PC 478 Eating Habits

~ postcardscribblesblog ~ Leave a comment

I have to assume that none of my readers have actually ever been starving, although they may have screamed something to that effect at some moment. Starving is a horrible situation to be in and for some parts of the world starvation stalks people too readily. You may remember Stalin confiscated Ukraine’s wheat harvest in 1932; in the year that followed some 3.9 million, 13% of the population, starved to death. (See PC 273 ‘Stories to Tell’ March 2022)

Extreme starvation in Ukraine in 1932

Malnutrition follows and, unless there’s a slow reintroduction to energy-giving food, the physical effects become irreversible. That is life limiting.

In developed countries we seem to get into fixed routines when it comes to eating. Breakfast starts the day, something in the middle, called lunch in the southern half of England but often ‘dinner’ in the North, then supper/tea/dinner after you’ve stopped working. Other opportunities to put food in your mouth might be mid-morning, traditionally called ‘elevenses’ in Britain or simply ‘coffee’. In my Army service, in barracks most things stopped for ‘coffee’; down to the various messes or canteen, a quick peruse of the morning papers, a chance to talk to others not in your sub-unit, and then back to work. Afternoon tea for the middle and upper classes would have been tea, sandwiches and maybe a slice of cook’s latest cake; for the workers it was their main meal of the day. Who can forget Shirley Valentine’s husband Joe, in the film of the same name, arriving back from work, expecting steak for his tea, only to find that she’s fed it to a friend’s Bloodhound; ‘But it’s Tuesday. I always have steak on Tuesday!’  

Fortunately you have a choice, to find some food and put it into your mouth …. and no one is forced-fed!

When I started my executive coaching career, I became a member of The Institute of Directors on Pall Mall in central London, so I could use the meeting rooms to engage with my clients. The huge oil paintings of the great and the good of the C19th that hung around the large rooms communicated a sense of ‘anything is possible’; that’s how I saw them, although I never asked a client their take! Sometimes for lunch I had a sandwich at my table, but more often-than-not I walked across Pall Mall and up the Royal Opera Arcade to an Italian-run Deli.

The arcade itself had a curious mix of tenants; today it lists an art gallery, a ‘Synergy Chinese Medical Centre’, a stationers and bookshop, a diamond merchant and the back door to the New Zealand High Commission, as well as the sandwich centre. This was a busy place at lunchtime, and the energised staff recognised their regulars with a big smile and wave: “The usual?” It was gloriously theatrical! Then my ‘usual’ was slices of rare roast beef in a granary bap with some horseradish sauce and masses of fresh black pepper; I can taste it now ….. to die for!

Another London lunchtime favourite was egg mayonnaise in a brown bap with masses of black pepper, and an apple, when I worked for Short Brothers in Glen House in Victoria. The usual? We do get into habits about food, don’t we.

My body screams ‘sugar please’ when I come back from hot yoga, where I’ve lost over a litre of sweat ….. so need liquid and sugar. I got into the habit of having a large bowl of cornflakes, with granulated sugar, full fat milk and an apple or banana; then some Cadbury’s Whole Nut! Over the months my weight gradually increased; not surprising! Then last year I got quite severe food poisoning on our TAP flight from Rio de Janeiro, took ten days to recover completely, lost weight and recognised here was an opportunity to change my habits. So now my ‘usual’ is a salad of crayfish tails, anchovies, tomatoes and cucumber.

A yoga chum passed me Chris van Tulleken’s paperback ‘Ultra-Processed People – Why Do We All Eat Stuff That Isn’t Food …. And Why Can’t We stop?’, as he thought I might like to read it. He had absorbed its contents lying in his evening bath and the back cover had clearly had alternating periods of being wet and drying out. In some strange way it made me want to read it more!

If you think van Tulleken’s name’s familiar, it’s probably because his ideas were popular with the late Michael Mosely, whose television series about food, particularly about intermittent fasting, low-carbohydrate and the ketogenic diets, made him a household name. 

In 2017 British consumers spent just 8% of their household budget on food; this compares with only 6% in the USA, but 11-14% in Germany, Norway, France and Italy for example. Research by the Food Foundation shows that the poorest 50% of households would need to spend almost 30% of their disposable income if they wanted to eat a diet that adheres to national ‘healthy eating guidelines’; the poorest 10% would need to spend 75%. UPF is almost universally cheaper, quicker and supposedly just as nutritious than foods and meals that need home preparation. For some it’s a no brainer.

I haven’t read more than a third of the book yet, but already like the statement: “Fish oil is bad for you; oily fish is good for you.”, although I accept that for some, ‘cod liver oil tablets’, for instance, might be more available than a couple of mackerel fillets. Van Tulleken uses Palm Oil to illustrate his point: “When freshly pressed, it’s an almost luminous, crimson, highly aromatic, spicy and flavourful, full of antioxidants like palm tocotrienol.”

Not sure whether you’re a fan of Nutella but this spread uses oil, and that can’t be crimson and spicy! So, the palm oil is refined by heating, has phosphoric acid added to remove gums and waxes, is neutralised by caustic soda, bleached with bentonite clay (!) and finally deodorised using high-pressure steam. The process is known as RBD – refined, bleached and deodorised. And it’s this process which is used to make soybean, palm, canola (rapeseed) and sunflower oils.

I wonder what other nuggets I will uncover as I read more of the book. It might make me question further: “The usual?”

Richard 13th February 2026

Hove

http://www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PC 477 Norway

~ postcardscribblesblog ~ Leave a comment

Everyone seems to be going to Norway this year. Jon & Sally went to Lapland around the New Year, Ian, one of our yoga chums, went with his partner Mike last week to Bergen for a few days and David & Sally are exploring the fjords in the southwest when it’s warmer later in the year. I realised I already have some lovely memories of this fantastic Scandinavian country and I actually know a real Norwegian, Anders Schonberg, who currently lives in Cascais, Portugal and, with his wife Chloe, runs the AI company Plansom (www.plansom.com). (See PS)

Geographically, Norway is a northern European country of mountains, glaciers and deep coastal fjords. At around 100,000kms, its coastline is the second longest in the world, although this includes their 50,000 islands; the mainland coastline is 2,650kms. Its major land border is with Sweden, but it also borders Finland and Russia. A constitutional monarchy (Note 1), it currently has a population of 5.6 million (8% that of the UK) and enormous wealth due to its oil and gas industry. The country has the largest sovereign wealth fund in the world, valued last year at $1.4 trillion.  

Every year, in recognition of the UK’s support for Norway during WW2, Norway donates a huge Christmas tree that’s erected in Trafalgar Square. Part of that support was the development of tactics to take the war back to Occupied Europe. Operation Claymore, a British/Norwegian commando raid on the Lofoten Islands in March 1941, was the first of 12 commando raids directed against the Germans in Norway. One of the instructors at RMA Sandhurst when I was there was a Colonel Dennis O’Flaherty who, so the story went, had lost an eye during this raid; his eyepatch gave him a piratical look. We cadets didn’t get close enough to determine whether it was true!

In August 1974 I sailed a 42ft yacht from the north coast of Germany to Oslo (see PC 229 ‘Kiel to Oslo’ May 2022). We stopped overnight at Horten on the west of the fjord to recharge the yacht’s batteries.

It was my first time in Oslo and thought it a delightful city, if not a little pricey. I’ve inserted a stock photograph of the grand Oslo fjord, one of the highlights of this 1000 kms trip, as I was using a cinecamera and have no ‘still’ photographs.

In 1976, after 4 years at Regimental duty in Germany, I was posted to UKLF HQ in Salisbury, to a ‘Staff Captain’s role. At the time the headquarters had a total of some 190 officers (this may be not be too accurate!) – a ‘gathering of generals’, a ‘clutch of colonels’, ‘masses of majors’ and about three captains; we felt quite special! I was to be responsible for some of the quartermaster aspects of the UK’s Ace Mobile Force (Land) (AMF(L) & Amphibious Forces– fortunately I didn’t need to complete the Royal Marine Commando course. The AMF(L) was, and probably still is, NATO’s fast reaction force, operating on its flanks.

A couple of months before I joined on 1st January 1977, I had flown from Germany to Oslo, then on to Bergen and caught the train up to Voss, to meet the then current holder of the role, a Major Colin Constable. We stayed in the Fleischer’s hotel where I was introduced to the Norwegian breakfast buffet. If you liked fish or cheese, you would not go hungry. (Note 2) In Voss, some 100kms inland from Bergen, one of my responsibilities would be to find and book accommodation for troops undergoing ‘Winter Warfare Training’.

After a couple of days, we flew back to the UK on a RAF C130 Hercules. On Colin’s advice, I bought some enormous prawns from the fish market in Bergen and put them far up in the tail of the aeroplane, where they froze during the flight to RAF Lyneham.   

In April 1977 the AMF(L) held a three-day CPX (Command Post Exercise – no troops) in Bodø, a coastal city just north of the Arctic Circle. It’s always interesting to work with other NATO nationalities, but my memories are of little sun and some wonderful fish!

Captain John Odell, Major Jeff Pink and Norwegian Reserve Colonel Knut Strøm

The next month Major Jeff Pink, Captain John Odel and I joined Norwegian Reserve Colonel Knut Strøm in Voss and spent a week negotiating and securing the accommodation for the 1978 Winter Warfare Training.

Leaving The Army in 1985, I joined Short Brothers’ London Office and was given Scandinavia as my Area of Responsibility, pitching the company’s Javelin SAM system. Sweden made a competing one, so I visited Finland, Denmark and Norway to discuss possibilities. Our local Norwegian agent, an anglophile called Fleming Devor, bought himself a Mark 10 Jaguar to improve his image! We came close to achieving a sale in Denmark, but Norway stayed with its Swedish systems.

And then, in February 2004. I went in search of the Northern Lights, flying to Oslo and north to Tromsø, to join the M/S Polarlys.

The Norwegian company Hurtigruten run these ships rather like coastal buses; people got on and off whenever we stopped on our way to Bergen.

Sadly, the Northern Lights only made a mediocre appearance during our three-day trip and my memory is of cold, of the black & white coastal landscape and of a Force 10 storm as we left the more sheltered inshore waters and headed south towards Bergen.

The captain came around at breakfast asking how we had slept; ‘hanging on in our bunks, Captain’ was the general response – from those of us brave enough to eat anything.

Richard 6th February 2026

Hove

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PS We call someone from Sweden a Swede, someone from Denmark a Dane, someone from Finland a Finn, so should we call someone from Norway a Norge …..?

Note 1 King Haakon VII was exiled in London during the Nazi Occupation in WW2. The monarchy is in the news today as the oldest son of Mette-Marit, the Crown Princess, Marius Borg Hoiby, is on trial accuses of raping four women.

Note 2 It’s the same in India. If you like curry, either at breakfast, lunch or supper, or all three, you will not go hungry!

PC 476 Memories of Regimental Service in Germany (2)

~ postcardscribblesblog ~ 1 Comment

….. continued from PC 474 …….

In PC 15 Alcohol and Other Drugs (June 2014) I wrote about my own journey from schoolboy to teetotaller, through a great deal of red and white wines, spirits and liqueurs, not to mention cigarettes and little cigars! As a single officer living in the Mess off-duty life revolved, as I’ve already admitted, around the bar; it was part of the life we led. Sometimes you need someone else to tell you some home truths. Paddy Surgeoner, the Battery Sergeant Major of 132 Medium Battery (The Bengal Rocket Troop) Royal Artillery, took me aside one day and said: “Hold out your arm, Captain Yates.” “Why?” (so argumentative!) “Just do it, Sir!” So, I held out my arm, as straight as I could. He looked at my hand. “Keep your hand still.” (It was shaking!) “I am, Sergeant Major!” “Think you should cut down on the booze, Sir!”

South of the German city of Hanover lies the town of Coppenbrügge; to its south-west lie what were the British Army bases of Bielefeld and Paderborn. Somewhere near the town the geography moulds and constricts any advancing enemy from the east into a narrow fold – forever known to those who exercised a fighting withdrawal as the Coppenbrügge Gap. I certainly spent a few days each year in a camouflaged vehicle or trench overlooking this ‘choke point’, waiting to bring down artillery fire on the ‘enemy’.

Recently we have become more aware of our changing global climate and an increase in the frequency of ‘once-in-a-lifetime’ events. In 1972, during a two-week live firing exercise on Hohne, the six self-propelled M109s of my battery (6 Medium Battery Royal Artillery) were deployed in a firing area which was surrounded by very tall pine trees. As the afternoon wore on, the wind strength increased to a point when it would have been unsafe to continue firing. Thirty minutes later a tornado ripped through the countryside. My observation later was: ‘It was as if a malevolent hand had brushed the surface of the land’, uprooting thousands of trees and lifting corrugated rooves off barns.

Often a mammoth ‘fuck up’ can led to glory! In 1973 my battery was on a non-live firing exercise on the Bergen-Hohne Training area, part of which would be a test of our ‘nuclear’ preparedness. As the GPO (Gun Position Officer) I was responsible for every aspect of the gun position. It went wrong from the beginning. I bummed a helicopter ride from a chum, Jim Longfield, to conduct a reconnaissance of the allocated training area to determine where best to set out the six guns; that was OK! But the first ‘recce’ Command Post AFV 432 caught fire on its way overland, causing delays and by the time the test started, we were behind. Our responses were slow because the firing tables hadn’t been amended and eventually the Directing Staff (DS) and AIGs (Assistant Instructor Gunnery) terminated our participation. We would be retested, a NATO requirement, after the DS and AIGs had crawled all over us, admonishing us for this and that; it was not a happy few weeks.

On the re-test, everything and everyone came together. The result was highlighted by the Master Gunner, a full-ranking general, who came by helicopter to visit the gun position. Initially he couldn’t find it, so good was the camouflage that my gunners had used to disguise the six large M109 guns. “Best gun position he’d ever seen.”

You can make out the self-propelled M109 barrel – but not much else.

Three Nine Regiment Royal Artillery in Paderborn had a tactical nuclear capability, that is the ability to fire a small yield nuclear shell. The US made the shells and their maintenance was controlled by a small American Army detachment led by a Captain Bob Anala. His team’s presence in the barracks ensured there was also a small PX (PX: Post Exchange – an American store), where I was introduced to the delights of Aunt Jemima pancakes, Bourbon, and King Edward cigars.

Bob celebrating his birthday

Other names surface from the murky depths; Ollerhead, Bailey, Corbett-Burcher, Ross, Longfield, Bromby, Watkins, Tar, Bazard, Faith, Sawrey-Cookson, Peters, Piper, Rooke, James, Clarke, Colley, Treseder, Myberg, Pender, Morley, Harman, Gwyn, Freeth, McNee, Quarelle and Scarlett …. and my soldiers like Sergeants Fitzpatrick and Williams or Bombardiers Batchelor or Elrick.

When I started Officer Training at RMA Sandhurst, we wore leather boots for drill and leather boots for training exercises – they got wet, they were uncomfortable. Fast forward to Germany some years later and it wasn’t much better. In the winter Germany was generally colder so I bought a pair of fur-lined tank boots. These, with white long-johns and insulating inner soles, became de rigour, especially when one was on a bare hill practising ‘Observation of Fire’ (ie correcting artillery fire to where you wanted it) and it was -10C. One spring for some reason the whole regiment was in a tented camp up at Bergen-Hohne; we had over a foot of snow!

I reflect that one got used to living outside, either down some hole, under or in a vehicle. So much so that on return to barracks after two or three weeks living in the elements, it was necessary to turn off the central heating and throw open the windows!

I have mentioned in another postcard that, on a day off from an exercise, I visited the Belsen concentration camp, or what was left of it ….. mounds and mounds of banked earth, with a simple sign at their base, something like: ‘Here are buried 2000 bodies’. If the atmosphere pervading the area wasn’t bad enough, sombre, tangibly evil, no birds, one only had to drive across to the Bergen-Hohne railway station, where those destined for the camp arrived. Looking down from an overbridge at the platforms, a light drizzle falling in the dusk, a breeze swinging the station lamps ….. imagining a train arriving and disgorging its human cargo for their final kilometre or so …… words fail but the visuals survive.

(To be continued …..)

Richard 30th January 2026

Hove

http://www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PC 475 New Year in The Hope

~ postcardscribblesblog ~ 1 Comment

I hadn’t been to The Hope Café in this new year, so popped in on Wednesday, in the off chance some of the regulars would be there. I had my iPad so wouldn’t be too disappointed if they weren’t, as we all need time alone. January is a funny month, notable for those who have decided to undertake some new hobby/new eating regime/become TT for the month/maybe not drink coffee etc, so I wasn’t too surprised that the café was fairly empty, just Josh behind the counter and a few tables occupied.

With my double espresso I opened my iPad and found a collection of news items I had been planning to discuss and share with either Sami, Mo, Lisa, Robert, Anna or even Duncan.

Don’t know about you, but Celina and I have a regular groceries delivery, topping up as necessary from our local shops, all within walking distance. At the beginning of January, I ordered a little tub of Pomegranate seeds, in the belief they have magical benefits and we should all be ingesting them daily.

Unfortunately Waitrose had run out and, reminiscent of the early days of online shopping when substitutions bore little resemblance to what you had actually ordered, had delivered some Red currants instead. I like these little tangy balls so told Darren we’d keep them. “Never know what to do with them, too fiddly!” was his retort. I like teaching people new skills, so showed him how one can run the tines of a fork down the stalk and the individual currants fall off.

There was some discussion in The Times Feedback page about whether it’s correct to say one lives, in my case, in East Sussex or Sussex. A little research says there are 39 historic counties in England, of which Sussex is one.

But then many counties are sub-divided to create administrative areas, like Yorkshire, historically one but now comprising North Yorkshire, South Yorkshire, West Yorkshire, the East Riding of Yorkshire and the City of York as a unitary authority. The County of Sussex got divided into East and West, simple divisions for local government authorities, so I have reverted to ‘Sussex’; these things matter, don’t they? I mentioned this to Sam, my son-in-law, who found a fascinating piece of history.

Sussex is the only county to have sub-divisions called Rapes. The six Rapes of Sussex were established by the Normans in 1066. Stretching in strips from the northern border to the coast, each rape was centred on a fortified castle and port to provide military defence and easy access to France. The six were Chichester, Arundel, Bramber, Lewes, Pevensey and Hastings. The name ‘rape’ likely stems for the old English word for rope, referring to the ancient practice of using rope (cord) to measure out land boundaries. You might have known, but I didn’t, that a ‘cord’ is a standard length, 8 feet; but did you know that a ‘full cord’ is a volume of stacked firewood (4ft x 4ft x 8ft – 128 cubic feet (3.62 m³))?

I picture this tidy stack of logs and my thoughts revert to a simpler world!

In The Times’ Obituary pages the other day, I was intrigued to read of Cecilia Giménez, an amateur artist who had lived in the northern Spanish town of Borja. In the town’s Sanctuary of Mercy church was a 1930’s painting, ‘Ecce Homo’, painted by Elías García Martínez.

The Original Ecce Homo

Over decades Cecilia had done her best to protect the painting from the ravages of the town’s humid air, a little bit here, a little bit there, but in 2012 had undertaken a comprehensive restoration ….. which didn’t turn out well.

News of the ‘monkey face’ painting travelled far and wide and, to the little town’s mayor’s surprise, in August 2012 a busload of tourist arrived in Borja to see it. They decided to charge €1; some 150,000 arrived over the following three years, giving the dying town a huge financial boost. Cecilia overcame the initial ridicule she had caused, personally benefitted from the merchandising and came to like the ‘monkey face’; she died in December aged 94.  

Another 94-year-old who checked out at the end of last year was my distant cousin Peter Russell. Regular readers will remember Celina and my trip from Auckland to Rotorua in late September to see the Russell family. I am so pleased we did; he had built a jewellery business in Christchurch (NZ) and was a great example of a good life well lived.

I am always saddened when someone dies well before their expected life span and Skye Gyngel is one. The daughter of a well-known Australian media tycoon, Bruce Gyngell, she had developed a passion for simple food and, after working under Anton Mosimann at The Dorchester, found a run-down glasshouse and plant nursery in the grounds of Petersham House in Richmond to demonstrate her ideas.

Petersham Nurseries Café at the red marker

In 2004 she opened Petersham Nurseries Café; there were 15 tables and it only opened at weekends. Her kitchen was an old shed with a two-ring stove, the dining area mismatched tables and chairs and a beaten-earth floor. I went a few times, parking the car in Richmond Park and walking the two miles or so to the Petersham Gate. The whole experience was quirky and, with unfussy food, a delight.

In the rough and ready dining area in 2006

Within a year it had won the Time Out award for best al fresco dining and in 2011 a Michelin Star. The latter Skye regarded as a bit of a curse and she left the following year; within the next ten years she opened three London and Hampshire restaurants.

Skye Gyngell at Heckfield Place in Hampshire

You may be able to tell from her photograph she had freckles! Last year she was diagnosed with the rare skin cancer Merkel cell carcinoma and died in November at the young age of 62.

Ah! Mo’s arriving …….

“Hi! Mo ……. can I buy you a coffee?”

Richard 23rd January 2026

Hove

http://www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PC 474 Memories of Regimental Service in Germany (1)

~ postcardscribblesblog ~ Leave a comment

During my 20 years serving Her Majesty and her elected governments, I spent almost six years in Germany, when it was divided into West and East, and home to the British Army of The Rhine (BAOR). In the 1970s 1st (BR) Corps, which was headquartered in Bielefeld, had a strength of about 53,000. NATO forces faced the combined might of the USSR and Warsaw Pact armies. To quote a former commander of 7th Armoured Brigade: “These were huge armies that we were going to have to take on, and we were inevitably going to be overwhelmed by numbers. Therefore, it was the amount of damage that we could do …. to limit their advance before ‘nuclear release’, before we actually used tactical nuclear weapons.” I reflect that we never practised ‘advancing’, always refining the managed retreat!

I write these memories at a time of heightened tension across Europe, with Russia reinterpreting history to justify its own belligerent nature. Sad when you read its president talking about war with Europe. Why can’t he refocus, on, say, raising the living standards of his people?

Sailing a 30ft engineless Danboat with the late Bill Pender

In my first year in Lippstadt, before going to university, I was often sailing in The Baltic, on yachts from the British Kiel Yacht Club on the western side of the Kieler Fjord (See PC 106 Sailing in The Baltic 2017, PC 229 Kiel to Oslo 2021 and PC 231 Ropes and Sheets 2021.) I continued to introduce soldiers to the rigours of offshore sailing when I returned to Lippstadt in 1972, before moving down the road to Paderborn the following year.

My absence from barracks was noticeable! So much so that when the Second-in-Command, Major John Harman, wanted to reinforce a point in his lecture to junior NCOs, he allegedly asked: “So where would you expect the FOO of 132 Battery (Note 1), Captain Yates, to be at this stage in the battle?”, a wag at the back shouted: “Sailing in The Baltic, Sir!” In my accommodation in the Officers’ Mess, I had a wall covered with charts of The Baltic, with coloured lines marking different expeditions. Good times!

In August 1969 I heard on the radio Prime Minister Jim Callaghan announce that British troops would be sent to Northern Ireland ‘to aid the police’. I was, naturally, on a yacht, this time near the little Danish village of Aerøskøbing and within three weeks of returning to England and starting university. I genuinely thought I might miss some action, with the prospect of three years studying Civil Engineering. Surely in that time ‘they’ could sort out what would become known as the Troubles? No one forecast the civil conflict would last for 30 years. My own ‘Tales of Northern Ireland’ can be found in PCs 196, 197 & 198 from 2020.

I was a single officer during my time in Germany and life revolved around training in and out of barracks, sport,

An inter-regimental rugby match in February 1973

and the Officers’ Mess. It was here we congregated for a mid-morning coffee, a drink in the bar before lunch, a drink or two in the bar before dinner and possibly a nightcap. I sensed we ‘worked hard and played hard’! There was no watchable television, the newspapers were at least a day old and the only telephone was a landline contained in a little kiosk in a corner of the Mess hallway. For international calls, you had to talk to the operator and book it! The Mess in Lippstadt was a grand building with a double-height dining room and a Minstrel’s gallery at one end. During morning coffee in one of the anterooms, Captains David Morley and the late Bill Pender would read, with appropriate accents, Punch magazine’s Idi Amin column. (Note 2) Somehow a wonderful memory, although the subject was evil! Idi Amin was the dictatorial President of Uganda (1971-1979) whose regime was responsible for the deaths of anywhere from 100,000 to 500,000 Ugandans and the expulsion of some 50,000 Ugandan Asians, who owned the vast majority of the country’s businesses; economic collapse followed.

We enjoyed a life of duty-free alcohol, cigarettes and other goods like cars. The British Forces were supported by the NAAFI (Naval, Army & Air Force Institute), which had a large supermarket near the barracks in Schloss Neuhaus. Living as a single chap in the Officers’ Mess, my victualing needs were met, and I rarely went to the NAAFI. On the odd occasion I did, I was disappointed. Looking for some ink cartridges for a fountain pen, I tried the NAAFI: “Sorry love; no, we don’t stock those ….. but you’re the third person this month who’s asked for them.” I left, thinking well why don’t you order some in if there is a demand.

Training for the four-month infantry-role deployment to Northern Ireland took a huge chunk out of our normal Artillery training schedule; I did it twice!

M109s in the direct as opposed to indirect fire role

The artillery training programmes at regimental level hadn’t changed for decades; individual/personal training advanced into sub-unit and regimental exercises, then in the autumn much larger Divisional formations practised over the north German plains. Farmers were paid compensation if dozens of tracked vehicles ripped through, for instance, their fields of Sugar Beet. These exercises naturally never used live ammunition; we practised that with 155mm shells on the Hohne-Bergen and Münsterlager Training areas.

We did some mad things but then we were in our twenties, and everyone does mad things in their 20s, right? One Friday afternoon I got in the car after work, and drove to Calais, some 550kms. I then caught the 2300 ferry to Dover and drove to Leicester. On the Sunday afternoon, I drove back to Dover, caught the ferry to Ostend in Belgium and drove back into Germany, arriving for breakfast in the Officers Mess.

(To be Continued)

Richard 16th January 2026

Hove

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

Note 1 An artillery Forward Observation Officer (FOO) would be attached to an infantry or tank regiment, to bring indirect fire support as necessary.

Note 2 Regular articles by Alan Coren appeared in Punch, “utilising phonetic spelling and current idiom to lampoon this odious dictator. Sadly, its success won the attention of the Politically Correct Commissars, who pompously halted the satire.”

PC 473 You had a What?

~ postcardscribblesblog ~ 2 Comments

One Sunday last month, the day of the Winter Solstice, I walked down to the Fish Shack, a small kiosk on Hove’s beach, open three days a week to sell extraordinarily fresh fish – hence its name, I guess.

I love the little crayfish tails they sell, so buy a large tub and some anchovies in oil. It was two days after I had had the all clear from the nursing staff at The Montefiore about my post-operative Hernia wound. Jim recognises me and asks:

‘How are you, Richard?’

“On the mend after my hernia repair.”

There’s a tendency when we hear something, we automatically want to recount our own experiences, rather than ask a question to further the conversation; not really listening!! 

“Hernia huh! I had one of those, so you don’t need to tell me how painful it is. (Ed: Actually, I wasn’t going to!) It was about 5 years ago, and I was working in The Billingsgate Fish Market in Central London …….

One of the Billingsgate stalls

I was supervising the unloading of a lorry, a fork-lift taking the pallets off the back. One partially split and I instinctively went to hold it together ….. well, that was stupid wasn’t it …..  got a shooting pain down my arm and suffered a rupture, later diagnosed as a hernia.”

As I am listing to this tale of woe, I realise another customer, a woman, has arrived to buy some fish. I turned to her and apologised about the rather distressing medical story: “Don’t worry, I know all about Hernias …. my husband, my brother and my son have all suffered.”

We will all suffer something going wrong with our physical bodies during our lifetime, that much is guaranteed. What’s not is which particular ailments might come our way, maybe affected by lifestyle, our level of risk, eating habits, genetics and possibly bad luck – wrong place, wrong time. A Hernia? I had heard the name, knew that one of our yoga chums had had a bad one, whatever that meant, but my knowledge was minimal. Three weeks after mine and I apologise to the Waitrose delivery chap that I shouldn’t lift the green plastic crates containing our order (ie my wife Celina had told me not to!), as I am recovering from a hernia operation. “I’ve had one of those, know all about it!” He looked about 17 (actually he was 22!) and his had occurred when he was 18 – so age is no differentiator!

You can skip the next paragraph if you know all about hernias.

‘A hernia occurs when an organ or tissue pushes through a weak spot in the surrounding muscle or connective tissue. Common types of hernias include an Inguinal hernia, occurring in the groin area; an Umbilical hernia, occurring near the belly button; a Hiatal hernia, occurring when part of the stomach pushes through the diaphragm and lastly a Femoral hernia, occurring in the upper thigh near the groin. Symptoms may include a noticeable bulge, discomfort, or pain, especially when lifting or straining. Treatment often involves surgery.’

Then I found a diagram; I like diagrams, having a preference for pictural representation rather than a verbal description. I learned the other day that some 1-4% of people have a real phenomenon called Aphantasia; they are completely unable to imagine images in their head. For example, they can’t consciously create pictures in their head, like ‘seeing a red apple when you think of one.’ Thankfully I am not so afflicted, as I can’t imagine not being able to visualise, picture something.

Sorry, I digress!

Note the ‘weak point’ in the surrounding muscle. To confirm I had a hernia, I went off for an Ultrasound at The Nuffield Hospital, the other side of Brighton, on 12th August 2025. (Note 1) The Radiologist explained that, in men, the testes left the abdomen to drop down into the scrotum. OK, I understood this basic biology; they are there because they need to be kept at a cooler temperature than within the abdomen. What I hadn’t known was that where they exited the abdomen, they left a weak spot; that is often where inguinal hernias in men occur.

I was put on the NHS list in mid-August and attended the clinic on 7th November 2025 at The Montefiore. Given the delicate nature of a hernia repair, I was motivated to find out more about the consultant. These days, with LinkedIn and other online platforms, it’s easy to find out some basics, such as the fact he was born overseas, arriving in England as a child, and completing his medical training at Cambridge University. After our initial meeting he booked me in for late February 2026 and followed up with lots of information about the procedure, for me to digest. I was impressed – he ‘did what he said he would.’! We exchanged emails and I learned for instance his favourite composer is Bach. I warmed to him as a human being when he wrote: “I always say how lucky I am to have been accepted here and never cease to admire the tolerance and civility of this nation and its people. It is my duty to give back as much as I can.” Currently there’s often derogatory comment in our press about Britain and its place in the world. It was nice to read something positive and fundamental.

We managed to bring the operation forward to 5th December 2025. I checked in with Helen at the Reception Desk at 0655, got briefed by Abbi the Anaesthetist, felt confident everyone knew what they were about to do ……. zzzzzz ….. then into the recovery room!

I left around 1400 just as Helen, the receptionist, was finishing her shift. Seemed a fitting closure. Three weeks later I was back in the hot yoga studio, albeit being careful in some postures.

Richard 9th January 2026

Hove

http://www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

Note 1 Paying for medical treatment is, for some, an option, either through their Health Insurance or from their deep pocket. The cost of the scan was so exorbitant that I wrote to the CEO of The Nuffield, essentially asking him to justify it. I received a reply explaining this and that and the other – but no real justification for the cost.

PC 472 Shorts

~ postcardscribblesblog ~ Leave a comment

The title might have given the impression I was going to scribble about shorts, ie short trousers ….. maybe I should, given that I wore shorts at school until I was 18 …….

Dauntsey’s School First Orchestra circa 1964

…. but I’m not! Those who practise hot yoga in the Middle Street studio are an interesting group, from diverse backgrounds and professions, the young and those slightly older. Some of the regulars have become good friends, others prefer to drop in, practise, and leave, without any interaction; each to their own!

Sophie is an ‘award-winning actor, writer and film producer who works professionally under the name Cerys Knighton’. (See PC 342 Relationships IRL July 2023). She’s a graduate of the National Film and Television School and recently her short film ‘I’m Not Brilliant’ was shown as part of Brighton’s Film Festival in The Trinity Chapel on Duke Street in the centre of the city.

The chapel was built in 1817 by Thomas Kemp for his Nonconformist congregation, underwent several alterations during the C19th, and closed in 1984 due to declining numbers. In keeping with a lot of non-conformist places of worship, around three sides it has a large gallery on its first floor. The Fabrica Art Gallery made the chapel its home in 1996 and it was Fabrica which laid on the ‘Short Film Festival’.

I wouldn’t regard myself as a ‘Film Buff’, enjoy mainstream films as much as anyone, but sense our attendance at the local Odeon cinema has declined over the years. Supporting friends in their professional careers is important to me, so we went along to the early-evening screening of Sophie’s and other ‘short’ films; anything under 40 minutes is considered ‘short’. Hers was sixth on the list. The first was more like a dirge; atmospheric cliff-top images of Guernsey for 17 minutes, interspersed with a red-bearded individual who wandered around with a tattered old book. I have a habit of falling asleep in dark, warm places, so maybe I missed the whole point!

The next film was about a surprise birthday party, the subject entering a doorway and confronted by ‘friends and family’, whom you heard but didn’t see. She kept protesting that she didn’t do birthday parties and then seemed to get sprayed with blood ……! Again, the point was completely lost on me; the audience gave it desultory applause for some 4 seconds, so maybe I wasn’t alone. There was a short film, almost a documentary, about individuals who volunteered on a hospital radio. It had ‘real’ people not actors but again its point was lost – on me! One interesting film showed a series of cartoons about a boy going to Boarding School, the voice-over suggesting he felt abandoned and unloved. The choice of dull colours, browns and greys, added to the sense of despair. A clever way of portraying a difficult and possibly traumatic subject.

At the beginning of my commissioned Army service, I won a prize for being the best/worst/punctual/late/immaculate/scruffy – interested/ disinterested/capable/incapable young officer – it was a long time ago!! The award came with a cheque for £50 (about a month’s pay!) – to be spent on ‘sports equipment’.  Did I need another Squash racket? I didn’t play cricket so no need for a new bat, I played Rugby but didn’t need to buy a ball: I was at a loss! Eventually I persuaded the committee that I would seriously benefit from buying a Super 8 Cine Camera and projector; it was a stretch but ultimately successful. I used it for almost ten years before buying a Ftb Canon 50mm still camera.

A still from one of the many hours of ‘sailing trips’ Super 8 Cine film; the late James Hodges skippering a yacht returning from the Channel Islands.

Given that two aspects of my life then, offshore sailing and my Royal Artillery service, were full of photogenic opportunities, it was inevitable I ended up with hours of 8mm cine film, spliced together when necessary. Life moved on; I transferred the films I wanted to keep to VHS video tape …… then onto CDs. Now I don’t have a dedicated CD player …….

I was reminded of my library of Super 8 film by the fifth ‘short’ showing, a mishmash of family cine film reels spliced together in some incoherent way. I am sure the more critical members of the audience would have gained something by watching all 9 minutes, but I didn’t include myself in that group.

And then we got to our ‘Main Event’, Sophie’s film ‘I’m Not Brilliant’, written by her and directed by Julian Kerridge.

Sophie plays Donna, an overly keen carer of Elsie, an elderly woman wanting to end her life. Little flashes of very dark humour, like Elsie going up the stairs with an electrical toaster saying: ‘Think I’ll go and have a bath’ made me smile, as did the confusion about the location of Dignitas as one of the options – Sweden? Elsie is determined to spend any extra cash she has and not let her ungrateful daughter get her hands on it, so they depart for the local pub. There they bump into a Hen Night, to which Donna thought she should have been invited. And there was a delightful twist at the end to make you smile with relief. This short film got the loudest round of applause of the evening, not because Sophie had packed the audience with friends and supporters but because it was a rounded, sensible and watchable film.

After an interval, another collection of ‘shorts’ and another audience. We drifted out of the old chapel, into the cool evening air and made our way home. These viewings are the bedrock of the cinematic industry and the development of its creatives, without whom we couldn’t sit back in Screen 4 with the tub of popcorn and escape into a different world. No doubt we will read about some of the makers of and participants in these short films in the years to come, as they grow, experience and are recognised for their art.

Richard 2nd January 2026

Hove

http://www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PC 471 Another Tale  

~ postcardscribblesblog ~ 2 Comments

Most of us are too busy to read much at this time of the year, so here’s something I wrote last year, which is just another tale. And if you don’t read it that doesn’t matter either!

“I had only the vaguest of directions, in the form of a land survey map and some handwritten notes from the solicitors, but as I neared what I thought was about my destination, I could sense my heart beginning to beat faster, the excitement palpable; I pulled into the verge. Somewhere down this deserted country road, 100 miles in from the coast north of Sydney, was a five-barred gate. Sure enough 50 metres away there was an old wooden gate, hanging at an odd angle from a large timber post, rather unkempt and unloved; across the top bar was the name, “Standby”, burned into the wood by an untrained hand. A track led through the gums and over a small hillock; clearly no one had travelled this way for a while, so thick was the red dust and the absence of tyre tracks.

So much had happened since I had received that letter from Wilcock & Brown, a firm of solicitors in Sydney, in London two months before, informing me that a long-lost relative had left me a station in New South Wales. Being rather vague about the family tree, I had rung my grandfather, to see if he could enlighten me.

“Come down and see me, dear boy”, more an order than an invitation! A few days later we had had sat around the coffee table in his drawing room, doing a cursory search of some dusty albums and box files. He’d told me how James Ruse, his great great grand-father’s half-brother, had been one of the first European settlers and the first to be deeded land in Australia, thirty acres at Parramatta, west of Sydney. James had prospered and had bought tracts of land as future investments. One was far north of Sydney, which he had let to a fellow settler, who had gradually built up a sizeable holding. Over the years my grandfather had rather lost touch with his extended family relatives in Australia and had no clue as to how the station had come to be left to me.

Grandpa’s parting comment still rang in my ears: “Why don’t you go and have a look? You have nothing to lose, it could be a wonderful adventure and you can come back and tell me all about it.”

Certainly, I had to take a look, if only out of curiosity, but I had no experience of running anything bigger than my back garden, the size of postage stamp, in South London, so I would probably sell the station. After the long flight to Sydney and a few days to get over the jetlag, here I was, north of Newcastle. I remember smiling as I passed a sign on the road to Booti Booti, without knowing how it came to be so named and how I would become intimately involved with those words. Then I spied ‘Standby’ on that gate.

At the top of a rise in the track I caught a glimpse of buildings in the distance, half hidden by gums, with a water tower and fences that formed cattle pens. The nearer I got, details of the main house became clearer, classic colonial ranch style, with a large overhanging roof and wide verandas at both ground and first floor level. I had arranged to meet the man who had been looking after Standby since my relative had died, at noon. It was almost that time now, judging by the position of the sun, burning down from the cloudless sky, and yet there appeared to be no one around. 

I parked my car in the shade of a large barn, walked across to the main house and up the steps to the front door, which opened to my push. Inside, dust lay on everything, on the furniture, across the floors and the windows; my finger ran across the table in the dining room, underneath the dust the surface of a lovingly polished mahogany table, obviously brought out from England many years before. The interior was cool and pleasantly laid out, with the main rooms off the central corridor, and the kitchen at the far end.

I was just about to explore the first floor when steps sounded on the veranda. Framed in the doorway was the slender frame of a woman, a broad-brimmed hat on her head, bare arms and legs, and a flowing skirt; in her right hand was a basket. The strong sunlight made it difficult to see any detail of her face and I walked back to the front door to introduce myself.

“Good afternoon”, I said, “my name’s Robert Harrison; you are?”

As I came closer, I could see she was probably in her late twenties, her skin the colour of milky coffee with large soulful eyes and a broad smile.

“G’day, I’m Clarissa; I am Winston’s daughter.”

Ah! Yes. Winston was the chap who was looking after the station. She told me he’d been delayed with some cattle about an hour’s ride away.

“Would you like some lunch? I’ve got some cheese and mangoes, and a bottle of beer. Why don’t you sit on the veranda and I will get it.” Without waiting for a reply, she brushed past me and headed for the kitchen. 

I sat in the shade, tasted the most delicious goat’s cheese, slurped my way through a couple of mangoes and quenched my thirst with the beer. Winston arrived about an hour later, riding into the yard on a rather rough looking black mare, accompanied by a cloud of reddish dust. We introduced ourselves and sat on the veranda whilst Winston told me something of the ranch. A hundred thousand acres of cattle station was mine if I wanted it. He suggested that the best way to see what Standby consisted of was to ride the land. He startled me as he yelled at Clarissa to saddle up a horse, but soon we were riding out of the station yard and up the hill to the east. It was late afternoon, the heat of the sun was easier now, and the kangaroos were coming down to the water holes to take their first drink and nibble the short grass. I looked back at the house, already deciding that here was a place I could live. The comparisons with England were few, it was an exciting idea and, although I knew nothing about cattle and running a station, seemed too good to turn down.

What was the alternative?  Whilst I had no illusions about how different and physically demanding it would be, I felt a surge of excitement as I following Winston over the hill and through the gums. We crossed dried-up river beds, through gullies and around ant hills as big as my horse; the air was dry but clear and there was a wonderful smell of eucalyptus. Some three hours later we rode back into the yard in the soft light of dusk; Clarissa came running out and took the reins and led the horses back to the stables.

I gratefully accepted the offer to stay the night and later, lying in bed wide awake, I wondered what I was letting myself in for.”

(To be Continued – maybe)

Richard 26th December 2025

Hove

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PS Ideas always welcome!

PC 470 A Nod to Christmas

~ postcardscribblesblog ~ Leave a comment

In the eleven years since I started scribbling about this and that, naturally I have mentioned the Christian festival of Christmas. This year I have reread some of those postcards and have extracted some bits I have liked; hope you do too? You can obviously read the full postcards through WordPress.

From PC 27 Christmas 2014:

“I’ve spent Christmas in Sydney in Australia, rather warm but wet that year, in New Zealand where it was warm and dry, and in Rio de Janerio, where it was amazingly hot … and humid. Wherever, “There must be turkey …. and sprouts ???” Really?? “It wouldn’t be the same without Brussel Sprouts.!” The most maligned vegetable in western cuisine, normally with any taste and colour boiled out ……. until Jamie Oliver came along and suggested roasting them with bacon. Brussel Sprouts are just another of those things in life associated with the most boring country, Belgium.”

“This was followed of course by Christmas pudding, a wonderful, sweet concoction of dried fruits, eggs, suet and spices, laced with Brandy during its manufacture to ensure it matured properly, accompanied by Brandy Butter. Before the pudding was brought into the dining room, hot brandy was poured over it and set alight. Uncle Tommy simply nodded his head – he’d seen it many, many times.”

‘Uncle Tommy’ a papier-mâché Father Christmas from 1963

I spent a couple of Christmases in Northern Ireland when the IRA were fighting for some form of independence, firstly in Londonderry in 1973 and then in north Armagh in 1975. (See PCs 196, 197 & 198 Tales from Northern Ireland) These were dangerous times but we still recognised Christmas; dinner was roast turkey, Brussel sprouts (!) and Christmas pudding served by the officers to the soldiers. The Miss World organisation, through Julia Morley, delivered 400 stockings to our regiment in 1973, with packets of cigarettes, sweets, playing cards and I think the latest copy of Penthouse, a Men-Only raunchy magazine. I’ll leave it to your imagination how the soldiers enjoyed the contents of the stockings!

In Londonderry on Christmas Eve, I went up to the border Vehicle Check Point at Muff, to visit some of my soldiers. A Baptist minister, let’s call him Desmond as my memory is too dim (!), attached to the regiment for the tour, accompanied me. One of the sentries and I stood in a static observation post, looking out over the dark, frosty countryside, whilst Desmond talked softly about the meaning of Christmas; one of those memories that will stay with me all my life!

In the United Kingdom and in some countries of The Commonwealth the 26th of December is called ‘Boxing Day’. I wrote about this special day in PC 86, posted on 31st December 2016.

The following year an extra postcard concerned Mr & Mrs Santa (PC 113). Here’s an extract:

“Mrs Santa hears a crash and looks out across the sleigh park. Rudolph, a retired reindeer with an alcoholic red nose and used only once, in 1939, because it was foggy, stirs in his adapted St Bernard’s dog bed. “Wattts ttthhh ffuni” – sort of Reindeer speak for ‘What the fuck?’ Sure enough, Mrs Santa’s husband has returned, the reindeer hooves and sleigh’s skids screeching on the ice and eventually the empty sleigh has skidded to a stop. The reindeers’ flanks are steaming from the exertion of galloping across the world and both they and Santa seem somewhat worse for wear.

“Christ! What the hell’s happened?” she calls across the frozen ‘sleigh park in the sky’.”

Read the rest in PC 113.

Amber House Christmas Tree Thingy (See PC 210 Christmas Lights)

My ‘Creative Writing’ evening class at Brighton Met was encouraging and I even liked a few things that came from the challenging homework. 2018’s PC 140 was another ‘Extra! Extra!’; it covered a couple of homework scripts, one Christmas-themed about carol writing. Facebook asked whether I wanted to repost this last one earlier this week, so you may have already seen it.

At the end of 2020, a year when many countries had suffered total lockdowns to restrict the spread of Covid, I reminded my readers that the Christian bible is littered with stories of pestilence and plague, be it an invasion of locust, which coincidentally in 2020 had been particularly troublesome in Africa, ……. or famine ……. or pandemics. In the C14th in Europe the Black Death ravaged communities over 7 years. Those interested in our Nation’s story will recall the 1665 Great Plague of London; by the time a fire in a bakery in Pudding Lane started an inferno which destroyed most of the city in the following year and killed off the Yersina Pestic bacteria in the process, some 70,000 had died.

And, by the way, there is little evidence Jesus was born on 25th December. The earliest mention of this day was AD 354. Early Christians preferred January 6th, nine months after the Passover. In the original Julian calendar 25th December was the Winter Solstice, the date of which moved to 21st December with the introduction of the Gregorian calendar. “Here endeth the lesson!”

PC 262, posted on Christmas Eve in 2021, was short ….. and finished:

“So …… enjoy your Christmas Eve ……. I hope you have a fun time …… thank you for reading my scribbles. Face the coming year with energy and enthusiasm and embrace all it offers.”

In December 2022 I posted a modern version of the traditional Christmas Story (PC 314 23rd December 2022). It concerned a group of friends sitting around a table in a warm pub, in this case the Lamb & Flag in Folding Under Sheet in the Derbyshire Peak District. There’s Amanda, a very successful shepherdess, Jim whose girlfriend is very pregnant, Pete and others.

Last year I wrote PC 418 ‘Hope Christmas News’ about a party Duncan at The Hope Café had laid on for his regular customers. It reads well, I think; but see for yourself on WordPress.

Big hugs for everyone at this time.

Richard 19th December 2025

Hove

http://www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PC 469 More from The Hope

~ postcardscribblesblog ~ Leave a comment

Sami and Lisa come in through the doors and, spying Mo and me, come over; it’s been too long since I had seen them both. I decide to treat them to some coffee and ordered an Americano for Sami and a Mocha for Lisa from Libby. Regular readers will know that Lisa was writing an article for Brighton & Hove’s Argus newspaper about low level health care and had asked my opinion. (See PC 457 Low Level Health Care September 2025)

“Hey you two! Lisa, I saw that your article was published in The Argus in mid-October. Will there be a follow-up?”

“Hope so; nothing certain but they liked my style.”

“And, Sami, I read that not only has Sir Alan Bates finally agreed a settlement in his claim against the Post Office but that a 92-year-old ex-postmistress has also finalised hers. Not before time you might think!” 

“Time passes, doesn’t it. I hadn’t realised Alan had started his campaign for justice for victims of the Horizon scandal more than twenty years ago. So pleased to understand part of his settlement includes compensation for those efforts”.

“Betty Brown fought for 22 years for justice after The Post Office accused her of false accounting after discrepancies in their County Durham branch books. She and her husband made up the £50k shortfall, which had been caused by erroneous Horizon software. Her husband died a year later. Then the Sunday Times, towards the end of November, had a poignant article about Michael Mann, accused of stealing £15,000 from his Post Office in 2013. In October that year Mike committed suicide, so depressed at being sacked from the job he loved. The public enquiry is now analysing the evidence it’s collected and is handing over files to the Metropolitan Police for possible criminal charges. Operation Olympos has so far identified seven suspects, with a formal prosecution expected to begin in 2028; nothing seems guaranteed and meanwhile those wrongly convicted wither.”

“You probably missed the obituary of Lam Leung-tim ……”

“Who he?”

“A Chinese businessman who created ‘a kingdom from nothing’ after the Japanese occupation of China during the Second World War. His name sadly will not be familiar but one of his plastic toys, the little yellow duck, will be.

Who hasn’t had one in their bath, if you have a bath in which to float it nowadays(?), or indeed watched one of the many ‘Yellow Duck Races’.”

“Ah!” Says Mo, “There’s one held every year on the River Arun during the Arundel Festival of The Arts, here in Sussex. Two thousand yellow ducks, each with a number corresponding to a £1 ticket, are poured from a bag from a bridge.

The winning duck earns its owner £100, second and third £50 and £25 respectively and the remaining money goes to local charities. All the ducks are cleared from the river by the Arun Divers Club.”

“Did you know,” Sami interrupts, “that Lam says he made a ‘pleasant mistake’; there’s an old Chinese saying ‘yellow goose and green duck’ ….. but Lam made his duck yellow! He lived to 101.”

“Wow! That’s a lovely anecdote to our love of the yellow ducks.”

“How was your birthday, Richard?” asked Lisa “Not sure Sami told me”, she said, looking at her partner quizzically.

“Great. Dinner in a new restaurant in Church Road, Maré, and all the normal birthday stuff, including birthday wishes from Joe at the Amundsen-Scott South Pole Base. (see PC 403 Idle Thoughts about This and That September 2024)

You’ll have to take my word for it, as you could argue that the email could have come from anywhere! Joe owns one of the apartments in Gilmour House, the other half of Amber House. His contract finished at the end of October and he’s on his way back to Hove, via Thailand and SE Asia.”

Mo butts in: “You’ll have a view, Richard, about the budget last month; what did you think of the removal of the Child Benefit Cap?”

“I had to check the facts. Previously you could claim the benefit for every child; you’d qualify if you’re responsible for a child under 16 and live here, providing neither parent earns more than £80,000. New rules were introduced in 2017, limiting it to two children. The aim was to end the iniquity of workless households getting paid by the state for having larger families than those with jobs could afford. Today families on Universal Credit, which is typically means-tested, get £3500 per child. In removing the cap by April 2026, the government aims to lift hundreds of thousands of children out of poverty. Critics of the lifting of the ban argue there’s no real measure of ‘poverty’, it should be down to parental responsibility to decide how many children to have and whether they are affordable, and that it’s not for The State to say: ‘we’ll pay more and more’.

“You know my view Richard.” says Mo. “If you want to have children, you have to understand that there is a cost involved and there’s a responsibility for both parents, the mother and the father. There’s been an increase of about 10% in the number of families headed up by a single parent since 2019. Mothers make up 85% of the 3 million single parent families here in the UK. Not sure how you can change this, educating society about basic responsibilities, be more draconian about financial support from the absent parent? The more the state helps financially the less incentive there is to change. Don’t think Joe and Joanna Public are in favour of lifting the ban.”

“I do feel a bit concerned that the ‘Ship of State’ is captained by someone who’s just qualified, that most of his crew try hard to please him but have little professional experience, and there’s an ongoing dispute as to the destination, let alone how to navigate there.”

Richard 12th December 2025

Hove

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PS The knife was successful!