expeditions have been out into the countryside, not in towns or shops.  I find I can manage about six miles of walking before the pain starts, so at least I am getting some exercise, though a typical walk in normal times would be about ten miles or even fifteen.   Isolation hasn’t been too bad, as we have had plenty of practice under the several lockdowns we have endured.  I just want to get the whole thing out of the way now and for life to return to normal.    I have revived my interest in genealogy during the short winter days (Blog 84) and have spent many hours on the computer trying to tie up loose ends or to make headway with those of my ancestors whose past defy further discovery. Unless you have aristocratic forebears (like Jane), with a family tree already established over the ages,  there is only so far back in time that the ordinary bloke can go in his or her research.  A key date, for England, is 1837 when the formal recording of births, marriages and deaths was required by statute.  Likewise, 1841 was the first useful and fairly complete census.  Before those years, baptisms, marriages and burials were recorded by the Church in parish registers, but these only supply limited information.  Still, pursuing the seemingly impossible makes a challenging pastime and, even going back to only the 19th century, there are a lot of ancestors to investigate.  I did a calculation the other day (this is interesting – pay attention).  Each of us has two parents, and each of them has two parents (our grandparents) and so on.  So the sequence of ancestors goes: 2,4,8,16…and so on: a geometric series with ratio 2.  Now, if you consider that there will be roughly three generations alive in any one 100 year period (me, my parents, my grandparents for example) then in, say, 1,000 years (about the time of King Cnut in England and before Harold) there will be roughly 30 generations of ancestors.  I calculate that in those 1,000 years I have accumulated roughly a total 2,147,483,646 (or just over 2 billion) ancestors – including my mum and dad, of course. That will keep me going for a while.

What is it with the media? Why must they exaggerate everything with screaming headlines? And why can they not use correct English? Do they not own a dictionary or a copy of Fowler’s Modern English Usage? At least The Times has a style guide that lays down a standard (I have a copy), even if its journalists do not always stick to it. In the Daily Telegraph I see “invite” instead of “invitation”, “quote” instead of “quotation”, “due to” instead of “owing to” and – worst of all, “naval ship” instead of “warship”. It is sloppy and unprofessional. On the hyperbole front, we never read of “a light dusting of snow”, but instead get, “Snow Bomb Expected in the South West!”; “expect high winds tomorrow” becomes “Storm Lucifer to hit the UK!”. I might add that, where we live, none of these meteorological predictions ever happens. Still, you never know: best I unearth my seaboots stockings and wellington boots.

Thankfully, we get very little snow in England so, when we do, the entire transport system grinds to a halt.  This is not so in the USA, particularly on the east coast.  In Washington DC on 27 January 1922 – almost exactly 100 years ago to the day – heavy snow fell in the afternoon and overnight, and by the next day the city was under several feet of snow.  In the Knickerbocker Theater a silent film was being shown at about 9:00 pm when there came an ominous creaking sound from the roof.  Within seconds the entire roof collapsed, overloaded by the tons of snow accumulated on the flat roof, and the audience was buried under rubble.  Despite the limitations of communication at that time, a huge rescue effort involving the fire service, police, soldiers and the public lurched into action, but work was hampered by the snow and, in the end, there were 98 deaths and 130 injured.  One man was blown clear by the piston effect of the roof dropping en masse into the auditorium, though his girlfriend was crushed.  Another man was found in an air pocket, still in his seat and uninjured, but dead from a heart attack. When you read stories like that it puts that one inch of snow on the M11 in Essex into context.

Have you noticed that schoolchildren never go to school now wearing a raincoat or hat?  You see them slogging along the street wearing just a pullover, with the rain pouring down in sheets.  I am amazed that their mothers let them leave the house like that.  Jane says that part of the difficulty they have is that some schools apparently no longer have cloakrooms, so there is nowhere to offload coats on a cold or rainy day. When I was a child in the last century I always hankered after one of those navy blue raincoats with the secret pocket, but my mum couldn’t afford one.  I wore my brother’s hand-me-downs instead.  I also fancied those Clarke’s shoes with the animal footprints on the sole and the hidden compass in the heel: alas, another failed ambition in the life of Shacklepin.

January has been remarkably mild, with little rain, few storms where we live, and only a few frosts.  Contrary to all expectations based on experience, the month passed quite quickly and, here we are, already into February with Candlemas over and Valentine’s Day beckoning.  Jane and I have been remarkably adventurous for a January, dining out on two occasions (we normally stick to lunching out, evenings being reserved for an early supper and a sensible cup of cocoa; or maybe a glass or three of wine).  But, oh dear, I broke one of my own rules yet again when dining out. Shacklepin’s First law of Restaurants: never, but never, order the steak.  I don’t know what it is with British pubs and restaurants –  with the exception of really expensive specialist steak houses (and sometimes even with them) they never seem to be capable of cooking a decent tender steak.  We dined out, the other week, at a very capable local ‘gastropub’ that we have just discovered.  We have never been disappointed with the food but, on this occasion,  I felt like going off piste – not least because I fancied chips for the first time in months.  I ordered the sirloin steak, rare, at a cost of about £23 and not cheap.  It was as tough as old boots.  Yes, of course I could have sent it back, but I doubt it would have been any better if I had and it would have disrupted the meal.  How can you get steak wrong?  Even I can generally barbecue a steak from our local farm shop (admittedly a fillet steak) and produce a good result. It just goes to show that you should never break with your own rules.  Jane had pork belly and declared the food excellent.  I should have done the same thing.  

Barbecued steak aside, alas my ventures into cooking and all things culinary continue to frustrate Jane.  Even in the previously safe realm of drinks I appear to come unstuck.  We tried to pass through January with alcohol only being consumed at the weekends (Friday night included).  The plan was to try to lose a little weight as well as live healthily.  Alas this ship of good intentions began to spring leaks when it was thought necessary to finish off a bottle of wine left over from a Sunday night.  Another leak appeared when I declared Wednesday afternoon a make-and-mend (a naval holiday) and therefore worthy of some relaxing stimulant in the evening.  I think the ship finally started to go under when I observed that Thursday was a day for Extended Long Weekend Leave for some ships in HM Dockyards, and we should follow suit.  We finally concluded (yesterday, as it happens) that life was too short to start living the life of abstinence, we being in our 71st year already.  I think the phrase used was, “Blow it, let’s have a drink”.  Anyway, I suggested we have a gin and tonic the other evening and collected the necessary accoutrements: Plymouth Gin for me, Durham Gin for madam; Fever Tree Tonic for me, Schweppes for her; tall glasses; heaps of ice.  But then I paused.  When we had imbibed G+T on the boat of our friends Raymond and Carole in Dartmouth last year, they had served the drink with a slice of cucumber instead of lime or lemon (Blog 99).  Hmm, it had tasted rather good and it gave the gin a distinct refreshing flavour.  I thought I would do the same.  I hunted in the fridge and soon found the cucumber, buried in the bottom somewhere.  Drawing out the chopping board and grasping our sharpest knife I was just about to cut off two slices when Jane appeared, silently like a ghost, right next to me (how does she do that?)
“WHAT are you doing?”.
“Ah, my dear”, I said, in my best explanatory manner. “This is the technique used by Raymond and Carole, if you recall: cucumber instead of lemon or lime.  It made an excellent drink.  I thought we would try it.”
I smiled condescendingly, recognising tolerantly that, as her years advanced, her memory was – perhaps – not as good as it once was.
“Really”, was the icy reply.  “Why, then, are you slicing a courgette?”
“A courgette?”. 
I looked at the long green sausage-like vegetable on the chopping board. 
“Isn’t that more or less the same thing?”
“It is not”, she replied addressing me as a matron would address a probationary nurse who was being wilfully stupid.  “It is a totally different thing altogether.  You cannot eat a courgette raw.  Give it here.”
Whereupon she removed the offending vegetable, returned it to the fridge, and replaced it with another long green sausage-like vegetable.
“This”, she said with considerable emphasis, waving it under my nose before thumping the thing on the chopping board, ”is a cucumber.  Can’t you tell the difference?”
Nope, I thought, but best to concede defeat and say nothing. I smiled wanly and sliced away.  Jane retired, shaking her head.  I think she really needed that drink. I looked it up later: the cucumber is your cucurbita pepo and the courgette is your cucumis sativus, both members of the cucurbitaccea family of gourdes. I told Jane, but she said she still didn’t want a courgette in her drink.

So, I guess sliced cucumbers and courgettes will have to join wrongly sliced tomatoes (Blog 97) in the field of my failed endeavours.  Ho hum. Say goodnight to the folks, Gracie.

4 February 2022

Blog 108. Paddington Bear Eat Your Heart Out

Double, double toil and trouble. Fire burn and caldron bubble.  It is January, and so marmalade-making time in the Shacklepin household, and the cauldron – or rather the large jam-making pan – has, indeed, been bubbling away for over two hours.  Steam fills the kitchen and the extractor fan is roaring away at full speed. Jane spent all yesterday afternoon mutilating an enormous batch of Seville oranges and removing the pith, then I was roped in to help cut up the peel into thin strips.  I have managed to avoid this task in the past by the simple expedient of making myself scarce at the critical times; in a moment of weakness, I slipped my guard this time and was caught just as I was transiting the kitchen on my way to my garage/workshop to whittle away at some bits of wood.  Crikey, slicing that peel took ages: I thought at one point that I would die of old age before the last carcass was done, but – at last – all was finished and I was able to perform my traditional ceremonial task in this annual event: that of tying up the muslin bag containing pith and pips, immersing the bag in the pan, and securing the assembly to the overhead gantry with string and a round turn and two half hitches.  I have my uses, you know.  The bubbling and the stirring or whatever she does will keep Jane occupied for the rest of the day now, so I have retired to my study to write to you good people.

Christmas for the Shacklepins went well.  We had our good friends Sam and Laura (who are also “childless”) to stay for three days from Christmas Eve and we wined and dined well.  We managed to fit in a couple of good walks between rain showers and spent the rest of the time, when not eating, just sitting together contentedly reading books or playing the odd game.  The three days went by in a flash and soon, sadly, our guests were gone and Christmas was over.  In short time we changed the bedding and straw in the guest room, set the washing machine running, and started to dismantle the Christmas tree.  Once Christmas Day has passed we do not prolong the celebrations or decorations in our household: by New Year’s Day, all was back to normal and we braced ourselves for what always seems the longest and most miserable month of the year.  Unusually, this year we did stay up to see in the New Year, but we were on our own and it was a very muted affair.  We toasted 2022 and were in bed by 0030; apparently the BBC stopped showing Andy Stewart and The White Heather Club from Scotland quite some time ago.  Scotland, or as I prefer to call it these days, “The Peoples’ Democratic Republic of Sturgeonia”, had – in any case – cancelled Hogmanay and virtually all social activity for Scots, who are cowed under the jackboot.

Close friends of ours, Gregory and Lynne, enjoyed a totally different Christmas.  As is their custom, one son came down from Lancashire with his wife, two children and a dog; another son came from Bath with his wife and three children; finally, their daughter and her partner battled their way over from Switzerland with their three children.  A total of fourteen guests and a dog descended on them, with not a footman, butler or cook in sight.  Lynne had spent the weeks up to Christmas preparing meals for sixteen people, incorporating into the menu provision for the vegetarians, the vegans, the genuinely allergic, the fussy and the downright faddy.  A good time was had by all on Christmas Day.  Then, on Boxing Day, the entire family tested positive for Covid, despite all being vaccinated and boosted.  They were incarcerated in the family home for ten days.  The children recovered after only a day with mild symptoms; the men recovered after two days – Gregory had virtually no symptoms at all; Lynne and her daughter suffered the worst, possibly because it was they who were cooking and looking after the rest,  but neither was sufficiently ill to necessitate taking to their beds.  To add to this, the central heating broke down, swiftly followed by the internet.  Amazingly, it all came together eventually and they were released after tests at the seven-day point: the male part of the family dispersed in dribs and drabs as they were cleared, and their daughter finally managed to get the clearances to fly back to Switzerland.  Poor Lynne, however, was utterly exhausted  after having cooked and cared for the entire family for a fortnight: over twice the planned time.  I understand that sausages and beans featured heavily in the final days of isolation.  Of course, no-one knows who brought the virus into the household and it would be invidious and pointless to speculate.  What we can pluck from this somewhat fraught tale, however, is the fact that none of the family was seriously ill: the worst symptoms were headache, tiredness and a sore throat.  If the event had occurred a year ago then, I dare say, our friends (in their mid 70s) might well have had to be admitted to hospital; this year, fully vaccinated, they shrugged off the infection very quickly.   It offers the rest of us some hope for the future.  

Talk of Lynne falling back on the basic menu of baked beans and sausages reminds me of the experience of a friend of mine, who was serving in a nuclear submarine.  Returning to her home port after a very lengthy patrol, the submarine was ordered to divert to undertake a further secret mission without the opportunity to replenish stores.  A nuclear submarine can run virtually forever because it has no need to embark oil fuel, makes its own oxygen and, like all warships, it manufactures its freshwater from seawater.  The limiting factors on endurance are the eventual need for maintenance, to some extent the mental health of the ship’s company, and the supply of food. Royal Navy warships are provisioned for 45 days of food in frozen and dry provisions, and surface warships can replenish their stocks from a Royal Fleet Auxiliary support ship – a process known as RAS (Replenishment At Sea); however, this succour is not available for submarines.  In my friend’s boat, the supplies of frozen food soon became exhausted and they reverted to dry provisions, with stocks of that also running low.  Luxuries and other desirable food ceased to be available.  Finally, they completed their second mission and, much to the relief of the ship’s company, steamed into Plymouth for some well-earned shore leave.  The boat was secured, the duty watch set about shutting down the boat’s reactor and systems, and those members of the non-duty watch who were married and lived locally disappeared over the brow with alacrity at Secure for home comforts.  The day after a return to harbour is traditionally a time when some of the rougher local married men return onboard and regale their comrades with salacious tales of their homecoming the night before.  This particular occasion was no exception, but included a slight difference.  One of my friend’s petty officers described to him, with relish, how he had gone home, opened the door of his house, met his wife who was dressed seductively for his homecoming, seized her, manoeuvred her into the kitchen and ripped open… a tin of peaches, which he consumed on the spot.  I don’t suppose his wife was very flattered but, hey, they do say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.

Following something of a cabinet rebellion, and much to my pleasant surprise, the prime minister held back from bringing in further Covid restrictions in England immediately before Christmas and he has indicated that he does not currently intend to take further measures at present.  Dominated by the omicron strain, the number of positive test results has finally peaked and is now dropping rapidly.  The number of hospital admissions is also falling.  The number of deaths with Covid, which always lags behind the other parameters, is still rising but is slowing down; the figure is a fraction of what it was last year.  I think we may have turned a corner in this two-year epidemic and, increasingly, authorities are admitting that the symptoms of the disease are mild for most people, despite being highly infectious.  The main problem being encountered now is the degree of absenteeism caused by people who have tested positive (whether with symptoms or not) and having to self-isolate for ten days – basically,  a repeat of the problem of the so-called “pingdemic” outlined in Blog 98.  Essential services, such as the NHS, are suffering severe staff shortages and, in some parts of the country, the Armed Forces have been called in to fill the gaps.  There is a dearth of data on the extent and depth of this problem: one inevitably is curious to know how many of the people off work, having tested positive, are actually ill – the remainder being asymptomatic; of how many of the asymptomatic are infectious; and (cynically), how many of the absentees have declared themselves ill merely to extend the Christmas break (doctor’s sick notes are only required after 28 days of illness at present).  The enforced isolation period has just been reduced to five days with release after two negative tests, as in the USA; this replaces the rules in England that used to state that you had to isolate for ten days if you tested positive, but could be released after seven days if successive lateral flow tests on Days 6 and 7 were negative.  Let us hope that that eases the “pingdemic”. Given the mildness of the omicron symptoms, and its significantly reduced threat to the vast majority of vaccinated people, it would be nice if we could abandon routine testing and return to the old tried and tested formula for dealing with cold and ‘flu, namely catching coughs and sneezes in a handkerchief and staying off work if you feel ill, returning when you feel better.  But perhaps I am being too pragmatic: I am, after all, just a simple sailor.  The next review of Covid restrictions in England is on 26 January; I hope we see some return to normality after that.

As I write, Boris Johnson is clinging on to his premiership with his fingernails after the revelation that he and Downing Street staff held a drinks party in May 2020 – a time when the rest of us were locked down and forbidden to meet with anyone.  All I can say is that it doesn’t surprise me in the slightest, as I don’t hold a strong opinion of any politicians, but the bitter pill is not the revelation; rather it is that the draconian restrictions on our liberty and zealous enforcement by the police were ever imposed in the first place.  The outcome of the latest row, about an event 20 months ago, will be interesting, but I expect Boris will emerge unscathed as usual.  I am tempted to repeat the words of Oliver Cromwell to the Rump Parliament, “For God’s sake, go!”, but consider who would we favour to replace him?  Certainly not the leaders of the Labour or Liberal Parties, who would have us locked down again at the drop of a hat.

I had a wide range of presents this Christmas, including some excellent books, which I am digesting with gusto.  Alas, I did not get that macerating lavatory for the boat (Blog 106) that I had been hinting at for months, so that will continue to be my aim for 2022.  Pursuing matters lavatorial, however, I have channelled my energies into another long-time goal.  After the self-closing toilet lid (Blog 72) and the perfect shave (Blog 106), my third ambition in the personal hygiene and grooming stakes is to have a bidet.  Neither of our bathrooms is big enough for such an addition, and I have been pondering on a palliative solution for a number of years.  I discovered that there are lavatories available (notably from Japan) that combine the functions of waste disposal and hygiene: some with heated seats, washing and drying of the nether regions and forced draught ventilation.  A few years ago we nearly bought such a beast for about £1,000 and were only held back by the practicalities of wiring up the appliance in a bathroom.  Finally, as Christmas approached last year, I stumbled on a practical conversion: you can buy a Bidet Lavatory Seat as a separate item.  It is plumbed into the water supply and simply replaces the existing seat.  When activated, one of two jets on the seat emerges from a housing, depending on the area to be washed: one is for washing the obvious bit at the back and the other points further forward and bears the delightfully delicate nomenclature, “the lady spray”.  The device is made by the German company Grohe and only cost me £225 from the Bidet Shower Company (www.bidet-shower.co.uk).    I spent a satisfying time designing the simple plumbing arrangements for the seat and had the whole thing fitted and installed within a few hours.  Jane thinks the water from the spray is heated after I told her, in reply to a concerned question, that it was ‘tepid’.  I did not mention that it is only tepid because the (cold) water has been sitting in the pipes in a nice warm house – I saw no need to bother her pretty little head with thermodynamic details at that stage. Anyway, I demonstrated the device to Jane and – for once – she actually seemed interested.
“So you move this lever to wash your bottom…?”, she said, reaching out to the control.
“Noooo!”
Too late.  A probe emerged from the rear housing like a spitting cobra slinking from under a stone, and squirted a strong jet of (tepid) water into her face.
“Awk!”, said Jane.
“Er, you’re supposed to be sitting on the seat and facing the the other way, dear”.
She made no comment.
So the bidet works a treat (we have both since used it in non-facial mode) and I have given the new addition to our family a suitable soubriquet related to its function; alas, I am banned by Jane from repeating the alias here; you will just have to use your imagination as to what double-name I came up with.

I received the paperwork for my forthcoming minor operation just before Christmas.  It won’t be a major procedure involving a personality transplant or anything like that; indeed, apparently I will be in and out within an hour, the slicing up being undertaken under local anaesthetic.  According to the paperwork, I waived the option of having a general anaesthetic, which was news to me, and I was told that the operation site may well hurt for the rest of my life, which begs the question of why I am having the procedure done in the first place.  Why do I keep thinking that having the job done under ‘local’ is to save the NHS money and time, rather than a concern for my welfare?  Never mind.  I also noted that “due to Covid” [sic] – that, now, well-known precursor of major unnecessary inconvenience – both Jane and I have to self-isolate for two weeks before the big event to make sure that I am Covid-free on The Day.  Good grief, that’s half of January out (or rather, “in”) at a time when people who actually have Covid can be released after five days.
Bizarrely, I used to quite like going into hospital in years gone by, but that was when we had naval hospitals; private rooms for officers; trim, caring, nurses in starched uniforms and black stockings who called you ‘sir’; and an issue of gin and tonic each evening.  Now, with the NHS, you are bedded in a noisy communal ward with a layout that appears to have changed little since the days of Florence Nightingale; the nurses and doctors are indistinguishable from the cleaners; you go into hospital relatively healthy and come out with MRSA, with Norovirus, with Covid19 or dead. No, I think, on reflection, a day case under ‘local’ will suit me nicely.  The recovery time can be anything up to six weeks, apparently, but I know that the Chief Nurse will look after me well – she is worried about me already, bless her, and drawing up a list of essential recovery items that includes pain killers, dressings and heaven-knows-what.  I shall, of course, milk this for all its worth.  Provided I survive the knife, of course.

On that cheerful note, I bid you adieu…

13 January 2022