It’s fun to consciously observe one’s surroundings; too often it’s all in the mush of generalisations and we fail to see the detail, where the interest is. On my way back from collecting my newspaper the other morning, I observe a silver Porsche pull out from the kerb; we live in a posh area!

It wasn’t this one but same colour!

If I owned a Porsche I am sure I would do a little ‘look at me’ exaggerated movement or throttle revving – why not! But this individual had forgotten the basic lesson about never cross your hands on the wheel – and with a mixture of too much throttle and whirling crossing hands fighting to control the steering wheel, almost took the car across the street into another one. Writing ‘look at me’ brought back a memory of one of my first cars, a VW Variant, not the sexiest of automobiles. I bought some very nice Chrome wing mirrors and two seat belts, fitted both and drove around thinking ‘look at me’. Simpler age maybe?

Did you see that lovely reproduction of Leonardo’s Head of a Bear in a newspaper last weekend? A ruler at the bottom showed it to be 7 cms long – and it was square. So it was 49 sq cms and not 7 sq cms as described! And I thought the editorial staff at The Sunday Times were numerate!

Leonardo da Vinci’s ‘Head of a Bear’ measuring 7cms by 7 cms

I sense everyone is trying to outdo everyone else with their ideas for saving the planet, doing their bit to slow the man-made element of climate change. Reducing the amount of plastic we use, improving recycling rates, moving from fossil-fuel powered transport to electrical, trying out new fuels ….. to our own efforts. We recycle but get frustrated that ‘stuff’ we think should be recyclable isn’t and we don’t understand why the industry isn’t publicising why we can’t do this or that or indeed why they can’t do this and that, and buying a Hotbin composter. In addition to the pile of loo paper from ‘Who Gives A Crap’ (minimum order 48 rolls) we now have a little plastic (sorry, couldn’t find a wooden one!) container in the kitchen for the food waste.

And I am reminded of my late step-mother and her habits. She and I didn’t have the greatest of relationships so I can indulge my memory in its entirety. She and my father lived in the middle of a damp wood in an old keeper’s cottage, in Wigtownshire. She kept chickens. One disgusting habit was to take the scraps of kitchen waste out in their little bucket to the chickens, scoop up the contents with her hand, come back into the kitchen and start preparing a meal – without washing her hands – well, to be fair, she might have wiped them down on her not-too-clean apron first.  

Unbelievably, the slippers sent to my mother-in-law in Portugal in November, and returned, and returned, have now been returned. They must be the most travelled slippers on the planet, having completed 4500 miles and still not worn! (PC 220 Soleful Tales and 221 Ephemera refer) We thought they had complied with the “Fill out the customs form and you might have to pay this or that but we are not sure so we can’t release them yet” request. Then silence …… until Royal Mail delivered them back to our front door.

Monitoring the amount of energy you use is other way, so we are told, of helping the planet. Sadly the electrical meters for Amber House are in an outside cupboard more than 25m from my apartment and a Smart Meter wouldn’t work. Trumpeting the benefits of a Smart Meter, a recent advertisement stated it costs 63p per hour to boil your kettle. Who would want to boil their kettle for 60 minutes?

In the United Kingdom the Office for National Statistics conducted a census on Sunday 21^st March. In the book ‘Britain: An Official Handbook’, published by the Central Office for Information, you can garner every conceivable fact about this country. Whenever I read the word census I am reminded of why Joseph and Mary travelled to Bethlehem, such are the Christian stories embedded in my psyche! Sorry! – Oh! Yes! The national census – these days completed online, done easily and without too much thinking. So it was a surprise to have a census chap ring the doorbell the other afternoon. “We need to verify some of the responses from a sample of the population and your address came up.” On Thursday a chap presses the door-entry phone and came into the inner hall but didn’t want to enter the apartment.

Our Apartment front door – and the view the census chap had!

I thought he was simply going to ask me a couple of questions and enter my answers digitally and that I would only going to prison if I my answers were not the same as those I gave on 21^st March. But no, unable to get an internet connection, he withdrew a paper booklet from his satchel and proceeded to ask me every question on the census form. After ten minutes the question “What sex do you declare?” came up. I am not so much of a dinosaur that I am unaware that this is now a multiple choice question. “Really?” I asked. “Yes! Particularly as this is Brighton (& Hove).” “I am sorry I am not going to answer that!” I said, putting my hand in my trouser pocket, searching for something. (Note 1)

The founder of the Apostrophe Protection Society, a John Richards, died last month aged 97. Twenty years ago this retired journalist was so concerned for the apostrophe’s survival that he created a website (www.apostrophe.org.uk) aimed at preserving its correct use. “The apostrophe plays a vital part in written English. Just take this sign outside a block of flats: ‘Residents’ refuse to be placed in bins.’ Remove the apostrophe and you see a very different notice.” You may remember PC 195 illustrated with Lynne Truss’s ‘Eats, Shoots & Leaves’ and the misplaced comma? Apostrophes have, I think, an important part to play in modern written English; it’s true isn’t it or is it “its true isnt it?”

Richard 14^th May 2021

http://www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

Note 1We are getting our knickers in a complete twist when it comes to gender and its variants. Here the LGBT charity Stonewall has a ‘Diversity Champions’ scheme urging employers to sign up to its goals, but not allowing individuals to argue against its diktats. Apparently ‘dozens of woman have faced disciplinary action at work for offences such as stating JK Rowling is not transphobic (interesting a word the online dictionary doesn’t recognise!), asking questions during equality training or requesting female-only loos’ – actually they used the word ‘lavatories’ but this is not a word I recognise!! I did, by the way, find what I was looking for.

If you are a Netflix fan you may have watched ‘Occupied’, a very interesting drama set in the future about a partial occupation of Norway by Russia.  (Note 1) There was some good coverage of the beautiful city of Oslo and I was reminded of my many trips there, but one in particular, approaching from the sea.

Sailing up in Scotland Aged 9

Regular readers will know that I have enjoyed many years of offshore sailing, clocking up some 15,000 miles since 1969. (See PC 106 (Sept 2017) Sailing in The Baltic and PC 161 (Sept 2019) The Atlantic) Some voyages are naturally more memorable than others and so it is with my 500 mile Oslo trip in August 1974. I was based in Sennelager near Paderborn in Germany and chartered the Royal Artillery Yacht Club’s yacht St Barbara II (St B II) for a fortnight. (Note 2)

Arriving at the British Kiel Yacht Club on the outskirts of Kiel, we were met by the bosun, a likeable and competent Bombardier on secondment to the club.  “You’ll have plenty of storage for your trip as the engine is out for maintenance and we are awaiting spares.”  St B II was a 42ft Rebel and I had sailed her a number of times, so wasn’t particularly fazed by this news, except in relation to the provision of electricity. A yacht’s engine was useful for charging batteries which, inter alia, powered the navigation lights essential for night passages. It was also useful for manoeuvring in tight marina berths, particularly in a 40ft plus yacht.

The outward trip in red, the return in green

The crew numbered seven, 3 of whom knew how to sail, so the trip was a mixture of training and sightseeing. Slipping the BKYC jetty on the Friday morning we sailed north up the Little Belt between the Danish mainland and the island of Fyn and into the harbour of Middlefart (Yes! Really!). From there a short hop to the university city of Aarhus (Note 3).

Aarhus

We did a little sightseeing while recharging the yacht’s batteries and then set sail, north up the coast, passing Skagen on the tip of Denmark, so loved by international artists for the purity of its light. The sea north of Denmark marks the exit of the fresh water of the Baltic, from the Kattegat into the Skagerrak and then into the North Sea. I didn’t want to sail the majestic Oslo Fjord at night as I had no means of getting out of trouble without an engine, so drifted into Hortens on the west coast of the fjord for an overnight stop and essential battery charging. The wind tends to funnel down the fjord so it was hard work beating northwards, but in daylight the following morning it was a wonderful experience, as sheer mountainsides close in from both sides, waterfalls tumble down, wind shifts are numerous and the water is extremely deep. Eventually we tied up alongside in the marina in Dronningen on the west of the city, did some sightseeing and welcomed a new crew from Germany.

Oslo

On Sunday 25^th we sail south, this time goose-winged (Note 3), feeling very small as the mountains dwarf the yacht. Our initial destination is Marstrand, just north of Gottenburg on the Swedish west coast. The town is Sweden’s equivalent of Cowes on the Isle of Wight here in England and the focus of international racing festivals.

Marstrand, Sweden

From the chart and from the various sailing guides I had interrogated there were two ways in ….. and the southerly one looked more interesting – I wished I had listened to the little voice in my head ‘play safe’. This approach required lining up a transit and sailing that exact bearing.

Lining up a transit of rocks and a lighthouse, sailing a course of 42°

Why? Well, the west coast is strewn with rocks and the transit took us between two large patches. It was blowing about Force 4-5 from the north, the wind was abeam and this made for fast sailing. Having lined up the transit we committed ourselves, knowing that we couldn’t deviate much from the line; the sea surged over some rocks visible on the bow to both port and to starboard but there was space between! The guides had described it as easy; my heart started beating faster than normal and I remember asking the mate what he thought, was this sensible … or not!

In Marstrand our arrival created some local interest and it wasn’t long before the jetty was crowded with onlookers. One particular chap and I struck up a good report and I invited him on board for a drink. Invariably we talked about the prohibitive cost of alcohol in Sweden and he told me that most Swedes brewed their own. “I use an old bath in a shed.” Olav said. “So how do you know when it’s ready to drink?” I asked. He held up his fingers; one was missing its tip. “I dip my fingers in; too strong and this is the result!”

From Marstrand we sailed south into the channel between the Danish island of Zeeland and the Swedish mainland, passing the twin castles of Helsingør, used by Shakespeare as Hamlet’s Elsinore, and Helsingborg at the northern narrows.

Helsingør

As we approached the outskirts of Copenhagen what wind there had been vanished and we drifted. Fortunately we were spotted by Stan Townsend, a British retired engineer officer and well-known Baltic sailor. A tow was proffered and gladly accepted and we made it to a marina just north of the city. Judging when to let go the tow so that you have sufficient way to make a berth is tricky, for yachts without engines have no brakes!

After some sightseeing in the city we slipped the marina moorings and made our way south, down the west coast of Zealand and into Stubbekøbing.

Stubbekøbing’s marina is new!

Black Jack, the yacht’s mate, was responsible for taking St B II into this rather commercial harbour. Good practice for him I thought …….. until we found ourselves heading towards a fishing boat tied up alongside the quay too fast and emergency manoeuvres were required! 

The Army called this ‘Adventure Training’; for me an absolute delight!

Richard 7^th May 2021

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

Note 1 Norway is not part of the EU and this drama has been mirrored this week in a stand-off between French fishermen and the State of Jersey, part of The Channel Islands, over fishing licences. A French minister threatened to cut off the island’s electricity supplies, 98% of which come from EDF a French energy company!

Note 2 We covered 1050 miles and spent 45 hours sailing at night, between Thursday 15 August – 4^th September 1974.

Note 3 The Danish TV series Dicte was based in this city

Note 4 With the mainsail set to one side and the foresail to the other, only possible with the wind well aft of the beam, the sailing term is goose-winging.

Inspired to make a contribution towards more ecological living, you may recall my purchase of a Hotbin composter (PC 221) in the last few days of February and how I had had to use the landline telephone. Landline? Who has one of those these days? Well, here some 75% of the adult population but that’s probably a great deal lower in our 18 – 35 year age group. Living in Amber House the landline is essential as mobile signal coverage is very variable. Despite living in a city and despite my service provider O2 claiming I should have 5 bars, the reality is that it drops out, that the only way to get a good signal is to hang out of the window, with the tips of your toes wrapped around the radiator to prevent catastrophe. Texts?  ‘Didn’t send. Try again?’ ….. so you move a couple of metres and try again, lifting your arm up into the stratosphere as if that will help.

You may remember an office …… and you may have been lucky enough to have a desk …… which came with a landline telephone …… its cable coming up through a hole on the right hand side? I am sure you’ve watched a film where someone picks up the telephone with their right hand, dials a number and in the course of the conversation wants to make some notes. So they transfer the handset to their left ear, with the cable coming under their neck, half-throttling them, and use their right hand to write. Much easy to get used to using your left ear to listen, having the telephone on the left hand side of the table, with a free right hand to scribble. The reverse is true if you are left-handed (Note 1)

You might think if you have been reading these postcard scribbles for a while that I watch television quite a lot. ‘Tis true, particularly during these lockdown periods, but documentaries and dramas give me ideas about this and that.

Recently I watched some lightweight crime drama where the lead detective, and that’s lead as in most senior and not lead as in dead-boring and that probably would have been leaden…….. in the middle of a conversation with someone ……. when their mobile chirped and he said: “Sorry! Just need to take this!” without even looking at the screen to see whether it was someone on his Contacts List or someone unknown, without knowing who had called him and of course these days it could have been someone asking whether he had been involved in a no-fault car accident or someone whose first words were ‘I am not selling anything’ and one’s heart sinks because you know that’s exactly what they are going to lead into (lead again!) …… so interrupting whatever conversation he was having ….. just because your mobile rang or chirped or barked or whatever ringtone you have selected …… just because the caller has decided to call you as it’s convenient for them without knowing whether it’s convenient to you and we have become slaves to the ringtone, slaves to the ‘must answer this’ demands!

Sorry if I am a dinosaur about this but what happened to good manners when you are talking to someone aren’t you focused on them and what they are saying and how you might respond and yes sometimes you wish your mobile would ring and give you an excuse to pause the conversation because the person next to you is banging on and on and you wish they would listen and then you realise the only way to interject is to interrupt and that used to be rude but in some cases necessary. In the course of this particular drama the detective must have said ‘sorry I need to take this’ 8 times ……. not that I was counting!

I often call a chum, just for a catch-up, and I call when it’s convenient to me; possibly after lunch. “Sorry, just in the middle of lunch/afternoon tea/reading important stuff! Can I ring you back?” – so why answer in the first place when an answering machine will take a message? And don’t get me started on the modern habit of arriving in a restaurant (remember those?) and everyone puts their mobiles on the table; why go in the first place if you don’t want to engage with those you have come to be with?

Carol Midgley, writing in The Times on 17^th April: “Oh! No! They’ve come back the phombies, more gormless than ever! People who walk and text simultaneously, oblivious to traffic or the old ladies they knock into. Almost knocked one over the other day texting, crossing the road, earbuds in; it’s important to be deaf as well as blind crossing.”

Of course our mobiles have become so much more than a way of speaking to someone. We communicate by voice, by text, by sending a photo or using one of the many social media apps. And more than a communication device, the mobile or iPad has become the internal spy for companies anxious to sell you stuff. For example, last year a bird dropped a seed and it landed in some compost in a terracotta pot. This I surmise as I didn’t actually see the bird but I saw the little shoots of growth.

So I encouraged it, watered it, re-potted it and watched it develop. The problem is I don’t know what type of plant it is, possibly a weed, possibly a shrub, possibly a tree. So I took a photo and sent it by WhatsApp to Sally whose a keen and knowledgeable gardener – if in doubt go to the Oracle or so I thought.

The Oracle responded in a negative way. Not so the internal spy! The morning after my Facebook offering is to invest in an App that will tell me what it is; I know there is one for plants but this is for trees.  

Just thinking out loud!

Richard 30^th April 2021

http://www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

Note 1. Famous lefthanders include Angelina Jolie, Winston Churchill, US Presidents Barak Obama and Bill Clinton, Bart Simpson (as his creator Matt Groening is) and the future King of England Prince William.

It comes to all of us, without exception, our departure from this world. Where we go, if anywhere, has been a constant in our philosophical merry-go-round discussions.

I appreciate it may be a factor of age, reading the published obituaries of individuals deemed worthy of comment, but three recently caught my eye. The first, George Reynolds, who heeded the advice of a priest after he emerged from his fourth prison sentence: “You’re clearly not very good at crime; why not try something legitimate?” Reynolds went on to make £260 million – a real mixture of businessman and rogue.

Then there was Doreen Lofthouse. Not sure whether it spans the generations but you may recognise the trade-name Fisherman’s Friend? Developed for fisherman from Fleetwood, Lancashire to sustain them and relieve their bronchial congestion in the cold North Atlantic, it was initially a liquid medicine, containing liquorice, menthol, eucalyptus oil and capsicum. From its origins in 1865 it was modified into a starch-enclosed lozenge and by 1971 into the aniseed one we recognise today. Believe it or not, some 5 billion lozenges are now produced annually and exported in various versions all over the world.

Doreen, who married into the family, changed the company from a small local operation to a global business; she died at the end of last month aged 91. Interestingly her obituary in The Times erroneously titled her as ‘OBE MBE’. When you are elevated from one rank in the ‘British Empire’ award, you drop the lower one; she should have been simply OBE! Just for accuracy you understand.

Then we have the celebration of the life of the Duke of Edinburgh, Prince Philip, who died aged 99. Anybody who has reached their 90s must be judged to have had a full and rewarding life; his was no exception. One of the lovely comments I read was from the Countess of Wessex, wife of Edward; “He passed away gently, as if someone took him by the hand.” Departed for sure!

Numerous stories have been published here in the newspapers about his unique and waspish sense of humour. One concerned some tabloid photographs of the Duchess of York having her toes sucked while she lay naked by some swimming pool in the south of France. “Beyond the pale!” the Duke commented, using a phrase popular amongst his generation. (Note 1) Reminded me of how this lovely phrase, meaning unacceptable behaviour, came into the English lexicon. The word ‘pale’ comes from the Latin ‘palus’ meaning a stake or fence. The historians of you will know that England ruled over much of the island of Ireland, although by the late C15th that area had been much reduced; what was left was contained by a ditch from Dalkey just south of Dublin to Dundalk to its north. The ditch had in theory a fence, and obviously anywhere beyond the fence was an area of lawlessness and danger – ‘beyond the pale’.

Gives colour to one’s language, to know the origins of these things. Nigel Rees’ ‘Phrases & Sayings’ is a great reference and what you can’t do if you simply Google it is read what phrases it’s sandwiched between. In this case ‘Beyond The Fringe’, a term first used at the Edinburgh Festival in 1960, and ‘BFN’. Jimmy Young had a hugely successful BBC Radio 1morning show and his sign-off was BFN – ‘bye for now’. Maybe it’s used in modern abbreviated text speak – but I know not!

Word associations and links can create fun challenges and often on the commercial radio station Classic FM the compere asks the listener to establish a link between pieces of music or composers. The other day I drove up to see my daughter, a rather unique event these days and the first since Christmas; I listened to the radio. The guest presenter was John Humphrys who hosted the television series Mastermind for 18 years and therefore anxious to measure his listeners’ knowledge. He played John Caponegro’s Shoe Symphony and was looking for associations. I immediately thought of Choux (pastry) and later research found a Baker’s Symphony by a Kuba Piecze.

Do you understand this: “to plus to is fore?” Or this: “Te kwality of merci is not stained. It drops as te gentle reign from heven on the place beneef. Its twice ……..” Not shore weather ither make cens? Maybe this is better:

“The quality of mercy is not strained; it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest; it blesseth him that gives and him that takes.”

Departure from a good standard of spelling and grammar has been on the lips of many pedants here, after the University of Hull announced that “they were committed to removing barriers to learning, increasing social mobility and providing opportunities to students from all backgrounds.” …. meaning if your work is badly spelt but understandable, that’ll do.

Writing in the Times, Giles Coran’s headline screamed: “Don’t stop at spelling, let’s refresh jography too”. (And this is not the science of slow running). Fortunately that newspaper’s leader of 12^th April was written with clarity. “The claim that requiring good English could be seen as ‘homogenous north European, white, male, elite’ (as Hull had suggested!) is seen as a idiotic travesty of everything a university stands for …… and a massive disservice to those it misguidedly believes such piffle is meant to help.”

Such an appropriate if old-fashioned word, PIFFLE!

Richard St George’s Day 2021

http://www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PS My last PC concerned the truth. One comment from Meryl, “Not only very interesting but highly philosophical! You have identified that the biggest threat to modern civilised society is the absence of absolute truth. Whereas for many this used to be God, it has now become a case of ‘what I believe is the truth for me.’ What do you think?” deserved a reply: “I think we see our perspective of our experience as the truth but acknowledge that others may see it differently and the reality may be something different again.” And Meryl again: “Truth is a concept that is increasingly stretched from reality.”

PPS Twitter exploded last Sunday with comments about a text read in a BBC Crime drama called ‘Line of Duty’. The word ‘indefinitely’ was spelt ‘indefinately’.

Note 1 There was another use of this phrase this week as we watched a Netflix series, Occupied. Another of those coincidences!

I am sure we have all seen it on television, in plays or in films, the moment of gravitas when the clerk of the court offers a bible to a witness and says: Take the bible in your left hand and say after me ………. “I do solemnly, sincerely and truly declare and affirm that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

Some years ago I was called to serve on a jury in the local Hove Crown Court. Having been sworn in, we were asked to judge whether the accused was, beyond reasonable doubt, guilty or not. It was a great reminder of the way our justice system is the bedrock of civilised society, being judged by one’s peers. I had my share of making such judgements in the army, both as a Battery Commander delivering summary justice to miscreants under Military Law and also on a Courts Martial panel. Trying to establish the truth is quite subjective, for we all innocently filter what we hear and see through our own mesh of experiences.

Hove Crown Court

You may recall me quoting Caroline Jones from her book “the space in between” in PC 202; it’s worth repeating as she eloquently sums up the issues about memory: “…..  I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings – and who is to say that my version is true anyway? Who is entitled to say what is true in any family’s history? It is all shades of grey, interpretations and misinterpretations: something that passes one person by might be the thing that tips another onto a different journey; and all, in the end, coloured by imagination and weakened by unreliable memory.”

Last year, still in the age of the Trump Presidency, we read about the hearings on the nomination of Judge Brett Kavanaugh to the US Supreme Court. These are not things we in Britain understand. Here judges are appointed to our Supreme Court by the monarch; the name of a nominee is given by a Selection Commission to the Prime Minister who must pass the name without comment to the Queen, so in theory ensuring the Judiciary remains apolitical. You may of course think the American way has some merit, as it gives a congressional committee an opportunity to determine whether A or B could or should be selected.

This is by-the-by. What always amazes me is a person’s ability to recall conversations from their past, in the case of Christine Ford and Brett Kavanagh over thirty years ago. She had accused him of sexual assault at a party. Now I understand that when the experience is traumatic, the memory can be very vivid and long-lasting. But my mouth drops when I listen to someone recall a party 36 years ago …… one where alcohol was present ….. and go into the ‘he said’ ‘she said’ recall. It’s the same when people write their autobiography. Conversations with my mother when I was 7? Nah! Can I quote verbatim what I heard last week any better than last year or within the last decade? Nope! My mind generalises the experiences, compresses the data so it’s manageable.

I find myself shouting at the television more and more, mouthing ‘bollocks’ or somesuch; must be a feature of being over 60? Most recently it was during a screening of an ITV lightweight crime drama entitled MacDonald & Dobbs, set in the city of my birth, Bath. The second episode was centred around someone’s death on the railway tracks running through the Box Tunnel. This tunnel was designed by the prolific Victorian engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunnel (1806-1859) and its alignment catches the rays of the rising sun on his birthday, the 9^th April.

Much was made of this fact in the drama and that it only happened once a year ‘on his birthday’. Well, anyone with even the scantest knowledge of our solar system and our earth’s tilting axis will know that the sunrises on the same azimuth some five months later, in this case on the 4^th September. But if you didn’t know, as maybe the writers of the drama didn’t, then you would accept this as the truth – the whole truth being different, gospel.

I didn’t watch Harry & Megan’s interview with Oprah Winfrey, but saw enough of the clips and read much of the analysis to form a view. This is not about them or their situation but more about the trend to challenge what is true. Although advertised as an interview, it seemed more an opportunity for them to air ‘their truths’, to make statements that went virtually unchallenged. The rules for royal titles for instance were laid down in the Letters Patent, issued by King George V, so in my view it’s disingenuous for Meghan to make out otherwise. Similarly her statement that she had a ‘secret wedding’ before the official one was simply untrue; revelations such as these diminish the whole two hours and subsequent furore.   

Much has been made over the past 18 months by both Harry and his brother William of the modern challenges to our mental health. So in my mind it’s unbelievable that Meghan didn’t discuss her suicidal thoughts with him and he, in turn, couldn’t help or find the right person for her to talk to; shame on him. 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”.

The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Richard 16^th April 2021

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PS And slightly tongue in cheek, we always imagine that the BBC newsreader’s script is grammar-perfect and speaks the truth!! Not so the other evening when they described Prince Charles as the late Prince Philip’s elder son, when he is of course his eldest son

Following on from my last postcard and continuing a little the theme of self-deprecating stories, I hope you will find this one is less intimate?

Do you ever dream of falling? Apparently it’s one of the most commonly reported dream subjects, this feeling of falling and it’s not falling in love or embracing any other emotion, it’s the physical action of falling through the air, one imagines from some height, with a degree of uncertainty about how it will end. Wow, that’s a long sentence, sorry. Oh! And I have never dreamt about falling, at least not in my conscious memory; who knows what goes on in that subconscious. I never quite understand how dreams can be so so vivid … and then you wake up, think ‘I’ve been dreaming’ and can’t recall anything.

These scribbles, despite what you might be thinking, are not about dreams, but about the act of falling, as I did the other morning. After we have learned to walk, it is one of the subconscious actions we carry out without thinking, like breathing. Like lifting your arm; you reach for something and unconsciously all the muscles do the bidding of the mind. Being physically fit, walking was just something you did, so it was a surprise when I enrolled in the British Army that one or two of my fellow officer cadets had two left feet and had to be taught how to use both independently; and how to swing the alternate arm – which seemed even more difficult!

So I cross the road and as I am reaching the pavement I trip and stumble, somehow (presumably to trip you have to have your toe too low?), sense myself heading for the rough asphalt that replaced some nice paving stones, put out my hand and in the last minute stop myself from being a complete prat! So not quite base over apex.

My hand stings and I look to see chips of gravel imbedded in my palm; blood starts to ooze. My pride’s taken a dent (Note 1). I get up; nothing obviously broken and no one has seen me – that’s a relief! Before all of you writers dust off any minimal notes you might for my obituary I am OK, shaken but not stirred. I collect my paper and gingerly make my way home. Realising my chinos have blood showing through on one knee, I am reminded how Jeremy Clarkson (Top Gear and gentleman farmer) never buys any other types of trousers but jeans, as jeans tend to hide the odd scuff, the little bit of dirt, whereas on my green Chinos it’s obvious. (Note 2)

So I became a guy who fell, a fall guy! Actually ‘The Fall Guy’ was a television action series in the 1980s, featuring Lee Majors as Colt Seavers who earned money from tracking and capturing bail-jumpers. The Fall Guy has another more well-known meaning, referring to a person to whom blame is deliberately and falsely attributed in order to deflect blame from another party. Obvious contenders here in the UK might be the scientists who appear flanking the politicians at the evening Covid briefings, not fully ‘independent’ and yet asked to support whatever policy is being outlined. If it all goes tits up, not difficult to know who takes the blame?

Well, it’s not the chap in the middle!

For those of you with longer memories, the stand-out American fall guy from the 1980s was Oliver North. The Iran-Contra affair was a political scandal that engulfed Ronald Regan’s presidency but it was North who was prosecuted. In a typical American twist, by 1991 all charges were dismissed; they know how to protect their own!

Now every morning, as I walk through the local streets to Rami, I pass the place where I tripped. I look at the pavement and kerb and give it a ‘you bugger’ sort of malevolent stare. It stares back. You might recall, as I am sure we’ve all done it (?), kicking the table that you bumped your knee on, as if it was its fault. Inanimate objects, no matter how much we hate or love them, have no emotions. Cleaning myself up, I feel lucky ….. and then am reminded of when I broke a bone in my arm, not sure whether the radius or the ulna, aged 11.

Glencot, a boys’ boarding school for 5-12 year olds, operated from an old manor house just down the road from Wookey Hole, near Wells in Somerset. The building is now a hotel!

Down at the basement level was a room with a table-tennis table and a black & white television. We used to gather around the latter to watch Saturday evening programmes as a treat. One music show featured Perry Como, who had a hit single “Oh! What did Dela ware boy?” whose lyrics ran through all the states of the USA and was clever. Like all catchy songs it still resonates “…… she wore a brand new jersey……” and “What did missi sip boy?” ….. “She sipped a mine sota”. Anyway, I digress. Two short flights of steps led up out of this room, the first step two feet away from the others.

I tripped on the first, put my hand out, caught my forearm on the next flight and broke a bone. My plaster cast was covered in others’ scribbles within a day.

The plaster-cast covered by the Cricket Scoring book!

A few weeks ago the US President Joe Biden tripped going up the steps of Air Force One and the press and everyone else made fun of him. Sadly it seems it’s a common trait.

I tripped on a paving slab on St John’s Road in Battersea many years ago, all suited and carrying my brief case after seeing a client in the IOD. I recovered my vertical position but not before someone starting laughing loudly.

Bearing has, I think, a great deal to do with our physical and mental well-being and with walking; demonstrable pride, neck in the back of the collar, head-up, shoulders back – that sort of thing. (Note 3) Maybe I should just look where I am going?

Richard 9th April 2021

http://www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

Note 1 ‘Pride Comes Before a Fall’ a C16th saying suggesting if you are too confident something bad will happen to remind you you are not as good as you think you are. Doesn’t apply here!! Moi? Surely not.

Note 2 Our new neighbour fell up his internal stairs before Christmas and cracked two ribs, so I was lucky!

Note 3 In yoga there’s a posture that requires you to keep your head level but drop your eyes to 4ft in front of you, bend your leg over the other and lower yourself to a swat. Try it!

Although we generally do our weekly supermarket shop online, I needed to go and pick up some Gordon’s Gin & Tonic 0.5% abv from the physical shop the other afternoon. As I reached for the hand-sanitiser inside the entrance, a chap was making his way into the supermarket, his left leg all encased in rods and strapping. To my eye he was making a bit of a meal of it and I ask whether he needs any assistance. He tells me he’s fine. Out of curiosity I ask whether it’s his ankle or knee and get the “Both knee and hip and don’t get me started!” line, with a light-hearted tone in his voice. I see him later struggling with some bags of Bok Choy and raspberries but leave him to it, his determination obvious to see. 

My local GP surgery moved from Sackville Road into the renovated, deconsecrated Holy Trinity Church in 2017, joining two other surgeries to become the 16-doctor Trinity Medical Centre; co-located in a new building is the Trinity Pharmacy.

After a recent prolonged period of bloatedness (see PC 28 Balloons, Bacteria & Bloating) and an email consultation with my doctor, she asks me to come in; yes, actually face-to-face …. or mask-to-mask! This led, inter alia, to the need for a microscopic examination of my faeces: “We will get to the bottom of this!” I left the old church clutching an envelope with all the instructions to follow and a warning from the receptionist ringing in my ears: “Follow the instructions carefully as 25% of the returned Faecal Immunochemical Test (FIT) samples are unusable.” This suggests to me the instructions need rewriting?

Having done what the instructions have asked of me, the following morning I walk up to the surgery clutching my enveloped-sample; not a lot, in fact only enough to fit through the eye of a needle! Normally the space that would have been the church nave is crowded with chairs, the majority occupied. Most will now be familiar with the Check-in Procedure on a wall-mounted computer screen; name and date of birth and then, ‘Take a seat’ or ‘Go to the first floor waiting room’. Another screen high on the wall indicates which of the waiting individuals should go to which doctor’s room. In between patient announcements are advertisements for treatments for this and that or, for instance, what to do if you think someone’s having a stroke – look for indications in FAST (Face, Arms, Speech and Time). We are reminded that every booked appointment that is a ‘no show’ costs the NHS £150. Bit like double booking a meal out and being too ignorant to cancel! Oh! To be able to think about eating out! Currently it’s like the Marie Celeste (note 1) but unlike the Marie Celeste a skeleton staff operates and greets individuals outside.

To the left of the main doors an intercom/entry device controls the large, glass double doors. I have timed my visit to miss the peak times, normally first thing in the morning when the night’s fears and niggles need addressing. Already there’s an elderly, slim, white headed lady standing by the door. One rarely chats to others in the waiting room, often lost in your own reasons for wanting to talk to your doctor and not wanting to invade others’ personal space. Generally we never talk about our health to strangers, unless you press the ‘on’ button of a health bore and then you get chapter & verse and if you are extremely unlucky Volume 2. Outside it’s somehow different:

“Good morning. Have you dialled the number?” my head nodding in the direction of the intercom.

“Ya! Ya!” she mutters with impatience “but no von comes!” I ask whether she’d been waiting long – she eyes me rather suspiciously: “Long time! But no von comes!” I often try to hear the origins of an accent and in this case think she’s either Jewish or Polish. She reminds me a little of Rose Tobin, who used to accompany my grandmother in piano duets in the Roman city of Bath.  

I walk over to the intercom and press the interrogation button. It rings out; I try again and again ….. eventually Anne-Marie the Irish receptionist on duty answers and promises to be out shortly.

“She’s coming” I say to my companion who gives me an ‘about time’ sort of look. Anxious not to talk about the weather or politics or Covid or Brexit (is there anything else?) I say casually: “You wouldn’t want to know what’s in my envelope!” 

“Can’t be as bad as mine!” she boasts, without smiling.

The electronically operated doors swing open and Anne-Marie appears, all smiles and apologies (well she’s masked so I don’t see the smile of her mouth but her eyes smile – best we can do these days). I let the old lady offer her envelope first ….. then give mine; they are both the same, both FITs, both of us leaving a deposit of our poo to be microscopically examined.

I smile as I leave – a connection!

Richard 2nd April 2021

(www.postcardscribbles.o.uk)

PS Completely coincidental that these scribbles about Trinity, those three GPs surgeries coming together to form Trinity Medical Centre, in the old Holy Trinity church and of course ‘the Father, Son & Holy Ghost’, are posted on Good Friday 2021.

PPS Doing our little bit for the planet, we ordered some 100% free-of-plastic loo paper made by a British company called ‘Who Gives A Crap’ – crap of course is slang for rubbish. Learn more about Loo Paper in PC 47 and about Thomas Crapper in PC 54.

PPPS An afterthought to PC 223 (Chips and Shoulders). My brother, who had a full career in the Royal Navy and in the Fleet Air Arm, writes: “Before taking over the Lynx squadron at Yeovilton in 1980, I had to learn to fly the beast (Ed. The Lynx helicopter). As the CO (designate), I was known on the training course as COD. Inevitably the (student) observer with whom I was often paired was dubbed “chips”.”

Note 1 I have mentioned the Marie Celeste before (PC 166) and was surprised when one of my readers expressed ignorance as to what or about whom I was referring! The Marie Celeste was a two-masted ship that was sailing from New York to Genoa in 1872. A month after leaving the US, it was found adrift, off the coast of Portugal, intact but with no soul on board. There has never been a satisfactory explanation as to what happened to the Captain, his family and crew; they were never found.

The idea to write this postcard was prompted by Jon dropping in for a coffee, in the garden obviously as this has been permitted since 8^th March, after getting his vaccination a week ago. Vaccinations and the fleshy part of the shoulder go hand in hand ……. and he had had a shoulder injury some years ago that had been operated on and it still wasn’t as good as it should’ve been …..

 …… and I thought he might have had a chip on his shoulder …… angry that the surgeon couldn’t do a better job …… and then the association with the madcap world in which we live kicked in.

A researcher having a microchip implanted

Chips? Ah! Yes! Microchips that Bill Gates, founder of Microsoft, has paid for everyone to have injected into themselves when they get their Covid vaccination. I really do wonder about the creativity of people. Who thought this idea up? If I extrapolate the current technology way into the future, it’s possible that we will be able to have a microchip in our wrist that will monitor our health and alert us to something amiss; that would be real progress. But I have had my first dose of the Oxford AstraZeneca vaccine and didn’t feel a thing; Niente! Zilch! Nada!

No chip! The idea that ‘Big Brother’ could implant a chip into my arm at the same time, as if I could be distracted in some way, beggars belief ….. without me knowing about it? And for what purpose? To monitor my habits and alert agencies to changes perhaps? For instance, I go to the loo most mornings about the same time, as I am sure most people do; it is a daily necessary deposit. What if I was late? Do I really want a text or worse still my Amazon Echo to remind me I should have gone 30 minutes before?

Every country has parts which are more beautiful or plainer than others, more mountainous or flatter, more industrial, richer or poorer; inhabited by snootier, more religious, less couth, people than in other areas. It’s just the way our societies develop. For example, I got to know littoral Denmark from sailing around it when stationed in Germany; see PC 106 Sailing in the Baltic. I was delighted to return to Denmark when I started working for Short Brothers, travelling particularly to Copenhagen or up to Hjørring, right up in the north of mainland Jutland. If you get to know a foreign country well, you gain some insight into how a nation thinks. Dining out in expensive Copenhagen restaurants I was amazed at the exorbitant costs of ‘fine wines’ at the top end of the cellar list. I asked my agent who on earth bought these; Jørgen Brøndum, a delightful sagacious chap who was great company, replied: “Well, only those uncultured and rural folk from Jutland who think it’s the right thing to do when they come to the capital! Trying to show they are not country bumpkins!”

In the UK, the Forrest of Dean to the west of Cheltenham is thought of in a similar vein, so an extreme case of ‘chip on the shoulder’ might become ‘The Forrest of Dean on both’!

‘Crisps’

Across the pond, that large expanse of ocean called The North Atlantic, crisps are called chips and chips are called fries and it’s from the USA that the saying ‘a chip on his shoulder’ is thought to have originated; so nothing to do with food! Back in the 1800s when a boy was spoiling for a fight, he would put a twig or small chip on his shoulder and challenge another boy to knock it off. It became synonymous with someone always wanting to pick a fight, not standing criticism, always arguing with everyone, often about some perceived sleight.

Despite my early military service I am not by nature an aggressive individual, preferring to seek common ground rather that accentuating what divides us. So whilst I am prepared to accept that the explanation from 1800s America is the correct one, the more romantic me likes this other English one.

Just under two hundred years before, carpenters (Note 1) working in the Royal Naval Dockyards in England had an allowance of ‘spare’ wood chips they could take home at the end of their shift, useful for cooking and heating. These offcuts were normally carried on their shoulders out through the gate. By 1756 this privilege was being abused, costing the taxpayer too much, so a warrant was issued, restricting the carrying of surplus wood to under the arm, so lessening the quantity that could be carried. One carpenter, a John Miller, refused to take his chips off his shoulder and his workmates crowded around him and carried him with them out through the dockyard gates. I am not sure what happened to John Miller when he turned up for work the next day! (Note 2)

There was no chip on Jon’s shoulder or in his arm and he had no issue with accepting the efficacy of the vaccine but some are still unsure. They anxiously point out that previous research and development took years and years to produce an effective vaccine against this and against that; ergo these can’t be safe or as a graduate-level educated friend claims: “it’s an untested, experimental vaccine which has not been approved by any regulatory medical body” I wonder how we differ? In reality, if enough people are involved in anything and enough money is thrown at it, in parallel and not in series, everything is possible. On the Continent there was a huge kerfuffle about blood clots in those who had had the Oxford Astra Zeneca vaccine …. until the statisticians pointed out that 40 cases in 17 million was not statistically significant, less in fact than being struck by lightning (Note 3)! Mind you if you don’t want the vaccine because you think it’s not safe, then that is your prerogative.

As an afterthought on the topic of chips, the American Henry Channon (1897 – 1958) came to England in 1920 to study at Christ College Oxford. At university he shared a bachelor house with a friend colloquially known as ‘Fish’; from then on Channon was forever known as Chips Channon. Although never reaching ministerial rank, he represented Southend for 23 years and will be remembered as a social diarist of the first half of the 20^th century.

Richard 26^th March 2021

(www.postcardscribbles.co.uk)

PS You may remember the ubiquitous wood chip lining paper that was pasted on every house wall in the 1970 and 1980s?

PPS And while talking about chips, you may not have heard this joke? “Why are there no good potato chips in Wiltshire? Because they have no Devizes for Chippenham!” (It helps if you have a Wiltshire accent!) (….. no devices for chipping ‘em!)

Note 1 A carpenter is often referred to as a chippy.

Note 2 If I know anything about British humour, he was probably called Dusty – the surname first used for those who milled corn and who were always covered in flour ‘dust’.

Note 3 Thirty six hours after I wrote this paragraph, an El Salvadorian surfer, 22 year old Katherine Diaz, was struck by lightning and was killed. I love coincidences but this is so sad.

It’s been in my ‘PC Topics’ file for some time, an idea to scribble something about institutional meals, as we have all eaten them at some stage in our lives, good or bad! The impetus to write now was triggered by something sad someone experienced last month. There is no doubt that coping with the current pandemic has created hardship for most of us, but more keenly felt by those at the bottom of the societal heap. I don’t think the UK is unique in the huge growth in Food Banks, where those out of luck and money go in order to survive. A veritable army of lovely individuals has stepped up to the plate, no pun intended here, and created places where food, drink and words of encouragement are available, using initiative in getting donations and support from a wide range of organisations.

But ……. and there is often a ‘but’ ….. some people picking up their bag of staples like bread, eggs and milk and a box of vegetables & fruit were obviously too embarrassed to admit not knowing how to cook the vegetables, as around the corner from this particular food bank were boxes of vegetables discarded on the street by the (un)grateful recipients. There are obvious cultural and educational issues involved here!

Fortunately I grew up in a privileged household, where there was enough food to satisfy two hungry teenagers, although school food will always bring back memories for everyone and most of the ‘yuk’ type! At my first boarding school we had to finish everything that was put in front of us; that included breakfast’s porridge and Macaroni Cheese. The former is difficult to cook in bulk and it’s inevitable that lumps proliferate; cold, dense, uncooked lumps of oats are hard to swallow. Not so good Macaroni Cheese, but at St Christopher’s the dense crust on top had tentacles stretching into the substrata – which when cold brought on an urge to vomit! I had been at this school for some three weeks when, in September 1955, my mother got remarried. My only concern was that I could get her to write a letter excusing me from having to eat these two foods; I was 8 years old.

The dining room at Dauntsey’s School, on the edge of Salisbury Plain in Wiltshire and at that time a single-sex boarding school, was traditional. Large refectory tables and benches filled the main floor, while up on a raised area at one end a table was reserved for members of staff, including the Duty Master. Despite a Food Committee, the quality of food was constantly criticised and this led eventually to a strike. One lunch time we all filed into the Dining Room but refused to eat the food handed out by the kitchen staff, much to their bafflement; we sat in silence, hoping this would be enough to encourage better standards. The Duty Master was a David Burgess; having said ‘Grace’ at the beginning of lunch, he sat and ate his alone as his fellow masters left, and at the end intoned in his strong Scottish brogue: “What I have received, may you all be truly grateful.”

The food protest was reported in the William Hickey column in the Daily Express for no other reason I suspect than the chairman of the Governors was a Lord Tedder (ex-Marshall of the Royal Air force) …… and his son was in charge of the Food Committee! Sadly I don’t remember the food getting much better! (Note 1)

At The Royal Military Academy Sandhurst formal dinners, where we had to wear Mess Uniform, were held once a month; less formal weekly ones only demanded Black Tie. There is a saying: “The army marches on its stomach.”; the food was of great quality and quantity, needed when 1000 cadets sat down to eat. 

The frequent formal dinners continued in commissioned service, a worthwhile tradition to maintain.

In the Officers’ Mess in the ex-Luftwaffe barracks in Lippstadt, Moritz, a grey-haired old chap with a bad back, shuffled backwards and forwards from the kitchen as a waiter. In the afternoon he was often to be found slicing sideways a piece of toast that could be then re-toasted and appear as Melba toast that evening.

In Dempsey Barracks in Sennelager, in Germany our regiment had a French exchange officer staying for a week. On his first evening we all dined in the Officers Mess. The starter was corn-on-the-cob, a wonderful opportunity to eat a single vegetable, with lashings of butter and S&P. Those who designed the menu hadn’t realised that in France corn from the cob is fed to pigs! Jean-Claude thought we were taking the Michael (and that’s pronounced Michael in English and not Michel in French)

Bored with what was on offer on the luncheon menu one day, I asked the waiter who was the duty cook. “Corporal Matthews, Sir.” “Well, would you ask Corporal Matthews to make me a large omelette please?” Corporal Matthews did as he was asked and the 12 egg omelette was delivered on a large platter. I met his challenge but it was a struggle!!

I have had my share of institutional food in our hospitals, the last here in Brighton in 2013 when I was asked what I wanted to eat and the chap made notes on his iPad, but the doctor was still using quill pen and dipping ink for her paper notes! Seemed a bit arse about face? Prior to my stay, I had had an Angiogram and was offered a healthy (?) lunch of white steamed-bread sandwiches and a bag of crisps.

In 2006 I stayed in a little barn overlooking the River Dart, just upstream from Dittisham in Devon. Unfortunately my appendix rumbled and I went off to Torquay Hospital. It was agreed to remove it, which was just as well as it ruptured during the operation and sepsis is a very real concern when this happens. My stay lasted two days, during which time I sampled the hospital fare. Green vegetables need careful handling otherwise they lose their vibrant colour. French beans do not like being transported from a central kitchen miles away so that by the time lunch reached my bed they are lukewarm and slightly brown!

Not sure much has really changed?

Richard 19^th March 2021

Note 1 Simon, who had been educated at Lancing College, developed a hate for the school’s fish pie, particularly if it included an egg. At a dinner party some thirty plus years later, he vehemently refused a plate of gorgeous ‘fish pie’! Strange these memories that define us. 

Jamie Oliver’s Happy Fish Pie – yum! yum! (not for Simon!)

I read that the average Joe, and this is no criticism of you particularly if your first name is Joe but rather like John Doe in the USA, a generalisation, has a daily vocabulary of about 5000 words and knows the meaning of about 20,000; if you are university-educated you might know the meaning of double that number. Given that the Oxford English Dictionary contains some 170,000 words in current use and some 45,000 obsolete ones, these are small proportions!

Here in the United Kingdom there has been a focus on a political spat between Alex Salmond and Nicola Sturgeon, one past and one present leader of the Scottish National party (SNP), the latter currently First Minister of Scotland. It’s odd that these two individuals’ surnames are almost the same as types of fish – maybe all politicians are slippery? In the greater scheme of things this story is, according to Mathew Syed writing in The Times, simply ephemera and there are more important things to worry about, for instance the state of our united kingdom.

Ephemera is one of those words not in my normal vocabulary yet over the past week I have seen it in print three times! You may recall PC 26 ‘This Language of Mine’ where I admitted to rarely using ‘mores’ and ‘milieu’ and not knowing the correct name for the grammatical construction ‘zeugma’ or even ‘syllepsis’?  Reaching for my dictionary I read ephemera is actually the name of the commonest of Mayflies that in their winged form live for a day.

Rising up as larva from the bottom of this African lake, the mayfly’s wings unfold and it takes flight, the swarm like black smoke from a fire.

So it is used for something short lived or transitory – little snippets of stuff. There are, incidentally, no more than ten words that start ‘eph…’ so quite special.

If you read my last posting about ‘souls’ and ‘sole’ and my made-up word ‘soleful’, I hope you will agree it was weird to find in a little word puzzle in the paper the following day that  ……. ‘soulful’ was one of the answers. Don’t you just love these coincidences?

On a different topic, a recent copy of our supermarket magazine had a piece on composting kitchen waste – complete with an advertisement for a HotBin Composter.

Having established a communal garden here at Amber House (see PC 212) the need for compost is constant, especially as the soil used by the company who did the conversion is not of good quality. Normally I buy it, but here was an idea; I decided we would catch up with those who regularly compost their kitchen waste and buy a bin.

Ordering on line (hotbincomposting.com), I selected the large one, about the size of a wheelie-bin, and went to pay …… chose a card ….. put in the long card number …….. and was informed a verification code was needed ….. clicked ‘send’ …… and got the ‘check your mobile’ message. The mobile reception in our apartment is very intermittent so when the code didn’t appear I asked for it to be resent  ……  and repeated that for the third time. Ten minutes passed, I changed the card (erroneously believing this might help) and started the verification process again. Then I got three codes for the first card; no good! Eventually I got a new verification code, which I typed into the box  ….. only to be told that the 10 minute time limit had expired!! Aaaaaggggghhhhhh! I reached for the telephone and dialled Hotbin’s number ……. 

Above the city of Brighton & Hove lie the glorious South Downs, which stretch from the Itchen Valley of Hampshire in the west to Beachy Head, just to the west of Eastbourne: they cover an area of some 260 square miles (670 square kilometres). Immediately above the city is Devil’s Dyke, a 100m deep V-shaped valley. The name ‘Dyke’ means a water-course or channel and legend has it the devil was furious at the conversion of people to Christianity and decided to dig a dyke through the South Downs so the sea could flow in and drown the village inhabitants. (Note 1)

Its popularity with Victorian walkers ensured the word Dyke is reflected in the local urban-scape – Dyke Road and Dyke Park for example. So it was a wonderful example of the stupid world in which we live, when we can’t disagree about anything for fear of causing offence, when Facebook banned a post which included the word ‘Dyke’ as an example of hate speech, when in fact it was an innocent mention of a local road!

Incidentally, the word dyke originated in the 1920s as a homophobic and misogynistic slur for a masculine, butch or androgynous woman (Sorry, not sure I can use the word ‘Woman’ – isn’t it “a person who …..”? )

In my last post I recounted the sorry tale of trying to send some slippers to my mother-in-law and rather light-heartedly suggested it would have been quicker to hand deliver them, even if I had walked the whole way. Forty-Five days, south down the western seaboard of France, diagonally across Spain and into Portugal; now that would be an adventure. However I sense I would be doing it alone!!

And this realisation reminded me of a chap I met in 1991, Nicholas Crane. Ever the adventurer, Nick decided to walk what has been called the European watershed (note 2), from Cape Finisterre in the west, to Istanbul in the East. Alone!

Starting in 1992, seventeen months and 10,000 kilometres later he completed his epic journey by dipping his toes into the Bosphorus. If you like reading about this sort of thing, Clear Waters Rising is his 1996 book.

Nothing in this postcard is going to move mountains or be remembered in twelve months – just ephemeral bits and pieces.

Richard 12^th March 2021

Note 1 Actually the dyke is only on the north side, so doesn’t cleave the hills as legend would have it. That happens further east where the main A23 enters the city through a natural break in the downs.

Note 2. Called the watershed as the rain and melting snow water either ran to his left and northwards into the Bay of Biscay, English Channel, North Sea or Baltic, or to his right down towards the Mediterranean.