The frequency of my blog continues to be fortnightly, although last December I wrote an extra one (PC113) to reflect the modern tradition of having a little something extra at this time of year. Some companies pay their staff a 13^th month’s pay, some give bonuses, and that’s all well and good; when I was working I was paid to carry out a role, for which I got a salary – end of! My PCs 86 (Boxing Day) and 27 (Christmas) covered something of this period but here’s a little extra scribble; have a great Christmas.

I have two pieces of homework to share, one because it’s seasonal and the other because I think it works (but then I would, as I wrote it!).

The first brief was to write the story behind a Christmas song or carol.

“It’s just before dawn in an old dusty room in an outbuilding beside a wooden clapperboard church. The church has only recently been connected to the new electricity supply and old gas lamp fittings from the main building are stacked in the corner. A single electric bulb hangs from the ceiling, giving light to a large table in the centre of the room. At the table a middle-aged man, wrapped in an old, rather worn, silk dressing gown, is bent over a pad of paper, writing something; his moving hand casts eerie shadows on the wall. There’s a knock on the door and, without waiting for an answer, a woman enters carrying a cup of tea.

“Here you are dear. I thought you’d like something to warm you up; there’s a favourite cookie on the saucer. How’s it going?”

“Bless you Matilda, bless you. How’s it going? Well, I am trying to write something we can sing on Sunday, something based on my trip last year to the Holy Land.”

“And ….?”

“It’s coming on, you know! I was very taken by the little place I stayed at, in Bethlehem, and I recall dreaming about that village’s importance in our Christian story. It was such a quiet place; unable to sleep I had looked up at the stars and the great sweep of the heavens, you know how one does, and I felt so humble and in awe.”

“Ah! Phillip. That’s lovely. Why don’t you put that in the lyrics, something about how the stars are so silent, something about the morning star, the wondrous heavens, angels and so on?”

“ …….. and now I’m on a roll, Matilda; how about ‘O morning stars together proclaim the holy birth’?”

“That ‘Holy Birth’ is good, although I never quite understand how we Christians could create an enduring religion based on a biological impossibility. Drink your tea, dear, or it’ll get cold. I’ll be back in half an hour or so.”

Matilda goes back to the main house and Phillip continues to scribble phrases that work, complete lines that flow; rubbing out some, inking in others, all recalled from his Bethlehem visit. Before 8 o’clock Phillip looks up as Matilda come back, bearing a bacon butty on a kitchen tin plate and places it on the rough table.

“Do you think Lewis could compose some music for this little carol? I’m calling it ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’.”

“Don’t see why not. He’s a dreamer like you; he’ll be inspired by angels and other celestial beings” Matilda replied with a slight smirk.

As Phillip takes a bite into his butty, Matilda mutters:

“You know what, Philip! It’s snowing outside; could you work into your carol something about snow and how it’s deep and crisp and even?””

 

The second brief was to write something using an ‘unreliable narrator’.

I arrived home, the Victorian terrace I’d shared with George for 25 years, deep in the backstreets of Brighton. I could feel myself sigh as I put the key into the lock, a sigh of resignation mixed with excitement perhaps.

“I’m back, George!”

Silence! I took my coat off and walked down the corridor into the small kitchen. George predictably was sitting hunched over a book of crosswords on the pine table. Ever since he’d lost his job 8 months ago he’d become more and more introverted.

“Five down’s a problem, Fiona. 10 letters for ‘deceptive’; third letter’s R.” he muttered, without even looking up.

“Evening George” I said, although I couldn’t find any warmth in my greeting. “How about ‘Unreliable’”?

“OK! that works; thanks. By the way there’s a parcel for you from Victoria’s Secrets; you must have been ordering something online. You normally buy M&S’s ‘Three knickers for £10’, don’t you?”

He wasn’t expecting an answer, his head already back into the crossword, so I picked up the padded envelope and went upstairs to change. Sam had suggested I look at the Victoria Secrets website and the result? A trio of gorgeous sexy panties dropped out of the black tissue paper. Yes! Yes! And I could feel myself grow slightly moist.

The following morning George dragged himself down to the kitchen as I was finishing my breakfast of two boiled eggs; it was still dark outside.

“Eggs? You don’t like eggs; what happened to the muesli soaked in apple juice?”

“Oh! I was reading this magazine article in the dentist’s waiting room last week and it said how good eggs are, full of protein and stuff, so I thought I would try them for a bit. Is that OK?”

“Of course, Fiona, of course! Just that I do notice things you know, even after all these years.”

Slurping the last of my coffee, I suggested he could telephone Mark down at Temporary Solutions to see if they had any work for him, but I could tell from his face he was more likely to look for a solution to 11 across or try a Killer Sudoku. I headed out for my 15 minute walk to work.

“Sorry George, I’m going to have to pull an all-nighter. Paul’s got a deadline on the Mental Health campaign and he needs his team.” The message on WhatsApp sounded plausible and George wouldn’t question it. This wasn’t the first time that I had had to work late.

By 8.30 that evening Sam and I were tucking into some lovely food at Terre Terre and thinking of the room we had booked at The Old Ship Hotel. When you’re in those first weeks of new-found love, it’s full on; our legs touched under the table and, completely engrossed in each other, we fed each other little morsels as if our lives depended on it. So much so that it was a while before I noticed George, standing by the door. He’s probably found my paper diary with ‘S. Terre Terre 8pm’ pencilled in. What I will never be quite sure about is whether the shock on his face was because I was there, or that Sam was a beautiful redheaded young woman.

Enjoy!

Richard 21st December 2018

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Those who know of my early life will appreciate the service I gave to Her Majesty over twenty fun years. The devil is in the detail they say and it may not be common knowledge that I spent three years gaining a BSc in Civil Engineering. Some of you may wonder why two years at Sandhurst, the military academy, wasn’t enough? Well, the Armed Forces needed officers who were able to make a meaningful contribution to the development of future equipment and, to ensure that, those of a science bent went to the Royal Military College of Science (RMCS); those of an Arts bent were disregarded!! (See PS) I had joined the army with the intention of doing my bit for Queen and Country ….. and resisted the news I had a place to read an engineering degree; I didn’t want to! In characteristic institutional fashion the short answer was “Tough. Get on with it!” So 18 months after being commissioned, in September 1969, I started at the university, reading Civil Engineering as it had parallels with architecture, which had been an alternative career to wearing a uniform. My experience leads me to encourage those not really suited to an academic course to do something more vocational.

RMCS was based at Shrivenham, which should have been a sleepy village on the Wiltshire/Oxfordshire border. But it was on the main A420 road from Oxford to Swindon; in those pre-bypass days (see note) the road ran straight through the middle and traffic had to negotiate a tight S-bend in the village centre. Most of the larger lorries carried pressed-steel car bodies, made in Oxford, on their way to the automotive manufacturing and assembly plants in Swindon; ‘sleepy’ it was not! But the establishment nestled under an escarpment on which ran the ancient Ridgeway, a path in use for some 5000 years. It runs from just to the west of Marlborough to the north west of London, a distance of some 87 miles. From my bedroom window I could see the Uffington White Horse, a huge chalk figure cut into the hillside during the Bronze Age. This was very much a rural campus.

The Uffington White horse

I was one of two non-Royal Engineer officers doing Civil and it was suggested I should gain some hands-on ‘engineering’ experience. At the end of the first year, our general year, I spent 6 weeks with Alexander Gibbs & Partners, the consulting architects for the construction of a section of the M4 Motorway between Newbury and Swindon. Apart from memories of checking levels and survey points, I can vouch for the fact that the tall transmitter mast at the Membury Service Station is within a few seconds (of degree, obviously) of vertical!

The Army didn’t accept that us military students should have the same length of vacations enjoyed by our civilian counterparts and ensured our holidays were busy. They had a point as we were being paid a salary!! In addition to my time on the embryonic M4, we went off to coastal South Wales on a geology field trip one Easter and went ‘wow!’ and ‘oh!’ and ‘that’s so ….’ about synclines and anticlines, conglomerate rock formations and Freshwater Beach.

Survey is an important part of a civil engineer’s skill set, so apart from doing a great deal of outdoor surveying and plotting, we spent two weeks at the School of Military Survey at Hermitage (awarded its Royal accolade in 1997 on its 250^th birthday) during one summer vacation. Surveying is all about mathematics and during our examinations we had to use both slide rule and mechanical calculator. The latter are completely extinct but for dividing Log Sines by Log Cosines to six places of decimals (for whatever reason!) they were a godsend. Every time you got a decimal place the bell rang.

 A state-of-the-art mechanical calculator

On the second summer vacation we had to attend a three week ‘Workshop Practice’, when we spent time in the foundry, in the turning shop and in some other workshop with an unremembered name. In the first we learned how to make a mould and fill it with some molten metal; if your first visualisation is of white hot metal rods and steam, we were of a slightly smaller scale! I copied a brass doorstop and my mother-in-law’s front door’s Georgian door knocker, which I still have – I have been looking for a door on which to hang it ever since!

In the second we spent time turning metal rods, using a lathe to cut threads etc. I have kept a little bollard I made, with a movable collar. It still amuses me after 47 years!

Our instructor in the workshop with the forgotten name had an accident while we were there and we had a day off; his tale of woe is hard to make up. In his kitchen, he was putting down some floor tiles with Evostick, a very effective glue. Halfway through, he thought he could clean the glue off his hands with a piece of newspaper. When finished, he threw the balled-up newspaper into an open coal fire. Sadly a part of the newspaper stuck to his hand; as it caught alight and flames began to burn his skin, he tried to pat it out ….. with his other hand – which also had some glue on it. Big mistake! Both hands needed hospital treatment!! Ouch!

Of the subjects we studied the only one that really brings a smile to my face was ‘Materials of Construction’. It stood apart from Squiggly Amps & Ohms (my name for the Mechanics of Electronics) and Mechanics of Fluids, where we studied, for instance, Water Hammer, by its practical aspects. Can you imagine getting excited about breaking a concrete beam? Well, for even greater pleasure was the ‘Concrete Slump Test’!

Ah! Yes! University!

Richard 14th December 2018

PS. You know how it is at school; you begin to concentrate on subjects which you seem better at than others (note in my case not ‘good’ but ‘better’!) So I left school with very average scientific A Levels …….. and in my next life would like time for some of the more creative aspects of human existence.

PPS. Having graduated I thought, and hoped, I would never go back to ‘university’. However as part of our Staff training, I spent another year there seven years later completing a quasi MSc/MBA!

Note: Part of our Survey module was to design a bypass around the village. I wistfully hope that one of our designs was actually used but think it highly unlikely!

In case you’ve been on Planet Zog and missed its significance, November 2018 was one hundred years after The Great War ended, at that 11^th hour on that 11^th day of that 11^th month. They waited for five hours after a ceasefire was agreed, they waited for a nice tidy numerical sequence of hour, day and month; meanwhile hundreds died, for a political gesture! (See PS) Much has been made, rightly so, of the immense sacrifice of life, both military and civilian, that four years of conflict had witnessed. The war to end all wars; until we went to war again 21 years later.

The simply poppy has become synonymous with remembrance in the UK

Now we will remember them. We read about both heroic and pointless sacrifice, of simply ‘doing your duty’, of man’s inhumanity to his fellow humans, and shudder. My maternal grandmother’s eldest brother Dudley Corbett, a Lieutenant Colonel in the Royal Army Medical Corps, died a month after the end of the war from a war-related illness; he was 37.

In amongst memorabilia handed down, from whom I am not sure (!), I have this metal shaving mirror in a leather pouch, from Merchant Taylors’ School Club dated Christmas 1915 and wishing its recipient ‘Good Luck’, and think of that hugely optimistic cry ‘It’ll all be over by Christmas’, and that was in 1914!

In Germany, this year’s 100^th anniversary is not being commemorated in the same way. Instead of looking back, they are looking forward to this time next year when they will remember the thirty years since the Berlin Wall came down, paving the way for reunification a year later. You may recall the dividing of the then East German city Berlin by a hideous concrete block wall, and the fortification of the long land border between East and West, the Inner German Border (IGB). Stationed in Lippstadt, West Germany, in 1973, I took a patrol along the British sector of the IGB, accompanied by a member of the British Frontier Service. These ‘civilian’ guides monitored the border along the southern sector of the British zone from Lauenburg to Schmidekopf. They wore a uniform rather Naval in appearance, white topped cap and fawn duffle coat, and the chap who was with us as we watched the East German Border Guards, and were watched in return, was a mine of information. My week-long patrol was accompanied by a Second Lieutenant from some Guards battalion; we shared accommodation in barns and farmhouses – on the first morning he exclaimed: “Drat! My batman hasn’t packed my shaving kit!” I didn’t have a batman and packed my own stuff so wasn’t too sympathetic!

Memories from my five years in the British Army of the Rhine (BAOR) could fill many PCs. Some immediately come to mind and others require more than a nanosecond:

The ubiquitous roadside snack bar (Schnellimbiss) that served a long sausage drenched in a hot sauce (currywurst mit pom frits) on a cardboard tray that only just took the weight. When you were hungry, this was manna from heaven.

Two regiments, my Royal Artillery one and one Royal Signals, were housed in a large barracks. On the gate was a soldier with a rifle. No one realised that the ammunition was kept under lock and key inside the guardhouse; couldn’t trust the squaddie with live ammunition!! Until the Baader-Meinhof Gang started causing mayhem; alert states went up and the ammunition went into the rifle’s magazine!

I have fond memories of food! If we were out of barracks on some form of training, but not on a tactical exercise, we relied on the BQMS to provide meals from his 3 ton kitchen truck. The alternative was to have our own tinned rations and do it ourselves; the first option was always the best. Breakfast: great noisy gas blowers shot flames under the large dixies of water; on top flat trays cooked greasy fried eggs, fried bread (yum yum), bacon rashers, mushrooms and tinned tomatoes. It was alright if it was dry, but if it was raining water somehow got into the mess tin and turned the tomatoes into soup.

Married officers lived on The Patch; if you were under 25 you had to get permission to get married, as well as find someone who would have you of course!

Self-propelled guns, armoured vehicles and supply trucks lined up after some large-scale exercise in 1974.

We trained and practised our profession. The cycle hadn’t changed much since Wellington’s time; individual training at the beginning of the year then section, platoon, company and regimental. Not until the autumn did we link up with other units in huge divisional exercises across the north German plains. And as the combined weight of the USSR and Warsaw Pact would have squashed us easily, we practised going backwards (we didn’t talk about retreating, just going backwards or a fighting withdrawal!); hopefully this would have given the politicians time, someone would authorise the use of a tactical nuclear weapon and everything would stop. Fortunately we never had to put these plans to the test.

We drank. The BAOR enjoyed Duty Free status and that applied to everything from cars to alcohol and petrol. When we were in barracks, as a single officer the temptation to drink at lunchtime, drink before dinner, with dinner and after dinner, was immense; there was no television.  (See PC 15) If the Russians wanted to invade western Europe, Christmas was definitely the best time as everyone walked around in an alcoholic haze!

In addition to our professional training, we undertook adventurous training of all sorts. For me this focused on offshore sailing in The Baltic (see PC 106); delightful and memorable experiences.

Our experiences in life are what shape us, and understanding their importance and their influence is essential. We can’t change those experiences but we can keep their memories in perspective, as we live today and move into tomorrow.

 

Richard 30^th November 2018

PS Rather like the Japanese found on some remote island a year after the Second World War had ended, news of the Armistice took days to reach those in conflict in Africa. It wasn’t until 25^th November 1918 that German forces in East Africa surrendered and 100 years on services of remembrance took place in Kenya and Zambia.

My last postcard was going to mention allergies, to add to the gender and mental health issues that seem to be hot topics in this second decade of the C21st; I ran out of space but didn’t want my thoughts to be solely inward focused.

When I grew up it seemed no one had allergies – or if they had they had died because they were allergic to something and no one knew. Now we are very much aware of how individuals can be agin some aspects of life, mainly food. Nuts are often the main culprit. Recently there’s been an inquest on the death of a teenager who had bought a baguette from Pret a Manger. She was allergic to sesame seeds; the wrapper did not mention these specifically, in fact they were part of the bread mix and now every manufacturer is rushing to ensure every ingredient is mentioned. Wise after the event huh!

Sharwood’s Green Label Mango Chutney – ‘may contain nuts’

Some time ago I saw a packet of, I don’t know, Trebor’s Extra Strong Mints; I am making this up but somewhere on the wrapper it said ‘didn’t contain nuts’! What a pickle we’re getting into; a band wagon has started rolling and everyone wants to jump onto it; a badge to wear, part of our C21st life. I sympathise with those who truly are allergic as I’m fortunately not ‘allergic’ to anything, not a Hay Fever sufferer, not allergic to dust mites, insect bites, latex, food which includes eggs, cow’s milk, nuts or shellfish. Celina is allergic to the last item; fortunately she found out with a very allergic reaction many years ago so carries an Epipen and asks about cross-contamination in the kitchens of seafood restaurants. Anaphylactic shock, in extreme cases, can be life threatening.

Using language and sayings that have arisen as part of our culture and history are what defines us, us British. Other nations have their own repartee, slang and ways of relating. But in this globalizing interconnected world anything and everything particular is under the judgmental microscope; some are necessary, for sure, but some are simply aimed at creating a bland environment devoid of colour. (Whoops! You see! I write the word ‘colour’ and think ‘have I written something racist?’)  For example, in English we have used the saying ‘Whiter than white’, to mean ‘absolutely pure’ in a moral sense, morally beyond reproach, since the early 1900s. Historically of course the forces of Good and Evil are often represented as white and black. Then Persil started claiming that using their washing powder would produce white clothing ‘whiter than white’. But in September a detective superintendent used the phrase in some briefing, about the need to be faultless and above reproach in carrying out inquiries. ‘Someone’ complained, and the detective’s been referred to the Independent Office for Police Conduct for ‘poor use of language’. How come? No newspaper reported what the complainant had said. If I assume that it was thought he was using the phrase in a racist sense (?) then that’s stretching imagination beyond Young’s Modulus! Outrageous! But sadly no one really got on the soapbox and put the Thought Police back in their box. It seems to me a little like the suggestion, currently being seriously discussed here in the UK, that misogyny and misandry should be criminalised. So now if we think something offensive, that’s enough to be fined or even sent to prison? How effing ridiculous! (See PS)

George Street Hove with local people doing their thing

 Are we becoming oversensitive … to everything? I feel we have become ultrasensitive to perceived slights, are quick to judge and quicker to turn to anger. When I walk down George Street, people come into and out of my vision. I might notice one individual more than another, just for a millisecond. I might even make some judgement about the way they look, their manner, their ‘air’, their sense of purpose, but it’s a fleeting thought and doesn’t linger; other thoughts quickly take its place. My glance could be interpreted as homophobic, misogynistic, misandry, anti-obese, racist, sexist etc but it’s only in my head. But then what we think determines how we feel and consequently how we act; it’s the latter that sometimes gets us into trouble!

The rollercoaster of our lives continues, exciting, challenging; for example, for the last six months we have been practising Yin yoga. In addition to our daily hot yoga obsession, once a week we do the complete opposite. Whereas hot yoga is all about using your muscles to try to obtain certain postures, a Yang activity, Yin yoga is practised on the floor, adjusting your limbs into a certain posture and then staying in it for 5 minutes or more, without using muscles to maintain it. Practising Yin is like applying WD40 (see note) to your ligaments, tendons, joints, cartilage, fascia and other connective tissue. After the first session I didn’t feel anything – until the next day. Wow!

 

This got me thinking about the Yin and Yang of our lives, living this rollercoaster; playing safe here, chancing our arm there, hanging on! An analogy that occurred to me is being like pebbles on a beach (for those of you who only know beaches of sand, come to Hove!). The sea washes the pebbles, sometimes gently, sometimes with such force that they are drawn back into the waves, or thrown violently up into the air, to land in a different place, in a different time. And the rhythm of the tides means that for some periods they’re completely submerged and at other times high and dry, basking in the sun. Some will crumble with the continuity of movements, becoming grains of sand, other pebbles will resist. But these inanimate objects of nature can’t think, can’t move of their own accord, can’t reason; we can and we should. So I scribbled some contrasting experiences you may have had or may yet discover:

Becoming a parent, a unique experience; losing one – not a unique experience.

Falling in love (again) and again .. and falling out of love, that deadening realisation that it’s over

Going for the first job interview and being chosen; being told you are no longer wanted, are redundant and rationalising it’s the role and not you.

Becoming a grandparent and holding the little mite, knowing your own DNA is in there somewhere.

Travelling somewhere exotic and seeing the mundane of where you live on your return.

Getting to the end of a book and wondering how you struggled to finish it, or wanting to have yet more pages after ‘The End’, such was the gripping, imaginative tale.

Going to university; attaining that special qualification.

Walking the dog, having a dog in the first place; and then that awful decision about end of life.

Being told you have some form of cancer; being told you’re in remission.

Buying your first shed/flat/house or your second one and borrowing beyond your ‘maximum’; paying off your mortgage.

Worrying about the quality of the politicians and realising there isn’t much you can do except vote them out next time around.

Making friends and losing them when you divorce, move!

Writing your first story in some lonely café; when the bills are piling up.

Walking for miles across the country, grateful for your waterproof boots; clearly for not being on a wheelchair.

Whistling when sailing, when there’s no wind and your sails flap, as folklore suggests you’ll get more than you wanted; then an hour later wishing you hadn’t whistled as the wind howls in the rigging and you hang on!

Let go and go with the flow.

Richard 15^th November 2018

Note WD40 Actually named after ‘water displacement 40^th formula’ from 1953 – prevents corrosion by displacing the water molecule, eases joints, and loosens nuts and bolts. An essential aid in any household.

PS The Times columnist Giles Coren reported on Tuesday that a 69 year old lady, Jane Savidge, had been reported to the police for sounding her car horn on a garage forecourt, in an effort to get the car in front to move. The driver of the car in front was coloured and Savidge was charged with a Racially Aggravated Public Order Offence. I wish this was ‘Fake News’ because if it’s an actual fact, God help us.

 

I am probably quite blinkered in my views about certain things …… get concerned about how some aspects of our society, western society, global ….. are trending (See! I can pick up on the modern use of some words, so not too stuck in the mud!) ….. but it’s got to a point when I have to say something! ‘For fools rush in where angels fear to tread’ ……. or something like that.

The words ‘sex’ and ‘gender’ are often interchangeable, but after 1955 the word gender took on a different meaning, as in “The state of being male or female, typically used with reference to social and cultural differences rather than biological ones.” or “describing someone’s personality, character and behaviour’.

I was born male! It says so on my birth certificate and once I had attended a few biology lessons I realised there was a physical difference between the genders. We had talks from a ‘sexpert’ about the ‘birds and the bees’ – such a funny choice of animals to explain human reproduction! Fumbling around with a female friend at the age of 6 or 7, the sort of ‘you show me yours and I’ll show you mine’ experience under some bush, I found out that she didn’t have the same appendage as me; in fact none! Weird! Ah! The innocence of one’s youth. Then I learned that in the animal and plant kingdoms there are alternatives, particularly neuter and, I am not sure of the gender terminology here, those living organisms that have both sexes ….. ah! Yes! Asexual. So we learned that there was a male gender and a female gender and in the human species both were needed to procreate, not for sex though, but to reproduce themselves. But now I am made aware of a new gender; ‘Trans’.

They have always been around, this ‘Trans’ group, but now we are more accepting and willing to help these individuals who believe they are ‘male’ in a female body or ‘female’ in a male body … or transiting from one to the other. That’s OK isn’t it?  …… but the issue raises complicated questions in areas such as sport segregated by gender and in the provision of safe women-only spaces. Bending over backwards to please everyone, however different they are from the societal norm, just isn’t practically possible. The current law requires a medical diagnosis, proof that they have been legally living in their new gender for at least two years and a gender recognition certificate. In the US the move is in the other direction, to enshrine the male and female gender in the constitution, reversing the liberal trends of the previous President Barack Obama. I think I am with Trump on this one. Gender has become a political issue when simple me thought it was, and should be, purely biological!

The words ‘mental health’ seems to be on everyone’s lips at the moment. Our Princes William and Harry are pushing this topic, as is the British Olympian Dame Kelly Holmes, who’s raising awareness of ‘mental health’ in her ‘It’s OK not to be OK’ campaign. Everyone has, at last (?), woken up to this new crisis, this affliction. It is certainly an area of our overall health that has been overlooked, wasn’t talked about, relying on the ‘Stiff upper lip, Carruthers; what!’ so the acknowledgement of the issue is a huge step in the right direction. Of course an increase in people seeking help from their doctor could mean more are experiencing problems, or simply that we feel more comfortable in asking for support; I hope the latter. My concern is that the GP will too easily prescribe drugs rather than offering the alternative range of treatments which include more longer-lasting remedies such as talking therapy and self-care techniques such as exercise.

I acknowledge that the world of the C21st century is very different from that in which I grew up, but isn’t it simply challenging in a different way? My name isn’t Carruthers but at school I suffered from divorced parents, felt abandoned in a boarding school; bad memories of bedwetting, parental interventions and hushed meetings that didn’t include me! My time at the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst changed me for sure; put simply, we had to bond with someone else to create a team environment, looking out for each other and gaining emotional strength from that bond. We were tested, often to the point of physical and mental exhaustion, but came to realise it made us mentally stronger. The Sergeant Major, his face sweaty and red from the horror of some drill infringement you had just committed, inches from yours, screaming “You ‘orrible little sh*t, Sir! (a lovely nod to the fact we were training to be officers!). If you don’t get on with this I’ll shove my pacestick (see note) up where the sun don’t shine ……. and if you continue to think this is a joke I’ll open it out 30 inches, sah!”. You take it on the chin, wonder whether he enjoyed his garlic evident from last night’s supper, and move on – stronger. On some other exercise, designed to push us to our limits, and beyond, we were on our second December night out on the Brecon Beacons in South Wales and hadn’t slept. Yomping up one hill and down the other side, in the dark, ticking the sheet at a checkpoint, and off to another. The mind plays tricks and I remember seeing the full moon and swore to God there was a ship sailing across its face!!

Later at the end of my first marriage I went through that ‘what’s the point; is it worth it?’ sort of internal dialogue. But the conclusion was that it was worth continuing this life; for life is to be lived and you need to be robust mentally.

Ignoring those who have suffered trauma, for they need and deserve all the help we can provide, I am concerned for those younger members of our society who have been sucked into the modern ‘I want to be famous and I want to be famous NOW’. I might think it vacuous and stupid and sad but the subsequent disappointing realisation that life isn’t like that could drive them to self- harm and depression. So doesn’t it worry anyone that we seem more and more fixated on providing support for those who are depressed, are mentally weak, however temporarily, rather than engaging in positive schemes to improve the robustness of our society?

On the day of my recent birthday the quotation in the yoga studio was very serendipitous: “Happiness involves taking part in the game of life, not standing on the edge of things and frowning.” Mental Health was a minority issue that has moved mainstream; failure to address it properly will have major consequences for the nation.

 

 

Richard 3^rd November 2018

 

Note The ‘Pacestick’ was rather like a large pair of wooden dividers, about 30 inches (85cms) long. Infantry Drill Instructors used it to measure the length of the marching pace, from left foot to right foot, to ensure uniformity. They had a wonderful knack of swinging it through 180º as they ‘marched’ …… or offering to put it where the sun doesn’t shine!!

 

It’s only recently, in the last 18 months I guess, that I have been observing people differently. Before you think I am starting a career as a stalker, or weirdo, relax; I have simply been looking at them and wondering where they are in their life’s journey, what they are doing and why. I certainly didn’t think like this in my 30’s, 40’s or even in my 50’s, for I was too busy working and enjoying my life. But today, not working but still enjoying life (!), I look at other people inhabiting their space, their time, their universe and wonder what they are doing, planning, experiencing. Probably I’m invisible to them, focused as they are, doing their thing, living their life; unless of course I live, however temporarily, in the same universe. We come together at certain places, for example at work, at airports and railway stations, in the supermarket, in restaurants, in hospitals and when driving. Some people I simply observe and don’t interact with; others I engage with, converse with, exchange ideas with.

 

One of my ‘universes’ is that of yoga. Regular readers will know of my obsession with yoga and as I scribble this one morning before the sun has risen, I reflect on the individuals with whom I share this interest. There are teachers at different levels in our schools and colleges, an administrator, a gas fitter, an tour guide, the independent financial advisor, the retired trader from the City, a management and leadership consultant, a builder, a banker, a musician, someone who works in the Care Industry, a systems engineer in the generating industry, someone learning to be a driving instructor, a chiropractor, grandmothers, and mothers and fathers galore, some with school-age children and others whose offspring have flown the nest – and they all love yoga! Do I envy them, at their time in their life? Part of me does, absolutely; part of me knows that we only have one life and I have no regrets at the way mine is panning out.

The main building of the Institute of Directors (IOD) is at 116 Pall Mall in London and, during my fifteen years as an executive coach, it was here that I would meet my clients, those whose employer believed my intervention and interaction could assist them be more effective and more successful. I met some great people, working with them on a very personal and individual basis, and loved the results that came from that challenge. So you can imagine the memories the building holds, but now initially it’s simply a kaleidoscope of people and conversations and coffees and the IOD staff, all jumbled together into that segment of my life. I guess some things we remember well and other events and experiences get lost in the noise and mush. But then I look more closely at the grand old façade and remember clients, these shadows in my past, and see their faces illuminated as if by the flash of lightning. The ‘wood’ becomes a collection of individual trees, of individuals and the memories are sweet.

 

The Brazilian Flag

The Brazilian Embassy is a short distance from that IOD building, just to the west of Trafalgar Square. On the first Sunday of this month it looked lovely in the early Autumnal sunshine and the memories made me smile. Celina had come to vote in the Brazilian Presidential elections. A long line of people snaked around the corner; all ages, all colours, for Brazil has not one homogeneous skin shade. The queue was as mixed as you might imagine; the young away from their homeland experiencing London’s vibrant life, the older ones maybe having been here for a long time, all coming together to exercise their democratic right. (See note 1) I walk around the corner into Trafalgar Square and grab a double espresso at Pret.

Pret a Manger on the south side of Trafalgar Square

My daughter started back at school at the beginning of September, in a permanent teaching role. You may recall from PC 132 me saying something about how she has to be super organised or it’s chaos! Maybe she subconsciously covets my freedom, wishes she could do yoga and walk along the beach and write – conversely you may think I hanker after her involvement with the next generation, with the development of young brains and minds? What neither of us would wish is the attendant detail that goes with it, the organisation that gets her two boys to school, someone to look after her preschool son and herself to a different school. But it’s just the time in her life and for me it’s just the time in my life. The time’s the same, the experience personal to both of us in different ways.

Neighbours have recently become parents for the first time and I remember very clearly, as if it was yesterday, after my daughter was born, driving home in the pre-dawn hours of a glorious June day and being given a glass of champagne by my neighbour. That was just a time in my life and a time in theirs, and of course the start of my daughter’s time.

Time is never still, never stops. And our lives reflect this; rarely still, always growing, physically maybe, older certainly, often a bit of a rollercoaster! As the French poet Alphone de Lemartine wrote: “La vie doit avoir un courant; l’eau qui ne coule pas se corrompt.” (‘Life should have a current; water which doesn’t flow becomes stagnant.’ A view reflected by the delightful story from Richard Bach; see note 2 below)

Don’t let your life stagnate! Let go and go with the flow!

Richard 20^th October 2018

Note 1: The election for Brazil’s next president will go to a second vote on 28^th October, where the only choice will be the two front runners from the 7^th October vote. Two men from the extremes of politics, one from the hard left and one the hard right. Some choice huh?

Note 2: A little tale about life:

Once there lived a village of creatures, along the bottom of a great crystal river. The current of the river swept silently over them all – young and old, rich and poor, good and evil, the current going its own way, knowing only its own self. Each creature in its own manner clung tightly to the twig and rocks of the river bottom, for clinging was their way of life, and resisting what each had learned from birth. But one creature said at last: “I am tired of clinging. Though I cannot see it with my eyes, I trust that the current knows where it is going. I shall let go and let it take me where it will. Clinging I shall die of boredom.” The other creatures laughed and said: “Fool! Let go, and that current you worship will throw you tumbled and smashed across the rocks, and you will die quicker than from boredom!” But the one heeded them not and, taking a breath, did let go, and at once was tumbled and smashed by the current across the rocks Yet in time, as the creature refused to cling again, the current lifted him free from the bottom and he was bruised and hurt no more. And the creatures downstream, to whom he was a stranger, cried: “See, a miracle! A creature, like ourselves, yet he flies! See the Messiah comes to save us all!” And the one carried in the current said: “I am no more Messiah than you. The river delights to lift us free, if only we dare let go. Our true work is this voyage, this adventure.” But they cried the more, “Saviour!” all the while clinging to the rocks, and when they looked again he was gone, and they were left alone making legends of a Saviour.

From “Illusions – The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah” by Richard Bach

 

 

“We had arrived.” It was later than expected but Gianluca was there to greet us at La Rosa Sul Mare, our apartment hotel in the Plemmirio nature reserve, just south of Syracuse in Sicily. A tall, bald, lugubrious man who we gradually experienced wore a number of hats –  manager aka waiter aka guide aka coffee maker aka cook – Gianluca had that charming way of adding an ‘a’ to everything he said in English. ‘Welcome! Buena Sera! Ia hope youa hada a gooda flighta?

So it’s not surprising that the urge to scribble something of our week on Sicily is overwhelming. But why Sicily? Well, neither of us had been there and it’s almost in Africa so it must be drenched in the yellow stuff even in September. Think Sicily and I think Mafia, an insidious and dangerously important part of the Sicilian society, I think seafood and wine, I think active volcanoes (Mount Etna and Stromboli in the Aeolian Islands off the north coast), and I think Inspector Salvo Montalbano, a fictional detective created by Andrea Camilleri and the TV series of the same name, filmed around Ragusa.

The largest island in the Mediterranean, Sicily’s strategic location has ensured a colourful history; part of Greater Greece, a Roman Province, an Arab caliphate, a Norman kingdom and now part of a unified Italy. Scratch its poor soil and you’ll find remnants of its past everywhere, but broken columns and ancient theatres, Greek or Roman, don’t really interest me. It’s today’s inhabitants that make this island, them and the incessant flood of tourists. A fascinating article by Maria Luisa Romano in a magazine called ‘Best of Sicily’ gave me a rather negative view; here’s a synopsis: “Around 55% of the population is either unemployed or underemployed, the economy is still based on agriculture, and literacy rates are some of the lowest in Europe. There is a very small middle class and among the people themselves, envy and jealousy, not charity or empathy, have been the rule of the day for a long time. There is little sense of community outside the smallest towns. If history is any guide, there seems not to have been any real sense of civic awareness or community spirit in Palermo or Catania for centuries. And of course organised crime in the form of the Mafia, with its extortion and economic control, preclude any serious development of businesses.” (see note 1)

I took a photograph of the Temple of Apollo, built in 575BC in the Syracuse suburb of Ortygia, but didn’t spend hours looking at how its scattered stones might have looked.

Surprisingly there was little mention in the guide books of the importance of Sicily in the planning of the invasion of Southern Europe, by the Allied forces in 1943 during World War Two. There seemed to have been two main options, one to invade Greece and drive up through the eastern flank and one to invade Italy off the springboard of Sicily. In one of the most successful deceptions of the conflict, Operation Mincemeat, the body of a supposed Royal Marine Officer was allowed to float ashore in Spain. In his satchel were plans for the invasion of Greece; German intelligence accepted their authenticity and moved forces to reinforce that area. The subsequent invasion of Sicily was highly successful and completed in 60 days. Mussolini was toppled and Italy’s participation as an Axis power was over. (See note 2)

La Rosa Sul Mare had about ten small self-catering apartments and the other guests were couples who had come to relax, see the local sights, sleep, snooze, swim, sip, sunbathe, snorkel and chill. Peace and quiet writ large; sea birds cry, small waves break over the rocky shore, the wind gently rustles leaves in the vegetation, whispered conversations drift across the rocks and it’s heads down in one’s book. Until a large group of big Russians, or maybe a big group of large Russians (?) arrived half way through our week. Any ‘group’ is bound to dominate a small place but these people had no respect for others, demonstrating a lack of understating of acceptable behaviour; and because there were 8 of them they became a real nuisance. Their second morning they occupied more than 50% of the sun deck (tut! tut!) and plugged their USB into the loudspeaker; there was nothing quiet about this Russian playlist!! One of the men was a real comedian, or so he thought, as after everything he said he screamed with laughter and his chums joined in too; a nightmare if you’re trying to concentrate on a story!! After a couple of hours I asked the pneumatic blonde whether she could turn her loudspeaker off. She turned questioningly to this head of family. He rose up to his full 1.9m height, his belly extending way over his trunks: “Wot? You no like music?” ……..

The Sicilian symbol

The flag of the Isle of Man in the Irish Sea, a self-governing British Crown dependency, is red with a Triskelion, consisting of three legs conjoined at the thigh, at its centre. Its origin is thought to be from when the Norse ruled the island in 1260. I was surprised to find a similar emblem, a Trinacria, a three legged symbol with Medusa as the central face and three ears of wheat here in Sicily. The feet represent the three capes of this triangular island.

On the second night we decided to eat on the charming terrace overlooking the sea and we advised Gianluca at breakfast that morning accordingly. He asked us to select what we wanted as they didn’t have many people eating in and had to get the ingredients!! I chose as a starter Palma ham & melon (yum yum) and a favourite pasta dish, linguine da mare. Later that evening we sat expectantly under the awning and waited. Gianluca eventually appeared with a huge tray carrying everything we had ordered. As he set the dishes down, he muttered: ‘Maybe you ‘ad better eata pasta first as it hota, then starter. Eh?’

On our last day we drove north to Taormina; the place was crowded with tourist coaches wheezing their way up the steep roads and those on foot coming up from the car park. We hurriedly turned around and found a quiet beach. Here it was a little more tranquil; time for a swim and some lunch before returning the car to Avis in Catania airport.

Taormina’s pink beach with mainland Italy a smudge on the horizon

If you go to the trouble of putting up signs saying ‘return cars’ etc at least make them work. After two circuits and endless dead ends, dangerous U turns, reversing up a one-way lane etc eventually we worked out that the signs had been put up by a nincompoop. Ignoring them, we made our way towards the terminal building, where we recognised the Avis operation. I gave the keys back to Fabio – ‘You found us then?’ he asked, clearly embarrassed by the lack of sensible workable directions for his customers.

Mount Etna smoking quietly, seen across the airport apron

We left on time, climbing into the night sky, set our watches back an hour and read and chatted. It was good to get home; we even unpacked our damp beach towels before falling into bed around midnight!

Richard 4^th October 2018

Note 1: http://www.bestofsicily.com

Note 2: Operation Mincemeat is the subject of a book of the same name by Ben Macintyre. Hugely interesting.

I imagine most of us get excited about the view of the earth from an aeroplane or hot air balloon, or even a parachute? I know I do, with my deep-rooted fascination with maps and all things cartographic. Many years ago, in 1970, I spent a couple of weeks at the School of Military Survey; a memorable fortnight in the summer, learning how to make maps from aerial photographs, amongst other things. And we finished early enough to enjoy tea and toast, with lime marmalade obviously, and a couple of games of croquet. Bliss!

Eleven days ago, pausing in my read of the newspaper, I glance idly out of the port side of BA2594, on route to Catania in Sicily. It was a gloriously clear day for flying. ‘Wow, that must be Lac Léman,’ I thought; ‘there’s no other body of inland water quite so big in western Europe. So there’s Geneva ……’ and I became absorbed ….. the quest for news forgotten!!

Within a few minutes the Alps are beneath us. Not sure whether they are the French Alps, the Swiss Alps, Italian Alps or Dolomites; from 33,000 feet they simply look majestic, small from this height but dwarfing the valleys and hilltop villages – the scale is Toy Town.

Then we leave the land behind and slip down the west of Italy. The port of Genoa is below and the memory of the motorway bridge collapse invaded my brain space. Later I recall a ferry ride from Civitavecchia to Olbia in Sardinia in 1975 and a return from Olbia to Genoa and thence the UK.

“Good evening this is the captain. Currently North West of Palermo and starting our descent into Catania. Those of you on the port side of the plane have a good view of Mount Etna (see note). Unusually clear.”

The brown parched land visible below is somewhat corrugated, as if some giant has raked his finger nails across the earth. Etna sits brooding on the horizon as the land gradually flattens out and we make our descent into Catania airport. Everywhere you look green regimented lines march across the fields; Sicily is famous for its wine!

The Captain puts on his ‘Aren’t I wonderful’ voice and announces we’ve arrived five minutes early. We troop down the aisle to the stairs and waiting coaches. Julia, the warm friendly stewardess in charge of the Cabin Crew, gives us a beaming smile and a ‘Thank you for flying British Airways’; she could have added something about how we treat your data sensitively!

The luggage safely on the trolley, we look for the familiar red sign of the Avis car hire company. Every company under the sun ……. except Budget and Avis! Frustratingly it seems they are located outside, after the end of the terminal building. Pushing the laden trolley we make our way in the gathering darkness towards the car hire office – us and twenty others. Inside, after the initial shock of what we see, we take a ticket – F78 – and gather our thoughts. There are just two desks open, and the number shown on the overhead display is an energy-sapping F69! So nine others in front of us and even if each transaction takes 20 minutes that’s over 90 minutes. Celina dives back to the main terminal in search of supper. ‘Baguette or baguette or pizza?’ She reappears to find I haven’t moved. Fortunately the German couple next to us realise they drew two tickets and when their number, F71, is called they give us their F72 ticket. I start getting excited; ‘simple things please little minds’ is so true in these sorts of situations. I sheepishly make my way to the desk as F72 is called, scrunching F78 into a small ball in my pocket. I say sheepishly as I am sure others in the queue will be thinking ‘I was here before him’ and other more unkind thoughts!
Nicola is just doing his job; I focus, my world shrinking to just him and me, and ignore the chaos behind me. I remark how busy it is, he mumbles something about the systems being slow, I would like to shout ‘you should have some more staff’ but want to be charming, want to be out of there into the night, although now not looking forward to a 70km drive in a car I don’t know, to a place I don’t know, driving on the wrong side of the road!! Nicola notices I live in Hove ……. and launches into how he had managed the Eat fast food restaurant in Brighton just by the Clock Tower for three years. He lived in Worthing (looks too young to have lived in Worthing!!) and has now come home to Sicily. A small world! I almost tell him he should have gone to Hertz or Europcar but that wouldn’t help my progress through the bureaucratic process involved in hiring an Avis car.

‘Insurance?’

‘Ah! Yes!’ I say, ‘you’re going to tell me I need to spend lots of money to ensure that if a Lambretta driven by a bella signorina scrapes the car or the windscreen shatters or ……’. My mind filters out the long list, knowing the only sensible thing is to say yes yes yes …… anything to get me out of the door. My watch says 2030 ….. we landed two and a half hours ago! OK! Tell me where to sign and for that enormous extra insurance cost please lend me a Satnav …… for free? The conditions and retail agreement are emailed to me and I sign on a screen he thrusts under my nose.

Out into the dimly lit car park …… ‘follow the blue painted lane’ …….. I think it was painted when the Greeks were in charge of Catania and has not been painted since, but after pushing and pulling the trolley up this lane and under that barrier, you know how it is, we find the little Fiat Panda – shiny black. Our ‘free’ Jezebel 3 is plugged into the socket – I was going to write cigarette lighter but who smokes in cars these days? Come to that, who smokes?? – and we input the details of our hotel near Syracusa. We couldn’t see anything of the beautiful scenery, road works disrupt our southerly progress and Jezebel keeps ‘recalculating’ but eventually, after an hour and a half, we find La Rosa Sul Mare in the Plemmirio nature and sea reserve. We had arrived.

Richard  22^nd September 2018

Note: Mount Etna, Europe’s largest active volcano, rises to 3330m above sea level and is situated in the north east of the island of Sicily. The most recent eruption in 2002 destroyed the visitors’ centre and a cable car station. This year it’s been quiet, thankfully!

I never really believed it was only me who wondered why the Academic Year started, at least in the Northern Hemisphere, at the beginning of this month and a quick google (that’s a verb now, isn’t it!) confirmed it. Lots of people scratch their heads and wondered why it doesn’t align with the Calendar Year, or actually vica versa, ie New Year’s Day could be the 1^st September! Now that would be weird. But the reason is grounded in the rural development of societies, the importance of successful farming to life itself. In those cold and dark months of November, December, January and February, down on the farm nothing much happens; then comes spring and families got involved in planting seeds, tending the growing crops and harvesting the results.

September Morning

As soon as I type in ‘harvest’ my mind goes back to those years of compulsory church attendance and the Harvest Festival Sunday. Here in Britain Christians give thanks on Harvest Sunday, a date defined by the full moon nearest to the Autumn Equinox, 22^nd or 23^rd September. In North America the fruits of the farmers’ labours are celebrated at Thanksgiving, sometime in October or November. Here, in church, amongst the baskets of fruit and vegetables decorating the aisles we sang, with great gusto, “We plough the fields and scatter the good seed on the land; but it is fed and watered ….” It was originally ‘Wir pflügen und wir streuen ….’, a German hymn from 1780, translated into English in 1861. In a nod to its obvious rural connection, we boys switched to what we perceived as a country dialect and ‘scatter’ became ‘scaaa….a…tuur’! Sorry; I digress, lost in my reverie. Education? Ah! Yes that could wait until after the summer was over. Of course, if you are part of the 12% of the world’s population living in the Southern Hemisphere, all this is irrelevant!

Education in the UK became compulsory for children up to the age of 10 in 1880; this upper limit gradually increased to where it stands now, 16, by 1972. Amazing it has taken so long for societies to recognise its importance? So the school year in the UK starts this first week in September, unless you live in Scotland where of course it started the last week in August; you following this? Dauntsey’s School in Wiltshire had started as an establishment rooted in the countryside. Although not an Agricultural College per se, when I started in its Junior School in 1960 lessons stopped in late September so we could go and pick the potatoes! My recollection is of very muddy fields, us boys dressed in the uniform of fawn shorts and long socks, bending over to pick the potatoes and throwing them into the trailer behind Mr Huff’s tractor. It doesn’t take a great deal of imagination to see that, as an alternative to an hour’s lesson of Latin, this was such fun; except if it was raining, or when Jones Minor’s thrown spud hit you on the head!! One chap Jack Bancroft even went home to his family farm to help with the combine harvester; two weeks off – we were green with envy!

This start of the term initiates a pattern in your life, one that follows you from your school years to attendance at college or university. For me after the summer holidays of 1965 I started my officer training at the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst ….. in September; the two year course mirroring the school months, so we got commissioned in July. (See note) Later in life when your own children start school, the same regimentation starts again, periods and breaks defined by the school year. Dolly Alderton, writing in her column in the Sunday Times, says it’s ‘a habit hard-wired into me since school; the calendar year will always begin in the first week of September.’

I asked my daughter, who is a teacher at a secondary school, if she was looking forward to the start of the term. Her thoughts, which I paraphrase, probably echo those of every teacher in the country.

“Er! Not really! I’ll miss the wonderful long summer and I have to get on the treadmill of teaching and marking and organising packed lunches for my boys and someone to walk the dog and ….”

“So no passion to teach?”

“Of course; in an ideal world, absolutely. But it’s all the other things that start in September that require one to be so organised or it’s chaos!”

So an oscillating mixture of anticipation and anxiety, of certainty and uncertainty. Those of you not involved in academic life are probably jealous of their long holidays! At the start of the Autumn Term at Dauntsey’s, those of us who played Rugby knew that on the first Thursday there would be a cross-country run. Mr Proctor would take us up onto the edge of Salisbury Plain, along for mile after mile and then back, muddy and exhausted, into the school grounds. I hated it, yes hated it; intellectually I understood why it was necessary but I still hated it! The roller coaster of life huh! Not a Ferris wheel, simply round and around, but something that goes slowly, goes quickly, goes up and goes down, goes around sharp corners and occasionally throws one off balance. The Times’ cartoonist summed it up with this ‘political’ cartoon on Monday (see note 2):

Some of you will have moved house since the end of the last academic year, so your children may be/will be starting a new school. Some will have a new uniform. Some children will be starting school because they have reached that age (4 years old equates to Year 1; why does the year not match their age?), some a new school because they are moving from Primary to Secondary. Some of course are going to University, maybe leaving home for the first time in their lives. And some of you have no children and couldn’t care a stuff but acknowledge, I imagine, that society moves with this rhythm! Even the Leader of the Brighton & Hove City Council reflected on this in the local paper. “A good start to life, including a great education, brings benefits across the whole of our lives and for the whole community.” writes Daniel Yates (no relation!); “For each of you starting a new phase of your life within this city, I wish you great success.”

So a new year at the beginning of September. Perhaps Dolly has a point?

Richard 8^th September 2018

Note 1 This pattern was thrown by attendance at a MSc-equivalent course at The Royal Military College of Science, which started in January 1978, to fit into the year-long Staff College course which started the following January; the establishments were some 60 miles apart! Played havoc with those families with children at school.

Note 2. The Prime Minister, Theresa May at the blackboard, trying to make a point about her ‘Chequers Agreement’ at the beginning of the Parliamentary Term to students David Davies (ex-Brexit Secretary), Boris Johnson (ex-Foreign Secretary), Iain Duncan Smith and Jacob Rees-Mogg (with the long nose).

Sipping ginger tea and eating a large succulent red grape –  my body radiates warmth, at least that is what it feels like, in that afterglow of a massage. I’m on the third floor of the Banyan Tree Spa complex in Estoril, Portugal – a collection of pools, spas, saunas, a gym, treatment rooms and an indoor/outdoor café. The Spa Pool has water jets and a large circular section where the water rotates at about 2 mph. Swim against the current or simply let it lift you and take you – around and around!! Just the place for a wet Friday afternoon.

Massage has a funny reputation, a sort of nudge-nudge, wink-wink, amongst the male species and that reputation is not helped by some dubious massage parlours being used as a front for prostitution. You will have seen the different types of proper massages being advertised – Swedish, Aromatherapy, Hot Stone, Chair, Deep Tissue, Trigger Point, Shiatsu and Thai – and unless you regularly have them in conjunction with keeping fit or for some medical relief, it’s likely you only have one or two a year, on holiday maybe? I once heard a masseur saying that one a year is a complete waste of time – but hey that ‘afterglow’ is something, so why not have more?

Celina gave me a gift of a 90 minutes Thai massage: “Apparently it’s really fantastic!” I love massages, so readily said: ‘Yes please’. I prefer being massaged by someone of the opposite sex as that introduces an imaginary world that excites and disappoints in equal measure. I once had a massage by a chap who was blind; with his enhanced sense of touch and space it was unique, but it missed that frisson that develops, in my mind if nowhere else, between a male and female.

One website says: “Thai massage is a unique blend of assisted yoga, passive stretching, and pressing massage movements. Thai massage is more energizing than other forms of massage: it’s a little bit like yoga without doing the work, as the therapist moves and stretches you in a sequence of postures, usually on a mat on the floor. Like shiatsu, Thai massage aligns the energies of the body. The massage therapist uses rhythmic compression along the body’s energy lines to reduce stress and improve flexibility and one’s range of motion. It is done fully clothed. This type of massage can reduce muscle spasticity and back pain, and has been shown to be useful in treating balance problems and migraine symptoms.”

So at 1720 I check in with Deborah at the Reception Desk, go and change into those obligatory white towelling bath robes, and report back. A Thai woman appears; it’s not until later I ask her name – Nicole – and there’s probably a Thai name by which she’s known at home, but here she’s trying to westernise herself. I think about asking but realise that pronouncing a Thai name might stretch my linguistic ability.

“OK. Go in there and take your clothes off. Here’s a sarong to wrap around yourself” – so much for the ‘fully clothed’! Obviously what follows is about my own experience, from my masculine perspectives. On my return she gestures towards a chair; I sit and have my feet washed – just so indulgent! Orchids and that piped music so typical of these places – ‘The Music of the Andean Pipes’ – Thai style! Then I am instructed to lie face down on the massage table, naked; she shields me from herself with a large green sheet, although there isn’t much to see! And once I’m prone I can’t see much either, as my head is face down in that little indentation in the table, tastefully covered with white gauze. After some initial kneading on my legs, I sense she climbs onto the table and starts on my hips and lower back, I can feel her thighs against my legs and that contact is ……… She presses her torso against my back and it feels good!

Being completely naked there isn’t that pulling-down-the-hem-of-your-knickers normally associated with the masseuse working on your hips. Nicole simply moves the sheet and, besides, she’s seen it all before! I’m grateful she doesn’t chastise me for my sunburnt buttocks, the result of an hour in the sun earlier. At some point, in this warm haze of sensory overload, my arms are down the side of the table; she brushes her thigh against my hand and I smile to myself.

I ask how long she’s been in Portugal and she says she’s here for eighteen months. Her English is very limited (but better than my Thai!) so conversation doesn’t flow; she just gets on with her job, applying her skill and oil to my body. I wonder what she’s thinking as she adjusts the sheet to ensure my limited modesty as her hands massage my inner thigh; probably wondering which noodle bar she will go to when she finishes, with the other masseuses with whom she shares an apartment. My thoughts are not on supper! I learn later that a Thai company provides the masseuses for a two year stint.

There was certainly no sexual attraction between Nicole and me but the mere fact that some stranger’s hands are touching my skin, sometimes quite intimately, does cause feelings, strokes the imagination one might say. The fantasy suggests her asking: ‘You like something extra sir?’ but in reality that is exactly what it is, a male fantasy.  Add the fact that my masseur was a woman, so masseuse, and it’s most men’s pleasure. I say most men as some presumably are repulsed by such intimate contact, but if you are a tactile person like me, it’s heaven. I am instructed to turn over onto my back, the raised sheet much like a magician’s cloak, and the fantasies I had when ‘tummy down’ restart, as I suspect do Nicole’s about noodles.

Towards the end she lifts a leg to one side and pushes against the hip, opening that joint to its furthest extension. Wow! The Thai massage ‘Spinal Twist in Lying Position’. A few minutes massaging the hands and fingers, then my skull and I’m done. Off for a shower in a side room then, dressed, back for ginger tea and large succulent red grapes.

For Nicole this is just a professional job, what she does, and she relies on feedback from her clients. I mark her card accordingly – excellent. It cost Celina an arm and a leg, an appropriate expression here perhaps, and I hope Nicole gets at least 50%, but somehow doubt it.

On the way back from the Spa, Celina and I compare notes. She suggests a massage is a bit like a sexy dance between two strangers. Whilst there need be no sexual attraction, the act of following one’s natural rhythms and inclination can engender a feeling of sexiness. She’s hit the nail on the head; a great analogy. A true basic instinct, this sexual urge, encouraged by the sense of touch, of smell, of heat, of oil ….. and lots of imagination!

The Thai goodbye, hands together, fingers steepled, slight hardly-discernible bow and she’s gone – and leaves my empty outstretched hand, the normal British ‘goodbye’ gesture, untouched!!

Richard 23rd August 2018                                                                richardyates24@gmail.com