Blog 110. Just Don’t Make Me Laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

16 February 2022

Blog 109. There was a cake…and singing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4 February 2022

Blog 108. Paddington Bear Eat Your Heart Out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On that cheerful note, I bid you adieu…

13 January 2022

Blog 107. Déjà Vu

Happy Christmas one and all. I must confess that when I made the same greeting almost exactly a year ago I never thought I would be writing the same words in the same circumstances, with Covid still “raging” and “infections soaring” according to the British media. Sadly, the headlines are – alas – more or less accurate for once, though the soaring infection rate is not matched by a similar rate of hospitalisations or deaths: the vaccines are doing their job. Everyone in England is on tenterhooks waiting for Boris to close down the country or have the unvaccinated shot and their bodies burnt, as advocated by the Magi: the scientists of the UK All Powerful Ones in the Scientific Advisories Group for Emergencies (SAGE). So far he has stood firm, which I grudgingly admit is to his credit; but our Prime Minister is a great one for ‘U’ turns or making last-minute decisions based on the last doom-monger to pound his ear, so anything could happen. I say “England” because Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland are still doing their own thing, and never eased any of the earlier restrictions of compulsory face masks, social gatherings and so on, as England did in July. Curiously, their rates of infection per head of population have been no better than that in England; in some instances they have even been slightly worse. But a dominant section of our lords and masters loves lockdowns, laws and restrictions – the more extreme the better: the draconian laws are Doing Something, even if they don’t work, so we may yet be plunged into another period of misery. A two-week “circuit breaker” has been mooted for England, but we have all heard that story before: earlier in the year we were told that we were entering such a brief interlude and it eventually lasted six months. This time, if lockdown is proposed, I rather suspect that people and Parliament will fight back or simply not comply. We have had enough. A 24-hour 7-day booster programme has been implemented to ensure that everyone has had at least three vaccinations, but it seems to me that – booster or not – the infections are still spreading, and it cannot all be laid at the door of the unvaccinated. Fortunately, as mentioned in an earlier blog, infection from the omicron variant appears to involve relatively mild symptoms in most people, with a significantly reduced risk of hospital admission or death. The Chief Medical Officer thinks that the current rate of infections will peak quite rapidly, then decline as it has done in South Africa. Let us hope he is right. Ho hum – welcome 2022.

We have started the usual round of pre-Christmas social gatherings – not wild parties with paper hats, you understand, but genteel lunches with select friends, and then only with one other couple at a time.  Each time we have unobtrusively taken lateral flow tests beforehand as both a precaution and a courtesy.   I was appalled to read, in the “agony aunt” section of The Spectator magazine, of one couple who were invited to lunch by some very old friends, but on the condition that they take a Covid lateral flow test first.  The invitees were appalled too.  Next thing, people will be demanding a vaccination passport as a prerequisite for entry to their house.  The advice to the couple by The Spectator was simply to treat the precondition as one would a dress code and just go with the flow (no pun intended), but I disagree with the comparison: a dress code on an invitation is a guide to the type of social occasion that is offered and what others will be wearing – it does not mean that you will be refused entry to a friend’s house if you are not wearing a jacket and tie.  Dear oh dear, what sort of people is this virus turning us into?  Give friends some credit for using a bit of initiative and common sense when invited for hospitality.

“Mask!”
Thus spoke a bus driver to a friend of mine as he boarded a local bus in Bath, where he lives.  Juggling his Senior Bus Pass with the operation of fumbling on his face mask, he tried to lay the pass on the electronic reader, pay, and thus free his hands.
“Mask!”, said the bus driver aggressively and louder again, placing his own hand over the electronic pad and thus preventing payment.  My friend, older than I, and slightly hard of hearing after years of working with turbines in HM Ships, continued to fumble and try to pay.
“MASK!”, shouted the bus driver for the third time, his hand still over the payment pad.  My friend finally realised what was going on.  Depositing his Senior Bus Pass temporarily in his pocket, he ostentatiously, and with great care, concentrated on fitting his face mask with both hands and adjusting it to fit.  Only then was he allowed to pay and proceed.  This is the society we have become, where senior citizens and veterans are berated and bullied in public for being too deaf or too slow to follow the latest diktat. Congratulations First Bus; you must be very proud for providing such an excellent bus service to the public in Bath and Bristol, particularly at this time of good cheer.

Christmas luncheons are Jane’s highlight of the year.  The kitchen hums, steams and rattles like the boiler room of a battleship on full power; the special Christmas tablecloth and matching napkins are unearthed and submitted to Number 1 Boy (ie, me) for starching and re-ironing before decorating the polished Queen Anne table in the dining room; candles are set out; holly and other greenery emerge from somewhere; glasses for water and white, red and pudding wines are arranged, as are cutlery, according to Debrett’s Guide to Etiquette and Modern Manners.  It is all rather splendid and I take great delight in laying it all out; equally, Jane takes great delight in afterwards re-arranging it (“Those are white wine glasses, not red, and none of them match anyway…”).  This year, Jane went to light the candles just before the first of our luncheon guests arrived, but could not immediately find any matches.  Fortunately, I was able to point out, on the sideboard,  two books of matches that I had received as a free gift with the blades for my safety razor purchased last month (Blog 106).  She opened one of them and looked in vain for the striking pad used to ignite the matches.  There was none.  The matches were of foreign origin and contained unintelligible writing in some East European language or other, but she finally tracked down the English version of the tiny instructions.  Oh dear.  The books of matches contained, not matchsticks, but small styptic pencils used to stem the blood after cutting oneself shaving.  I did think it a bit odd that manufacturers of razor blades would supply gifts of matches, but had thought it best never to look a gift horse in the mouth.  An alternative source for fire was eventually found and the styptic pencils were rehabilitated in the en-suite bathroom, next to my shaving mug.  Still, the creases in the starched tablecloth looked good.

All the Christmas presents have been wrapped at last, and Jane’s presents labelled by a large “J” in felt-tip pen.  I am not a great one for fancy labels as they would each say exactly the same thing (“Merry Christmas, darling, from Mr Happy”).  I have thrown in a few rogue elements for Jane this year, as a pleasant surprise.  The last one arrived today and is, The Pusser’s Cookbook with naval recipes such as Babies Heads, Sh*t on a Raft, Cheesy Hammy Eggy and Pot Mess.  Alas, it does not have receipts for Oxford Cutlets or Beef Olives but, hey, you can’t have everything.  I know Jane will be really pleased with this gift, which I will ensure is opened in front of witnesses – our Christmas guests Sam and Laura.  There is, of course, no chance of this revelation spoiling Jane’s Christmas surprise, for she never reads these blogs and I know I can rely on your discretion.  Cheesy Hammy Eggy: I haven’t had that for years; I can’t wait for Jane to cook it for me.  Or not.

“Oh, thank you darling.  What a treat!”.
So spoke the memsahib when I presented her with her breakfast fruit salad this morning – part of my  policy of random treats to show that she is loved and appreciated.  I had laboured with some skill that morning while she put the finishing touches to her coiffure and pre-breakfast toilet, a period that I normally use to quaff a cup of espresso while shouting at The Daily Telegraph.  This time the caffeine and aggression had been deferred in favour of cuisine.  As we sat there in the Garden Control Tower aka the breakfast room, listening to Classic FM and munching away, I could not help but notice, out of the corner of my eye, that – every now and again – she made a grimace and put her hand up to her mouth to remove something, and put it on the side of her bowl rather as one does with errant fish bones.  She saw me glancing at her with some puzzlement.
“Tell me darling”, she said with a sweet smile, “did you peel the kiwi fruit before slicing it?”
“The kiwi fruit?”
“Yes, the small brown fruit with the tough skin and green centre.”
“Ah…not as such.  Is that not left on for roughage?”
“No”.  She paused.
“And did you wash the fruit before slicing it?”
“Errmm…”
“I thought not.  And please tell me you didn’t slice it on the onion chopping board.”
“Absolutely not”, (taking mental note to get out to the kitchen and stow the board before she saw it.)
She sighed, removing another piece of brown kiwi skin or stalk from her mouth.
“Darling, you’re hopeless.  But I love you”.
What better a Christmas present could a man or woman wish for?

It is Christmas 2021 and traditionally a time of good cheer, generosity and happiness.  To all my readers, of all religions and none, I wish you a Very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.  And don’t let Covid get you down.

20 December 2021

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