Blog 106. Told You So

Don’t panic! Don’t panic! A new variant of the Corona virus has emerged and it is the Omicron variant, pronounced, according to some classicists, Oh – MY – cron, which appropriately rhymes with OH – MY – GOD. The very name strikes terror to the heart. Worse, it is a mutant strain (my wife reports that the Daily Mail says it is a super mutant strain, which is far worse), so it must be a deadly killer and coloured green. No matter that the symptoms of this strain are mild according to the World Health Organisation and the medical authorities in South Africa who reported it; several cases have been found in the UK, Europe and the USA already. We are doomed. The immediate response of our government is to run around screaming is a sensible proportionate response. Masks are back compulsorily in shops, hairdressers, schools and public transport in England; those testing positive, or anyone coming into contact with the leper, must isolate for ten days irrespective of vaccine status; and anyone arriving from the continent of Africa will be quarantined or shot (illegal immigrants excepted). Funny old thing: exactly the same thing happened almost exactly a year ago, as described in Blog 73 (‘For Mighty Dread Had Seized Their Troubled Minds’)… Then it was the forerunner of the cancelled Christmas of 2020. I also draw the attention of the honourable reader to my Blog 102 (‘Flip Flop’), written in September, in which I predicted that Boris would cancel Christmas yet again with one of his ‘U’ turns. And here we are. Of course, the government is playing down any suggestion that stronger measures will be implemented, but if we have learned anything from our masters then it is how readily it favours the ‘U’ turn, how easily it brings in restrictions, and how grudgingly – and with great reluctance – it eases them again. Compared with last year we are well down the line with the vaccination programme and its boosters, but the government response is as if that were worthless. Physically, the new measures will achieve little, for about 90% of the English population already wear masks in shops or public transport voluntarily, and the vast majority of people already isolate themselves if they test positive for Covid; psychologically, however, the measures will have a huge negative effect on society. Already commercial organisations are adding that little bit extra panic in terms of their own restrictions, with supermarkets reintroducing limited access (hence queues outside in the freezing cold) and businesses cancelling Christmas parties or meals. The sad thing is, most people were just starting to accept that Covid19 was endemic, was with us to stay like that other Corona variant, influenza, and could be controlled by growing immunity and a comprehensive vaccination programme, underpinned by good common sense; folk were slowly starting to lead normal lives again, unlike those in mainland Europe; deaths and hospitalisations related to Covid were (and still are) plunging, schools were almost back to normal. Now the government’s knee-jerk reaction has set British society back months, and the vulnerable and credulous will be terrified. The restrictions will be reviewed in three weeks, but I am not holding my breath for a return to relaxation for Christmas. We have landed on the snake just as we were about to reach Home; pass me the dice, I might just throw a double six. Thank heavens I don’t have a ‘thing’ about face masks, that’s what I say.

It is inevitable that parallels have been drawn between Britain’s response to the present epidemic and the country’s behaviour in WW2: communal spirit, all pulling together, ‘keep calm and carry on’, ’closed for the duration’ and so on.  I am not entirely sure that the the comparison is valid, bearing in mind the appalling privations and casualties incurred among the civilian population in bombing raids, though there is some commonality in petty-fogging officials revelling in their new-found authority (“Put that light out!”).  I have just finished reading a book, When War Came to the Dart by Sunman & Ham (ISBN 9781899011315), describing conditions in Dartmouth during WW2.  Published by the Dartmouth History Research Group, the book describes vividly the general social conditions in that small Devonshire seaport (population about 5,000 today): the evacuees; the coming of the Americans; the forced eviction of surrounding villages at short notice; the preparations for D Day, day-to-day life; and – surprisingly perhaps – the air raids, for Dartmouth was not exempt from that terror.  To be sure, the town suffered only a tiny fraction of raids compared to big cities, and only 40 people were killed by enemy aircraft.  However, the book manages to put across the heartfelt tragedy suffered by the families of each fatality and lists the names of every single victim along with the circumstances of their death – foreigners included.  After two main bombing raids the Luftwaffe conducted a series of sneaky random attacks over the course of the war, “just to keep the population on edge”; Dartmouth was a legitimate, if small, target.    Oddly, and paradoxically perhaps, what really appalled me about the air raids on the town was not the bombing, but the fact that, in these random raids, the Germans machine-gunned the town as well – including the local school.  Somehow, to me, bombing was a regrettable but legitimate tool of war, but machine-gunning children and civilians was just not cricket.  Joseph Stalin famously stated that, “one death is a tragedy; the death of millions is a statistic” and I guess this book, with its detailed descriptions of everyday individual life and death, proves the point.  I have read many history books about WW2, but this one was one of the most moving because I could relate to the places and the people, despite the fact that it all happened 80 years ago.

Fortunately, after that very sober reflection of my latest reading, other events come along to lift the heart. The woke, the snowflakes and the universities of Britain never disappoint when it comes to amusement. The latest news now, reported by The Daily Telegraph, is that the University of Aberdeen (established 1495) has issued trigger warnings to students, lest they be shocked or fade away when reading English literature. Students about to read Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson are warned that the book contains a story about abduction (you don’t say?); Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar apparently presents “sexist attitudes” and its plot “centres on a murder” (just wait till they read The Taming of the Shrew); Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities apparently “contains scenes of violence, execution and death”. I am not sure which is worse: that a hitherto distinguished university thinks that it is necessary to state this claptrap, or that students at the establishment have reached the level of undergraduate in education without having already read these books and recovered from their trauma. Elsewhere, the Chief Constable of Northamptonshire reports a high drop-out rate among new recruits to his force following the new national policy of recruiting only graduates for the police service. Apparently those who dropped out reported that they did not expect to have to encounter any violence in their new career, or to have to work evenings or weekends. Ah, bless.

Christmas is coming and the goose is getting fat or, I hope in our case, that the bovine we have earmarked for our rib of beef is munching well on good English grass. Mrs Shacklepin had me turned to on Saturday rigging the outside Christmas lights (switch-on on 1 December) and – do you know – I didn’t moan once, not even when she yelled at me for standing on her plants (“squelch”) as we decorated the willow tree in the back garden. Last night we visited the local farm, ½ mile away, to buy the Christmas tree. I argued that it would be too big to fit into our car (besides, I wasn’t having those pine needles messing up the upholstery) so I persuaded Jane that we could carry it home by hand (“pish, pish, we can hack that: it’s only half a mile away…”). What a hoot! I carried the base of the trunk, it being the heaviest part and the man’s job; Jane carried the fairy end. We trundled our way out of the farm, across the bypass in the twilight, up the road and through our housing estate swaying like a pantomime horse. The first difficulty was trying to get Jane to walk in step in order to ensure a smoother passage,
“Right! Together now! By the left, quick – march: left, right, left, right,…left, left, get in step woman.”
“I’m trying. I’ve got shorter legs than you.”
“Let’s start again”.
We stopped and repositioned the tree.
“Ready? Quick march: left, right, left, right, get-in-step Jane….”
“I knew you’d be like this! Stop being so bossy! I’m not one of your little sailors…”
In this manner we lurched, yawed, jerked and bickered our way across road, the fairy end of the tree getting lower and lower like a ship sinking by the head with its forepeak flooding. Faint bleating could be heard from the fo’csle occasionally, but I ignored that and we pressed on, finally staggering into the back garden with the for’ard capstan metaphorically underwater. I thought it was all over but, clearly rejuvenated by shedding her end of the load, Jane then demanded that I saw off the bottom of the tree so that it could be immersed in water and preserved until Tree Decoration Day. I couldn’t believe it. Have you ever tried sawing a wet tree? Take my word for it, it is not easy and it takes ages, especially when being undertaken in the dark without the benefit of a saw horse or a vice. I cracked it eventually and the pantomime horse resurrected itself in order to transport the mutilated fir to the garden shed, where it was unceremoniously confined, along with a bucket of water. After all that there was nothing left but to pour ourselves a glass of mulled wine each. Phase 2 of Christmas 2021 complete. I knew we could do it.

I have a hankering for a new espresso coffee machine: something that is all shiny stainless steel and pressure gauges, with hissing steam; something new for me to play with.  Would you believe it, the memsahib has refused to give her approval, citing the fact that there is nothing wrong with the existing machine.  You see, I have always loved real coffee and we have a monthly subscription  to the Nespresso company, which supplies us with coffee pods for our machine.  If you have such a subscription the company will supply you with an espresso coffee machine – to keep – for the one-off fee of £1 (details at www.nespresso.com/uk/en/subscription/machine-subscription and – no – I am not on commission).  The model you get obviously depends on how big a monthly subscription you pay and you have to keep paying for 24 months, but the money you subscribe goes purely as a credit towards future orders of coffee pods.  Nespresso will even collect the old pods for recycling, free of charge.  When this scheme first came out several years ago I calculated that we spent about £25 a month on coffee pods anyway, so why not have an espresso machine too if it was only going to cost £1?  So we went ahead, and it has all worked a treat.  Now, I reckon we spend about £45 on coffee pods a month, so I suggested to Jane that, if we upped our monthly subscription accordingly, we could upgrade our espresso machine and sell the old one.  The model I had in mind was valued at about £350 for a £45/month subscription and £1 expenditure, but she wouldn’t have it, even when I pointed out that the new machine would also be able to make her a nice cup of cappuccino using saturated steam at 80% dryness fraction. Oh well, I shall just have to change my ambitions back to trying to get approval for that electric macerating heads for the boat.  A coffee machine for £1 would be cheaper but, still, Jane knows best.

Along with yearning for the perfect cup of coffee and a uniform with three broad gold stripes on the sleeves, I have spent almost all my adult life yearning for the perfect shave. Regular readers will recall that I waxed philosophically on the subject of shaving in Blog 56 (‘Yes, Still Alive’) and I am still waxing away, though not literally. I have tried almost every different type of razor there is apart from the cut-throat variety but, after a particularly bad blood-letting session and a ruined shirt about ten years ago, I finally bought an electric razor. This was adequate and saved on laundry costs, but still did not produce the perfect smooth shave: if you think about it, no electric razor can because there is a thin foil between the cutters and the skin. I then moved on to the Gillette 5-blade cassette-type razors, which I used to complement the electric razor by finishing the job; the blades for these, however, are so expensive that the pharmacists and supermarkets have to security-tag them to stop them being stolen. Finally, Gillette put a last nail in the company’s coffin by going ‘woke’ recently, and I decided to take my custom elsewhere. Googling “best razor” on the internet revealed several reviews and, after discarding recommendations for Gillette and lessons on how to shave (I reckon I can manage that one without help after 53 years), it seemed that the good old safety razor was the next best thing if you could not manage a cut-throat. The simple old-fashioned razor blades were also much cheaper than the 5-blade units, so I decided to go back down that line. I also reasoned that the retro approach would give me the opportunity to resurrect the old shaving mug, shaving soap and badger-hair brush, and make shaving an early morning ceremony again, like Colours. I ordered a nice shiny safety razor in stainless steel (from Wilkinson’s, not Gillette) and set it out along with all the rest of the impedimenta on the windowsill of the en-suite bathroom, preparing myself for a return to the hallowed tried and tested methods. The day dawned and I rubbed my hands with great anticipation (I don’t get much excitement in life): wash face, hot flannel, lather brush, soap face; and now for the shaving. It felt a bit odd after using one of those modern cassette razors, but I persevered. I noticed that the water in the washbasin had turned slightly pink; then it turned darker pink; then red. Oh dear: bit of a cock-up in the facial depilation department here. I looked at my face in the mirror and saw what appeared to be an ancient version of Dracula after a particularly good meal out. Blood streamed from a thousand cuts all around my mouth and parts of my throat, dripping copiously down my chest and onto the floor. Clearly, I was a bit out of practise with the safety razor. I stemmed the flood with several pieces of lavatory paper (as you do), dried my face on Jane’s flannel (well, mine was wet) and re-examined the razor. In my re-learning process and trip down memory lane, it seems I had forgotten to tighten the razor blade securely in the razor body, so it had not been held firm as I shaved – hence the many nicks. It took me a good fifteen minutes to stop the worst of the bleeding and to mop up the blood spillages from the tiled walls, basin and floor. When I appeared at breakfast, the memsahib simply took one look at the tiny pieces of lavatory paper all over my face and, for the first time ever, was rendered totally speechless (though the look said it all). You will be pleased to know that most of the scars have healed now and normal shaving service – with the safety razor correctly adjusted – has been resumed; my face is as smooth as a lady’s bottom. Or do I mean a baby’s bottom?

Resorting to the old remedy of using lavatory paper to stem cuts from shaving reminds me of my old chum Christian’s experience with the technique. In those days the Royal Navy used horrible shiny non-absorbent lavatory paper, each individual sheet printed with “GOVERNMENT PROPERTY” to deter anyone from stealing it (as if they would want to). Christian cut himself shaving one evening, just before he was about to go out on a date with some floozy or other, a naval nurse. Naturally, he resorted to the old remedy and fronted up accordingly for his date, along with me in a foursome (I had a nurse in tow too). His girlfriend took one look at the bits of paper on his fine, chiselled, classical features and immediately launched into medical lecture mode: did he not know that all he had to do was apply pressure to the wound and the blood would congeal, sealing itself after two minutes? She demanded that he remove the bits of Government Property from his face and apply his finger tips to the wounds for two minutes, by way of demonstration (nurses can be so bossy). This he did, with all three of us watching in anticipation.
Two minutes passed.
“Now”, said his girlfriend,”take your hand away.”
He did as he was told. There was no bleeding.
“Aha!”, she said in triumph.
“Gloop”, said the shaving cuts, and blood poured down his face.
You win some, you lose some.

Many years ago I was reading The Naval Review, a restricted publication for naval officers that discusses many serious naval topics, but is often lightened by accounts of experiences that happened in years gone by.  My lavatorial story, above, reminds me of the true story of an incident that happened in WW2.  The author was the First Lieutenant (second in command) of a corvette and he was approached one day by the corvette’s Coxswain – the senior rating in a minor war vessel or submarine, who has wide-ranging responsibilities as well as being in charge of discipline in the absence of a Master-at-Arms.  The Coxswain of the corvette was concerned that consumption of lavatory paper onboard was excessive (it was his job to re-order the stuff).  The First Lieutenant was somewhat non-plussed by this report and asked the Coxswain how he would like to deal with it.  The Coxswain suggested that he be allowed to address the ship’s company on the matter.  They cleared lower deck and fell in the ship’s company (about 50 men) on the quarterdeck.  The Coxswain climbed onto the after capstan and addressed the men thus:
“Now you men have been using too much toilet paper!  You well-know that there’s a war on, and you’re being far too free and easy with it!”
“In future when you visit the heads, just remember this.  The basic operation of using toilet paper involves only four actions: Rub; Scrub; Dry Rub; and Polish.  And remember that every piece of paper has two sides to it.”

I leave you with that profound thought.

2 December 2021

Blog 105. Ready in all respects to receive visitors.

“Why have we been given a card marked ‘M’?”

Thus spoke Mrs Shacklepin as we stood in a very short queue of about four people at the vaccination centre at the racecourse of the Big City. Adjacent was a far longer queue, snaking away to the door, labelled ‘P’. Earlier, as we had swept past a long line of people waiting, I had airily commented to them,
“So sorry, we’re Club class.”
It seemed funny at the time (like all my supposed witty comments), even if it produced no response. Now it was not so funny.
As is the way with all queues, the queue next to us was moving much faster than ours, though still slowly, the head of the queue breaking off periodically to go to a booth to be interrogated before moving on to be given their booster vaccination in another booth. Jane and I had been standing for 40 minutes and, in that time, our queue had moved up only one person. As far as we could make out, that one person was sitting in a booth (labelled ‘M’) and simply chatting affably to the nurse behind the desk. The memsahib was not happy. In addition to the opening question (repeated several times), she asked why we were not moving. As I pointed out to her finally, and in exasperation, I did not know and would she please put on another record? If this had been the Big Brother television programme, I pointed out to her, I would have voted her out long ago. My plea went unheeded until, finally, she worked out the significance of the ‘’M’ and the ‘P’: they stood for ‘Pfizer’ and ‘Moderna’; most people were being boosted with the Pfizer vaccine, but a select few – including us – would be receiving the Moderna serum. After this inference, Jane changed the record to one asking,
“Why are we to be given the Moderna vaccine?”,
to which, of course, I could only reply that I did not know.
I stood, implacably, in the ‘stand easy’ position as I had been taught so many years before at Dartmouth, while Jane hopped from one foot to the other and fidgeted like a ten year old on a car journey who asked periodically, “Are we there yet?” Privately, I agreed with her sentiments: we had been standing there for a very long time, unlike the previous occasions when we had received our initial Astra-Zeneca vaccinations and were in and out of the vaccination centre like a dose of salts.

We had been called up for our booster shots the previous week, it being precisely six calendar months plus one week since our last jab on 1 May. We duly logged on to the NHS website and were offered several local locations where the deed could be done, but chose the racecourse (14 miles away) because we had used it before and because the parking was free and plentiful. Later, we were separately invited by our GP practice to be vaccinated locally, but we declined as we were already committed. This decision was seized upon by Jane as an error on my part: clearly, she opined, if we had opted to be vaccinated by our surgery then we would not have been chosen for the Moderna vaccine and would not now be standing here for 40 minutes. I sighed, not for the first time reflecting on the width of my back and the depth of the scars thereon. Finally, after some 50 minutes of standing, we were summoned – together – direct to a vaccination booth where two medical staff combined the functions of identification, interrogation and vaccination. A third nurse stood by, presumably to catch the body as it slumped into a dead faint on sight of the needle. Jane immediately asked why we had been singled out for the Moderna vaccine and was told that the selection was done on an entirely random basis. I recognised the familiar look on her face that said she was not at all satisfied by the answer (presumably she thought it was all a conspiracy by the government to make her life a misery), but she said no more. In the event, the nurses decided not to give her the booster because she had only just recovered from shingles and was, in any case, on a course of antibiotics for yet another malady. Only I was vaccinated and I was ordered to sit in a recovery chair afterwards for precisely fifteen minutes, lest I embarrass everyone by collapsing. Jane was grudgingly allowed to leave and wait for me in the car and to arrange a later booster for herself. So there you go: yet another milestone in the Covid19 chapter of the Book of Shacklepin. As I drove home, I reflected on the many vaccinations I had received in the course of my service with the Royal Navy, including a hefty dose of heaven-knows-what just before the Gulf War; as a correspondent in my newspaper commented in a slightly different context the other day, my opinion was not sought nor would any objection have been entertained. I certainly never heard of anyone compulsorily being required to sit down for fifteen minutes after a jab: in the Service you just got on with life onboard as usual. As to the one hour to complete a very simple process, we never did find out what the problem was. I felt a bit rough for 24 hours after the booster – headache, feeling cold and tired – but I was as right as rain after that. Jane has that further joy to come. I hope for the sake of the dispensing staff that they don’t plan to give her the Moderna vaccine.

As I mentioned in an earlier blog, I have stopped routinely monitoring the Covid statistics now as the overall death rate in the UK is running at about the usual 5-year average for the country.  I gather that the number of positive tests is now dropping, as are the death rates attributable to Covid and the hospitalisations, though these are increasing in mainland Europe.  Predictably, some European countries have reverted to social distancing, masks, curfews, vaccination passports, or all four.  Everyday life in England (as opposed to Scotland, Wales and Norther Ireland) is closer to being back to normal than it has been so far in the epidemic, though all museums, galleries and a few small private shops still insist that customers sterilise hands, stay apart and wear masks.  In the last week, for England, you had a 0.2% chance of being struck by lightning, but a 0.03% chance of catching Covid, a 0.001% chance of being hospitalised because of Covid, and a 0.0002% chance of dying from it, yet some people are still genuinely very frightened.   Cunard offered me a cruise the other day that would have required me to wear a mask at all times outside my cabin except on the upper deck; it was not my cup of tea, I’m afraid.

As we pass the 20-month point in the Covid 19 epidemic, the planet about to die in the next minute, and winter beginning to descend on us, it is so uplifting that comedic moments still prevail to lift us from our anxiety and fear.  I refer to the latest woke edicts to emerge from institutions in our society.  Steam locomotives have now been declared racist by the Railways Museum because of their key role in colonialism, an odd choice in many ways, not least because generally the engines are black.  The locomotives join the game of chess among racist inanimate objects, the latter because of the custom in the game for White to go first.  Of famous historical figures, Queen Victoria, the painter Gainsborough and the poet Wordsworth are among those singled out by the National Gallery as racists, the last-named because, “his sister’s rented cottage was leased by a slave owner”.  One early National Gallery donor, a clergyman, has similarly been vilified because, “his sister-in-law was from a slave-owning family”.  This, as the saying goes, is picking out the black pepper from the flea droppings.  After I laughed heartily over these appalling revelations at breakfast, I reflected soberly that someone on the National Gallery or Railway Museum payroll (and therefore funded by the tax payer) was actually being paid to churn out this utter garbage.  Will it ever end?  In some ways, I hope not – I don’t get many laughs these days.  They will be coming for Jane next: her great-grandmother and all those before her owned plantations in Jamaica.  Oh dear: reparations might be demanded from me from Jane’s £350 Barclaycard bill that I inherited when we married.

We managed a few good walks when last on the boat in Devonshire but, alas, on the last one Jane stumbled on a farm track and keeled over like a felled tree, flat out on the tarmac.  Naturally, I asked the usual inane question offered by everyone in these circumstances:
“Are you all right?”
Why do we always say that?  Conscious of the (dubious)  maxim that one should not let the patient worry about injuries and to make light of the situation, I then grabbed her by the armpits and hoisted her back to her feet and dusted her off.  Only then did I practise proper First Aid by feeling her limbs for broken bones.  In short, dear reader, I made a complete dog’s breakfast of responding to an emergency, such poor response then being compounded by my replying to a motorist who had stopped and offered to drive us back to the boat,
“Oh no, she’s fine; we’ll walk”.
Of course, we accepted the lift, which had been very kindly offered by a housekeeper at the nearby farm. I may say, in passing, that it gladdened the heart to encounter such kindness and I did write to the lady to thank her afterwards.  Jane was quite shaken by the incident and picked up grazes on her arms and shin, but fortunately no fractures.  What she did do, however, was wrench her back and it is only now beginning to improve.  In the midst of all that, she picked up an unrelated infection elsewhere and had to take a course of antibiotics.  What next?  Fortunately, her tongue has been unaffected by this incident and infection, and she very helpfully has been coaching me in First Aid and the care of casualties ever since.  I feel a course of diversion is necessary, so I have decided to have my hernia operated upon though, the NHS waiting list being what it is because of repeated lockdowns, I may not go under the knife before I am six feet under.  In the interim, I wince bravely when on long walks or when Jane gives forth the tongue of bad report to friends about my response to accident victims; this provides a useful reminder to her of my fortitude and vulnerability in the face of disability and pain.  It has worked so far, just. 

Reports about the military continue to disturb.  It appears that the British Army will shortly be introducing circular reporting on officers: the practice of soliciting the opinion of subordinates on an officer’s performance as part of the promotion process.  Apparently the Royal Navy has been using a slightly similar process for some time.  I have severe reservations on such an approach on disciplinary grounds and it will encourage naval officers – for example – to be “Popularity Jacks”.  In my career, I did not expect ratings to like me (I think few did), but I did hope that they would respect me: these are our Armed Forces, not Marks & Spencer.  On the Continent, the French Army (and others) has been declared to be subject to the European Working Time Directive, with limited working hours and the views of soldiers being sought regarding forthcoming deployments.  Back on the home front, a female Corporal in the British Army is being court-martialled for allegedly punching soldiers in the stomach if they answered a question incorrectly (a practice of which I strongly disapprove).  In the witness testimony, one male soldier said that the punch had winded him and “made him cry”.  Good grief.  I am now faced with a dilemma: should I start learning Russian or Mandarin?

So here we are with Christmas only 41 days away and Jane about to place her order with our local farm for our customary rib of beef (we are not fond of turkey).  I am reminded of the time when a friend of ours ordered his turkey from a local farmer and, on Christmas Eve, duly turned up to collect it only to find that the farmer had no record of the order.  Dusk was falling and time was of the essence.  My friend berated the farmer at length on his staff’s lack of efficiency and the general situation, describing the imminent misery and starvation on the part of my friend’s family because of a ruined Christmas.  The farmer was most apologetic and managed to find a turkey from his reserve stock, refusing to take any money for the bird because of his mistake.  Mollified, my friend accepted the bird and went home.  As he entered the house, the telephone was ringing. The call was from another local farmer:
“Farmer Giles here.  We have that turkey that you ordered in September and we’re about to close up for Christmas.  Can you come and collect it?”

Jane has been slogging away all day, preparing food for visitors, who are coming to stay next week.  The dining room table has been laid, the best wine glasses polished and deployed, and I have been detailed off to check all electrical and plumbing systems for correct operation before their arrival.  I offered to help in the kitchen but, perhaps mindful of my disasters when helping her in the past, I was shooed out. Below me, as I write, the radio is blasting out music from the 60s and 70s to the accompaniment of hissing steam, clattering pans and the odd unladylike expletive.  Wonderful smells waft up the stairs, but I feel that I am well out of it.  Helpfully, and determined to do my bit, up here in the study I have produced a laminated set of Captains Standing Orders (CSOs) to define the preparations that must take place in our household as a precursor to the arrival of visitors:

 “Four hours before the arrival of overnight visitors, the Executive Officer will report to me:
‘House ready in all respects to receive visitors’. 
This will be taken to mean:…”

I shall place that in the guest room as part of the Quality Assurance process.  I am sure that Jane will appreciate this publication but, just in case, I will at least have witnesses around for when she finds it. She is such a good sport, you know.

14 November 2021

Blog 104. Torchy the Battery Boy

“You have done what?”
Jane’s concern for my welfare was touching, but also a bit scary.
“Um….I may, just possibly, have swallowed those old hearing aid batteries you gave me to recycle.  I may have thought they were Vitamin D pills, you see”.
She shook her head, more in sorrow than in anger.
“I’m going to have to watch you”, she said.
Dead right, I thought: this was a bit frightening.  She had given me the two tiny batteries as I dashed back to the workshop/garage, where I was putting the finishing touches to a wood project.  My mind was on other things. When I finished my woodwork I suddenly thought (for no particular reason), “where did I put those batteries?”. I looked in the battery recycling bin: nope, not there; I searched my pockets: nothing there; I scoured the work bench: still nothing.  Surely…surely…surely I hadn’t swallowed them, thinking they were pills?  I could be daft enough as, bizarrely, it had crossed my mind as something I should NOT do.  As described in Blog 74, I am regularly given tiny pills to swallow by my dear wife – invariably some vitamin or other  –  and I just pick them up and pop them into my mouth (I do not swallow pills with water).  Those batteries were about 5mm in diameter, about the same size of a Vitamin D pill, hence my almost Freudian thought of what not to do.  I Googled “swallowing lithium batteries” and unearthed a terrifying host of consequences, though all referring to children; other answers seemed to suggest that the alien objects would just pass through the system naturally.  I thought I should hedge my bets and inform my next of kin, lest I suddenly develop strange symptoms later in the day, hence the memsahib’s incredulity.  Bless her, she is worried about me: the loss of Shirt Presser Boy, Chief Deck Swabber and Mr Fixit could seriously impinge on her horticultural ambitions.  As I write this paragraph, some seven hours after the potential ingestion, I am still alive so I am fairly certain that the batteries went into the dustbin.  If I am wrong, then the Adventures of Shacklepin and The Stomach Pump will grace this blog later…or the blog will never appear again.  Definitely cracking up.

Where would we be without our garbage disposal unit (GDU)? We are fairly unusual in the UK in having a GDU fitted in our kitchen, a luxury that we have enjoyed, in several houses, for about 35 years.  I may be wrong, but I believe GDUs, while quite common in the USA, remain a rarity in Britain; certainly none of our friends have such a beast as far as I can remember. I cannot recall why we bought the first machine: possibly it was because I was familiar with the concept from my experience in the galleys of HM ships.  They are the best way to get rid of wet and sloppy food waste unless you are prepared to cultivate a wormery in your back garden or have the luxury of a food waste collection, provided by your local authority (we don’t).  You tip the remnants of your plate or Sunday joint into the sink, you turn on the tap, you press the button and GRRRRR- WOOSH, the stuff has gone down the plug hole to be digested at the local sewage farm and turned into methane and farm manure: very efficient.  I put a whole chicken carcass in ours once (after it had been stripped of all edible flesh) and it was gone in a flash. Well, almost a flash …grinding and evacuation did take a little longer than usual, but it still went.  Marvellous. GDUs would be particularly beneficial in flats and other community accommodation, where storage for rubbish is at a premium and at least one UK water company encourages their installation.  Elsewhere in Britain, however, you do not see a lot of them in domestic kitchens.  It is just one of those curious things.

GDUs can have a ‘down’ side (apart from wrecking great-grandmother’s canteen of silver cutlery after dropping utensils into the whirling mechanism).  Interesting sideline, this.  As mentioned earlier, GDUs are commonplace in a professional kitchen setting, including in the galleys of ships.  There was one US warship, about 40 years ago, which suffered a very serious epidemic of food poisoning – a situation so bad that a formal enquiry was convened to investigate the cause.  After a very extensive investigation the cause was found to be the GDU in the ship’s galley.  GDUs use a small amount of water to lubricate the grinding process and to flush away the residue.  However, freshwater is at a premium in ships as it has to be distilled or otherwise manufactured from seawater, so the design of this particular warship utilised seawater from the ship’s firemain.  This seemed eminently sensible as the water was just going to waste anyway.  Unfortunately, the GDU in the galley was located next to what is known as the pot wash, a sort of open dishwasher used to wash the serving platters on which the ship’s company received their food, and the GDU was operated in harbour as well as at sea.  As the GDU was used, an invisible aerosol of polluted harbour water was emitted, contaminating the adjacent clean food platters which, in turn, poisoned the crew.  Who would have thought it?  And full marks to the USN medical team who tracked down the cause of the problem.

You know, you can’t beat a good John Wayne film.  I switched on the television on Sunday night and started my scouring of the televisual offerings with the aid of the remote control.  There was the usual huffing and puffing from my dear wife on my right (who was reading a book), but I ignored that.  Anyway, I clicked through the usual garbage, the games shows, the woke propaganda, the dramas with a “message” and the Downright Awful until, finally, I found something worth watching: She Wore a Yellow Ribbon.  Now there was a film: when men were men, women were grateful, and the only good Indian was dead Indian.  I am amazed that the film has survived, let alone that the snowflakes have permitted it to be shown in 2021: it contained so many shibboleths that the awoken must have been swooning away or having fits as the reels rolled on.  It was, of course,  a film of its time like every other old film, just as our forefathers were people of their time: we should not apply today’s standards to the past, try to rewrite history, or judge our ancestors;  it is how we behave and respect each other today that matter. 

One of the trivial things that struck me about the film was that the officers of the US cavalry carried their swords with their left hand as they marched, the scabbard being supported on long slings from the sword belt. Royal Navy officers also carry their swords, which are slung in the same manner (the exception being when worn with a greatcoat, when the sword is hooked up). As a result, when marching off, Royal Navy officers have to flick the sword up and catch the scabbard about ⅓ of the way along; fail to catch it and you trip over the sword (a not unheard of occurrence that causes much mirth among the squad of matelots assembled behind you). A similar action is required in order to draw the sword: you toss it up, catch it, unclip the hand guard from the scabbard, draw the sword and kiss the hilt; at the same time you hook the scabbard onto the sword belt under your reefer jacket. You are then set to board that French frigate blockading the Channel Islands. I mention this because, in the quiet watches of the night, Royal Navy officers are occasionally prone to speculate why they have to carry their swords. With the odd exception – inevitable in the multi-uniformed British army – army officers’ swords are worn, hands free, on the sword belt, as are Royal Marine officers’ swords, and I believe that that is the case for RAF officers too. We were taught at Dartmouth that Royal Navy officers carry their swords in shame for breaking their word regarding promised leniency for mutineers some time in history, the reigning monarch declaring that the penalty would last for all time unto the third and fourth generation. However, a friend of mine is an expert on naval swords and has written the definitive book on the subject; he says such an explanation is complete hokum. Over the 18th, 19th century and 20th centuries the wearing of swords by Royal Navy officers has changed many times just as the uniform has: sometimes they were worn on long slings, sometimes on short slings; sometimes with curved swords and sometimes straight. There was never any instance of a monarch imposing a punishment, but the long slings are necessary today because the sword belt is worn out of sight, underneath the reefer jacket. He claims that the long slings would also facilitate the officer riding a horse (like the US cavalry, in fact). I am not entirely convinced by that equine argument but, either way, Royal Navy officers do not carry their swords in shame. Incidentally, the swords are not issued universally and personally on being commissioned: they are loaned out for ceremonial occasions as required, but most career naval officers buy their own for about £1,000. Mine was made by Wilkinson’s of razor blade fame: it is supposed to be capable of withstanding a two-handed blow against an oak beam but, at that price, I have never put it to the test.

We are back on the boat enduring the worst of the English weather again: gluttons for punishment.  It always makes a welcome break from home and the time is used for a final cruise before preparing systems for the winter.  This time we achieved one of our ambitions, that of seeing dolphins off the Mew Stone near Dartmouth.  Odd though it may sound, it is something I never experienced in 33 years in the Royal Navy, but now I can die happy (but not yet, please).

“Jane, are you doing anything?”, I called from the pontoon.
“Oh, no.  I’m just sitting here on my backside twiddling my thumbs”, came the reply.
“Oh good.  Can you help me range the anchor cable?”  
I ignored the sarcasm, it being the lowest form of wit and something that I, personally, never employ.
With thumps, bangs and muttering Jane appeared on deck, clutching a duster.
“What did you want to do?”, she asked
“Range the cable – the anchor chain.  We need to fake it out on the pontoon so that I can mark it with paint every ten metres.  That’s how I can tell how much cable is out when we anchor.  Now, you can either pull the chain out of the hawse hole, or fake it out on the pontoon.  Which would you prefer?”
From the look on Jane’s face I might as well have been speaking Venusian, but she is a long-suffering soul, always willing to help with my little nautical tasks and never complaining.  Numbly she scrambled onto the pontoon and headed for the one bit of my explanation that she understood: the anchor.
“Oh good, you want to do that bit.  Right, I’ll fake the cable, you pull it out of the hawse hole”.
I demonstrated what was required.
She started heaving on the chain while I laid it out.  Dust and dried mud flew everywhere as the chain passed upward from the chain locker, emerged through the navel pipe, passed over the gypsy, and led ashore through the hawse pipe.  Soon, the uncomplaining assistant was complaining mightily:
“My trousers!”, she wailed.”Just look at them! They’re covered in mud.  And this chain weighs a ton.  How much more is there?”
“Not much more, my dear.  Only 60 metres…”
“Good God!  How much?”
“Not long to go now, my dear.  You are doing awfully well.”  
I was operating at my most unctuous.  I can be very tactful and appreciative, you know.
There was much muttering from the bow as she heaved.
“Stop pulling at it!”, she ordered.  “Give me time to get it out.  And why are you doing it that way?”
I smiled secretly.  There is no task that my dear wife cannot comment on: tying a Mathew Walker knot, rigging sheerlegs,  launching a Dan buoy or (now) faking an anchor cable…  All you have to do is excite her interest.  Two hours later, the job was done, the chain painted at ten metre intervals with the colours of a rainbow (red for 10 metres, orange for 20 metres, yellow for 30 metres and so on); no one can claim that I am not respectful of the LGBT community.  Or is it the NHS?  I forget.  Soon, we were ready for stowing the cable back into the chain locker but, at that point, Jane drew the line: I got the job of heaving it all back onboard while she disappeared onboard.  I dare say she wanted to do some embroidery or light sewing.  Ah, what a team we make.

I thought I would wrap some insulation around the ventilation trunking that forms part of the boat’s hot-air heating system, the present arrangement being less than efficient as the system loses heat to the engine compartment as the trunking makes its way to the cabins.  Once again, my trusty assistant could not wait to help as I lowered myself into the bilges and started disconnecting the trunking.  First, I needed to cut the cable ties that anchored the flexible trunking in the engine compartment.  I took out my penknife.
“Should you be doing that?”, asked my little auditor. ”Let me get a pair of scissors.”
“Nonsense, woman.  This will be fine.  I’ll just…ouch!  Oh heck, that’s torn it.”
Blood spurted out from my cut finger and dripped variously over the turbocharger, the exhaust trunking, the port tail shaft and into the bilge.  The pain in the finger was as nothing to the pain in my ears.
“Did I not tell you not to do that?  Oh God, that looks deep.  You might need stitches.  You might have to go to A&E.  Quick, you must wash it before it gets infected from that dirty engine.”
“Nonsense woman”, I said again. ”Just get the first aid box.”
“Where’s the first aid box?”.  
The blood, by this time, was forming delightful swirling patterns on the water in the port stern gland.
“On the bulkhead by the conning position.”
She looked blank.  I pointed, spraying blood over the saloon carpet.
“How does it open?”.
This, I thought, was beginning to sound like that song, “There’s a hole in my bucket”.  Eventually, she got the first aid box open (contents scattering in all directions) and swabbed down the cut.  Then we discovered that the plasters in the kit expired two years ago and would not stick.  Frankly, the Marx Brothers could not have written a better script.  We did get there in the end and – take note of this for I will say it only once – I could not have done that insulating job without my trusty First (and only) Mate.  She was great.  We are now warm and toasty, though I expect the engines are feeling the cold a bit.

Covid-wise, I have finally given up monitoring and recording the figures.  The last I saw, the infections for the UK were still rising, though the hospital admissions and deaths are either steady or rising slightly.  Deaths tend to be predominantly among those over 85 with other medical conditions, though that is of little consolation if one has friends or relatives who have died.  A friend of mine, an undertaker, told me the other day of the deep sorrow he felt at having to prepare the bodies of three good friends who had died.   The general feeling by the government and its experts is that the situation will be nothing like as grave as last year, and currently there is no intention to close down on liberties in England (Wales and Scotland still mandate face coverings indoors and have other restrictions; it has made no difference to their infection rate).  I am still sceptical of Boris holding his nerve, but hope we remain ‘free’.  The requirement to wear face coverings indoors in England passed to individual judgement on 19 July, but a few shops still ask that customers wear them and one can respect that.  However, I saw two shops in Dartmouth that had adopted a more aggressive and robust stance: one had a sign that said, “Face masks are required in this shop” (my italics) and I saw some customers who had innocently entered uncovered being ejected accordingly; another – a ladies’ dress shop – had a sign that said in bold letters, “NO FACE MASK, NO ENTRY”.  I was tempted to scrawl under the sign, “No customers either”.  My views on the hated ‘F’ Word have been well recorded in these pages, so I won’t reiterate them.  All I would say is that there are tactful and less aggressive ways of getting compliance on your premises, and customers like me have long memories.

So here we are, the rain hissing down, the wind gusting Force 7 from the south-south-west, the boat jerking and creaking at her moorings and us snuggled down listening to Classic FM, toasted by our new improved heating system. Jane has a macaroni cheese on the go and I have a bottle of Shiraz uncorked in the drinks locker, just waiting to be poured. Life could be an awful lot worse. Regular readers may wish to be assured that Jane’s shingles (Blog 103) finally cleared up, by the way, after a painful rear guard action, and – oh yes – I never did see those batteries (first paragraph) again, so we will clock that down to experience. Does anyone else in Britain remember Torchy the Little Battery Boy from television in the 1950s?

Press my switch,
See my bulb,
Start to gleam
It’s the most
Magic light
You – have – seen


No? Not old enough? My dear chap/girl/personal pronoun, you missed a treat.

Time for that glass of Shiraz to recharge my batteries, I think.  But first, it is sunset and that ensign doesn’t haul itself down.

“Sunset, sir.”
“Pipe the Still.”
”Pipe the Carry On”

Keep calm and carry on.

24 October 2021

Blog 103. My Little Spitfire

It never rains, it pours.  Not content with the many and various rashes that it has suffered over the last two years, Jane’s body has now decided that it rather likes the idea of shingles.  She now has two patches of nasty and very painful spots on her trunk and back, and her skin is sensitive to touch everywhere.  Overlaying these unhappy symptoms are the random stabbing pains, as if someone were sticking a needle into her.  Poor kid, she has had to be circumspect in her choice of clothes and even her nightdress.  At least she seems to have been fortunate in obtaining antiviral medication in time, and that is helping her to endure the pain.  Shingles is an infectious disease in limited circumstances: touching the rash of a shingles victim can give you chickenpox if you have not had that disease before, and that is not a pleasant experience – especially for an adult; if you have had chickenpox already, then you are safe: you cannot catch shingles from a shingles victim.  The question is, of course, did you have chickenpox as a child?  As a friend commented recently, it is a bit late, at our age, to ask your mum.  Fortunately, I have had chickenpox and I have also had shingles, so I can empathise with poor Jane if not do much else to help her.  As she cannot bear any clothing to touch her I did suggest that she perambulate the house naked and I would increase the central heating to generate a tropical environment for her in that state; you won’t get many husbands who will be that considerate, the price of gas being what it is.  Alas, this helpful idea did not find favour for some reason, so she is now drifting around wearing a shift, as if pregnant.  Just as well really, the shingles rash looks pretty awful and would put me off my meals.

Of course, Jane’s shingles is worse than the shingles I had in 2009. Or so she says, so it must be true. One of the many differences between us is that whereas I, as a man, will take every pill and medication available for a malady, Jane is reluctant to take anything. She is particularly reserved when it comes to painkillers and will wait until a pain becomes unbearable before taking paracetamol – thus riding on the Big Dipper of pain; I, on the other hand, will take the painkillers religiously every four hours and build up a barrier to counter pain before it starts – thus riding serenely on the Ghost Train. I have always found Jane’s puritanical approach to suffering odd, but I have encountered it elsewhere, in another context: when it comes to seasickness, many men will sit there, looking green and marinading in their own nausea and misery, but try to soldier on without taking seasick pills – presumably because they see it as the manly thing to do. I never thought that that was the right approach. Take the pills for heaven’s sake; they work. If God had meant us to suffer seasickness He wouldn’t have given us Stugeron.

So, that’s the bin men crossed off our Christmas list then. It has been our policy for all our married life always to give the bin men a small gift at Christmas as a token of appreciation. Not a big thing: maybe a crate of beer, a box of biscuits or a tin of sweets; just something to show that we appreciate their hard work over the previous year and recognise the contribution they make to society – particularly during the lockdowns. With the advent of recycling collections, the cost of this small token has tripled as we feel duty-bound to tip the Recycling people and the Garden Refuse people as well as the traditional General Rubbish people, but we have stoically kept up the tradition. The other day we heard the usual crump and rumble of the bins being emptied one morning and, after the noise had dissipated, I – like a good husband – went out and transported the wheelie bin back to its stowage beside the garage. Three hours later we heard the same noise again. Jane looked out of the kitchen window and saw the bin men emptying everyone else’s bins. The penny dropped that the previous noise we had heard must have been elsewhere and that our bin had not been emptied after all. We will gloss over how I returned a full bin to its stowage, without noticing, and the subsequent Board of Enquiry that sat later in the day. Anyway, showing remarkable agility and presence of mind for one so frequently ill, Jane dashed out, grabbed our full wheelie bin and chased off up the road with it, flagging down the bin lorry. I would have gone, but I thought she stood a better chance of being successful; also, I had a bit of a pain in my leg from that incident during the Falklands Conflict that I don’t like to talk about. Full of apology, Jane stopped in front of the lorry, smiled sweetly and explained that her husband had been stupid, and please could the nice men empty her bin for her? She was so sorry to be the cause of so much trouble. Her charm bounced off the miserable crew like an arrow on armour. Grudgingly, the driver climbed out of the cab and emptied the bin: no smile, no understanding, just a grunt. Well, how rude! And how ungrateful. I had even brought that crew cold drinks during the hot summer last year. Well, that won’t happen again and we have saved ourselves £90 this year by not buying them a present; perhaps I could use it to buy Jane a pair of running shoes.

Saints be praised, there is a world beyond Start Point.   We crossed the invisible barrier in our boat a few weeks ago.  Regular readers will know that, for various reasons, we had hitherto never managed to get further than Start Point when we sailed south westward from our base in Dartmouth: either the sea had been too rough or the wind had been too strong or Jane’s mood had not been right.  Once, we were caught in a nasty tide race off the point and that convinced Jane that Neptune was trying to tell us never to go further, for there be sea dragons round the corner.  Anyway, this time we made it.  The sky was blue, the sea was green and the swell benign.  It was just like summer. Our course took us three miles out to sea to avoid the tide race and we traced a route past Salcombe, Bolt Head and Bolt Tail, to Bigbury Bay and Burgh Island, where we anchored for lunch in the sunshine.  It was absolutely idyllic, anchored about 200m off the beach and gazing at the island made famous by Agatha Christie in her books Evil Under the Sun and And Then There Were None.  For those not familiar with the geography, Burgh Island lies off Bigbury-on-Sea in south Devonshire and is the site of an extremely expensive and exclusive art deco hotel, which was built in the late 1920s.  The island and hotel are accessible at low tide on foot via a causeway, but at high tide guests are transported across on a sea tractor, which rides along the seabed with the passengers sitting ten feet or so above the waves.  A whole host of very famous people have stayed there, including King Edward VIII and Mrs Simpson, and Lord Mountbatten of Burma.  Today, the hotel remains very exclusive and Black Tie is de rigueur for dining, but there is also a 14th century pub on the private island to cater for the lesser mortals who arrive in charabancs.  Actually, Burgh Island is our sort of place, but we have never had enough money to stay there nor have any rich friends to accompany us; maybe one day.  Anyway, we anchored to the south east of the island and had a lovely view of the hotel and beach, the latter fairly busy for a late September weekday.  I would have liked to have stayed overnight, but we were on a lee shore and a depression was forecast for the morrow, so I thought it prudent to return to Dartmouth after lunch.  Overall, it was a Grand Day Out and an easy passage on a calm sea.  Next time, maybe we should try for the River Yealm or even Plymouth.  Antigua perhaps..? Who knows?

Jane’s illness has meant that we have had to cancel our planned break in a hotel on the edge of Dartmoor. (Blog 98).   Apart from the danger of her infecting others, we cannot be sure that she will be well enough to be able to wear trousers or hike across the moor.  We are, naturally, very disappointed for the food in the hotel promised to be excellent and the break would have been very welcome after nearly two years of Covid restrictions.  We also miss Dartmoor, an area that has always fascinated me since I was introduced to it on exercises undertaken from naval college.  Then, of course, the visits were somewhat strenuous and uncomfortable, for we hiked long distances, camped on the moor, and undertook leadership challenges.  I always remember how we were required to take with us boot polish and to clean and polish our hiking boots every day before setting off.  Dartmoor is, of course, most remembered for its prison, located at Princetown (pronounced Prince-Town, not like the university in the USA): an establishment still in use despite being built in 1806. It used to house the most violent and dangerous convicts in the land, but the restrictions imposed on structural changes to a Listed Building have meant that the prison now only holds Category C prisoners, defined as “inmates who cannot be trusted in open prison, but who have been recognised as being unlikely to make any attempt at escape”.  If you ever visit Princetown and take one look at Dartmoor Prison and its surrounding area, then you will quickly infer that few people incarcerated there are ever likely to escape: the buildings are solid granite, grey and forbidding and the moor is bleak and desolate.  The weather is often wet and foggy, and the terrain boggy and grim.  There is, surprisingly, a prison museum (https://www.dartmoor-prison.co.uk), which Jane and I visited a few years ago, and it details the prison’s history in fascinating detail.  Completed in 1809 to house French prisoners-of-war (POWs) during the Napoleonic Wars, it also housed American POWs after the USA declared war on Britain in 1812.  Conditions in the prison were poor, and many died of disease exacerbated by overcrowding.  After France was defeated and the  French POWs were repatriated, the prison was used exclusively to incarcerate American POWs and some 6,000 men were held there at one point.  During their stay, 271 Americans died, mainly from smallpox, which swept the prison during the winter of 1814/15, but also from malnutrition or exposure or suicide.  The war between the USA and Britain ended with the Treaty of Ghent signed on Christmas Eve 1814, but the treaty was not ratified by the USA until February 1815.  Alas, even after that time the repatriation of Americans was slow and this, combined with the terrible conditions the POWs had to endure, lead to a mutiny and the infamous and shameful ‘Princetown Massacre’ in April 1815, during which nine Americans were killed and thirty seriously wounded by British troops.  In the subsequent enquiry, no one was blamed and no one was punished.  The Prince Regent apologised to US President Madison and offered to provide for the families of those killed, but the offer was politely refused.  Not Britain’s finest hour.  Six days after the mutiny, the first batch of American POWs was repatriated and all American POWs had left by February 1816, when the prison closed.  Dartmoor Prison reopened and became an establishment for convicted prisoners in 1850, and has remained in that role ever since.  Few men have ever managed to escape and remain at large, but there was a further mutiny and a fire in the prison in 1932 caused by – of all things – diluted porridge; that had to be quelled by arming the guards, calling out the police, and putting an army brigade on standby; no one was killed but several people were injured.  Despite some modernisation, conditions in Dartmoor remain grim, even today.  I understand that the prison is scheduled to close for good in 2023, though heaven knows what will be done with the building, which is officially Listed for heritage purposes.   So there you are: a short history of Dartmoor Prison and I can recommend a visit to the prison museum located just across the road from the main gate.  I cannot recommend the town of Princetown for it is as grim and unwelcoming as the prison it holds, but the Plume of Feathers used to be good for a pint of beer after a long walk.  Americans visiting England may wish to consider visiting the American POW Cemetery located just outside the prison walls (https://historicengland.org.uk/listing/the-list/list-entry/1427525 ) to pay reverence to the memory of their fellow countrymen who died in such a grim place and in such shameful circumstances.

It is the season of political party conferences in Britain and the newspapers are full of the promises of politicians, stirring speeches and political gossip.  A senior member of the Labour Party described all members of the Conservative Party as “Tory scum”, thus potentially alienating over half of the British population, though helpfully indicating the sort of person we will have in power if we vote Labour.  The Conservative Party has set out policies that would do credit to the Liberal Democrat Party, the Green Party and the Labour Party, but few that would be recognised as traditional Conservative values.  I despair, not for the first time.  But then who goes to these conferences?  Who has the time or the inclination? More to the point, who believes any of the statements made?  No party ever sticks to its manifesto and I would not trust a politician as far as I could throw them.  I am inclined to think that the whole business of party conferences is a waste of time, but I suppose a party has to get together somehow to declare what it stands for.  I just cannot get worked up about any of it, though I do resent being called ‘scum’, particularly by someone supposed to be in a senior position.  Apparently the animosity has always been thus: the Labour Party has always disliked Tories intensely and with a passion (one Labour MP said some time ago that they could never be friends with a Tory); conversely, the Conservative Party has always looked at the other parties as consisting of people with odd, impractical or misinformed views – there is no enmity felt at all.  Most odd.  Perhaps the situation is the same in the USA, with Democrats and Republicans, though I get the impression, from what I have read, that on the other side of the pond the dislike is mutual and it has become much worse in recent years.

The Covid situation in the UK continues to be encouraging, and the number of deaths caused by the disease is falling at a rate of 14% weekly, currently standing at 755 a week.  The number of people admitted to hospital with Covid is also dropping and the number of people who have tested positive  has levelled off, even falling slightly.  The spike in all Covid parameters that was predicted after the return of children to school never happened, which is good news.  Booster vaccinations have started for those who have received their initial two jabs, and these are scheduled for six months after receiving the second vaccination.  Life goes on in England, with the relaxation on face masks, social distancing and meeting with friends still standing; let us hope we remain that way.  Some people are still wearing face masks, both publicly indoors and occasionally in the streets; that is their choice.  

Some of the fallout from three lockdowns is beginning to be felt, most notably the shortage of Heavy Goods Vehicle (HGV) drivers – driving lessons and tests of men and women having been suspended in the lockdowns, and the staff of the Driver Vehicle & Licensing Authority still largely working from home. This, combined with the loss of some European HGV drivers after Brexit and the epidemic, has resulted in a labour shortfall and some logistic problems. Some commodities are in short supply in supermarkets and several prices have increased. Last week a petrol company reported that it might have to ration fuel in about half a dozen of its thousands of service stations and the media latched on to this report with relish, advising the public “not to panic-buy fuel”. Of course, predictably, that is exactly what the British motorists did and it resulted in huge queues outside most petrol stations (there was no shortage of fuel, just a shortage of tanker drivers). That panic is now over, and the situation is back to normal. The UK is in the curious and possibly historically novel situation of having a surplus of jobs, with difficulty in filling the posts – the opposite of unemployment. Consequently, wages are increasing to attract employees, with the costs passed on to the consumer. The Civil Service and local government employees are, on the whole, still working from home (can’t be too careful – Death stalks the office), adding to inefficiency and delays in getting the country running again. As I walk the streets during the working day, I still encounter people of working age jogging, riding bikes or drifting around and wonder, why are these people not working or, more to the point, how can they continue to live without earning a wage? Granted, some of these people may be on holiday, working part time or on shift work, but I still strongly suspect that a significant number of them are people supposedly “working from home”.

The French are being horrible to us again because Australia decided to buy nuclear submarines from Britain and the USA rather than France, and because we won’t let French fishermen fish in British waters; there is talk of shutting off electricity to the Channel Islands, or even the British mainland, as punishment.  Britain has made a right pot mess of its energy policy, or rather its policy appears to be not to have a policy: in the hysterical drive to go Green and run down those nasty fossil fuelled power stations, no thought or planning seems to have been applied to what we will do for electricity when the wind does not blow and the sun does not shine.  Gas reserves are down to only four days and all future industrial nuclear power stations now have to be designed and erected by France or China as we have largely lost the expertise.  We do have an interconnector to enable us to buy electricity from France (currently out of action and, in any case, supply under threat) and a cable and interconnector have recently been established to enable us to buy electricity from Norway; but we really should be self sufficient for energy.  We have the technology to design and build nuclear reactors for submarines, so we could readily build a whole network of small reactors almost “off the shelf” at – say – 20MW each, providing sufficient power for 1,000 homes, but the public are terrified of nuclear power and no-one would want plants in their town.  A better solution might be to harness tidal power, with a guaranteed (at least) two tides a day.  This was looked at for the Severn estuary (which has one of the highest tidal rises in Britain) but the idea, so far, has been rejected because of the projected cost of £35 billion and concerns about hurting fish; the nuclear option comes out as a better bet.  Whatever, I have yet to be convinced that the Department of Energy has a grip on the situation.

So there we were, pottering away on the boat when suddenly I heard a distinctive sound.  We both shot up the companionway and scanned the skies.  Together we shouted,
“Spitfire!”
Sure enough, following the river valley, soared a Spitfire, complete with RAF roundels and WW2 colour scheme. But wasn’t it amazing that the two of us, independently, knew the sound of that Merlin engine straight away?  Neither of us was alive in WW2: Jane was brought up in the Caribbean and my childhood featured jet Hawker Hunters, Canberras and Lightnings.  Yet we knew the sound of that iconic aircraft immediately.  The aircraft returned several times that week, once when we were in Dartmouth; the reaction of the public there was exactly the same as ours: everyone pointed and smiled like schoolchildren.  I think I did read that the (older) Hawker Hurricane made a far greater contribution to winning the Battle of Britain than the Spitfire, but even if that is true, there is no escaping the characteristic sound of the Spitfire engine or those superb aerodynamic lines.  Beautiful.

Jane has discovered a firm called Fish to your Door (www.Fishtoyourdoor.com)  who will deliver locally caught fish at a very fair price.  We have used them before and have been very pleased with the product and the price.  Yesterday she ordered a ‘luxury fish box’ for £50, which usually contains a mixed selection of seafood based on the catch of the day.  Today it arrived and she opened the insulated box with great anticipation:
“Gosh, what do we have this time…monkfish, sea bass, plaice, salmon, cod, king prawns, fresh anchovies, smoked salmon, oysters…”
“Oysters?”
My naturally fertile imagination lurched into overdrive.
“Jane, I don’t suppose…?”
“Forget it.”

Fair enough I suppose.  Still, it was worth a try. It must be the spots making her grumpy.

7 October 2021

Blog 102. Flip-flop

Well, that’s Christmas mucked up for another year then. Boris has just done another of his U-turns and the writing is on the wall saying Christmas Is Cancelled. Having declared in July that almost all Covid restrictions have been removed in England irrevocably, he came on the television the other day to announce cheerfully what he called his “toolkit’ for dealing with the virus during the Autumn. Plan A was to give booster vaccinations to people over 50 and to give a single vaccination to children over 12 whether the parents agreed to it or not; however, Plan B – a punishment to all we naughty people if we continued to get ill – would be a return of social distancing, compulsory face mask wearing and lockdown. I despair. This government, lead by the Prime Idiot, has made more flip flops than a Taiwanese shoemaker. We were assured, of course, that Plan B would only be invoked in extremis, but we have heard all that before: the very fact that Boris has announced a Plan B means that it is quite likely to happen. Of course, this only applies to England: social distancing and face masks are still compulsory publicly indoors in Scotland and Wales, and the restrictions there have made no difference. Scotland has worse infection and death rates than England. On top of all this, a mass shortage of HGV drivers is already causing shortage of goods in some shops, so the odds are we won’t be able to buy a Christmas turkey anyway. Oh yes, and the Daily Telegraph has just announced that there is a growing energy crisis caused by a shortage of gas and general lack of strategic planning, so we might be going on a three-day week like we did in the 1970s, with power cuts. Excellent. Maybe we should all slit our throats now and get it over with. As it happens, the number of people tested positive for Covid in the UK is, at last, dropping as is the number of people admitted to hospital; the number of deaths from Covid has levelled off at about 1,000 a week after a very gradual climb; and the predicted wave of infections following the reopening of schools after the summer break never occurred. After eighteen months of living with this virus I have come to the conclusion that it does its own sweet thing no matter what precautions and restrictions we take: we really must learn to live with it and start behaving normally. Curiously, the trigger for invoking Plan B in England will, apparently, once again be “to protect the NHS” ie so that hospitals are not overwhelmed. That reason carried some weight eighteen months ago, but the NHS has since had that time to get its act in order and to gear up to deal with a high volume of infections. It would appear that it has not done so despite the recent hefty hike in funding and taxes, but it did find the time to employ 40 extra administrators on salaries in excess of that of the Prime Minister, and to hire more Diversity and Equality Officers. It is interesting: in the 1920s when tuberculosis was rife, the country built many specialist sanatoria specifically to treat patients with the disease; nearly 100 years later no-one seems to have thought of adopting a similar approach for Covid patients. Whatever, Jane and I and the other senior folk will be given booster vaccinations at the same time as receiving our annual ‘flu jab, and all we can do is hope that things work out all right. Note to self: must look out those candles and buy some paraffin.

I am a man alone.  Jane has gone off to Windsor to see the Queen and her castle, and I have been left to my own devices for the day.  Jane is a member of the local arts society and it arranged an organised trip to Windsor and some garden or other.  I would normally have gone with her, but I have a lodge meeting this evening so I could not go.  Also, the bunch of old women who run the society have decreed that those attending should wear face masks while getting on and off the bus, and so I would not have attended under those conditions on principle.  Jane has gone off with members of her coven instead, so here I am twiddling my thumbs all day.  Strict instructions were left with me before Jane left: lunch was to be the small pork pie in the large fridge, consumed with the remains of the three-day-old cheesy coleslaw that went off at midnight last night (“Smell it first – it’ll be OK…”)  I was not, under any circumstances, to eat the large pork pie in the small fridge, which was destined for consumption on the boat tomorrow.  I was also invited to eat some of the small trifle left over from yesterday’s dinner, with the metaphorically underlined caveat that some was to be left for her supper when she returned this evening (I took this to mean “eat that trifle at your peril”).  With these last instructions hovering in the air, Jane thus departed for the bus leaving the breakfast table uncleared, the toaster in disarray and her napkin not replaced into its napkin ring.  Clearly, she believed that I needed things to occupy my day.  Ho hum.

This fascination that women seem to have for keeping their husbands gainfully employed never ceases to amaze me; it is almost as if they believe that the devil makes work for idle hands.  A very wise old friend once told me sagely that women cannot bear to see men enjoy themselves (as evidenced by the fact that many women prefer to make love in the dark), and I have found this broadly to be true.  I have lost count of the number of times I have checked with Jane if I can help with cooking or other task that she is engaged on, have been dismissed with a ‘no thank you’, have settled myself down with a cup of tea to watch a re-run of the first episode of Midsomer Murders, only then to be summoned for some task or other just as I put my feet up.  In passing, I mentioned my friend’s pronouncement to the delivery driver from Mr Muck when he dropped off a ton of compost the other day and his previously lugubrious expression sprang to life: clearly I had struck a chord.
“How right that man is!”, he said.
“I make model aeroplanes”, he went on, “and the other day I asked my wife if she needed any help with anything.  She said no.  So I spread out all the tiny components on my desk and started assembling them.  Just as I got around to the trickiest tiny detail she demanded that I stop what I was doing and go with her to buy curtains.  I couldn’t believe it!”
With that, he dumped his muck and drove off to the next customer.  So there you are, it must be true if a random sample in the compost trade confirms it.  Women simply cannot bear to see men enjoying themselves. Trust me on this.

We are enjoying something of an Indian summer here in Melbury, with temperatures distinctly temperate and very little rain.  Apparently it is a spin off from a hurricane that has caused all manner of mayhem in North America, thus proving that it is an ill wind that blows nobody any good.  We are off to the boat again tomorrow to try to make the most of the benign conditions and to prepare the vessel for winter.  We may even be able to take advantage of our inflatable tender to actually go somewhere.  The last time we were down we anchored off Bow Creek on the River Dart, launched the dinghy, and tried to motor up the creek two hours after Low Water on a flooding tide to visit the hostelry at the end, but ran into trouble half way up: first the outboard motor’s propeller started catching the riverbed, to I shut the motor down, hoisted it in, and deployed the oars.  When the oars themselves started hitting the bottom, and the water depth was apparently six inches, we had to admit defeat and turn around.  One day, one day…

When it comes to riverbeds I do have form, I’m afraid: when we had our narrowboat we ran aground several times, but that was always in fresh water on the inland waterways, so I would argue that those incidents don’t count.  The last time would have been in the year 8 or 9, as I recall, on the River Thames at King’s Lock upstream of Oxford.  The lock-keeper was at lunch so I dropped Jane off at the jetty to get the lock ready while I waited, preparing myself mentally to perform the highly skilled task of bringing a seven-foot-wide narrowboat into a twenty-foot-wide lock (look, there is a knack to it).  Anyway, I became bored with waiting at the jetty so I took the boat away to idle my time sailing in a number of circles in the large weir pool downstream of the lock.  Some boats were moored up there on the lock island, so – clearly – the water was deep enough.  Or not.  I got half way round the pool and literally ground to a halt.  No problem, I thought, engage full astern and back out the way I had come.  She wouldn’t budge.  I then noticed that the large patch of green reeds that I had seen in the centre of the pool was, in fact, grass.  Oh dear.  In the meantime, Jane had prepared the lock for my entrance, opened the gates, and found that I had apparently disappeared.  Never easily beaten, and suspicious that I might be enjoying myself, she made her way over to the lock island to look for me and eventually appeared on the bank opposite.  There then followed a stream of questions, followed by helpful advice, starting with,
“What are you doing there?” (reply, “Not much”),
passing through,
“Why did you do that?”
and eventually ending with,
“Have you tried going astern?”. 
I tried all manner of manoeuvres and rocking the boat under power without result, but she still wouldn’t budge.  There seemed nothing for it but to jump off and push her off.  I went up for’d and gazed at the water.  Just as I was about to jump, Jane took charge again from the bank:
“You are not to jump off!  Horatio, I forbid it! You don’t know how deep it is.  Do – you –  hear – what – I – say?”
I jumped off.
And the water came up to my ankles.
In the end, I had to pump out all of the boat’s freshwater to lighten her bow, then return to the water and simply push the boat off before swimming around to the stern, clambering aboard, and puttering ignominiously back to the lock by the same route as I had entered.  Jane, in the meantime, spent her time locking through several other boats as an impromptu lock-keeper, picking wild flowers, gazing at the birds and bees, and chatting to the lock-keeper when he returned from lunch.  I eventually entered the lock, standing on the quarterdeck in a large pool of water that streamed from my clothes.
“Did you fall in?”, asked the lock-keeper.
“Not exactly.  I ran aground in the weir pool”
“Oh God, you didn’t go up there did you?  It’s very shallow.  People are always getting stuck there.  We really must sink some navigation buoys at the entrance to warn people”
Now you tell me, I thought.  Never mind.  The water was most refreshing and it provided an hour of diversion on a sunny day.

I was a Volunteer Lock-keeper on the River Thames for several years, and thoroughly enjoyed the experience. I learned a great deal and I met some lovely people. The River Thames has 45 locks, stretching from Lechlade in Gloucestershire – near to the source of the Thames in the Cotswolds – to Teddington in Greater London, part of Richmond upon Thames. Downstream of Teddington, the Thames is tidal. One of the things I learned as a lock-keeper was how ignorant many people were regarding the purpose of a lock and weir: one American, for example, once asked me why we did not do away with all the locks and weirs, and let the river run naturally. My reply was that we could, but the towns and cities on the Thames would then flood every winter, and navigation on the resulting shallow river would be virtually impossible (entering lecture mode here – pay attention). Each of the 45 locks on the Thames comprises a lock island in the middle of the river, with a weir connecting the island to one bank, and a lock connecting the island to the other bank. Each island houses a delightful chocolate-box style lock cottage in which the lock-keeper and his or her family lives, and a large garden. Often, the island also houses a small camping site with showers and WCs, available to book for hikers on the Thames Path or boaters emulating the book “Three Men in a Boat”. Almost all lock-sites are in a picturesque rural setting and are idyllic. A weir is essentially a controlled dam, with gates that can be raised or lowered to control the depth of water upstream of the lock to within a few inches; control is undertaken by the lock-keeper, 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, in all weathers, and he or she will be kept very busy in times of heavy rain. Damming the river in this way holds back the stream to flood pre-determined flood plains in the countryside rather than allowing it to flood towns and cities downstream. Clearly, a river with a dam across it cannot be navigated, so on the other side of the lock island is a lock: a chamber with gates at each end, that can be filled or emptied using sluices, to transport boats up or down stream: a sort of water-based single-step staircase. Nowadays, boats that use the locks are mainly recreational craft – narrowboats, barges or gin palaces (see Blog 56) – but a few commercial craft also use the facility. All the Thames locks are manned, though out of season sometimes the job is shared and locks manned on a part-time basis. All the locks from Oxford downstream have hydraulically powered gates and weirs, but the rural locks from Oxford to Lechlade are manually operated, as are a few weirs. I was based on one of the manual locks, so it was quite hard work, but the lock was in the middle of the countryside and a joy to visit. I supported the resident lock-keeper so he could take breaks or his lunch, or while he was maintaining the island or tending the garden. The lock-keeper at my lock kept chickens, which defecated on the logbook if not watched and had to be chased off with a water pistol; the lock-keeper also won prizes for his herbaceous borders. I met some very nice people as they passed through the lock, the process of opening and closing the gates, then the sluices, being – of necessity – a slow careful process that facilitated a gentle conversation with boaters. In some cases I was probably the only person a boater had seen all day, so they were happy to talk and, of course, the general public sometimes drifted down to a lock simply to watch the boats go by or have a chat. I only stopped doing the job because the Thames was a good 60 miles or so from where I lived and I grew weary of the commuting, despite the fact that it was only once a week in Summer. So there you are: a potted description of locks, weirs, floods and lock-keepers on the River Thames. I can recommend a boating holiday on the River Thames or, if you prefer, walking the Thames Path following the river from Lechlade to the Thames Barrier, camping at a lock island every night. You won’t regret it, and the River Thames upstream of Oxford is particularly magical in its beauty.

Right.  Can’t sit here writing all day: the sun is out and I must give that dodgy coleslaw a sniff while catching up on Vitamin D.  If I don’t write again then you will know that Jane has poisoned me.  Now which pork pie was it that I was supposed to eat?

20 September 2021

Blog 101. Esso Blue.

Senility is beginning to assert itself and I am appalled that it has dared to attack so soon after my 70th birthday.  I have developed ear worms.  You must have heard of ear worms.  No, not those horrible things from the planet Zarg that they put in Chekov’s ear in that episode of Star Trek.  I mean the phenomenon of a tune that plays in your mind on a constant loop, so that you end up singing or whistling it incessantly.  Typically, as the affliction is happening to me, the tune is not something classy like the Second Movement of Dvořák’s New World Symphony; it is not even Jupiter from Holsts’s Planet Suite.  No, the tune I am currently stuck with is a jingle from 1960s British commercial television, advertising pink paraffin [kerosene to Americans] to the tune of Smoke Gets In Your Eyes by The Platters:

They asked me how I knew,
It was Esso Blue.
I of course replied,
“With lower grades one buys,
Smoke gets in your eyes”.

Now where on earth has that come from?  Somewhere in the lumber room of my brain? I suppose it deserves full marks for the advertising executive who came up with the jingle sixty years ago, though it will not help Esso much now; who buys paraffin in bulk these days apart from airlines?  Of course, in the 1950s and 1960s it was common to use the stuff for heating: our house initially had no central heating so a large paraffin heater dominated the upstairs landing on winter nights, throwing out a tremendous amount of heat and gurgling periodically, like a giant swallowing.  I can remember the overnight sound to this day. Now, paraffin heaters are relegated to greenhouses and outhouses, if used at all, and it wouldn’t surprise me to discover that that heater we had back in 1963 was dangerous by today’s health and safety standards.  What is left is that damned tune that I can’t get rid of.

August is drawing to a close with cool temperatures and soon the little blighters children will be back at school, their parents will be back at work, and the country’s beauty spots will quieten down again.  Or so I hope.  It is not that I begrudge folk a well-deserved holiday after several lockdowns, but rather that the tendency for so many people to remain in England for their holiday this year has resulted in gross overcrowding in resorts and national parks, and choked roads.  Cornwall seems to have been particularly badly affected, with queues reported not only of cars and other vehicles, but of pedestrians.  We spoke to one chap who had just returned from a holiday in Newquay and he recounted how he had had to queue to get into shops, to queue to get into pubs and to queue to get a seat in a restaurant or café; this on top of queueing in a car to get into Cornwall and queuing in a car to get out.  Our neighbours have just returned from four days staying near Penzance and they could not even get booked in to a restaurant or activity: all were fully booked.  Some holiday.  Another contact, who lived in Newquay, said it took him two hours just to get across town – the main delay being pedestrians in the road.  Dear oh dear, it is far easier to stay at home and just go for walks in the countryside.

The other day we decided to do just that. It took the form of a re-run of our first walk recounted in Blog 35, in those heady days of March 2020 at the very beginning of the epidemic, when the virus was young and we thought it would all be over by Christmas. I had been keeping that re-run for the day when the epidemic was over and lockdown was lifted: something to look forward to. Well, we haven’t yet achieved that goal and I am beginning to wonder if we ever will, in the entirety; but it may be the closest we will get. The last time, we did the walk from Much Deeping through Clyst Magna and Little Wallop then back to Much Deeping and spent a restful period eating sandwiches and drinking coffee from a flask in the churchyard at Clyst Magna. The printed directions that I had at the time proved faulty and we ended up scrambling through a quarry before traversing precariously across a noisome farmyard silage pit. This time, I decided to plan the route myself and to travel in the opposite direction: there would be no pitfalls as we would be walking on a designated National Path labelled The White Mare Way. We parked our car, as before, in the church carpark of Much Deeping and set off through the village with the sun shining: down a road, up a cut, down someone’s private drive, and out into the countryside – heading for the site of Bovington Castle (or so it said on the map). Through cornfields and meadow we strode, and met no-one. We are blessed, in England and Wales, by having access to the countryside across Public Rights of Way established over centuries, with (in principle) gates, stiles, bridges and paths across cultivated land maintained throughout. Theoretically, in Scotland the situation is better still, with access granted to pass on anyone’s land subject to obvious exceptions, such as crops, private gardens and developments. In practice the situation in the UK is somewhat varied, with stiles sometimes broken or overgrown, dense crops obstructing paths or bulls in fields. Still, it is a privilege worth hanging onto and a system worth tolerating. The first sign of difficulty for us on this particular walk came when we were (supposedly) at the site of Bovington Castle at the bottom of a steep escarpment and a section of the path was blocked by maize. I don’t know if you have ever tried walking through a field of maize six feet high, but let me assure you that you soon become lost and disorientated because you can see no landmarks; nothing, in fact, but maize. Years ago we once went for a walk in such a field with some friends and actually started walking in circles: we only managed to get out by using a GPS to direct us to the stile on the opposite side of the field. This also proved to be the case on this occasion, but I was prepared for it and had my trusty digital Ordnance Map literally at hand, on my iPhone. It was a pity I did not also have a machete to cut our way through the crops, but we made it across in the end and staggered into the next field, where the farmer was apparently cultivating nettles, triffids, thistles and other hostile plants for reasons not at all clear to me. I must say, his crop was doing very well as the plants were five or six feet tall in places. We plodded on, following the contour line as per the map, me making reassuring confident noises and Jane grumbling mightily. Finally, we reached a high hedge of prickly hawthorn at the spot where, according to GPS, the stile should be. It was not there. Jane had insisted on taking her turn at carrying the rucksack on this trip, despite my protestations, and it just so happened that, at this point, it was her turn to carry it. I duly passed over the load and told her that, newly enlightened, I would set off uphill through the undergrowth to find the gap, while she followed slowly. I promised that I would return before nightfall. I battled upwards, stumbling over mounds and falling into badger setts, often losing sight of the horizon and soon out of grumbling range of Jane. Quite suddenly, out of the undergrowth appeared a man clutching a map, carrying a rucksack and wielding a very professional staff. We greeted each other and it transpired that he was on the same mission as I was: to find a way through the hedge. He, too, reckoned that we were at the correct place for the stile. We agreed to separate and to call out if we were successful. I advised him to look out for a grumbling woman with strawberry blond hair as he searched, but he said he thought he had already met her: apparently he had passed a very vocal woman in the undergrowth who had fallen over and was not at all happy. Five minutes later I finally found the gap in the hedge (not in the correct place according to the map) and I called out. Two minutes later Jane emerged from the undergrowth, her hair covered in bits of grass like a scarecrow, her clothes in disarray and her fleece covered in burrs.
“I’ve been stung!”, she said in an angry forthright manner, as if it were my fault.
“What by?”, I asked.
“Nettles and thistles”.
“Where?”
“Everywhere!”
She had stumbled in the long grass and fallen into a large patch of stinging plants. Encumbered by the rucksack like a large turtle, she had then proceeded to roll over in the stuff to make sure she got both sides done. She tried to get up, then fell over onto her back again. Finally, reaching for a dock leaf to neutralise the nettle stings, she managed to collect a third batch of stings. She was, it is fair to say, seriously cheesed off and it was All My Fault for picking that route. What could I say? I always thought she loved gardens and wild flowers, but wisely kept silence. I plucked the bits of grass and dandelions out of her hair, took back the rucksack and offered to treat the nettle stings using potions from the very comprehensive first aid kit contained therein. It seemed the only thing to do. She refused, but I accepted her decision and the lash of her tongue philosophically as a man does: my back is broad and the scars are many. We continued on our way through the hedge into the next field, me bringing up the rear and following the noise.

The rest of the walk was not too bad. Soon we emerged into more open countryside and passed through Little Wallop before finally stopping in the churchyard at Clyst Magna as before. There, in the sunshine, we sat peacefully on a bench and ate our egg rolls, washed down with coffee from our flask, just as we had 18 months before. It was delightful, with England at its best and all of the world’s problems literally miles away. Soon, alas, we had to continue the final part of our journey: a very steep climb up the road from the village, back to the high ground. This was a killer, coming so late in the hike, and we only achieved it by taking it in stages of about fifty paces, then resting. Jane said that we should have taken the route in the opposite direction as before, as that would have been easier. I could not get across to her that if you climb down an escarpment of x feet, walk on the level, but then need to return to your starting point, then you will, inevitably, have to climb up x feet at some stage. This lesson in physics did not find favour with her, so I wisely decided to switch off lecture mode. Perhaps her nettle stings were bothering her. At last we reached the top of the hill and set off across the plain to the church at Much Deeping, far in the distance, where we had left our car. My hernia was giving me grief (such a joy to be old) and the two of us finally limped across the finishing line, me clutching my groin, having completed 10 miles up hill and down dale, through nettles, thistles, maize and hawthorn, awash with egg rolls and coffee, and covered in nettle stings. We never did see the remains of Bovington Castle – it was supposed to be the remains of an Iron Age fort and, later, a Norman castle. I think it must have been razed years ago and existed only in history and as a place on the map. Covering ten miles should have been nothing to us for we have walked sixteen miles before now, but we were absolutely shattered when we reached the car. It took us two days to recover. Still, it was good to be out – you never know when Boris will decide to lock us all up again.

Covid is still with us and reported infections are still climbing quite steeply. Unlike earlier in the epidemic, hospitalisations and deaths are not climbing at anything like the same rate as cases, but they are still rising weekly nonetheless, with no sign – at present – of levelling off. Average weekly deaths attributed to Covid in the UK are of the order of 750. There is now a belief in the scientific community that the efficacy of vaccines wears off over time, so that more fully-vaccinated people are now catching or dying from the virus. A booster shot in September is still being considered. We are far better off than the people of Australia and New Zealand, where the governments have locked down both countries with the vain hope of eliminating Covid altogether, though there have been few cases, fewer deaths, and a poor vaccination programme. Borders internally and externally in Australia have been closed and the very strict lockdown and curfew is being enforced by a draconian police force, supported by the army. One man was thrown to the ground by the police because he was not wearing a face mask and promptly had a heart attack; another man, on a train, was jailed for the same reason. Australians may remove their face coverings outside to drink coffee, but not to drink alcohol. There is a $1,000 fine for failing to wear a face covering, rising to $11,000 for continued defiance. The country and state premiers in Australia frequently berate their constituents for the rising infection rates in the country, claiming it is all their fault. What sort of country in the so-called free world, one founded on the principles of English law, sets the army on its citizens and treats them like that? To think that I actually considered emigrating to there at one time. No thanks, I’ll stick to Blighty and Boris for now.

Poor Jane, she has been in the wars again. Now she has gone deaf in one ear and has been diagnosed as having ‘sudden sensory hearing loss’, the treatment for which is a massive dose of steroids for a week.  The side effects of this are that she may put on weight and that the drugs destroy her immunity system temporarily.  Just the thing to have in a Covid epidemic.  Naturally, for this reason, we have ceased socialising or mixing until she regains her normal defences again.  I only hope it all works: so far, she says that her hearing has recovered though she has gained two kilograms.  She has an appointment with an Ear, Nose and Throat (ENT) consultant at the hospital in the Big City next week.  Jane has scoured the internet and identified every measure, potion, pill or elixir that claims to improve the body’s defences.  She intends to take them all.  I am fine, thank you for asking, apart from that hernia that I don’t like to talk about: someone has to stay fit and well to look after Jane.  As I write, she has just emerged from listening to a medical programme on the wireless that said that sunshine and Vitamin D will give her strong bones, healthy teeth and a glossy coat, and she is determined to exploit the new knowledge immediately.  I am, accordingly, summoned to sit with her outside in the weak sunshine and northerly wind to soak in the rays (summer is over here in Melbury).  She commands; I obey.  Now where is that sweater?

Boom, boom, boom, boom: Esso Blue. Arrrrgh!

29 August 2021

Blog 100. Mustn’t Grumble…

I have had a complaint.  No, not a complaint about being a dangerous insensitive bigot, espousing the outdated views of the the 20th century (that position is still available), but for being too technical in my blogs.  A friend of mine has commented that she enjoyed my writings, but found that about a third of the content was too technical and boring for her.  I was delighted that it was just one third, quite frankly.  I took the point onboard, of course, and it was a fair point; but I suggested to her that if I had omitted some of the technical detail with an explanation on the lines of,
“Don’t bother your pretty little head with this my dear, it’s too technical for women to understand,”
then a raging mob of females would have been clamouring for my head and other extraneous parts, and rightly so.  The thing is, I do not write with a target audience in mind: I just share my experiences in life and jot down what I find interesting at that time with the odd opinion thrown in.  I am flattered that some people seem to like my musings (I have a modest international following), but I recognise that not all of the content is of interest to everyone.  Other friends say that they just skip over the boring bits, and I am working on the theory that one person’s boring bit is another persons’s genuine interest.  So there you go: can’t please everyone, but if I can please someone, somewhere, then I am content.

So stand by for a technical bit about the pitfalls of owning an electric car.  If you think that this may be boring and just want a summary, then jump to Paragraph 9.  If you want to skip it all and move to the travel and culinary section, then jump to Paragraph 10.  

I write this piece partly because the UK government has declared that no more internal combustion engined (ICE) cars will be sold in the country after 2030, nine years from now.  Some people may, therefore, be considering buying an electric car and wondering what the pros and cons are; well, here goes.

Range anxiety.  Have you heard of the term?  No, it’s not about the Red Indians worried about the white settlers invading the prairies where the deer and the antelope play.  It’s to do with electric cars: the concern that new electric car owners have that their car batteries will run out of energy before they can recharge them.  And I have just had a basinful – not of energy, but of range anxiety.
You see, we wanted to travel to Tyneside to see my brother and his wife, to pack in a bit of a holiday by the seaside, and to see how much the old home town had degenerated since I took my hand off the tiller and moved Down South.  Tyneside is about 320 miles away and it usually takes us 5 ½ hours to get there by car.  But now, of course, we have an electric car, making a relatively simple journey just that little bit more complicated.  I love my electric car, not because I am Green, but because it is wonderfully efficient.  Used mainly for fairly local journeys (ie out to about 60 miles) it is perfect, for it recoups energy whenever you decelerate, it is quiet, it does not pollute and it is very cheap to run; there is (currently) no annual Road Tax to pay and on some days I recharge the battery using the sun via the photovoltaic panels on my house roof.  On many local journeys, an ICE car never even gets up to full operating temperature and this is bad for efficiency, bad for the engine and bad for the environment because of the incomplete combustion that results.  Travel further than, say, 100 miles in most electric cars, however, and consideration has to be given to where you will recharge on the road: a bit like Wells Fargo looking to change the horses on their stage coaches as they cross the Wild West.  And there’s the rub: drive a car with an ICE and there is no problem with refuelling, for service stations are everywhere – you just stop at the next one as it appears on the horizon and fill up; the car will probably have a range, on a full tank, of about 350 miles or more.  This is not so for recharging an electric car: not only are the chargers few and far between, they are of various types, supplied by various agencies, operated by different means, and are of variable reliability; and that is before you take account of the fact that others may already be using them.  Now my car is a Nissan Leaf with a 40 kilowatt hour (kWh) battery that has, in the summer, a predicted range of 170 miles.  Theoretically, we would only need to recharge once on a 320 miles journey.  However, there needs to be a margin for contingency planning, for not finding a charger working at the 170 mile point and having to find another.  So knock that range down a bit. I tend to recharge when the battery reaches 40% – 50%, or roughly when my remaining range is 50 miles.  Incidentally, if your battery does run out of energy in an electric car, your breakdown service will transport you to the nearest working charger and, in some circumstances, will pay for you to stay in a hotel overnight.

Still with me so far? Right: there are generally three ways to charge an electric car. At the bottom end, you can plug it into a simple domestic AC 13A socket, which is fine if you are staying somewhere overnight: it will take me, for example, about thirteen hours to charge a completely flat battery in the UK with its 220V domestic voltage. The next level up is the ‘Fast’ or ‘Level 2’ AC chargers that can be found on bollards or posts in some supermarket carparks, at workplaces, or may be installed at home; they charge at 7kW so will take, for example, six hours to recharge my car from flat. Finally, there are the ‘Rapid’ or ‘Level 3’ chargers: they are the big boxes with the thick cables you may see at motorway service stations or on trunk roads and they use DC at up to 480 volts and about 100 amps to charge a battery quickly (to further complicate matters there are two types of connector for Rapid chargers, and a third unique to Teslas, but the principle is the same). Rapid chargers will take about 30 minutes to charge my car to 80% capacity and they are the ones to aim for if on a long journey – you go off for a coffee or comfort break while the operation takes place (the rate of charge slows rapidly after 80%, so the norm is to recharge no further than that point). Are there lots of these? Well, at two motorway service stations I stopped at on the M5 and M1, there was only one at each, yes one; the most I have seen so far at these locations was two. So you will see that a potentially big list of public charging stations has now been whittled down to a much smaller list of actually usable places suitable to support long journeys. You find these public chargers, by the way, using a map-based App on your iPhone or computer, called ZapMap, which is free to use.

So how do you pay for this?  The Level 2 AC chargers that you may see on bollards in some supermarket or public carparks are often free to use – you have to use your own charging lead to connect, but otherwise they are good value – but they are no use on a long journey as they are slow to charge.  Different suppliers have different ways of obtaining their fee for the electricity.  The best Rapid charging stations simply work on contactless: you connect up, wave your credit card at the machine and you are away.  Others work on an RFID card that you have obtained from the supplier: you create an account and give the supplier your bank or credit card details.  All also have an App that works on an iPhone or whatever, and some work only from the App (and so are dependent on a good mobile phone reception).  To date I have 15 Apps and associated RFID cards and the list is growing as I discover a new supplier. The charge for electricity ranges from £0.25 to £0.40 per kWh, so a recharge to 80% costs, typically, £5 – £6.

Given all this, I knew I would have to plan the journey to Tyneside, not just with regard to the route, as I normally would, but also with planned recharging stops.  The factors I have outline above also required me to identify alternative locations to be used if the first choice of chargers were not available – rather like an airline pilot has to plan for emergency landing strips and alternatives.  Fortunately, the  ZapMap App tells you where every single charge point is in the British Isles, their type, the supplier, the cost, and whether they are currently working or occupied.  Armed with this piece of software and my trusty spreadsheet I drew up a comprehensive journey plan that General Eisenhower would have been proud of.   So began The Grand Tour.

I won’t burden you with the detail. In a 320 mile journey to Tyneside we recharged four times, five if you count the top-up at journey’s end. Each stop lasted at least 20 minutes. Both chargers at one motorway service station were out of action, diverting us to our alternative charger further up the route. One other charging station was occupied, so we used a second planned alternative. On arrival in Tyneside, four of the planned chargers were either in use or unusable, necessitating a frantic diversion to a fifth in a different town. Finally, in Sunderland, we came across the King of Charging Stations: a station rather like a petrol filling station, run by an outfit called Fastned, and comprising six Rapid chargers. We drove in, we connected up, I waved my credit card at the screen, and we were done. Excellent, but why are there no more of them?
Moving on from Sunderland to visit our friends in Altrincham in Greater Manchester, we discovered – much to our surprise – that that vast metropolitan area, ringed by its many busy urban motorways, had very few Rapid chargers. Very kindly, our friends Sam and Laura in Altrincham invited us to park our car in their drive on arrival, and plug in to their domestic supply. The relief I felt at not having to prowl around Greater Manchester seeking an available and working Rapid charging station was immense, and we relaxed for the first time in the entire trip. Journey time from Sunderland to Altrincham, 130 miles away, but by an indirect route across the Derbyshire Dales to avoid the motorways, required three recharges, all without problem. Finally, the journey south from Altrincham to home in Barsetshire was undertaken on conventional roads as we have always done, the M6 and M5 being very congested and prone to blockages. We recharged three times without problem, though we did have to queue for ten minutes at a motorway service station to connect up. We flopped into the house after about seven hours. The Grand Tour was over and we were exhausted mentally and physically.

In summary, I expected a long journey by electric car to be a bit more difficult than going by a conventional ICE car, but I thought I should give it a try – to push the boundaries, as they say.  It proved to be not so much difficult as to be very stressful, to require careful planning, and to be something of an endurance test.  On the plus side, it was an adventure (shall we say), it cost only about £20 to travel from home to Tyneside, and we have seen a lot of places where we would otherwise not have stopped.  On the minus side, I rarely relaxed on the whole trip except at Altrincham.  Conclusions: while electric cars are excellent for short to medium journeys from home of up to, say, 60 miles (which, for most car owners, may be the commonest usage), they are not really suitable for long journeys unless they have a very large capacity battery.  The UK simply does yet not have sufficient fast public chargers on its main trunk roads and motorways to support the majority of electric cars, as they are currently configured, for long journeys.

With that technical section out of the way, normal service has now been resumed.  Welcome back.  Now, about that holiday.

We do not normally programme in an overnight stop on a journey to Tyneside but, as we knew this journey would take longer, we thought we would plan for a break. Doncaster, that well-known haven of sophistication, aesthetic delights and tweeness seemed as good a place as any, particularly as we expected to be passing through there at the five-hour point. Our initial thought was to stay at a Premier Inn or Holiday Inn, where one is usually guaranteed a good night’s sleep even if the culinary delights are unsophisticated. However, I discovered the Best Western Premier Mount Pleasant Hotel on the outskirts of Doncaster, which came with very good reviews, particularly for the food, so we booked a room there for the night. In my comments on booking, I asked (only semi facetiously) for a top floor room away from any noise, dogs or children. I received a very straight-laced reply that they could not guarantee that on a Saturday night. It was to prove a prophetic response.
The Mount Pleasant Hotel turned out to be a very impressive establishment built in extensive grounds on only two floors in a sort of square doughnut configuration; we later discovered that it had been converted from the stables and other outbuildings of a large country estate. The landscaped grounds were immaculate and the building itself was well found and maintained, presenting an overall welcoming impression of comfort and affluence. There was a large carpark and even a single electric car charger, albeit only a 13A domestic socket, that we plugged into (free) for the night. This, we thought as we approached the grand semi-circular entrance, was our sort of place. The first sign I had that, perhaps, something was going to rain on my parade was when I saw a car being unloaded by a collection of boisterous and plain-speaking northern young ladies carrying long dresses and clutching impossibly high heels. Oh God, I thought, I have broken one of my rules for booking holiday accommodation; how could I have forgotten it? Shacklepin’s First Law of Hotels: never, ever, ever book a hotel that also hosts weddings. Inside the hotel foyer hordes of people milled around, some booking in, others just drifting about. A large lady, wearing a sash that proclaimed “Mother of the Bride”, swept past followed by a marauding band of noisy feral children; a family arrived after us, wearing Sports Direct designer shorts and flip-flops. With a crash, my hopes of a quiet, select stay among like-minded people, pancaked on the hard reception floor. However, we had no choice other than to make the most of it, and Jane was hissing at me to stop grumbling and overreacting. Because of Covid, the reception desk was screened by perspex with a tiny slot in the bottom like you find in the Post Office. This, along with the fact that the receptionist wore a mask, the hard floors in the foyer, and general noise of everyone in the area, made hearing and communicating very difficult: I ended up bending down and shouting or listening through the little slot in the perspex which, I suppose, rather cancelled out the purpose of the screen. Never mind, the receptionist was most helpful and welcoming, and we were soon trundling our luggage up to our first floor room. The room was large, well appointed, and very comfortable with a luxurious en suite bathroom and a walk-in shower. Alas, the view from the room was of the inner roof tops, but one could hardly expect the hotel to allocate us a scenic room for just one night’s stay. We were very pleased. We did have problems with the television, but that was fixed promptly by the Assistant Manager, a delightful man who came from Barbados and who swapped stories about the Caribbean with Jane. At the appointed time, Jane and I changed into our smart clothes and went down to the restaurant for dinner. We entered the bar, with its long tables, hard floors and banquette layout, and ordered pre dinner drinks. Where, we enquired, was the restaurant? The reply was that we were already in it. I gazed around like a visitor to the zoo. Fellow drinkers mostly wore vests or polo shirts, and slacks or (I shudder) denim. Some wore shorts. To think that I had debated with myself whether to wear a tie with my jacket, before deciding – daringly – to go open-necked. Jane wore a lightweight summer dress and high-heels. We both looked a bit incongruous. Never mind, fairly quickly we were whisked into the inner chamber where there was more banquette seating, complemented by hard composite-topped tables. Virtually all the outer walls were of glass, with fine views over a terrace (with more tables) and the garden. On a bright, hot, summer’s day it would probably have been breathtaking and the perfect place to eat. Alas, on an overcast evening in Yorkshire, first impressions were not quite so good. I’m afraid that, at the time, it reminded me of a works’ canteen, but – on reflection – that is a little harsh. The fact is though, the restaurant did not have the comfortable warm ambience that I would have preferred: the hard surfaces and mock-timber floors made for poor acoustics and all the glass doors to the terrace being open made the restaurant freezing. I assumed that the hefty ventilation was to combat Covid, but it could have been because Yorkshire folk thought the temperature outside was tropical. Jane shivered in her summer dress and even I was barely comfortable. The menu, when it came, was all right without being as imaginative as we expected from the reviews. Jane was so cold that she ordered the soup to warm herself up; she proclaimed it to be “nice”: that most English of English adjectives that ranks something as passable without getting too carried away. I had the terrine, which was well-presented and delicious. Jane had a breast of chicken as a main course (declared as “all right”); I had pan-fried salmon fillet coated with pesto, which was of a very high standard. The service was excellent: friendly, efficient and prompt – ranking among the best I have ever had in a restaurant. Overall, I enjoyed the food more than Jane, who basically was so cold that she could not relax. The high point was having a lively conversation with a party of Yorkshire people on the next table, who proved delightful company and were very friendly. When they heard that Jane was cold one of them simply got up and shut all the external glass doors:
“You’re in Yorkshire now, lass. We say and do what we think, and don’t muck about”.
And so to bed for a good night’s sleep. Or not. Shacklepin’s Second Law of Hotels: never, ever, choose one that does live music.
We retired at the early time of 2130, being shattered after our journey, and sat reading. Shortly afterwards, the music started: thump, thump, thump. We looked at each other. The music was coming from almost directly beneath us: so much for the request for a quiet room away from any noise. The music and beat became louder as the evening wore on, but we were so tired that we still dozed off fitfully, and it probably stopped at about 2300, which was reasonable. At 0030 we were woken by loud noises, slamming doors and drunken arguments from the corridor outside; we drifted off again. At 0330 there was a large BANG outside in the corridor, followed by harsh words, muttering, an altercation and more slamming doors; we later were to discover that a guest returning to his room must have swayed into a heavy portrait on the wall in the corridor, which then fell to the ground with a resounding ‘crash’. We drifted back to sleep. We had had to book a time for breakfast, which was a ‘first’ for us, but on the day the staff were not fazed when we presented ourselves early. Breakfast was a buffet affair in the restaurant, served with excellent coffee. There was another wedding scheduled that day and the whole area was buzzing, despite it being fairly early on a Sunday morning. I enjoyed the food, but I don’t do noisy or sociable breakfasts; the occasion filled a little hole, but was hardly breakfast at the Athenaeum Club, and soon we were on on the road again. Overall, it was a delightful up-market hotel with absolutely first class welcoming staff, well-cooked food and very comfortable accommodation. Alas, it was too noisy, too busy and, perhaps, a little too much ‘of the people’ for us. It might be a good place to stay for a week’s holiday provided, of course, that the hotel wasn’t hosting a wedding or offering a tribute to a rock band.

And so to Sunderland, and a stay at the Hilton Garden Hotel right next to Sunderland United football ground, The Stadium of Light.  The location does not sound very prepossessing and, indeed, the view from our room was of the side of a football stadium preceded by acres of carpark.  However, we had stayed before (Blog 28) and had found it to be big, modern, comfortable, and exceptionally good value at about £67 a night for B&B.  The trick, of course, is to check the Sunderland United website before booking, and to make sure that the team is not playing at home during one’s intended stay.  The hotel had not changed: it was still very comfortable, with every member of staff whom we met friendly, welcoming and helpful without exception.  Our room was large, contemporary and of the standard layout – the only minor ‘down’ side was that the carpet was badly stained with coffee or tea in parts and would have benefitted from either a deep clean or, more likely,  being replaced.  We dined in the restaurant that night and the food was fine without being particularly exciting.  I had shredded pigs’ cheeks with greens and creamed potato, which was a pleasant surprise and very enjoyable; Jane opted for simple fish and chips.  The nice thing about modern hotels that are part of a chain is that they are usually predictable and of a known uniform quality.  You do not expect great things in the restaurant, but the food is wholesome.  Overall, we were delighted with the hotel and very likely would stay again: at least we managed to get three nights of perfect, quiet, sleep.

I’m afraid Sunderland, or what we saw of it, was not terribly impressive.  The city came across as very dirty and industrial, with litter blowing around the streets and grit getting into your eyes.  At the car charging station by the River Wear there was a little viewing platform that was approached down some steps from a carpark.  I went down to look at the Wear, where my father’s ships had been moored many a time, and found that the viewing platform was covered in discarded food cartons, old rags, bits of timber, drink cans, and parts of a bicycle: it had apparently been used as a bedding area for a tramp.  I tried reporting the litter to Sunderland City Council via their website, but gave up after twenty minutes of trying to upload photographs; it was not my city, so there were limits to my attempts to help the townsfolk or local council officials.  South Shields, seven miles away and my birthplace, was only a little better.  Many shops in King Street, in the centre of town, were boarded or shuttered up: casualties not only of economic times and new shopping centres, but also of the fallout from the Covid epidemic.  As in Sunderland, litter and dirt blew everywhere in the brisk easterly wind, the town looked unwelcoming and the people poor.  One naturally has fond memories of one’s childhood and, possibly, they are somewhat rose-tinted.  Nevertheless, as I remarked to Jane, South Shields in my youth may not have been sophisticated, but it was clean, had many varied and good shops, several excellent parks, a bustling air and pleasant hard-working people.  Now the place looked run down, shabby and impoverished.  The riverside was still appealing, though there was no longer the industrial activity that there used to be: coal mining and export has ceased and, where there used to be three or four shipyards, only empty sites remained.  We saw only two ships on the Tyne in the whole time we were there.  After all this, I was delighted to see that the fine long beaches and cliffs of South Shields were as excellent as ever, the amenities being much improved from the somewhat  understated way they were when I was young.  The weather was, unexpectedly, sunny and hot during our stay, and the coast was very popular with holidaymakers.  Jane and I did not manage to do as much as we wanted to during the visit, concentrating our time on seeing my brother and his wife: we managed a cliff walk of some three miles, but did not have time to stroll along the beach or South Pier.  It was probably just as well, as the sands were packed solid with people.

South Shields has several restaurants, most of the ethnic variety: Ocean Road, at one time, had the record for having the most Asian restaurants in any one street in the UK.  Of the rest, none could claim the title of haute cuisine exactly, but Colman’s Fish and Chip Restaurant has a good reputation, and Jane always clamours for a Minchella’s ice cream, Minchella being a long established family in the town of Italian descent.  We graced the latter’s ice cream parlour in Ocean Road and asked for two large tubs of vanilla ice cream. The woman at the counter blinked at us: did we realise that the tubs were not just big, they were very big?  Yes, said Jane, we only come Up North every two or three years and this was our treat.  So there we sat in this ice cream parlour at a tiny two-seater table, gazing out at the street and stuffing ourselves from two buckets of ice cream.  There was a certain free-surface effect as the liquid sloshed around in out stomachs when we finally lurched out. 
“See you again in 2023”, I told the staff.

Colman’s Fish and Chip Restaurant has always, also, been in Ocean Road but in the last few years the establishment has  opened another, perhaps more up-market,  venue on the sea front.  At the bottom of Mowbray Road, right next to the South Beach, there is a bandstand: one of those large Victorian edifices that you normally see in English parks.  This particular building was always known locally, for some reason, as Gandhi’s Temple and it doubled as a public convenience, which was located in the basement.  A few years ago Coleman’s bought this building, which had fallen into decay, added a glass extension and made it a seafood restaurant.  There, Jane and I dined on a beautiful summer’s evening, gazing out at the ever-changing seascape.  We had the last booking for the evening at 1930 and our table was still occupied when we arrived, so we were invited to have a drink in the cocktail bar.  This was situated in the old part of Gandhi’s Temple, in the circular rotunda part of the building and the experience was almost surreal: I could not believe that I was sitting in such a perfect contemporary bar, sipping gin and tonic in, of all places, my old home town.  It almost felt like Monte Carlo.  Almost.  The fly in the ointment was a collection of five or six women at the bar, all quaffing sophisticated cocktails, joshing with the barman, and shrieking periodically.  The noise practically pierced my eardrums and I could barely hold a conversation.  Fortunately, our table was soon ready and we moved off to eat; the women remained and it was clear that they were there to drink, not eat.  I was amazed, for it was a Monday night, not a weekend.  Clearly my initial assessment that the town was impoverished was faulty.  There were some good choices on the small menu, one of which was a medley of local seafood for about £54 (presumably shared).  Alas, at that time in the day some dishes were ‘off’,  so I opted for pan-fried sea bass, which was excellent, and Jane had boring-old cod and chips.  The only drawback of this excellent restaurant was the noise.  The acoustics were terrible and you could barely hold a conversation or hear the waitress.  It was such a shame for, otherwise, it was the perfect evening in perfect circumstances: watching the surfers in the freezing water, seeing the ships at anchor in the offing, and relaxing as the sun set and the lighthouses on the Tyne piers lit up for the night.  Recommended, but take ear plugs.

Our last night on Tyneside was to be spent dining out with my brother and sister-in-law in South Shields.  In the past, we have dined in a restaurant called Mambos, which I described in Blog 28 as being a sort of  “Colosseum meets the Acropolis in the Adriatic”.  Despite its brash and ostentatious decor, and the fact that it is popular with large noisy parties, the restaurant produces some excellent food.  I assumed that my brother would opt for Mambos this time (he likes speaking Serbo-Croat with the staff), but he seemed lukewarm on the choice.  Apparently, Mambos had split into two sister establishments, one of which was called “Bun Bun”, the name giving a fair indication of the type of cuisine, and the other “Wine and Dine”.  This time, my brother suggested a little Turkish restaurant that he knew sited, inevitably, on the “ethnic mile” that is Ocean Road.  I shrugged; why not?  I had not eaten Turkish food for a good many years, and it would be a nice change.  On the night, Jane and I duly fronted up at my brother’s house to collect him and Marion, and he opened the door with a sheepish expression on his face.  There had, he said, been a bit of a snag.  He had only just got around to booking the Turkish restaurant that evening, but there had been no reply.  In a panic, he had scoured the internet to check on opening hours and so on, and had found that the restaurant had been “closed down until further notice”.  So, either there was a hygiene problem, or there were no staff because of Covid.  Oh dear.  Fortunately, my brother had managed to book us in at Mambos original “Wine and Dine” restaurant – the one that looked like the Acropolis.  So down we went. In Blog 28 I described how, when we dined there in 2017,  the restaurant  was hosting two vast birthday parties for families of various ages including babes in arms.  Now, in 2021, it appeared that the families, the balloons and the babies were still there.  The noise was terrible.  As before, the food was excellent: my brother had fried squid, I had butterflied chicken, and the girls had steak.  All the food was truly excellent, the chicken being very tender and the steak just right (I had some of Marion’s).  It was hardly believable for South Shields and I was impressed for the second time that trip.  Alas, the atmosphere – just like the night before – was uproarious.  If we heard “Happy Birthday” being sung once, we heard it sung three times and we soon became tired of it.  It was such a shame: another potentially very good meal ruined by noise.  I wonder if the same crowd will be there in 2023?

In Altrincham, Laura and Sam treated us like visiting royalty and we relaxed mightily. The weather was not exactly tropical, but the rain held off for most of the time and we spent a pleasant day at the RHS’ new Bridgewater garden, a horticultural delight for Jane, and even I could appreciate the work that had gone into it. Growth was still at a fairly early stage but the garden had considerable potential and, in a few years, would be even better. The next day we visited Speke Hall, a National Trust property dating from the Elizabethan period, and remarkably well preserved. The National Trust seems to have moved towards choosing a particular theme when describing its property, and concentrating solely on that. The theme for Speke Hall was the oppression of Roman Catholics during the Protestant reign of Elizabeth I and the difficult time the Catholic owners of the hall had, or the torture that Roman Catholic priests endured if caught. It was a fair theme, but somewhat narrow in its outlook: I would have liked to have known more about the architecture of the house, the provenance of the family, and the history of the hall in the 400 years or so since Elizabeth. Like all National Trust properties now, alas, the information boards were written as if they decorated an infant school: the only thing missing was the phrase, “…and are you sitting comfortably children?”. The lavatories helpfully contained signs telling me how to wash my hands. It all rather grated with me, but we still found the visit fascinating. The executives of the National Trust will, of course, be the next up against the wall when the revolution comes and I form the Shacklepin Republic.

Anyway, we are back home now, marking time for the school holidays to end, when we can return to our boat in Devon without – we hope – the heaving crowds.  Jane has gone deaf in one ear – possibly a 1 in 100,000 chance side-effect of the beta-blockers she is on (it could only happen to Jane); she has also developed a repeat of the painful and itchy rash on her chest that she had exactly one year ago (Blog 51), and currently sleeps with an ice pack clutched to her bosom.  Poor kid, she really has been in the wars.

As to Covid, well the daily deaths related to the virus in UK have levelled off at about 90 a day.  Cases were falling rapidly, but have reached a point of inflection and may be rising again, but hospitalisations remain low.  89% of the population has received one vaccination and 77% has received both.  Plans are in place for a booster shot next month.  Symptoms now are still similar to the Common Cold but, although the condition is usually mild if caught by those who are vaccinated, it can still be very bad for some and fatal for a few.  The surge in deaths and hospitalisations that the gloom-mongers expected following the relaxation of compulsory restrictions in England on 19 July has not occurred, but the virus is still with us.  One day things will be completely back to normal, but I am not sure when.  At least we completed the entire Grand Tour without ever wearing a face covering, so things must be looking up.

Mustn’t grumble.

16 August 2021

Blog 99. Anyone Who Hates Dogs and Children Can’t Be All Bad

You know, it’s a funny old thing: we can put a billionaire into space on a commercial spaceship; we can put a robot lander on Mars; we can plumb the depths of the oceans; we can create a device that replies sensibly to questions when asked by voice.  But we cannot produce a bootlace that doesn’t come undone.  There is something wrong with our priorities today.

We spent a delightful day in Plymouth the other day, at one time my favourite city.  I spent an aggregate of  six years in the city studying engineering there, and three of my ships were based at Devonport.  The city took a mauling in WW2 and so what one sees in the city centre today is a clean modern early 1960s  ordered layout, supported by the ubiquitous use of concrete.  Despite that, I always found Plymouth to be varied and vibrant: a pleasure to visit.  Alas, as in many other cities and towns, a further redevelopment to the east of the city centre to create a more-modern, covered, shopping complex has sucked the life out of main shopping streets themselves.  Some shops have closed, others are of dubious attraction, and the streets are dirty and wind-blown. When we visited, the only thing missing from completing the image of Ghost Town seemed to be the tumbleweed, though the litter and take-away cartons, blown around by the south westerly wind, made a reasonable substitute.  The ancient harbour at The Barbican, to the south east of the city, used to offer a quaint stroll, some good fish and chips, and the Plymouth Gin Distillery: our Mecca.  The last time we visited the distillery (claimed to be the oldest working gin distillery in England) we took a guided tour  and sampled an included gin and tonic in the bar, a room with a ceiling fashioned like the inside of an upturned boat.  We bought a crate of Navy Strength Plymouth Gin afterwards (yes, a crate).  Alas our visit to Mecca this time was in vain, for the gates were closed, with no explanation (probably “Due to Covid…”).  After a difficult search on the website I found that Plymouth Gin was also continuing to demand face masks and social distancing  for visitors despite the government relaxation, so I metaphorically crossed the establishment off my list of prospective suppliers (their loss, Amazon’s gain).  We drifted around the rest of The Barbican, but were disappointed to see how many shops were shut.  Yarmouth Stores, an excellent source of seamen’s, fishermen’s and submarine sweaters in the past was boarded up (closed several years ago apparently); Edinburgh Woollen Mill in its prime site on the harbour had gone; we could not get served in Weatherspoon’s pub as the bar staff ignored me; and The Tudor Rose Tearooms in their genuine quaint Elizabethan building were closed.  We could, however, have treated ourselves to several tattoos on various parts of our bodies.  Overall, The Barbican was disappointing and looked a bit seedy, but it did fit the bill of a dodgy quarter in a seaport, where sailors go to spend their wages and discuss the cultural aspects of their extensive voyages with loose women, and – of course – that is what it has always been.

While I remember, I do wish (non) service providers and the media – who should know better – would stop using that dreadful hackneyed and ungrammatical phrase, “Due to Covid” as an excuse for poor or non-existent service.  First of all it is not an excuse, it is a reason: an excuse excuses something and there is no excuse for inefficiency and not adapting to circumstances.  Second, the term “Due to…” is incorrect; the  phrase should be, “Owing to Covid” or “Because of Covid”.  Harrumph.  My old English teacher must be spinning in his grave.

We tried strolling on Plymouth Hoe, but the wind blew Jane’s skirt up so many times that she decreed enough was enough (sailors can only get so much excitement in one day).

After The Barbican we negotiated Plymouth’s complex and busy road system (it wasn’t like this in my day) to be lunch guests of our old friends Margery and Benjamin, with their daughter and grandson.  I am a great advocate of the WC Fields school of thought on human behaviour that anyone who hates dogs and children cannot be all bad.  I have cultivated and refined the same persona over many years.  Margery and Benjamin have both creatures, and I dare say they feared that I would kick one and eat the other, but they need not have taken out that insurance policy, for Lucy the dog did not drool over me, ruin my tights, smell, try to copulate with my leg or bark; and as to children, well, there are children and then there are children: not all are noisy and misbehave. Their little grandson Bartholomew was a great delight once he had overcome his shyness.  We chatted on the floor for some time discussing his range of toy motor cars, me speaking English and he speaking Twoyearoldspeak, the language of the parallel universe, which I understood perfectly.  I had made him a two-foot model of the Brittany ferry PORT AVON, a vessel that steams in and out of Plymouth on a regular basis.  It was a project that started off during the Third Great Lockdown of 2021 with the concept of making a ship that could be viewed in real life locally and related to, and in which Bartholomew could store his cars.  I know that little boys like to have toys with hidden compartments and so on, because I am a little boy myself.  Alas, I got a bit carried away with the project and, instead of making a brightly painted simple boat with a hole in it (fundamentally, the initial plan) I ended up making a full-scale model of the ferry based on the shipbuilder’s plans; this for a 2 ½ year-old.  I had hoped to scale the model to take standard small toy cars like the old Matchbox cars of my heyday, but I soon realised that such a vessel would have to be several yards long and almost big enough for Bartholomew himself to crawl inside.  I did not think that this would find favour with Honeysuckle, his mother, so I made some tiny cars and lorries to fit the model.  These were so tiny as to guarantee that Bartholomew could fit several of them up his nose without difficulty, thus ensuring him a free adventure visit to A&E in Plymouth Hospital for a whole day and assuring me of a place in Honeysuckle’s heart forever.  Honeysuckle is my proxy daughter, the daughter Jane and I never had, and a young friend.  It is essential to have young friends (ie people younger than 45) so that you can suck the youth out of them and retain an up-to-date cool vocabulary.  Having a proxy daughter has most of the advantages of a real daughter, but without the disadvantages of having to endure the terror of her going through the Goth stage of development, the inappropriate boyfriends and the suspicions of boys’ lecherous behaviour.  Honeysuckle also had her baby son with her, young Joey.   He was no trouble at all, but I don’t do babies as they all look the same to me.  Indeed, Joey looked to me like a miniature version of The Mekon.  Honeysuckle looked at me blankly when I ventured this opinion, clearly not knowing if I was being insulting or complimentary (few people can ever tell with me).  I was surprised to find that she had never heard of The Mekon and Dan Dare, Pilot of the Future, but then she is Young according to the Shacklepin Scale of Age.

Dan Dare, Pilot if the Future was one of the characters in the boys’ magazine Eagle, first published in 1950.   The magazine (I will not demean it with the description ‘comic’) was the brain child of the Reverend Marcus Morris and the illustrator Frank Hampson. The aim was to produce a boys’ magazine that would have high principles, educate, and encourage good behaviour while still being a good read.  There were many features, but the adventures of Colonel Dan Dare, a spaceman, led the front page with its beautifully drawn, full colour illustrations and excellent storylines.  The Mekon was an evil, two-foot tall, green megalomaniac humanoid from Venus with an enormous forehead (hence brain) who floated around on a big saucer, like a serving dish.  His ambition in life was to conquer the solar system with, perhaps, a secondary aim of conquering the galaxy.  Another feature of each edition of the  Eagle was a brilliantly produced cut-away colour drawing of some engineering artefact, such as a ship, an aircraft, a car or a coal mine; taken with the cartoon strip Captain Pugwash, it helped to inspire me as a naval engineer.  Issued every Friday for the princely sum of 3d (threepence to young readers of this blog), Eagle came just at the right time to complement the adventure playgrounds that were the bombed sites of post-war Britain, when WW2 was fresh in the memory of many children, austerity and rationing were still a feature of life, and an exciting future (beyond collecting shrapnel) beckoned.  The magazine itself was limited in size because of paper rationing, but it packed a great deal into its high quality and detailed pages.  Soon, it was The magazine to have.  Alas, all good things come to an end.  The magazine was expensive to produce and, after a change in publisher, the loss of Morris and Hampson as editor and illustrator, and a general lowering of quality the magazine gently died in the 1960s.  You can still buy Eagle annuals, however, or the several adventures of Dan Dare, Pilot of the Future in illustrated book form. I have several, purely for historical and sentimental interest you understand. 

Oh dear.  I have just realised that I described Honeysuckle’s baby, Joey, as looking like an evil green megalomaniac from Venus.  Sorry about that.  What a lovely little chap he was, so like his mummy.  Oh heck, I’ve done it again.

Thinking of gin and tonic (I could just manage one now) there are almost as many ways of making the drink as there are of making a dry martini. We prefer ours in a long glass that is packed full of ice and with a slice of lime or lemon, making it a long drink with dew forming on the side of the glass. Jane prefers Durham Gin with Schweppes tonic; I prefer Plymouth Gin with Fever Tree tonic. But, of course, that is just a personal preference: there is no standard way of making the drink. There are some people who like their G+T in a short glass with just one ice cube, others who like the drink in a balloon glass like a wine glass. We tend to order something else if it is likely to come warm (ie with less than two ice cubes) as that is even worse than being offered a glass of white wine at room temperature. And let’s face it, there is nothing worse than warm champagne. But to get back to the old G+T, we had a new variation the other day, courtesy of our Dartmouth friends, Raymond and Carol: it was gin and tonic with a slice of cucumber in it instead of a slice of lemon. I thought at first that Raymond had failed the Logistic Officer exam by forgetting to buy a lemon at the local Co-op, but – no- the drink was delicious and tasted much better with the cucumber. So there you are: try a G+T with a slice of cucumber; it’s good. And don’t forget to add the iceberg if you are kind enough to offer us one.

The traditional naval officer’s drink (before my time) was not rum (see Blog 44), but Pink Gin. This comprises a few shakes of angostura bitters swirled around in a wine glass, topped up with a measure of gin and water added to taste. As a young midshipman on leave I once ordered the drink (to try) in a dockside pub in South Shields, my home town. The barmaid’s response, in her fine Tyneside sing-song accent, was,
“We’ve only one sort of gin here, hinny, and it’s not coloured pink”.
This was greeted with much mirth from the assembled tugboat men, river pilots and rough sailors in the bar and I realised that I was among Philistines. Years later, I did make a Pink Gin guided by Jane (who had been a part-time barmaid in her youth). It was absolutely foul. Naval officers of my era drank Gin and Tonic or Horses’ Neck, both with ice and lemon.

The latest development in the Covid saga is that some people working at home are not only reluctant to return to work, but are proposing to sue their employers if they do not continue to allow the new relaxed style of honest toil, working from home.  One challenge being considered is on the basis of “commuting causing stress”.  You couldn’t make this up: employees demanding that their employers pay them for not going to work.  Methinks (me hopes) that a few dismissals will be in the offing; let us see if they will be able to still afford that BMW when on the dole.

In my comments on Covid and the UK government’s response to it over the last year or so, I may – just occasionally – have been known to hint at my opposition (and Jane’s) to wearing face coverings, my argument being that their effectiveness is so small as to be negligible.  About half my friends disagree with me, saying that wearing a mask is no big deal, but I consider myself as that sound stepping stone standing firm in the fast flowing stream of public opinion.  Given my declared stance on the matter, my interest was fired, therefore, when the consumer magazine Which? conducted a review of face coverings a few months ago.  The best mask was the Airpop Pocket Mask costing £24.99 for four and it had a proven industry-standard filtration efficiency of 99.9% for particulate and bacteria.  Testing was conducted using bacteria, which are 3 microns [three thousandths of a millimetre] in  diameter, in an aerosol spray.  I was impressed, despite myself, and started searching the internet for recipes for humble pie.  Then I read on. Which? explained that it could only quote figures for bacteria and rank masks according to that criterion.  It then admitted that a Covid virus has a diameter of 0.1 microns, 30 times smaller than a bacterium.  So even the best  commercial face mask available to the public has holes in it thirty times bigger than the Corona virus it is trying to prevent.  One scientist has likened the effectiveness of facemarks to someone firing tennis balls at a matrix of scaffolding poles six feet apart.  England legislated for compulsory face masks to be worn in inside public spaces in June last year and one would expect the measure to have had a significant effect on the incidence of infections; however, if you examine the graphs of infections and deaths from the Office of National Statistics website for that time and thereafter you will see no corresponding drop in infections or discontinuities in the curves after the measure was introduced.  Given all this, why then do the government and some scientists and doctors continue to recommend the wearing of face coverings?  Beats me.  I have no idea, other than, perhaps, wearing face coverings provides assurance and a sense of security to some very frightened people.

The madness continues. We have already been told that the countryside and food are racist, along with all Anglo Saxons in the United Kingdom, its Dominions and the United States of America. We have now moved on, and the latest thing to be so labelled is eating with a knife and fork. Yes, it’s true: some chef or other has decreed that eating with a knife and fork has colonial overtones and is therefore racist. I can only assume that the chef, himself, eats with his fingers. Still, if we regress, it will avoid accusations of HKLP I suppose. I wonder what will be next? Best sell those shares in Andrex toilet tissue and buy up shares in Pampers disposable nappies instead (I am, in any case, getting on a bit now). The other latest revelation is that it is illegal to call a grandmother a grandmother. Well, not illegal exactly, but an industrial tribunal has ruled in favour of a woman who resigned from a firm because she was referred to as a grandmother in one of the company’s written car reviews, despite actually being a grandmother. Apparently it was age discrimination. This is Alice Through the Looking Glass at its best.

We have been “Oop North”, visiting my brother and sister-in-law in South Shields, then later on to Altrincham to inflict ourselves in some old friends who could not think of an excuse fast enough.  It was a culinary experience and travel adventure that was so so fun-packed that it is worthy of a separate blog, so I will wind up this one now.

Gosh, I wish I could be a fly on the wall when Honeysuckle sees the pseudonym I have given her.

3 August 2021

Blog 98. ‘Ping’

Nobody works, nobody goes to school.  That was Jane’s sage observation when I complained about how busy the River Dart and our marina was, midweek, mid July, before English state schools had broken up for the summer holidays.  She was, as ever, quite right.  The NHS automatic ‘Covid Track and Trace’  system uses a smartphone App that interacts with everyone in your vicinity, swapping personal details electronically using Bluetooth.  If anyone you have been physically close to subsequently has a positive Covid test result, then the system sends a message  to you and all others who were near the victim (‘ping’) and tells you to isolate for ten days, whether you subsequently test positive or not.  It sounds very swish, and I suppose it is, but the App is so sensitive that everyone within Bluetooth range of a ‘diseased’ person gets ‘pinged’; it can even ‘ping’ people in the house next door to a Covid-infected person.  Net result: thousands of people are ordered off work and (supposedly) isolating and many industries are struggling to keep afloat.  In schools, whole ‘bubbles’ or year groups are sent home if one pupil tests positive – again, even if pupils test negative.  The whole thing is, in short, a complete pot mess and a paradox.  It is a paradox because, according to surveys, more than half of the English are frightened to go into a building without wearing a mask despite the covering no longer being a legal requirement from 19 July; yet Wembley stadium was packed for the recent football extravaganza (no masks, no distancing); so was Wimbledon for the tennis; and the beaches and seaside towns of England are packed solid with holidaymakers.  I just don’t get it: either you are terrified of catching Covid and never go out or mask up, or you aren’t.  Who are these people who are terrified? Certainly they aren’t football or tennis supporters, or holidaymakers in England.

As I predicted in earlier blogs, Boris has not only wimped out of the decision to remove Covid restrictions, he has done one worse, something that I did not anticipate.  The government lifted all law-enforced restrictions in England as planned on 19 July… but then advised everyone to continue following the restrictions anyway.  Boris has passed on responsibility for our well-being to individuals, relying on our common sense and judgement (good),  but has also authorised local authorities, public transport, shop, venue, theatre, restaurant and pub owners to impose their own rules as a condition of entry.  Thus, the dog is off the leash and we are at the whim of every petty-fogging, risk-averse little service provider or council official who is terrified of coming out of lockdown.  The prime minister has given us freedom with one hand and taken it away with the other; instead of a consistent (if unwelcome ) policy we now have a whole host of varied ones.  London Transport (or TfL to give it its proper name) requires passengers to wear masks, but some national rail companies do not; passengers on a train passing into Wales or Scotland could be without masks one minute, yet required to wear them next minute as they cross the border, even in an empty carriage.  Visiting a town or venue now brings with it uncertainty, and the spontaneity that we hoped to regain on 19 July has failed to appear: will this museum, shop or restaurant still demand that I wear a mask, or will the decision be left to me?  What price our much vaunted vaccination programme, with 71% of the adult population double jabbed?  Positive test results (I refuse to call them infections) have peaked and are now falling.  Deaths and hospitalisations are still rising, but can be expected to peak and fall as they follow the trend of the test results, and the levels of both remain low, currently averaging about 60 deaths a day in a UK population of 68 million people (0.000074%).

Ironically, the Prime Minister, the Chancellor of the Exchequer and the Secretary of State for Health were ‘pinged’ themselves and had to self isolate, despite them being double-vaccinated and with no symptoms.   This makes a mockery of the government’s campaign to encourage younger adults to accept a vaccination: what would they gain by doing so if even the double-vaccinated still have to isolate, infected or not?  We have also moved from instances of genuine illness necessitating isolation and care, to some sort of ethereal non-existent condition that, despite all logic, demands that people isolate themselves ‘just in case’ on receiving a ‘ping’.  The ‘pingdemic’, as the media have labelled it, is causing as much economic damage as the real epidemic did a year ago and there is now another run on goods in the shops as the logistic infrastructure is decimated by people having to leave work, whether ill or not, because they have been ‘pinged’.  The government has refused to reduce the Bluetooth sensitivity of the NHS Covid App, but has made certain key jobs exempt from the ‘ping mania’, though employers have to apply to do this; however, exemption is being resisted by the unions.  No surprise there. Some people have deleted the NHS Covid App from their smartphones to avoid being identified in this manner; I know I have.  The situation is totally ridiculous.  Covid rant over (for now).

After I wrote the last blog I was chatting on line to Rupert, my son, about The Football Match in which England lost the cup to Italy.  Contrary to my assertion in Blog 97, I actually did watch the match right through, partly to keep Jane company (she had been pressured into watching it by Rupert) and partly because I thought it my patriotic duty.  It was all right: I could see some of the skills involved and get some inkling of the excitement that fans felt; I thought the Italian team seemed to be taking the initiative much more than the English team and deserved to win, but then what do I know?  Anyway, I was pontificating on all this with Young Lochinvar when he revealed that – contrary to what I wrote in my last blog (which he doesn’t read) – all that extravaganza was not the World Cup.  It was the European Cup, or Euro.  Do you mean to say, none of you could have told me?  And we have to go through the whole thing again next year for the World Cup?  Oh my God.

So anyway, we were sitting in our garden at home, sipping a gin and tonic and basking in pleasant sunshine when a large brown rat appeared, wished us a pleasant day, and continued on into the undergrowth. Jane practically had a heart attack. I pointed out that the poor chap was only looking for a home, perhaps seeking a bijou residence for himself and Mrs Rat, but it cut no ice with Jane. She hates rats. We immediately deployed rat poison left over from the incident of mice eating the garden shed (Blog 83) and I was detailed off for sniper duty, armed with an air pistol. Jane is now so terrified that she will not go into the undergrowth for fear of a rat running up her leg. It never rains, it pours. Watch this space for more news of Roland and family.

The British Isles were sweltering in a heat wave last week and the reaction of the population passed from the, “Whoa, what a scorcher!” phase to the, “Thank you very much, but can we return to normal now?” phase.  Monday 19 July was the hottest day for us, at 32C in the shade.  At the time, we were back on the boat earlier than planned, a much anticipated visit by friends being cancelled because one of them was ‘pinged’ (see above) and had to quarantine for ten days; they tested negative for Covid, but still had to isolate.  Very disappointed, but free of an obligation, we shot off early to the boat and – in hindsight – made a sound decision: the heat wave hit as we arrived.  It is ironic: after a year moaning about the wind and cool temperatures in Dartmouth, we were now crying out for both.  There wasn’t any wind – even at sea – but I did achieve one of my ambitions: to swim in the translucent green waters while at anchor in Scabbacombd Bay, near Torquay.  Naturally, Jane remained very firmly onboard, the sea not being up to Caribbean standards.  I also managed another plunge a week later, this time in Ladies Cove near Dartmouth.  That bathing platform on the boat and its little ladder finally came into its own.  And let me assure you, dear reader, that in all that swelteringly hot un-British weather with the deck too hot to stand on when barefoot, the English Channel on both occasions was absolutely perishing.

You may think that when a boat is at anchor in a sheltered bay, then she is at rest as if lying alongside a quay.  Alas, that is not the case.  Even when at anchor a boat is subjected to the wind and, more significantly, the swell.  Everywhere we anchored, APPLETON RUM rolled like a destroyer in a hurricane; rolled, in fact, more than she did when under way.  The natural swell in the sea was exacerbated by idiots happy carefree fellow citizens zooming around in fast speedboats or jet skis, creating a massive wash.  Nowhere was sheltered from the swell, and it was very uncomfortable.  We did, however, manage to find tranquility by anchoring in the river itself, this time at the mouth of Dittisham (pronounced ‘Ditsum’) Mill Creek.  We dropped the hook just on the edge of the mud shoal, a good distance from the only other boat there.  There was a bit of wash from passing boats and inflatable tenders, but it was bearable and we settled there for the night.  To the south east, hidden by Higher Gurrow Point, was the village of Dittisham with two thriving pubs, a popular al fresco restaurant, and many, many, tourists;  to be avoided, therefore, by misanthropes such as I.  To the north, high on a hill and looking down onto the river, were two very imposing estate houses designed by John Nash in 1805: the easternmost was Sandridge Barton and the westernmost, higher up, Sandridge Park.  The estate was the birthplace of the Elizabethan explorer John Davis and both houses (I subsequently discovered) were available for holiday let.  I did not find the rental fee as, when I looked, they were both fully booked – or perhaps off the market.  Since each grand house had about six bedrooms and they had swimming pools, it would be fair to say that the rent would be more than two pounds, ten shillings and sixpence apiece.  More affordable, perhaps, would be Sandridge Boathouse right down on the shoreline to the east of Sandridge Barton, and accessed only by footpath and steps or (I guess) boat.  That looked bijou, quaint, very secluded and peaceful, comprising just two bedrooms, but with power, heating, freshwater and a modern kitchen.  Again, I was unable to find the cost of rental, but I thought the expense would be worth it if one craved a hermit-like existence like me.  Apparently renters’ luggage is delivered by Land Rover across fields to the top of the footpath/steps, but the renters themselves must make their own way by shanks’ pony.  Treat ‘em rough and they love it (or so it is said).

It is a curious facet of human behaviour that some people crave company.  You must have come across this if you have ever had to use a public lavatory cubicle, been camping or, for that matter, if you have ever parked in a large empty carpark seeking peace and quiet; some clown inevitably comes along and uses the next cubicle (though there are seven others free), pitches their tent, or parks their car right next to you.  So it is with anchoring in a secluded anchorage.  When we anchored in Dittisham Mill Creek on a Monday night there was one other boat there, and we chose a spot as far from him as practicable, affording both him and us some privacy.  One other yacht appeared during the evening but, again, dropped anchor far away.  The next day we took the tender up river to explore the village of Stoke Gabriel in the blistering heat and, when we came back, we found that another yacht had arrived.  This one, proving the Shacklepin Theorem of Over-Sociable People, had anchored about fifteen metres from us.  He was so close that I could have tossed a peanut over onto his deck without any effort (and if you have ever seen me throw something then you will know that that is not far).  Why did he do that?  Boats and ships do swing at anchor under the action of wind and tide and, although they often move in unison, there is a degree of individual randomness in the way they lie.  Consequently, when anchoring you always leave room to swing, keeping an imaginary circle clear according to the radius of the amount of anchor cable let out.  This ‘clingy’ boater had not done that.  Fortunately, we planned to move on so his positioning did not cause a long-term problem, but I was baffled and irritated by his choice of location.  Shortly after our return with the tender we weighed anchor, but even that manoeuvre was rendered difficult by the other boat’s closeness: he was practically on top of my boat’s anchor.  Crazy, these people: lavatory cubicles, camp sites, car parks, and now anchorages.  No wonder so many people are being ‘pinged’ for Covid isolation (see above).

Thinking of lavatory cubicles, I did hear of a (reportedly true) story of a chap who had an odd experience in one (it’s OK, there is no need to issue a Snowflake warning of an unsavoury story). 
This chap went into the lavatory cubicle and was sitting there at ease, as you do, when – right on cue – someone entered the cubicle next to him.  There was the usual rustling of clothing and a pause, and then the bloke in the next cubicle said,
“So, how are you doing?”
The first chap was a bit nonplussed.  For a start (interesting piece of info here girls), unlike women, men just do not talk to each other in public lavatories; no, not at all.  Secondly, a cubicle in a public lavatory with your trousers down is not really a place to indulge in small talk.  Still, he was English, and the English are too polite to ignore strangers if directly spoken to.  So after a hesitant pause, he replied,
“I’m fine thanks.”
“How’s the wife and kids?”
“Erm, yes they’re fine too.  My eldest, Justin, is 9 now and the youngest, Victoria, is coming up to 3.”
“Anyway, I was wondering if we could meet up for a drink some time?”
“Well, I’m a bit busy at the moment and I don’t really…”
“Tell you what Pete, I’ll call you back later.  There’s some prat next to me keeps interrupting me and taking the Mick when I’m on the phone.”

Mobile phones are the bane of our lives in my opinion.  I hardly use mine except in emergencies, though I do use it to search the internet occasionally or to consult a map.  To do that, I stop, move off the path and undertake the operation in private.  I hold any conversations briefly and very quietly, and answer calls almost with embarrassment for fear of disturbing others.  If indoors, I leave the building to talk. This is not so for modern man (or woman) it appears.  Full-blown private  conversations are clearly audible as people walk along the street; worse, the new trend is to hold a video conference as they walk, holding the phone – not to their ear, but in front of them like a mirror and bellowing as if hailing the masthead.  We hear a lot of it in our marina, our berth being unfortunately located at a sort of nautical crossroads in the interlock of pontoons, a positive hub of human interchange:
“And how is my little poochy poo….”
“Yes, mummy loves you….”
“I know darling, it hasn’t been the same since I had the hysterectomy…”
“Well, she said she was size 10, but I’ll swear she wasn’t less than a size 14…”
It is amazing the personal information that people proclaim to the world in loud voices, and their interlocutors can be heard even louder.  On one occasion a full conversation on the boat just ahead of us was clearly audible even on our quarterdeck as we sipped a sun-downer.  I could have made a fortune selling shares in the company discussed (if I had any).  I am just waiting for one of these pedestrian video conference callers to walk right off the pontoon as they rabbit on, oblivious of their surroundings and all around them.  I shall laugh like a drain.

The cancellation of our friends’ visit left us with a mound of food, so we brought it down with us to the boat and invited our Dartmouth friends, Raymond and Carol, onboard for a three-course Sunday lunch.  I have commented before on Jane’s ability to produce scrumptious meals in the tiny galley onboard, but this time she exceeded even her previous record.  The temperatures down below in a heat wave and with the oven on can be imagined, but she still came up trumps and a good time was had by all, the entire  event being well lubricated by champagne (to celebrate the Freedom Day that never happened) and chilled white wine.  We had Peaches, Watercress, Mozzarella and Parma Ham for starters, followed by Chicken Breast stuffed with Peppers and Goats’ Cheese, served with Crushed Potatoes, a Parsley, Garlic & Oil dressing, and Broccoli. We finished off with English Strawberries and Cream. The weight we must have gained from the food and wine was offset by the pounds we lost in the heat.  It all made me think of the conditions that our ancestors must have endured as they explored the world, all dressed in the best Lancashire broadcloth, shirts, breeches and tricorn hats, with no air conditioning and with only primitive bathing facilities.  Heaven knows how they managed in the heat.  And, by golly, how they must have stank.  There is a very good historical novel called Shogun by James Clavell, which describes the conditions in Japan in the 16th century when an Elizabethan sailor is shipwrecked there.  The Japanese civilisation at that time was much more advanced than that in Europe: the people were very clean, bathed regularly, and their houses were immaculate.  In contrast, the Europeans bathed, if at all, perhaps only once a year; often slept with their livestock; and carpeted their rooms with straw or rushes, changing the material every few months.  Consequently, the Japanese view of Europeans was that they were filthy stinking savages not worthy of respect.  The English character in the book eventually comes to appreciate the Japanese way of life and particularly revels in receiving hot baths and dressing in looser, cooler, clothing.  The only downside to Japanese life at that time was that, despite being civilised in so many ways, it still ran under a feudal system and any peasant who failed to show respect to their betters was summarily beheaded.  Still, it’s a small price to pay for a hot bath and a pretty garden with miniature trees.

Mid-stay on the boat, we spent a very pleasant interlude enjoying a cookery demonstration and three course lunch at the Glazebrook House Hotel in the village of South Brent, further inland.  I had found the hotel, quite by chance, as I was surfing the internet some months ago and it was flagged up when it met my stringent criteria for a get-away weekend at some time post Covid.  The hotel, set deep in the Devonshire countryside yet conveniently close to the A38, proved to be quiet and very civilised.  The demonstration and subsequent meal were excellent and we were so impressed by it all that we booked ourselves a three-day break with dinner for next October.  It was not cheap, but it met all my criteria for a perfect break in Devonshire: close to Dartmoor, no dogs, no children, no riff-raff (I made up the last characteristic, but you get the gist).

“Kee-haw! Kee-haw! Kee-haw!”. 
We were woken at the crack of dawn by herring gulls wearing hobnail boots, pattering on the deck a foot above our heads.  I suggested to the birds – who are, after all, God’s creatures just like us – to please desist and go away, but they did not appear to speak Anglo-Saxon.  I banged on the deckhead and that eventually worked but, by then, I was wide awake and the damage was done.  Jane, of course, just muttered something about chrysanthemums, turned over, and went back to sleep.  I got up, cleaned my teeth, washed and shaved.  Creating my usual double espresso in the galley, I repaired to the upper deck with my cup and saucer to survey the riverscape.  It was, as it usually is at that time, tranquil and inspiring.  The sun had just appeared over the eastern side of the valley and its rays were already steaming off the dew on the seat covers on the quarterdeck, and evaporating the early morning mist on the river.  Not yet too hot, the atmosphere was what I would call Standard English Summer (this is opposed to Standard Scottish Summer which, in my experience, contains hail).  Sitting in the upper conning position Command Seat, and sipping on my coffee, I revelled in the whole passive experience.  I did consider shaking Jane and inviting her to join me, but wisely resisted the temptation.  Today, I decided, I would wash down the boat and give her a good leathering (the boat, not Jane).  Four hours later, with a bacon and egg sandwich under my belt and Jane spring cleaning down below, I was soogeeing down the superstructure oblivious to the cooling soapy water that splashed over my bare legs and feet.  It was going to be another hot day and I judged that I had better wash off the soap fairly quickly before it dried on.  I removed the hose from its stowage in the wash-deck locker, plugged it into the tap on the pontoon, and started to sluice the boat down copiously.  There was a squawk from somewhere on board.
“Good”, I thought, ”I’ve managed to get that damned herring gull”.
My ornithological analysis was disproved, however, when an irate strawberry-blond head appeared through the hatch.
“Do you know the windows are open?”
“No, but sing me a few bars and I’ll try to pick it up.”
“Very funny.  I’m soaked, and so are the soft furnishings”
She retired with a toss of her damp curls, presumably to deploy a large sponge and a towel. Oh dear: Horatio in trouble again.

A hose in one’s hand can be very satisfying, empowering perhaps, and very tempting.  Later still, in the cool of the evening, I was topping up the freshwater tank while Jane was having a shower onboard.  It just so happens that the freshwater filling connection on the boat is on the deck just above the window of the heads.  As I concluded the filling operation and replaced the filler cap I could hear Jane slopping about in the shower, soaping herself everywhere and singing “Roll Out the Barrel”(not), and I felt an overwhelming urge to try a jolly jape.  I lifted up the small window of the heads and peered inside.  I could see only a shower curtain and a vague human figure beyond.  I lifted up the still-running hose, but was arrested by a stern voice within.
“Don’t even think about it”.

How on earth did she know what I was about to do?

27 July 2021

Blog 97. It’s Only a Game.

Look.  It’s only a game.  It’s only 22 over-paid vacuous young men chasing a bit of leather around a field for 90 minutes.  It’s not Agincourt.  I have just seen two Daily Telegraph headlines that read,
“Southgate summons the warrior spirit of generations past” and
“I am in tears writing this…”. 
I didn’t read the rest and ended up skipping about 50% of the newspaper.  When I then skipped the dire news on Covid, with its predictions of relaxation of restrictions not happening after all, I had only a quarter of the paper left.  Yes, yes I know I am A Man Alone in the current euphoria of maybe England winning the World Cup for the first time since 1966, but I have to say it again: it is only a game.  Still, the whole shebang seems to make a lot of people very happy and it has taken their minds off Covid, so I suppose it has all been a good thing.  I don’t begrudge the pleasure it affords, it is just that I don’t understand it.  Good luck then, chaps; I shall be reading an improving book when it all takes place on Sunday night or maybe go for a walk; the streets will, after all, be deserted.

Did you know that there is a right and wrong way to slice a tomato? Me neither. I have still been preparing the suppers during Wimbledon week as outlined in Blog 96 and I had graduated to providing a pork pie salad one evening. “Nothing to that”, I thought: cut pie in half and plonk on plate; remove lettuce from fridge, rinse and slice; anoint with dressing; spoon on accompaniments, negative coleslaw for Jane; slice tomato and cucumber and add to plate; serve. Jane had magically appeared like a genie from a bottle during the final stage of this operation, it being break time on Centre Court and she being suspicious of malpractices taking place in her kitchen. So spectral was her appearance that I jumped as a voice at my elbow said,
“Why are you cutting the tomato like that?”
I was nonplussed. Was there a right or wrong way? I had sliced the tomato up and down, that is, parallel to the axis of the stalk. It seems I should have cut it across ways. I shrugged and cut another one as directed, thus providing an option for the discerning diner. Even then the presentation did not meet with approval, for I was disturbed to note that she had left part of the tomato on the plate when the meal was finished; it seems that the bottom of the tomato – the bit with the stem and the little dimple on it – is traditionally discarded on preparation and not offered on the plate. Oh dear: I had eaten mine. Various other shortcomings were noted on the presentation of the salad, which I had created using my own haemorrhoidal system, to the point where she just burst into giggles and shook her head sorrowfully. I was, she said, hopeless, but she appreciated that I had tried hard. It reminded me of my school PE report from 1966.

The prime minister has announced that all Covid restrictions on meeting, distancing and face coverings will be dropped from 19 July.  If all goes well.  A final decision will be made on Monday 12 July and I still predict that he will give in to the doom-mongers and kick the can down the road yet again.  You see, the positive test results related to the delta variant are still rising (“soaring” according to the media) and the number of deaths has risen too.  However, the latter statistics are not increasing at anything like the same rate as cases, standing at 34 daily, as I write.  Moreover the case rate, though still rising, is beginning to fall off and will reach its peak probably in the next few days; it is already falling in Barsetshire.  No matter, some members of the public and most of the media are appalled at the thought of abandoning compulsory face masks: a recent poll indicated that some people think the masks should be worn, literally, forever and some favour a nighttime curfew as well.  Wearing face coverings in certain scenarios remains government advice, but – if the relaxation goes ahead – the decision will be left to individuals and the owners of premises such as shops or pubs.  I think it is a sensible move (well, I would wouldn’t I) as it credits individuals with common sense and personal responsibility.  Those who are uncomfortable with the relaxation can keep on wearing face coverings, and shops, pubs and hotels can take the risk of losing (or gaining) customers by excluding people who are uncovered.  Sadly, this whole thing is splitting the country, just like Brexit did: it would have been far better if the government had nailed its colours to the mast , ditched the law on masks, left the matter to individuals and withheld advice.  But there you go.  I still think Boris will bottle out on Monday:  “just a little longer, folks…”. I will be pleased if I am wrong.

We don’t watch a great deal of television, but sometimes – after a long exhausting day of being retired – you want to watch something entertaining after dinner or supper.  We have quite taken to the 25-year-old detective series Wycliffe, set in Cornwall, the series being repeated at the moment.  The plots are good, the acting well done, and the scenes stunning.  As each programme is only an hour long the plots cannot be too complicated; there are no red herrings as there is no time to incorporate them, and so the first suspect tends to be the actual culprit.  Nevertheless, the series is very watchable.  The other programme that I would recommend is Clarkson’s Farm on Amazon Prime.  Jeremy Clarkson, of Top Gear fame, is rather like Marmite: you either like him or you cannot stand him.  We are of the former opinion, but even if you are of the latter persuasion I would give the series a whirl.  It is hilarious.  Clarkson owns a farm in the Cotswolds and, two years ago, decided to try to work the land himself.  The series covers his ineptitude and his triumphs while doing a very good job of educating the viewer in the difficulties and techniques, the trials and tribulations, of modern farming – all in an entertaining way.  It is fascinating and definitely recommended.

I knew it was a mistake to paint that idyllic picture of balmy weather on the quarterdeck in Dartmouth (Blog 96).  Since then the weather on the boat has been pretty awful.  When it wasn’t raining it was blowing a hooley, overcast, or both.  We travelled down last Sunday at 0500 to beat the traffic then spent the rest of the day, between showers, doing jobs in that fuzzy twilight world that goes with a very long day and a lack of sleep.  I fitted that new outboard-engine mounting davit, as predicted last week, and – to my surprise – the procedure was completed without any problems at all.  We slept the sleep of the just (as in “just shattered”) that night and managed a few other jobs the next day but, by evening, the clouds were black and heavy, the rain came down, and the wind whipped up into a Force 5/6 south westerly.  The forecast was for more of the same, the boat creaked and groaned in her moorings and I gazed out at the squalls after supper and thought to myself, “Why are we doing this?”.  We had booked a birthday lunch at Taylors’ Restaurant for the following Thursday, but that was the only commitment for the week.  I pondered and made one of my masterful decisions:
“Let’s go home.  We’ll cancel the lunch.”
“What now?” said Jane. 
It was 2100 and I had just hauled down the ensign for the night.
“Yes”, I said. ”I’ve had enough of this”.

So with no more ado, I donned my foul weather gear and seaboots and retrieved our bags from the car, fighting my way up the pontoon against the wind and rain in the process.  Jane emptied the refrigerator and we shut down the boat’s systems.  By 2200 we were on our way, me still looking like an advert for Fisherman’s Friend throat lozenges and Jane in a state of shock and bemusement.  We staggered into the happy homestead at 0045 on Tuesday morning and collapsed into bed (I did take off my seaboots).  It has taken us the rest of the week to recover our sleep and our wits.

Well that’s it then: three score years and ten. What does it feel like? No different, of course. I am still 40 with the mind of a twenty-year-old and the tact of a rhinoceros. Last week, for the first time, Jane asked me if I would like a birthday cake. When, surprised, I replied that that would be nice, she asked what sort I wanted. I replied enthusiastically,
“Fruit cake, please!”
She looked away and I thought I heard a muttered,
“Bloody hell…”
Sensing some reluctance, I tried again.
“Carrot cake, then?”
“It would need refrigeration and we are travelling to the boat…”
Hmm not doing too well in the patisserie stakes here, I thought.
But she eventually relented and went for carrot cake (fruit cake was difficult, not because of the effort or skills involved, but because we had none of the ingredients in stock. I finished the last slice of carrot cake yesterday and, I must say, it was fantastic).
Our conversation moved on to the Special Meal. Regular readers will recall that on Jane’s birthday I normally prepare a special dinner for her (Blog 50) and it is a practice that she reciprocates. This is a double treat because Jane is a superb cook. A few days ago, she asked the inevitable question: what would I like? I thought of my favourites, all of which had been rejected in the past. No harm in trying again – it being a special birthday.
“Beef olives, please”.
“No, you’re not getting that.”
“Chicken Marengo?”
“No, you aren’t having that.”
“Oxford cutlets?”
“No, you’re not getting them either, whatever they are.”
“Cheesy hammy eggie?”
“What’s that, for heaven’s sake?”
“It’s a traditional naval dish, a bit like croque monsieur, but with an egg added. ”
“No.”
“Beef Wellington?”
“No, too rich and too much work”.
Oh dear.
In the end, we settled on barbecued fillet steak: simple, but a treat. True, I will be the chef, barbecues traditionally falling within the purview of the spear side of the family, but what the hell. You know, being Jane’s husband is just one big birthday and just being with her is birthday present enough (was that all right, girls?). Indeed, Jane is looking after me and at my beck and call all day until midnight. I was brought tea in bed this morning and she emptied the dishwasher for me while still in a comatose state at 0700 (her, not me). Now there’s sacrifice! I did try pushing my luck and asking for a foot massage later, thinking that she could refuse me nothing as King for the Day, but she told me to push off; clearly there are limits to both servitude and fruit cakes, even for a King.

It is the duty of the Marine Engineer Officer of a British warship (and, no doubt, other navies too) to carry out a number of pre-sea checks personally before sailing, reporting to the Captain, “Marine Engineering Department ready in all respects for sea, sir”.
It involves testing the ship’s steering in main, local and emergency control, comparing the actual position of the rudders with that indicated by instruments; testing the ship’s sirens from all operating positions, remotely, automatically and by hand; testing the main engine telegraphs; testing the main engine throttles ahead and astern in all modes of operation, remote and hand control; and visually confirming that shore electrical power cables and shore steam hoses (as appropriate) are disconnected from the jetty. It is a laborious but important task and the personal element is a proud tradition. I have undertaken the job on more occasions than I care to remember, rising at some God-awful time like 0500, usually on cold, dark and stormy mornings, in time to get the job done for an 0800 sailing time. It is a principle which I have brought with me to operation of my boat and I have a check-off list for that purpose: when the lines have been let go, it is a bit late to discover that the steering doesn’t answer or the engines won’t engage.

I mention all this because, despite all my experience and methodology, I cocked the whole thing up the other day and nearly killed Jane.

It was before the bad weather and wind came along. The conditions for sailing were very favourable: the sun came out from behind a cloud, the wind was light airs from the east, the tide was at slack water. I made another of my masterful decisions:
“We will go to sea”.
I started the engines. I tested the throttles ahead and astern, I proved the steering from both helm positions, I tested the siren, I switched on the VHF and GPS, I singled up the mooring lines. Taking a last look around, I removed the stern line and told the First Lieutenant Jane in my firm commanding voice,
“Let go for’ard!”
She let go, I engaged astern, and we made gentle sternway out of the berth. Suddenly there was a shout from the fo’c’sle.
“Horatio, the shore power cable!”

We were still connected to the shore power by an electric cable that was running out as she spoke.

She caught the cable just as it parted, her aim being to keep the live end out of the water. Of course, what that meant was that Jane ended up standing there on the fo’c’sle with the head line in one hand and a live electric cable in the other, the boat being otherwise detached from the land.
There was, to put it mildly, much tumult and shouting.
I did manage to manoeuvre the boat back alongside, but Jane – holding a live electric cable as she would a venomous snake – was powerless to throw the head line back onto the cleat on the pontoon. Fortunately, others were passing and lent a hand. All was eventually secure and we could recover the situation. We sailed fifteen minutes later, this time with all umbilical cords removed.

You are allowed to say it.  Nay, let me do it for you:
“Shacklepin, you dipstick”.

But I do slice a mean tomato.  Unconventionally, in the perpendicular style.

Now if you will excuse me, I must flash up the barbecue.  Prepare to be amazed by my al fresco culinary skills.

10 July 2021