Tuesday morning: I am back in my usual seat in the Hope Café, ears pinned for the odd snippet, listening for more vignettes of others’ lives, for the demands of the empty-headed aspiring writer are constant! It is raining outside; inside the umbrella stand is stuffed, its tray almost full, and there’s a smell of damp clothing and hair. The latter is particularly pleasant – not!

The regulars are here, plus those for whom the “Why don’t we get out of the rain and grab a cup of coffee?” is irresistible. In the far corner, sitting by himself and enjoying the contents of a pot of tea, a grey-haired chap is head down into a book, his lips gently and unconsciously forming the words. I recognise the cover, the latest by the American author John Grisham entitled ‘Sooley’. Grisham has written 36 novels, mainly involving lawyers and court cases; they are always well-crafted and gripping stories – you can tell I’m a fan as is, I assume, the man this morning.

Having read Sooley, the story of a gifted basketball-playing teenager from South Sudan who makes it to the United States in search of a better life, I realise only two aspects of the story have stayed with me. One is that keeping up-to-date with the geopolitical news of South Sudan and its northern neighbour Sudan, both countries riven by tribal conflicts, dashed hopes and refugee crises one after the other, is difficult. The other, light years away from the reality back home, is Sooley playing by himself in the American school gym, shooting baskets hour after hour after hour. The dedication required of individuals who want to ‘make it’ is admirable; but playing by yourself is also lonely. Oh! The third thing, sorry I only said ‘two’, is that I know nothing about the art of playing basketball and actually don’t want to! 

Funny thing one’s mind. Noticing Grisham’s book cover has got me thinking about all sorts of things, particularly about being alone, playing by yourself, maybe playing with yourself. Sooley is not unusual. Swimmers swim up and down their pool, length after length, two hours before breakfast, alone with their thoughts. Trumpet players lock themselves into a sound-proofed rehearsal room, practising their scales and embouchure. Alone!

The other day Celina and I tried out ‘bouldering’ in the local centre in Portslade. Not quite climbing with ropes, you use handholds to climb up an artificial wall. We went together, but climbed solo. Focused on the task, on the unfamiliar, directing your body to reach here, hold there, up and up! You can play virtually any sport by yourself apart from, by definition, team games; those who try to play by themselves within a team don’t succeed! (Note 1)

From a personality point of view, humans can be divided into those who are generally extroverted and those who are generally introverted. Those who define as extroverted engage with people and things around them; they use the interaction with others as a way of recharging their emotional and physical batteries. Interestingly Western cultures tend to sanction and encourage this outgoing gregarious nature. The flip side are the introverts who find mixing and being with others energetically draining. They much prefer the inner world of concepts and ideas and love their own company.

Practising most activities requires a focus, the coming together of all of one’s abilities and skills, to perform something. My daily challenge of Killer Sudoku is not shared by Celina; when we practise our hot yoga, we share and enjoy the tangible emotional vibes and spirituality of the other attendees, but the focus is firmly on one’s own efforts, the battles with the body and mind and the heat!

My grandchildren seem to enjoy Mindcraft; playing by themselves …… woe betide someone who interrupts at some crucial moment. And that’s true of so much of what we do, painting, writing, talking, acting, designing, curing, cooking whatever; the focus to bring together the skills ….. to do.

Our experiences of ‘lockdown’ are varied and illuminating. A number of people re-found that the art of sewing, painting, and other activities can be very rewarding, (See PC 205 and the Lego Porsche) whilst the interaction with those in the same household more challenging than normal! Playing with themselves was better than playing with others!

Humans can play by themselves and with themselves and this thread reminded me of my large, loveable, black Labrador Tom. Tom used to have wild dreams and some wet ones; it was embarrassing when he sat outside a shop waiting for me, spraying the pavement!! Tom’s facial expression never changed much and it was hard to know whether he was aware of what he was doing! The human experience maybe can be summed up by the drill sergeant opening the door to the National Service squaddies’ barrack room at 0600, screaming: “You ‘orrible lot! Time to get up! Hands off cocks, on socks!” (Note 2)

I notice a number of others are plugged in …… and I plug in my earphones to listen to a podcast! The Times magazine last Saturday covered the phenomenal success of one called ‘Call Her Daddy’ by 27 year old Alex Cooper. Podcasts are a god-send for those who travel, listening to new ideas, old concepts, history, careers, life stories; you will find something of interest. Cooper’s, the fifth most popular ones (Note 3), covers sex, with chats and advice about ghosting, threesomes and masturbation. Two other contributors, Emily Ratajkowski and Heidi Montag, cover issues like body image and orgasms. Asked by the interviewee for her very best sex tip: “I would say the confidence you have in the bedroom should be the same confidence you find within yourself when you’re masturbating.”

Masturbation? Hands up who hasn’t indulged in a little self-help relief and if not why not? Just playing …….

Realising the time, I stuff everything into my Kipling, settle up with Susie and head out into the rain.

Richard 26^th November 2021

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PS In The Times’ ‘Last Word’ last week: “The best conversations are with yourself. At least there’s no risk of a misunderstanding.” Olga Tokarczuk, a Polish author. Following this, someone wrote in to the Letters page, saying that her mother firmly believed she was the only person that she could get any sense out of!

Note 1 “There is no ‘I’ in TEAM”

Note 2 National Service in the UK lasted from 1949 to 1960. All 17-21 year old males had to serve 18 months (increased in 1950 to 2 years); women were not included.

Note 3 The first four in the very American-centric list are The Joe Regan Experience, TED Talks Daily, The Daily (an American-focused news digest) and The Michelle Obama Podcast.

In the last few months there have been more and more articles in the press about alcohol and its misuse here in the UK. I admit I don’t read ‘Wine & Beer Digest’ which probably extolls the virtues of alcohol so perhaps I am getting an unconscious biased view? (Note 1)

But …. there is no doubt in my mind something needs to be done to change the way we British use and treat alcohol and the sooner the better. To highlight the statistics:  “Half the cases that our paramedics in the ambulance service respond to are alcohol-related.” FIFTY per cent! (Note 2) “It’s estimated that heavy drinkers” however those are defined (?) “cost the NHS some £3.5 billion a year.” David Aaronovitch, writing in The Times, suggested that “drink kills nearly twice as many British people as drugs (Note 3) and yet we still delude ourselves it’s a harmless part of our culture.” Additionally rising drink-drive deaths are prompting calls for new alcohol limit.

I declared I wouldn’t drink alcohol whilst at school, but before I left that dream lay on the straw-covered floor of the local pub, a victim of peer pressure!! Alcohol became a regular part of normal life.

Historically we Brits have drunk a lot, socially divided between those who drank wine and its derivatives and those who could only afford ale or beer. Then wine became more widely available and it was no longer considered only a celebratory drink. Statistics show wine consumption had a tenfold increase 1960-1990.

We have a reputation for drinking alcohol in a certain way. Whilst we can admire the French for the way they can drink small amounts, a large section of our society can’t see any point in drinking alcohol, without an aim of getting completely hammered/drunk/trolleyed/unconscious/irresponsible. So embedded in the national psyche is this view that any form of celebration must be accompanied by alcohol – as if you can’t have fun without some stimulant.

The association of sports and alcohol is hard to fathom, given the health needs required for the former. “Congratulations Steve on winning the village/town/city/league football title.” says the BBC sports commentator and then asks: “What are you planning to do this evening, have a few?” “Yer of course! Probably get hammered.” (A few drinks yes, but hammered, senseless?) And the fans are no better. Does anyone think it acceptable that Leicester Square in London, after the Football World Cup final, was trashed by drunken individuals in a demonstration of mindless hooliganism?

And when it comes to ‘going out’ in the evening, it seems that the advent of drinking ‘shots’ has become standard; the quickest way to lose it!

Alcohol and drugs featured in a piece of television drama this month. Students got ‘off-their-faces’ in an after-course party and one ended up strangled with a scarf and her body dumped in a river. Two individuals were charged with her death; one pleaded guilty to disposing of her body, the other simply stated over and over again she couldn’t remember, ‘I have no recollection’. The jury acquitted her – we thought she was guilty – but alcohol and drugs had killed someone.  

Fortunately the millennial generation don’t want to have a headache or a hangover and are demanding lower alcohol or non-alcohol drinks. “Typically I would have been wasted. Not drinking I didn’t do anything I’d regret and I’m glad I get to remember it all.” Chrissy Teigen on Instagram.

Looking for an alternative to alcoholic drinks one turns to ‘00’ beers and wine. The latter is, I sincerely believe, not there yet although with 0.5% ABV a glass of red wine provides a slither of fond memory. Funny how some countries are picking up of this but for instance in Singapore the Marina Bay Sands hotel thought the alternative to an alcoholic drink to have with a meal was something sweet – this is just nonsense. Remonstrating with the barman in The Royal Crescent Hotel in Bath someone had to go scurrying off to the local 9/11. (See PC 164).

From books I have read this year:

From ‘This Charming Man’ by Marian Keyes: “Bridie stared, clearly wondering what kind of peculiar religion forbade alcohol. To be Catholic, it’s practically obligatory to have drink problem.”

From ‘Everything I Know About Love’ by Dolly Alderton: “I always saw alcohol as the transportation to experience, but as I went through my twenties I understood it had the same power to stunt experience as it did to exacerbate it.”

Sales of Lyre’s non-alcoholic drinks have been exponential

I admit it’s possible that, because I do not drink alcohol any more, I am overly sensitive to its portrayal in our society. Recently a couple of good dramas on television suggested that every time an individual arrived home, irrespective of the time of day, they reached into the ‘fridge for a beer or bottle of white wine, or picked up a glass from the ‘drinks tray’ (Who has these anymore?). A staged play we saw three years ago had the same directions: ‘When you arrive on set, either from stage-left or from stage-right, head for the drinks trolley.’ Is the director simply reflecting modern life or his own?

Maybe Generation Z and the Millennial Generation’s approach to alcohol, more restrained and less habitual, will by the osmosis process permeate up through the generations. Do I personally miss alcohol? Absolutely not, although some others would wish I did.

Richard 19^th November 2021

http://www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PS This PC has simply focused on the British obsession with alcohol. The other issue for every society in the C21st is the growing use of drugs, whether recreational or habitual. For some this seems OK but for others it leads to destruction. Just today a headline caught my eye: “US overdose deaths pass 100,000 a year in epidemic of opioid use.”

Note 1 The Times articles that may be of interest:

‘Rising drink-drive deaths prompt call for new limit’ Paton               27/08/21

‘It’s a smart move to quit booze, Boris.’ Robert Crampton             16/08/2021

‘Welcome to half-drinking; not on the wagon, not off.’ Gunn            15/08/21

‘Our addiction to alcohol isn’t a bit of fun.’ David Aaronovitch               10/08/2021

‘Drunk Nation; why do British people drink so much?’ Josh Glancy 25/07/2021

Note 2 The knock-on effect of this is that those in need of an ambulance in an emergency for non-alcohol related health issues have to wait longer for one to arrive and then longer to be seen in the A&E Department.

Note 3 In 2020 this amounted to 7400 individuals.

I have to admit that my record of learning a foreign language is extremely poor and I have started many times, on and off, over the years! It’s one of the advantages of advancing years, being able to accept oneself as oneself, not someone a youthful version might have envisaged! At school we were taught the rudiments of French as well as English, the latter being divided into language and literature.

Dauntsey’s School and Mercer’s Company’s coat of arms and Latin motto

I almost forgot that we also had to learn Latin, the language of the Greeks and the Romans. We made fun of it; God you needed to as it was to me as dry as desiccated leaves. Why is that I can remember the names of two Latin masters, Mr Moss at Glencot, and Dauntsey’s David Burgess but nothing they tried to teach me? For those of you young enough to have missed the edification provided by a Latin lesson, the only amusement was the learning of Dog Latin. This refers to the creation of a phrase in imitation Latin, often by ‘translating English words into Latin by conjugating or declining them as if they were Latin words’; that’s clear, isn’t it? Well, it would be if you knew what conjugating and declining meant!

The most famous of Dog Latin is the spoof of this verse:

Caesar adsum jam forte; Brutus aderat; Caesar sic in omnibus; Brutus sic in at.

The actual translation of the original verse is confusing! But we understood:

Caesar (h)ad some jam for tea; Brutus (h)ad a rat; Caesar sick in omnibus;

Brutus sick in hat.

‘Ubique quo fas et gloria ducunt’ , the Latin for ‘Everywhere where faith and glory lead’, was the motto of the Royal Regiment of Artillery. My uncle Bill Bailey used to pull my leg as, when advancing on Caen in July 1944, his battalion of Somerset Light Infantry suffered many casualties from ‘friendly fire’, highlighting the word ‘Ubique’ (everywhere) in our motto. It was probably better than ‘drop shorts’!  (Note 1)

Another motto echoing down the decades of English history is ‘Honi soit que mal e pense’ – a maxim in the Anglo-Norman language, a dialect of Old Norman French spoken by the medieval ruling class in England. It means ‘shamed be whoever thinks ill of it.’ One apocryphal story as to its origins concerned King Edward lll. Dancing at a ball in Calais to celebrate his victory in the 1346 Battle of Crecy, his daughter-in-law’s garter slipped down her leg, much to the amusement of the other guests and courtiers. He added to the ‘honi soit ….’ phrase by suggesting ‘whoever is laughing at this (the garter) today will later be proud to wear it’. (Note 2) The words appear today in heraldry and within the coats of arms of royalty.

So Latin aside, I tried to pass ‘O’ Level French; eventually I did but more by luck than knowledge. Next came German as, posted to a regiment in the British Army of The Rhine, it seemed the ‘right’ thing to do. Living in our English barracks with our English social life and little contact with the local population, it was easy not to bother. What I did learn is obviously very well embedded as often it’s a very basic German word that comes to my mind before a Brazilian Portuguese one for instance! Years later I completed two terms of evening classes at the Adult Education School in Clapham South in colloquial Italian. Only two!!

The City of Granada, home to the Alhambra

And then, after a long weekend in the wonderful Spanish city of Granada in the dying months of my marriage, I imagined spending six months there in some garret learning Spanish. It was a plan ……. but then I met Celina and for Spanish read Brazilian Portuguese!!

English must be very confusing to those who do not have it as their mother tongue. We have all seen the attempts by non-native English speakers to translate a brochure for instance, and it makes me smile. The other day I saw on the menu of the Intercontinental Hotel’s Terrace Bar in Estoril in Portugal ‘….. steak with Jack Potato.’ Commonly called Spud I suppose?

The Indian Bikram Choudury who put together his now famous sequence of 26 Hatha Yoga postures, to be practised in a room heated to 40° C, was not one for the purity of English. All his teachers went through a gruelling 9 week training course, during which they had to learn the exact words of ‘The Dialogue’, written by ……. Mr Choudury! The class teacher does not demonstrate the postures, relying on those students in the front row to show how a posture is done; listening to the oft-repeated dialogue will give you the instructions and guidance. But the dialogue is littered with appalling English and grammar. The two that really makes me inwardly scream are ‘more back’ when of course it should be ‘further back’ and ‘more straight’ when it should be ‘straighter’. It seems his default was to add ‘more’ to anything!

We hear words and try and make an attempt at spelling them. I was hopeless as a child and not much better now. Spellcheck doesn’t help as sometimes it’s the context which defines the letter combination. If you heard: “The Gobi dessert is a plaice of extreme whether. I red that their, in summer, the temperature reaches 45°C butt in winter it can drop down to -40°C!” you would understand it perfectly. Reading it and you would give the writer no marks for spelling. (Note 2)

In English we have strait and straight; course and coarse; draught and draft; desert (dry and sandy) and dessert (hopefully wet and creamy!); current and currant; there and their and they’re; weather and whether; are and our; bail and bale; plane and plain; read and red; lead and led and lead; made and maid; poor, paw, pore and pour; soul and sole; mine and mine; two and to and too ….. for instance.

Our knowledge of other languages, however scant, colours the understanding we have of our history. Understanding our history gives our lives today deeper meaning.

Richard 12^th November 2021

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PS In a recent episode of the BBC’s wonderfully informative ‘Who Do You Think You Are?’ the actress Judi Dench discovered her C17th Danish heritage and her ancestors’ links to Shakespeare and the Danish king.

Note 1 ‘Drop short’ referred to the fact that sometimes the artillery shells, designed to fall on enemy positions, fell (dropped) short of their target, on our own troops.

Note 2 The Order of the Garter, established in 1348 by the then king, is the most senior order of knighthood in the British honours system, outranked only by the Victoria Cross and the George Cross.

Some of the current members of the Order of The Garter.

Note 3 The lack of rainfall is caused by the Tibetan Plateau blocking precipitation from the Indian Ocean.

I love the novels of Captain Corelli’s Mandolin’s author, Louise de Bernierès. In the completely absorbing ‘Birds Without Wings’, one particular passage has stayed with me as a great example of imagination and creativity; I hope you agree? The blurb on the back of this book says:

“Set against the backdrop of the collapsing Ottoman Empire, the Gallipoli campaign and the subsequent bitter struggle between Greeks and Turks, ‘Birds Without Wings’ traces the fortunes of one small community in south-west Anatolia (in what is now Turkey) – a town in which Christian and Muslim lives and traditions have co-existed peacefully for centuries.

One of the main characters is Rustem Bey who, for various reasons, has brought back a girl from Istanbul, a girl he hopes will become his wife/lover. He’s a patient man but it’s six months before Leyla suggests that ‘tonight’s the night’ – and sends Rustem Bey out for the day while she prepares a feast in their house.

Rustem Bey arrives back at his house.

“She held out her hand, took his, placed it to her heart, kissed it and then touched it to her forehead. “My beauty, if I have any ……………… it’s for you.” She said. “Come, I have something to show you.” Rustem Bey allowed himself to be led by the sleeve. When they reached the door to the inner courtyard, Leyla said: ‘close you eyes’. A few steps later: “Open them.”

Rustem Bey beheld something so marvellous, so unwonted, that he fell speechless. He put one hand to his forehead and laughed out loud with delight. Finally he asked: “What have you done? Have I come to paradise?”

The inner courtyard was a sea of glimmering, moving golden-yellow lights. There was no pattern to it. Some of the flames were momentarily still and others were travelling, meandering slowly among the lemon trees, the pots of pelargonium, oregano, mint and rose. It was as if the stars had been captured from heaven and been set in motion there in that small square of the lower world.

Rustem Bey stepped forward and bent down to look. Each light was the flame of a candle and each candle was borne upon the back of a tortoise that the village children had spent all day collecting from the surrounding mountains.

Isn’t that f**king gorgeous?

And here’s another feast of visualisation: “The torchlight was dancing off the beech trees, a cohort of ghosts.” An extract from Paula Hawkins’ book ‘Into the Water’. Paula wrote about Beech trees and I imagine silver birch trees, standing in the gloom! Good word – cohort!

The American poet Sylvia Plath (1932 – 1963) is best known for her confessional poetry and her tumultuous marriage to the English poet Ted Hughes. She suffered from depression for most of her life and committed suicide at the young age of 30. I am not a lover of poetry but think she summed up the dilemma some of us feel, about whom we are or who we would like to be: “I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life.”

The Danish writer Jussi Adler-Olsen’s Department Q series are great detective stories, based on cold cases resurrected by Carl Morck and his assistant Assad. How about this for an invitation to imagine: “…… and in the meadow, the grass whispered of spring.”, from his book Redemption?

After two months in Portugal this summer, the following has a certain personal ring, although I failed to note who wrote it: “I’m sprawled in a chair on the sandy beach, languid and dreamy, made as loose-limbed as a mermaid by the long summer’s release.”

Yoga thoughts and sayings are numerous but this basic one is where it all starts, so you can make of it what you wish:  “Om So hum: I am that that what I am.”

I have quoted Philip Roth before. Here’s his observation about the elderly: “The old have been stamped by their time.” – Ed – some sadly more than others!

Climbing a tall building, or a mountain, or going up in a glider or aeroplane can give one a perspective unavailable from ground level, for “a horizon is nothing save the limit of your sight.” And then William Faulkner said “You can’t swim for new horizons until you have the courage to lose sight of the shore.” For some this is the ‘letting go moment’ of any activity. Seeking guidance on how to approach one’s life you can drown in the oceans of advice to be found in philosophical writings or even in abundant psychobabble. The advice that will work for you will be the one that you understand and can own. Someone wrote: “Life is not as we are taught, a matter of seeking answers, but rather learning which are the questions we should ask.”

We should, as children innocently do, ask questions. At the back end of a Yin yoga class the other Sunday, I was struck by a reading of the last section of  Rainer Maria Rilke’s advice: “Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”

Lee Child, co-writing with his brother Andrew about the hero Jack Reacher in their collaboration ‘One Shot’, writes: “His life was like that, a mosaic of fragments. Details and contexts would fade and be inaccurately recalled, but the feelings and experiences would weave over time into a tapestry equally full of good times and bad.”

So write something yourself and do as Clive James said he did in his ‘Unforgettable Memories’:  “All I do is turn a phrase until it catches the light.” (See PC 247 Collections (1))

Richard 5^th November 2021

http://www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

I understand that writers are always looking for ideas and snippets from real life to weave into their fictional tales, although the first ‘novel’ is often fairly autobiographical. Sitting on a bus or in a restaurant or in a café, with a notebook open to catch and record some lovely phrase …… or awful account ….. can be the start. The most famous café writer that comes to mind is JK Rowling, who continued writing her Harry Potter stories in The Elephant House café in Edinburgh. Now the place is on the tourist bus route, although the café is temporary closed, having suffered smoke and water damage from a fire next door in August 2021.

The black-framed metal door opened into The Hope Café. On the right hand side the counter with all the paraphernalia to make drinks to meet the wide eclectic tastes of today’s customers – and cakes and stuff to tempt us. In the middle a collection of smallish tables with purposefully mismatched chairs and down the left a row of bench seating for more intimate chatter

I settled into my usual seat, with eyes on both the entrance and on the counter. From my yellow Kipling bag I pulled out my scruffy notebooks and pencil case. The cafe had no power socket for laptop charging and I knew mine would only last 45 minutes so it was the old fashion way or no way.  One of my notebooks simply held scraps of paper, some ripped from newspapers or magazines, others my own scribbles at 3 am in the dark, a bon mot that I needed to record – otherwise lost.

A quick furtive look around the room confirmed the usual regulars were there plus a table occupied by two late-twenties women. They sat over their coffees, one a latte and the other one a simple double espresso, their handbags over the chair-backs, the iPhone or Samsung in front, visible in case …… in case what? In case the conversation was boring,  in case world war three had been declared, in case DHL suddenly needed them to be home between 1200-1400, in case …..?

Outwardly they looked chalk & cheese these two and the decade that had passed since leaving school had left its mark; one obviously a mother and the other single. But true friendship, with care and love, lasts a lifetime and this sounded like a catch-up coffee.

One had a loud piercing voice and it was impossible not to cock an ear!

“I had a fling when I was in France; I was only there for a week but I met this chap in a bar and well, I was bored and he was engaging. My recollection is we never actually had sex but then again one evening we got extremely drunk and woke up in the same bedroom.  Well! I texted him: “We had fun! It was a couple of days! We kissed! Now get over …..  and I have found someone else and you just need to accept that! Sorry!” And you know what, like he couldn’t accept it, that I was the, what’s that expression, The Love of His Life. God! He hardly knows me ……. no way ….. just have to be brutal.”

“So you just cast him aside like an out-of-date Activia Vanilla yoghurt?” asked the friend!

And all this in earshot of every other customer, the old lady nursing a single cup of tea and a teacake, two blokes indulging in the ‘Full English but ‘no mushrooms please’, a romantic couple with only eyes for each other, the mother and two children struggling to control their ‘I want’ suggestions.

In one’s twenties the ‘love’ focus is to have some fun, get some experience and acknowledge that the ‘love of your life’ may be followed by other loves of your life. It’s unfortunate if you look on a friend, as this woman did, as a ‘potential ex-boyfriend’ as it immediately suggests a lack of permanence and possible lack of commitment. But it’s a view!

On the television on the café wall, out of the corner of my eye, I overheard rather than observed a news item. Just as a crisis was looming in the UK energy supplies, the newsreader was joined by the BBC Business editor Simon Jack to give a more detailed analysis. Having talked about gas prices and price caps and gas pipelines and petrol supply issues, he added that one or two longer-term projects that were going to change the industry would have to be put ‘on the back burner’ (Note 1) for the time being – and he said it with a straight face!

Realising the time, I quickly stuffed everything into my bag and, with a nod to Susie behind the counter, headed out of the door. To my right was a bus stop for the No 1 – and the indicator board signified one was due.

Sure enough, around the square it came and, with a flourish of my iPhone over the reader, I was on and in a seat.

Across the aisle sat 70-something Jim, unmasked and overweight. At the next stop another old chap got on, supporting his sagging body with walking sticks. Spying the empty seat next to Jim, he sat down. Snippets of overheard conversation went something like:

Stan: Where are you off to?
Jim: Portslade

Stan: Oh! Yes! I have lived in Portslade for years; still don’t know my way around. Where’s your stop?

Jim: No idea?

Stan: What! You have no idea where you’re getting off?

Jim: No! Of course I can recognise my stop but I can’t tell you exactly which one it is.

Stan: No worries ………

Stan looks out of the window and sees the mountains of rubbish on the streets (note 2).

Stan: This bin strike is causing a bit of a mess; I used to work for a council up north for many years so know something about ‘em bastards. (Ed: Not sure if he was referring to the council or the company that runs the refuse collection service.)

Jim is obese and he’s finding the seat uncomfortable.

Jim: This seat isn’t very big; sorry, I seem to be overflowing. They must be making narrower ones.

Stan: Where are you getting off?

Jim: Portslade – I told you ……

Stan: Which is your stop ……

I got off the bus at my stop, smiling to myself, amused by the elderly.

Richard 29th October 2021

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PS Probably christened Stanley and James but more likely known as Jim and Stan??

Note 1 The back burner being the rear ring on the hob, offering less heat.

Note 2 In the City of Brighton & Hove on 7^th October the chaps responsible for collecting the rubbish from the street bins went on strike. Apparently they had been asked to change their ‘round’ or drive with another team, as Covid and sickness required some flexibility. They went back to work a week ago, after a massive pay increase for the drivers.

(See also PCs 242 and 244)

Maybe a common thread of these tales of forbidden love is two powerful families? As a teenager I loved the ‘forbidden love’ stories from the English author Noel Barber (1909-1988). Nothing better than to sit in a summer’s garden and read ‘Tanamera’ based in Singapore, ‘A Woman of Cairo’ based, surprisingly, in Egypt (!) or ‘A Farewell to France’. Barber had started his first novel when in his seventies, after a career as a leading foreign correspondent for the Daily Mail.  

One of the classical romances, Tristan & Isolde, is the tale of a princess who, pledged to marry a king, instead becomes involved with his nephew.  Tristan travels to Ireland to bring back Isolde for his uncle, King Mark of Cornwall. On the C12th ferry back to England they drink a love potion, which ensures that Isolde, although married to Mark, still has the hots for Tristan! The ménage à trois continues until the love potion wears off! Richard Wagner wrote the opera of the same name in 1859 – well, not quite the same; the ampersand became ‘und’! 

Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights (1847) is among the most dramatic of romantic tragedies in literature and deserves a mention here. I have never read it but a flash of some film version enters my brain, as does Kate Bush’s melodic song. Some story about Heathcliff and Cathy, right? Societal constraints and personal pride prevent Cathy from being with Heathcliff and she eventually marries another man. Heathcliff remains bitter through the rest of his life.

Then I go on Google and read a synopsis of the story, which started: “Many people, generally those who have never read the book (that’s me!), consider Wuthering Heights to be a straightforward, if intense, love story — Romeo and Juliet on the Yorkshire Moors. But this is a mistake. Really the story is one of revenge.”

So replace the warmth and sun of Verona with wild, windy and wet Yorkshire? To be honest, the synopsis was confusing, complicated and incomprehensible. The names of the main characters come and go like horses on a merry-go-round, at speed and in a hurry. Kate Bush’s lyrics from her 1978 song went like this:

“Bad dreams in the night, They told me I was going to lose the fight, Leave behind my wuthering, wuthering, Wuthering Heights!”

“Heathcliff, it’s me, I’m Cathy. I’ve come home, I’m so cold. Let me in your window.”

It follows the life of Heathcliff, a mysterious gypsy-like person, from childhood to his death in his late thirties. Heathcliff is raised in his adopted family and then runs away when the young woman he loves decides to marry another. He returns later, rich and educated, and sets about gaining his revenge on the two families. In ‘This Charming Man’, a novel by Marian Keyes, Dad scornfully remarks: “Gothic bollocks! Doesn’t anyone remember that Heathcliff was a psychopath. He killed Isabel’s dog.’” It’s a view!

When Edward VIII, crowned King on 20 January 1936 in London, fell in love with American divorcée Wallis Simpson the affair shocked the nation – due to strong opposition from the church and government over their proposed marriage. Edward chose to abdicate the throne: “I have found it impossible to carry the heavy burden of responsibility and to discharge my duties as king as I would wish to do without the help and support of the woman I love.’ His abdication in December 1936 forced his brother George, not a very healthy individual, to become king. George died in 1952 at the young age of 56 and his wife Elizabeth forever blamed Edward – or more likely Wallis Simpson! The couple married and settled in France. Recently it’s been revealed that both had Nazi associations and the Germans planned to re-install him as King after they successfully invaded the UK (Note 1)

Then we know the current Prince of Wales continued to see his mistress Camilla née Shand even when she was married to Andrew Parker Bowles and he was married to Princess Diana. Their lives came full circle when, after their respective divorces, they eventually married in 2005.

Elizabeth Barrett (1806 – 1861) was an accomplished and respected poet in poor health when Robert Browning wrote to her “I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrrett.” They courted in secret because of her family’s disapproval. She wrote: “I am not of a cold nature and cannot be treated coldly. When cold water is thrown upon a hot iron the iron hisses.” When they married in 1846 her father disinherited her and the couple moved to Florence, Italy where, fifteen years later, she would die in Browning’s arms. Elizabeth’s work had a major influence on writers such as poets Edgar Allan Poe and Emily Dickinson. If you need to understand the strength of her writing, read Sonnet 43 published in 1845 – “How Do I Love Thee?”  

There is an ancient love story which has left a mark on the history of Portugal: the tale of forbidden love between Infante (the Crown Prince) Pedro and Inês (pronounced Inaish) de Castro, lady-in-waiting to his wife Constance. Although he was married, the Infante would have secret romantic meetings with Inês in the gardens of Quinta das Lágrimas. When Constance died in 1345, Pedro and Inês lived as a married couple, a decision which angered his father King Afonso IV, who was strongly opposed the relationship, as did the court and the population.

Pedro and Inês lived at Santa Clara Palace, in Coimbra, with their three children for many years. However, King Afonso IV, who was constantly under pressure because of the growing disapproval of the union within the court, decided to order the murder of Inês de Castro in January 1355. Deranged by pain, Pedro led an uprising against the King and would never forgive his father for murdering his lover. When he finally took the crown in 1357, Pedro ordered the arrest and execution of Inês’ murderers by ripping their hearts out. This action earned him the title of “the Cruel”.

Later, after swearing that he had secretly married Inês de Castro, King Pedro demanded that she be recognized as Queen of Portugal. In April 1360, he ordered the body of Inês to be moved from Coimbra to the Royal Monastery of Alcobaça, where two magnificent tombs were built so that he could rest next to his eternal lover forever. Thus, the most overwhelming Portuguese love story would be immortalized in stone.

Richard 22^nd October 2021

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PS Coincidentally Romeo & Juliet was in the papers on 21^st July this year. In these ultra-sensitive times, The Globe Theatre in London apparently issued a warning to those wanting to watch the play, as it contained themes which some might find disturbing! Go figure!

Note 1 See Widowland by CJ Carey

A deserted Trafalgar Square in London

It stopped …. dead in its tracks, as it were (!) ….. commuting ……. as the pandemic locked societies’ workers down. For months individuals used to travelling some distance to work found themselves in, for instance, their spare bedroom, trying to sort out the intermittent connection on Zoom. Gradually Working From Home (WFH) became the new norm and now, as the restrictions ease, there seems to be a need to prize out ex-commuters from their cosy WFH existence and get them back into the real office.

I stood on the wet platform at Fleet railway station, leaning forward to get my first glimpse of the 0722 that would take me into London Waterloo. My position on the asphalt ensured that when the train stopped the carriage door would be directly in front of me, to reach out, open and climb into my usual seat. Those who don’t regularly commute (Note 1) by train will decry the numbness of the habit but it made all the difference – a front or rear facing seat – smoking or non-smoking ….. ah! The choices!

Up until this point in my life I had never had a commute of more than a few miles, in some cases a few yards. Now I had joined the great daily migration into the UK’s capital city, for a role in the MOD’s Procurement Executive in Fleetbank House, just off Fleet Street. From the steps out of Waterloo Station to my desk was about 16 minutes, a wiggly walk south of the river then over Blackfriars Bridge and up.

There is no ‘commute’ when at boarding school, or indeed at the Royal Military Academy. My first posting was to a regiment stationed on the outskirts of Devizes. The commute was simply falling out of bed in my room in a wooden hut, putting my uniform on and walking down the hill to the barracks and work; the first task was ‘stables parade’!

In Lippstadt in Germany it was a sleepy walk across Sűdstrasse to breakfast in the Officers Mess, then back into the barracks; 300 yards maximum (we hadn’t changed to the metric system at that time!)

My first real commute, ie using a car, was from an Army married quarter in Harnham, a suburb on the southern edge of the City of Salisbury, to the headquarters of the UK Land Forces where I had a staff job. This took the time it takes to smoke one cigarette!

After Staff College and my MOD appointment, I was posted to Bulford, just north of Salisbury, to be Battery Commander of an Air Defence unit. For domestic reasons, I declined the offer of an Army Married quarter and commuted from my Fleet house, a total distance of some 68 miles. I found out that I could access the M3 motorway through a utilities-only entrance for Fleet Services, so very soon settled into a smooth drive on first the motorway, then the A303. I left home early so was in the barracks about 0745. I had an old dark blue VW Beetle I had bought specifically for the task, but its rusty bodywork meant that when it rained the foot-well filled up with water. I spent my last four months of Army service teaching at the Royal School of Artillery, another mile along the A303; it was the coldest January on record and the water in the foot-well froze!

My sales role at Short Brothers’ London office started in 1986; often the commute was not into the Berkley Square offices but out to Heathrow to catch the British Midland 0700 flight to Belfast’s Aldergrove Airport and a head office Sales Meeting or to some European capital city on a sales trip. I drove from my Rowledge Village home to Farnham Station and caught the train. When my Honda Accord died and I had no way of getting to the station, for three months I caught a coach which came through the village at 0613 and eventually arrived at Hyde Park Corner ay 0840; from there I walked along Piccadilly towards the office. The coach’s interior was poorly lit so reading was difficult; absolute nightmare!

A move to Clapham Common introduced me to the joys of the London Underground’s Northern Line; on a normal day the tube was too warm, on a summer’s day, almost unbearable!  After arriving in Waterloo and walking over the pedestrian bridge, I passed through the Horse Guards Arch, usually getting a salute from the guardsman (Note 2), on up through St James’ Park and into Berkeley Square.

When I first started working for Morgan & Banks, the walk from Charing Cross underground station was up to Trafalgar Square, turn north and up to the bottom of St Martin’s Lane. Two years later an office move found me on the north side of Waterloo Bridge, opposite Somerset House.

Working for myself and running The Yellow Palette gave me my shortest commute – upstairs to the converted loft and my desk – measured in metres as opposed to kilometres!

I read recently that those who used to work in an office after commuting some distance are now restricting their ‘working week’ to three days and are known as TWaTs (Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursdays). (Note 3)

And today? The ‘traffic update’ on the radio about queues on the M25, or train disruption due to leaves on the railway lines is mentally acknowledged and dismissed. More tea vicar?

Richard 15^th October 2021

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PS My Australian connections gave me insight into the most delightful commute, by ferry across Sydney Harbour to Circular Quay.

Note 1 The term commute actually involves traveling ‘some’ distance between one’s home and place of work on a regular basis, so I am stretching this to mentions short walks!

Note 2 Those of us lucky enough to have undergone some form of military training developed a ‘military bearing’, a certain way of walking, confident and with ‘head in the back of the collar’. Recognised by those on sentry duty at Horseguards even!

Note 3 Twat is a very derogatory term for a stupid or annoying person. It’s also vulgar slang for a vagina. I have no idea why it has such polar-opposite meanings.

This is the second collection of words or phrases or passages that I have amassed. I hope you find them interesting, informative, thoughtful and amusing in equal or unequal measure.

Philip Ayrton-Grime had been our Queen’s vet for many decades. On his retirement they were having a glass of sherry. “Do you find” asked the Queen “that you begin to forget names and faces as we get older?” “Absolutely!” your majesty, Philip replied. The Queen sighed: “Fortunately everybody seems to know who I am.”

Jeffrey Archer quoted the following in one of his novels: “If it flies, floats or fucks, rent it!” and attributed it to Sir James Goldsmith (1933 – 1997). Goldsmith, a very successful businessman, was loved and hated in equal measure.

His three marriages produced six children including Jemina, who was married to the Pakistani Imran Khan (1995-2004), and Zac who was ennobled in 2020. His mistress gave birth to two more; at one point Goldsmith lived in a house with his wife in one wing and his mistress in another. This colourful character died of pancreatic cancer at the early age of 64. 

In the Offshore Sailing world the name Ellen MacArthur is instantly recognisable, particularly for her record-breaking solo circumnavigation in 2005 on the trimaran B&Q. Subsequently she founded the Ellen MacArthur Cancer Trust (The EMCT); its aim is to provide an adventurous outlet for teenagers in their remission from cancer. In my capacity as a business coach I provided some pro bono assistance to the CEO.

She spoke at the Southampton Boat Show in 1998: “I don’t know where my motivation comes from …… but one thing I’ve learnt over the past year is that if deep down in your heart you have a goal, you CAN achieve it. Getting to that stage has pushed me hard, harder than I ever imagined, but I have experienced moments more rewarding and more beautiful than in my wildest dreams. Yes, it’s true; luck does play a part in it. But if you believe, and are determined, you can build your own luck … and realize that the vision is really NOT so far away.”

Albert Einstein is often quoted and he had a great wit: “Two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity; and I am not sure about the universe.”

The late American author Philip Roth wrote some interesting books, among them ‘The Human Stain’ (Note 2), ‘Goodbye Columbus’ and ‘Portnoy’s Complaint’.

He never shied away from writing how it is: “We leave a stain, we leave a trail, we leave an imprint, impurity, cruelty, abuse, error, excrement, semen – there’s no other way to be here. The truth about us is endless …… as are the lies.”

Some writers are delightfully descriptive; I know it adds to my enjoyment of their stories:

“The warmth of the day lingered in the still of the night”. Claire Frances, who first came to prominence as a 1977 Round-The-World yacht skipper, has written some good novels.

“Oslo was at this hour hers, like sharing a stolen hour from a secret lover. The hills to the east lay in shadows, those to the west bathed in a soft light. The buildings in the city centre were black silhouettes like a cemetery at sunrise. A few glass buildings were lit up like silver coloured fish beneath the dark surface of the water.” Jo Nesbo author

“The sea looked like a colourful quilt of sunshine and clouds.” I love this, can imagine narrowing my eyes against the reflection of the sun off the choppy water, and the thousand colourful patches.

A limerick is a short and fun four or five line poem with a distinctive rhythm, popularised by Edward Lear (1812 – 1888).

“There was a young man from Forfar, (Note 1)

Who caught the three three for Forfar,

For he said: “I believe I will leave

far before the four four for Forfar.”

In my business coaching days, I would always summarise a meeting with a client with a follow-up letter, often appending some phrase or saying at the bottom. Sounds a little corny, but I hoped that my client would read, mark and inwardly digest the words, for they had a message! I often used these words spoken by Brutus from Shakespeare’s ‘Julius Caesar’: “There is a time in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.  Omitted, all the voyage of one’s life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea am I now afloat, and I must take the current when it serves or lose my venture.”

Love: having written about doomed love in my PCs entitled ‘What is This Thing Called Love?” (1&2), I reflect that writing about love is bound to be hugely coloured by one’s own experiences. Some authors are good at describing sex and all its attendant emotions, others gloss over it.

Dolly Alderton, the Sunday Times Columnist would, I had imagined, have been good, but in her book Ghosts she seemed rather shy of graphic descriptions!! When fictional Nina falls in love with Max it’s very bland. Then Max disappears …… ghosting is a new phenomenon in the complex world of human relationships. Maybe she had given her all in her autobiographical “Everything I know About Love” – which is a fun and revealing book.

I am grateful to Meg Mason for this description, from Sorry & Bliss; Martha, after the first two attempts at physical contact, thought: “The third time, it felt like we had been melted down and made into another thing. We lay for so long afterwards, facing each other in the dark, not talking, our breath in the same pattern, our stomachs touching. We went to sleep that way and woke up that way. It was the happiest I have ever felt.” Sexy huh?

Louis de Berniere, author of ‘Captain Corelli’s Mandolin’, ‘Birds Without Wings’ and others

From his book ‘The Autumn of the Ace’

“Nothing is or is not as it seems
As we are, so you shall be,
As you are, so were we,
As dancing motes of golden dust
We whirled within our beam of light,
And then became, but always were,
This dust that falls from dreams.”

…….. this dust that falls from dreams ……. (to be continued)

Richard 8th October 2021

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

Note 1 Forfar is a town in Scotland about 20kms north of Dundee, on the east coast

Note 2 The Human Stain was made into a film starring Anthony Hopkins and Nicole Kidman

There’s a well-known saying that a picture paints a thousand words (note 1) ……. and my weekly post’s word-count is generally about that. By way of illustration, we could certainly write a 1000 words about this …….

I have selected 50 photographs from those that accompanied the last fifty postcards; visible only for my Facebook followers. For my newer readers who might want to read some of the back catalogue, I sense it’s quite a daunting task, although a look at the summary PCs (PCs 100 and 200) might help you make a selection. Having increased the posts to one a week, I hear chums say it’s easy to ‘get behind’ but actually most are about 7 minutes to read, so with a good cup of coffee ……..

Of these twelve months’ worth, there’s obviously very little written about travelling, apart from PC 241, but there are six about sailing experiences! I hope those of you who sail, or who would like to, found these more interesting than those of you for whom the idea of getting cold and wet and feeling sick is akin to standing in a cold shower ripping up £5 notes. (Note 2)

I have tried not to get too morose about Covid, which has been with us for the last year and more. Recently a good friend told Celina how 34 out of 60 participants in some equestrian get-together, all double-vaccinated, later came out with Covid symptoms. We still need to be sensible in how we go about our lives. One possible outcome of the pandemic and the wet blanket that it drapes across our normal activities was explored in PC 233 ‘Am I Obese?’ Suffice to say it was a little wake-up call and the wobble has reduced significantly!

I pulled together a lot of other individuals’ comments about this and that in ‘Collections’ (PC 247) and there are two more in a similar vein to come. ‘What is This Thing Called Love’ looked at love affairs that were doomed. The more I read the more I found, so there is another part to this trio to come; a departure from my normal stand-alone scribbles.   

PC 234 ‘No buts …. no butts’ exploring the disposal of the cigarette butt would, I thought, have produced a similar number of comments as PC 47 on Loo Paper, but I was disappointed. “The disposal of the butt was always an issue, but everyone was ignorant of the problem. The cigarette filter is 99% cellulose acetate which is a plastic. We have changed our thinking about plastic bags and about plastic straws and now we need to focus on how we get rid of our butts. ………Discarding your cigarette stub has been described as “The Last Acceptable form of Littering”. Let’s all try to make this completely unacceptable and a rare event, like not wearing your seat belt or drinking and then driving. So no “But ….”; just “No Butts!”

You may recall PC 208 Wills & Pens and how both my witnesses for a new Will signing expressed surprise at my option of a fountain pen for them to complete their task? In the newspaper just last week I read that one in ten (10%!) people in Britain admit to not having written anything by hand in the past year – meaning they haven’t picked up a pencil, biro or fountain pen, not that they were dipping a finger into some inkwell. A quarter of those aged between 18 and 24 said they never used cursive script to write a letter or postcard yet half of those surveyed loved receiving handwritten letters! (Note 3)

Often my little brain thinks of something which might develop into a topic for a postcard and I dump these thoughts into Notes on my iPhone or onto Word on my laptop and collect them together: examples in this ‘fifty’ are ‘Ephemera’ 221, ‘Thinking Out loud’ 228, ‘Observations’ number 230 and ‘Chewing The Fat’ 206.

Most of the time I feel fairly apolitical, getting irritated about the issue and not its political colour. Here, in the aftermath of the awful 2017 Grenfell Tower fire, when 72 people were burned to death, the current government is lacking the grip needed to sort out the resultant building scandal. (See Generosity in Government PC 235). In last Sunday’s Times a headline ‘Building Bosses’ Profits Dwarf Fire Safety Cash’ suggested that the CEOs of the ten biggest property developers paid themselves £708 million in dividends, shares and pay over the last three years, £65 million more than they have allocated to fix the dangerous homes they have built. Doesn’t sound fair does it? Mind you, as the inquiry into the fire uncovers more shoddy standards and compromises, the truth, hopefully, will out! (Shakespeare – The Merchant of Venice’.).

Talking of truth, that word has been under the microscope a little in the last year and I tried to pull some of the issues together in ‘Truth, the Whole Truth (PC226). In my last paragraph I wrote: ‘What is striking are these new ideas about what is true, what is your truth or my truth and what isn’t; to use a playing card analogy, that a ‘lived experience’ can trump ‘hard evidence and intellectual analysis’. One person’s version of past events can be rather different – summed up nicely by the statement from The Queen – “recollections may vary”.’

I had some fun with ‘They Go Together ….’ (PCs 39 & 40) and I hope you found them amusing to read?

Richard 1^st October 2021

http://www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

Note 1Reportedly first used by Frederick R. Barnard in Printer’s Ink  in December 1921, while commenting that graphics can tell a story as effectively as a large amount of descriptive text.

Note 2 This was the oft-reported figure, although with inflation I suspect it’s gone up to £20 or more?

Note 3 Just like another news item the other day that reported 96% of those who live here in the UK can’t swim 100 m ….. or tread water for 2 minutes! Shock horror! And we an island nation.

If you engage in an adventurous sport over many years, there are bound to be some occasions more memorably dangerous than others; and I am not writing about Tiddlywinks or Darts here! In PC 215 (January 2021) I described a near disaster off the Minquiers; in PCs 209 & 211 (December 2020) I wrote about drama off Arromanches and in PC 231 (May 2021) about grounding on the beach at Dhekelia in Cyprus.

Here’s another! In May 1969 I found myself one of the crew of St Barbara II, a 42ft Rebel sloop belonging to the Royal Artillery Yacht Club, for the RORC North Sea Race. This 180 nautical mile course ran from Harwich to a large buoy off the Belgium coast …..

……. then back up to the widest part of East Anglia before a run across the North Sea to Scheveningen and into Rotterdam, a course like a Z, from behind!

I knew two of the crew and we met the others in Harwich on the 14^th May, a Wednesday evening. We stowed food and our gear and repaired to a restaurant for supper. The forecast for the 0800 hours Thursday start was overcast and cool, with occasional rain; blustery would sum it up!

The following morning we crossed the start-line in company with another thirty or so other yachts; three hours later there were few to be seen, as each skipper adopted their own course. From memory we were probably averaging five knots so the race would take us at least 36 hours. We rounded the mark off the coast of Belgium before sunset and headed back north towards East Anglia. After a long night we tacked around a lightship and by dawn were on the last leg, a long beat towards Holland.

The yacht seemed comfortable with a large foresail and full mainsail, but it was constantly wet on deck with spray and rain. Jon, Mark and I came off duty, somewhat damp on the outside and with general sweatiness inside, with the 0800 Watch Change, We gave control of the deck to James, the mate, and his two crew. My berth was the port-side bunk, requiring a degree of agility to get into at the same time maintaining my balance. The skipper was in his bunk, reading.

It happened about thirty minutes later; someone on deck noticed a line of clouds on the horizon a mile or so away. I can hear the next few minutes in my head as if it was yesterday.

“Skipper? There looks like a squall coming (note 1); might be a bit too much wind for the Genoa. What do you want to do? Shall we change down?”(Ed. To the next smaller sail, capable of coping with a stronger wind.)

“OK! James. Keep her on the same bearing and I’ll be up in a minute.”

“I don’t think we have a minute. We need to act now!” The last word was shouted to impart a degree of urgency. 

I leaned out of my bunk to see the skipper putting his oilskins back on before going on deck. Suddenly there was a screaming sound as the line squall hit us, the yacht lurched and fell over on its port side.

Not St Barbara but something like this!

I looked up to see Jon trying to hang on in his bunk, which was now almost directly above me. The skipper was on the cabin sole and seawater was pouring in through the open companionway. On deck there were shouts:

‘Let go the mainsheet!’

‘Let the foresail fly!’

‘You OK Simon?’ (who’s lying sideways against the guardrails, half drowned!)

The rain was cold and vicious and everyone on deck was being thrashed by it. St Barbara II shuddered like a racehorse trying to rid itself of large flies and gradually came upright (Note 2).

Immediate actions like these are well practised and the crew on deck were all hooked on with safety harnesses, but no life jackets (Note 3). No one had gone overboard. The genoa was in shreds, the main undamaged; the wind speed indicator had stopped at 65knots. Several things happened in tandem. The foresail was changed and hoisted; the ripped genoa bundled below to be put into a sail bag; the bilge pumps started; the chart position fixed; the kettle put on; equipment checked. We got under way again, back in the race. And everyone probably had a cigarette!

Some hours later we crossed the finishing line at Scheveningen and made our way into Rotterdam Harbour.

Sailing can be dangerous but experience and training can mitigate injury and damage. Writing about the knockdown in the North Sea has reminded me of some personal damage. Generally I have managed to miss the main boom on its inadvertent swings across a yacht, learned that watches and signet rings are potential hazards and fingers don’t need to be wrapped around a winch at the same time as a rope.

Many years ago after a weekend sailing on The Solent, we returned the chartered yacht to its marina. As always, the clearing up and cleaning, both above and below decks, got underway. The yacht had a forward hatch, about 35cms square, able to be locked with a small gap or fully opened with the hatch cover lying on the deck.

Whilst some of the crew were cleaning below, I was sorting out and tidying away the halyards around the base of the mast, before fresh water was used to scrub the deck. With a brush in one hand and the end of the hose in the other, I was working my way from amidships backwards towards the bow.

I stepped back without looking. My foot fell into nothing. The next thing I knew was that my bum was on the deck and my right leg down the hatch. In getting into this position I had managed to scrape a large amount of skin from the inside of my thigh. Arnica, Savlon and rest …… fortunately my balls were OK!

It’s good to have adventures!

Richard 24^th September 2021

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

Note 1A line squall is identifiable as a mass of dark low cloud strung out across the horizon; visible beneath are curtains of heavy rain, as though someone had pulled out a plug. The surface of the sea below the clouds is invariably rough.

Note 2 Yachts with a deep keel will always self-right, providing the wind doesn’t have anything to push against, like a sail; in this instance the crew needed to let both the main and genoa sheets fly!

Note 3 Back then life jackets were bulky and cumbersome to wear. Only in dire emergency would the skipper tell the crew to wear them. Their design has come a long way – fortunately!