Can you keep a secret? I suspect the vast majority of people will say “oh yes, of course”, hoping that you’re going to give them some juicy slice of gossip, which they’ll immediately reveal to the next person they see. “Don’t pass this on please, but can you believe this….”. The genuinely discreet and totally trustworthy person stands out. I can probably only think of a handful who I would’ve trusted with something really personal. I’ve met one recently and I think you get an instant sense of that discretion. It’s all the worse if you’re then proved wrong needless to say. I had to sign the Official Secrets Act when I joined the RAF. It’s actually quite a sweeping document and I’ll wager that the vast majority of people who’ve signed it have probably broken their promise at some point. For the most part these will be minor indiscretions that don’t immediately imperil National Security. I’m sure that I have unwittingly told of things that I ought not to have done. However, I never failed to be impressed (and deeply irritated!) by my father, who even twenty years after the War would say nothing of his experiences at Bletchley Park, now famous for its Enigmatic role in defeating the might of Germany. He would happily tell us stories of his time in India and the Far East (ad nauseam), but despite constant grilling by inquiring young minds the secrets of Bletchley remained firmly untold. Back then, we had no idea of its real significance anyway, otherwise we might have tied him up and waterboarded him. I really have no idea what he did there, other than knowing that he was an expert in communications, but it’s a shame that he went to his grave, his secrets interred with him.

Interred. Along with other delights such as ‘prick’ and ‘Uranus’, it gives comedy writers untold opportunities for double entendre or zweideutigkeit. I mention the latter only because I have a growing fascination with German. It was a language that I made a pathetic attempt to learn whilst stationed there for three years as an Army helicopter pilot. Unfortunately, practically everyone you came across was either a native English speaker or spoke it like a native, so there was little incentive to really get to grips with it. I did learn to swear in German, notably when there were two Porsches and a BMW making a close inspection of my exhaust pipe whilst bending the needle on the autobahn. The Germans are incredibly law-abiding for the most part, so when it says 80 or 50 that’s what they do. When it says there is no limit, that’s what they do too. I love many things about Germany, but watching three or four young blades sparring at 130 mph with nothing more than a cellophane wrapper separating them, closing rapidly in your rear-view mirror, you just have to pull over and hope that the impending accident happens after you’ve turned off.

As a bitter Englishman, who’s just watched our glorious lads being stuffed by the Welsh in the game William Webb-Ellis thought would never catch on, it’s somewhat galling to learn that Wales has claimed a new record. Today was the first time in history, well since records began anyway, that twenty degrees was exceeded in a winter month and it happened on the Atlantic coast of Wales. That must be a first too. The Country really is hot.

P.S. Don’t tell anyone.

Did you know that the Welsh name for Snowdonia is Eryri which means “home of the eagle”? I learnt this from that very useful publication The Week, which allows one to hoover up all sorts of titbits that you might otherwise have missed. After 150 years absence ten Golden Eagles are being re-introduced to the mountains, where hopefully they will live long and prosper. I had no idea that with their two metre wingspan they can fly at up to 150 mph in the dive. That puts them in second place behind the rather smaller Peregrine Falcon, which can hit an impressive 240mph in the stoop. The fastest bird in level flight is generally reckoned to be the White-Throated Needletail, which can be found in parts of Asia and Australia and can flap like a dyslexic on Countdown to hit 105 mph straight and level. There you are cruising along quite happily at 90 knots in your Tiger Moth when you get scooped by a W-TN heading home to the nest after a good day’s hunting, or flipped in the slipstream of a Golden Eagle as it homes in on a tasty bit of unsuspecting Welsh Lamb. I wonder what the hillside farmers will think? They will probably be as impressed as their counterparts in Eastern Germany who are now suffering at the hands of the legally protected wolf. Such has been the success of their re-generation (they were extinct in Germany for most of the Twentieth Century) that in 2017, 1,667 animals (mainly sheep and goats) were killed in 472 attacks. I am again indebted to The Week for this insight, which appears to suggest that on average a German wolf kills 3.5317 animals per attack…unless my logic is seriously flawed? Or unless the author was relying on statistics, which as we know come after “lies, damned lies and….”. Perhaps the German wolf is particularly voracious. The way things are going with German/US relations, Angela Merkel might well have one delivered to the White House.

Now that keeping Mexicans out of America is a “National Emergency”, I wonder if The Donald has thought of using wolves to patrol the border? Assuming they could be trained to attack only those heading North, it would be a lot cheaper than building The Great Wall of Chihuahua. Imagine too, fourteen pounds of Eagle heading your way at 150 mph; that might make you think twice about running cocaine into Texas. Getting a good animal trainer might be the ace in Donald’s pack, his Trump card so to speak.

A final thought; as Golden Eagles have a mate for life, it’s to be hoped that the ten birds that are being repatriated to The Devil’s Kitchen are in fact five pairs and not a random bunch arbitrarily snatched from some Highland eerie. In a carefully controlled environment in captivity these beautiful birds can live for over fifty years. They might even be able to celebrate a Golden Wedding anniversary. Boom boom!

 

Dear Sir,

I have today read possibly the most stupid example of PCism gone made that I can think of. Ms (inevitably) Hatch of Henley on Thames has written to the Editor (a man, coincidentally) of the Henley Standard complaining about the sexist practice of starting Letters to The Editor with ‘Dear Sir”. She says “Please bring your paper into the modern era and join the ranks of other papers which have removed such a RIDICULOUS and OFFENSIVE tradition” (Emphasis mine). Of all the things that we need to be worrying about in our extremely troubled world this must indeed be one of the most important. For a start who needs tradition for heaven’s sake? Let’s get rid of everything that’s ever happened before 2001. Standing up when someone comes into the room….pah, nonsense. Applauding a good shot, by whichever side, in cricket. Outrageous. Letting The Queen stately open parliament. Obscene. In fact why have a Queen at all? Buckingham Palace would be a great place for raves. What’s the point of paté to start and pudding to finish? Let’s kick off with ice cream for our next dinner party. Then the guests can cook their own main course; it’s ridiculous that the hosts should have to do that. Not to mention offensive. Why do we have an Army, that thrives because of its history and tradition? We’d be so much safer without our Armed Forces, not to mention richer. All the money (well debt actually) could go into the Bottomless Well otherwise known as the NHS.

So what would Ms Hatch prefer? “Hi”. “Hello”. “Watcha”. “Hey Goldenbollocks”? Personally, I’ve always loved writing letters and cards. Only yesterday, whilst trying to satisfy Mrs T’s desire for less clutter, I came across a large pile of old letters and cards that my dear (?) departed Mother had kept from my many years of travelling the Globe. What a wonderful reminder of times past and indeed a contemporaneous record that future historians might find interesting; or not. Sadly, with modern electronic media the art is dying out, but what is so wrong with “Dear”. It provides a satisfying uniformity (heaven forbid) that allows one to delve into the important stuff without having to worry about how to start. Sometimes, the recipient might even merit a “dearest” and how lovely is it to be able to venture down that dangerously informal route. Whilst railing against the “dear” bit I fancy it’s the “Sir” that Ms Outraged is really getting crosshatched about. I confess I’ve always found ‘Dear Sir or Madam’ somewhat irritating but in this case the answer is very simple. Just write ‘Dear Sir’ and if it transpires that the Editor is a woman, a sub at the relevant publication can change it to ‘Dear Madam’. Or write ‘Dear Sir/Madam (Please delete as appropriate).’ Or you could be REALLY adventurous and find out who the Editor is and write ‘Dear George Osbourne’…..(assuming you’re writing to the London Evening Standard). Or the Hatch Enders could just write “Ho George”.
As a former Army officer, my wife, had I been married, would’ve been known within the system not as Mrs Tutt, but “wife of” Captain Tutt. Many of the “wives of” quite reasonably resented that and I imagine it’s probably changed now. However, I am now known by Eastbourne College, who employ my wife, as “husband of” Mrs Tutt. Do I wake up every morning in a fit of pique and ping off thirty seven emails to Editors bemoaning my fate? “Dear Sir……yours outraged etc”. Or hang my head in shame as I wander the hallowed portals of a great educational institution, where tradition is the lifeblood of daily life? Do I feel so demeaned that…….oh I can’t go on. The whole thing is so ridiculous and offensive only a Corbyn led government can save the day.
On a dramatically more important note, I was walking Callie (the whippet) through some beautiful woods near Eastbourne today, imagining what it would’ve been like to be Donald Campbell at the helm of Bluebird, when a very different bird landed on a branch less than twenty yards away. With some excitement, (mine, not its) I crept to within a few yards, before it took flight, cleverly negotiating its bulky way through the tight knit beeches. It was a buzzard. It wasn’t many years ago when you had to go to Cornwall or Devon to see one. They’ve gradually been creeping further East, but I had no idea they’d got as far as East Sussex. I’m not a twitcher (well only when watching England getting stuffed by Wales in Cardiff), but I confess to a slight raising of the pulse when in close proximity to such beautiful birds. I’m not expert enough to know whether it was a boy or a girl, but even Ms Hatch might concede it’s worth reporting, without being gender specific? Or should it be gender non-specific? Oh dear, what hope for old farts in this Brave New World.
Mine’s a gin and tonic with ice and lemon please. Disgustingly traditional I know…..

Having pondered the vagaries of language recently, I thought I might pursue that today. Particularly how to improve the odd ugly word. The ugliest I can think of (without delving the depths of smuttiness) is ‘urinal’. I guess it’s ugly on two counts; both the sound of the word and the image that it conjures up. Whilst a row of men standing facing a wall in various stages of relief/pain/ecstasy, as they discharge that which is surplus to requirements into an unattractive porcelain bowl can occasionally be humorous, for the most part it’s not an appealing image. So what can we do about the sound. Quite an amusing sign for the room where this all happens could be 4men (a male symbol, but I don’t have one)2P. The receptacle could therefore be a ‘formentopee’, pronounced ‘fa-menta-p’. “I’m just going to the fa-menta-p”. Trying saying it a few times and it sounds ok. I think? But if you don’t like that, maybe an old word that has a nice ring and has fallen into dis-use could be re-deployed. ‘Coracle’ struck me as such a word. My somewhat perverse memory always recalls an old Flanders and Swan song from the 1950’s that celebrates the ‘genuine Northumbrian spokeshaver’s coracle’. I thought I would just check that one on the inevitable Google and whilst, of course, no such thing exists, it does bring up Northumbria University Nursery which is apparently one of a growing number of child-minding establishments that use a ‘Dream Coracle’. It’s a small wooden bed that looks more like a bathtub, that toddlers can climb into and commune with whoever it is that toddlers commune, with clamped eyelids. That would appear to rule out ‘coracle’ as a replacement for urinal.

How about an olde Englishe word? Mugwump has a convivial ring to it. It’s a derogatory word for somebody in charge who affects to be above petty squabbles and factions. The sort of person you might feel like discharging your emotions on. “I’m just off to the mugwump”. Works for me. Another from ye olde dictionary is ‘quagswag’, meaning to shake something backwards and forwards. That would seem to be quite appropriate. “Just off to the quagswag”? I like it. Whilst performing in the quagswag, be sure to look out for the snollygoster; he’s the intelligent one with no principles, a dangerous individual. No need to worry about the trumpery though; THINGS that look good but are basically worthless. Feels as though that one could be adapted for modern usage, to include people.

From the same source, there’s a very useful word that has long since escaped the attention of English departments up and down the country. Uhtceare means lying awake before dawn and worrying. It’s a word I have need of on a regular basis. My only concern is how the hell do you pronounce it?

Having learnt to pronounce it, could somebody please tell me how to delete it from my required vocabulary? I’m fed up with waking at 4am, composing brilliant literary pieces in my head, only to wake again at 8 with zero recall of my Booker award winning script.

I’ve just read two stories in The Times. Apparently cooking a roast is as dangerously polluting to the body as cycling through Westminster, whilst vinyl flooring emits seriously nasty chemicals that give various cancers a big helping hand. Having just cooked the family roast in our lino covered kitchen, it’s possible this may be my last missive. Oh god, more uhtceare.

 

In the course of some recent detailed and extensive research, on Wikipedia, I discovered that one fifth of the Earth’s population speak English, although a significantly smaller number, only about 360 million, are native speakers. It got me wondering what, statistically-wise, constitutes ‘speaking a language’? At what point do you go from totally incompetent to sufficient fluency to qualify as a ‘speaker’? Is it GCSE, A Level, a degree, an interpreter and who decides these things? I can be reasonably confident that if I order food in a French restaurant I’ll get the kidneys that I wanted and not a margherita pizza or pate de foie gras. I can ask my way to the local church and spot a jaune gilet, but any attempt at intelligent conversation would end before it began. (Mind you I do have that problem in English too….). I can order a beer, steak and chips in German, say thank you in Spanish, Italian and Chinese and “I love you” in Russian, which I haven’t found terribly useful so far, but you never know. When it comes to discussing the finer points of nuclear arms reduction with Vlad, the aforementioned Interpreter would be essential. Yet again I fear I am in danger of posing an interesting (?) question without coming close to providing an answer. I remember being told many moons ago that once you can understand humour in a foreign tongue, you can consider yourself fairly fluent. That would seem a reasonable yardstick, depending on your sense of humour! At the risk of offending the PC brigade (which seems to come quite easily to me), how many people in Britain speak English? According to the most recent census 138,000 people spoke no English, of whom (unbelievably!) 20,000 were born in Britain. I would venture to suggest that there are a whole lot more whose English might not meet the statisticians measure of ‘speaking the language’. But as we don’t know what that measure is I’m in danger of entering the edge of the whirlpool and being sucked rapidly into the middle of it, thus performing a rapid descent into Davy Jones’ Locker. Now, who the hell was Davy Jones?

 

It probably won’t come as a great surprise to you to know that the origin of the tale is unclear. One of the early mentions is by a fellow called Tobias Smollett who wrote the Adventures of Peregrine Pickle in 1751. Jones is described as “having saucer eyes, three rows of teeth, horns, a tail and blue smoke coming from his nostrils”. Reminds me very much of my Prep School Headmaster. Daniel Defoe’s 1726 novel, Four Years Voyages of Captain George Roberts, also gives the notorious Locker a mention. But it’s the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise that’s really given Master Jones the notoriety he clearly craved. Suffice to say that if I ever do meet up with Davy, I’ll be having a serious word with Michael (my guardian archangel….apparently). All the future planning has involved a journey north into the wild blue yonder, not south into the murky depths. Assuming I could open my mouth, the language might be quite fruity. That might be where my upcoming Russian course would be useful. Just saying anything in that colourful language would probably be enough to put the wind up Davy.

 

To return to my original question, there is an additional issue. How do you know if someone is speaking English? A Cornishman holidaying in the Yorkshire Dales or taking in the delights of Liverpool or Newcastle may well find that the locals haven’t got a bloody clue what he’s talking about and the feeling would probably be entirely mutual. Then there’s Pidgin English. Go to Africa and see if you can make head or tail of that, never mind trying to comprehend what the natives in Dallas or Kentucky are trying to tell you. I wouldn’t mind betting that a considerable number of Hong Kong Chinese are listed as ‘English speakers’, but after you’ve spent a day saying “what”, “pardon”, “could you just repeat that one more time” or looking blankly at them as they lapse into Cantonese no doubt telling you what a complete numbskull you are, you might question the stats.

There is no question though that more people speak English of some description than any other language, so we can go on in our own sweet way assuming that everyone will understand us and if they don’t we just talk louder.

Ya tebya looblyoo. I knew it would come in useful.

Kuss, baiser, potseluy, bacio, beso, kiss. Whether you’re German, French, Russian, Italian, Spanish or just one of the 1.5 billion people who speak English on this planet (only 360 million as their first language), you will no doubt have been employing the technique even more than usual a couple of days ago. It seems Valentine’s Day has become a universal excuse for everyone to tell each other how much they love each other and then shower them with anything from a two cheek peck, to a lip pout, to the wet sloppy version, to the full tongue inter-twine with accompanying moans. It set me wondering how and why homo-sapiens latched onto the concept?

I am not David Attenborough, nor even a pale imitation (although I can do a passable impersonation of him) so please don’t take any of this as even vaguely scientific, but purely from my personal observations I can’t really recall any members of the animal kingdom indulging in pre-coital snogging. Plenty of fish have positively bottoxed lips, but have you ever seen them joined in pisceal (my word) union? The white rhino has splendid wide chompers, but they tend to get the horn before lips can meet. Can you visualise two elephants getting their trunks in such a knot that they might never get to the mating bit? You’d think the wide-mouthed frog might be an obvious candidate but they are shy and rare creatures about whom research is distinctly lacking. I rather think I might have seen chimpanzees making amorous advances with open mouths, but I’m not sure now whether that’s for real or just in my imagination? It would seem therefore that it’s something that homus erectus developed at some dim and distant point in our history, perhaps when dinosaurs still roamed the Earth. But how did it first happen? Caveman has just worked hard for three days to make the kill that will keep the memsahib going for a week or two, when he drags her back to the cave by her hair for a bit of post-hunt coitus and suddenly has an overwhelming urge to stick his tongue down her throat before impaling her in the more traditional fashion? There must be something in our DNA that makes us do it, but where did it come from?

Where’s Dr Desmond Morris when you need him?

At what point does a kiss morph from a greeting to a gentle sign of affection to something more erotic? The traditional European peck on each cheek, or even three pecks, is merely shaking hands without having to take your gloves off. One’s body shape is important at this point too. The “hands on shoulders, bottom stuck out” grip is definitely a “nice to see you (ish), but don’t go getting any funny ideas that we could actually be mates”. Once the body straightens and possibly even makes contact with the greetee everything changes. This could well go with a lip to lip meeting, but only briefly, with no risk of a lipstick transfer. Once arms go around the shoulders and bodies meet in a definite crushing motion it’s decision time. Is this merely a warm hug between friends, in which case cheek to cheek with minimal or no lip contact is definitely de rigeur, or is it a sign of deeper emotions, where the joining of open lips could lead to something much more exciting?

 I fear though that I have not really answered my initial question, as to where this urge originated from? Animals have intercourse strictly to procreate, apparently. When did it become fun and why the tongue bit? Why, too do humans (mainly women I would suggest without being too sexist) like to kiss their pets, as if the little pooch is going to appreciate or even comprehend such public displays of affection?

There’s a lot more research required and some deeper probing into the subject I fancy.

 

Yet again the Sunshine Coast is bathed in glorious, warm golden rays, a stunning, frosty white morning giving way to a day normally reserved for Provence. It’s the last day of Term, before ten days of rest, relaxation and recuperation for wife and children. I’m thinking of jumping on the magic carpet and taking off to Lapalala, a little slice of heaven in the African bush. That would go down well. Talking of magic carpets made me think of the Middle East and the time I spent in Oman in 1972. (To explain a fairly convoluted train of thinking!) It was when a genuinely mediaeval society was being dragged kicking and screaming into the twentieth century. I was there as part of a protection force helping the Sultan keep the marauding Yemeni invaders at bay. Various large firms, such as Taylor Woodrow were there helping to build a harbour and other construction projects. With a totally blank yellow canvas, the town planners had an unrivalled opportunity to create something wonderful, which, in the way of most town planners, they eschewed. I have one bizarre memory though. The oil-rich sheikhs loved to drive the biggest and guzzliest and most expensive wheels they could find. Such cars, generally, need roads and in the Town of Salalah there was one long, straight, black strip that disappeared across the dunes and there, in the middle of the nascent settlement, was a lone traffic light. There was no junction, just the single, vital symbol of Western civilisation. I think it was probably permanently on green, until such time as the crossing road was constructed, but I left before that happened.

For some reason I dreamt about traffic lights last night, which got me wondering about their origin. They’ve become about the most ubiquitous item in the world and generally the best understood, although when driving in Africa it’s important to remember that Green means “Go”, Amber means “GO” and Red means “accelerate hard and GO LIKE HELL”. Anyway, have they always been red, amber and green? Apparently not. As far as I can discover, the first one for road use was devised by a railway engineer who installed a gadget outside the Houses of Parliament in London that used semaphore style arms during the day and red and green gas powered lamps at night. The whole thing was operated manually by a policeman who was unfortunately killed after only one month’s operation when a gas leak rendered the device unworkable. The early signals only had two lights, often using Green for stop and White for go, with the words written on them as well. Red has since become symbolic of danger so its use as a stop signal makes sense, although there is a percentage of the population for whom danger is an attraction.

Just about the first electric traffic light was designed by the appropriately named Lester Farnsworth Wire, a Salt Lake City police officer whose clever design incorporated two bulbs, one dipped in red paint and one in green. The leaders of the free world were already stamping their authority and ingenuity on us lesser beings. In those early days, horses, carts and men with red flags walking in front of internal combustion engines mingled in a haphazard and often dangerous manner, especially in America’s bustling metropolises (metropoli?). Seemingly it took many scary moments and no few fatalities before someone had a light bulb moment and dreamt up the idea of an intermediate amber light. 

We have so much to thank America for.

I had no idea that Valentine’s Day dated back so far. I’ve just been doing some research and St Valentine was probably buried around 270 AD. There are, of course, many myths and legends associated with him and the day, but it’s certainly been a factor since the Middle Ages as a day to put romance top of the agenda. Apparently roughly 145 million cards are sent worldwide, making it second only to Christmas as a highpoint for Hallmark and their ilk. I’ve always rather admired those wonderfully creative homemade ones, that can ending up looking frightfully naff, but generally portray the message to their recipient more effectively than the even more naff shop-supplied model.

I’ve always been a sucker for cards. A few years ago, Alison (my wife) and I went quite a long way down the road of starting a card shop. I rather regret now that we didn’t do it. We were advised that they were going out of fashion, that Moonpig (an online design-it-yourself operation) and Jacqui Lawson (electronic cards) would take over the card world and that anyway people just sent emails now and the day of the card was dead. There’s a beautiful purveyor of cards called Maythers on Milson Street in Bath. I was in there yesterday and the place was humming. The tills were rattling so hard I was fearful they would overheat and implode. I have a hunch that they may not be on their last legs after all. There’s still something rather magical about the beautifully hand-written card plopping down on the doormat and what better way this week to express your heartfelt longing for a spouse or partner or even unsuspecting admiree than crafting a few well chosen sentences expressing your deep and long-lasting affection? Or you could just put an arrow through a heart and say “I love you”.

There was a report out today that suggests that we’re at our happiest in life aged sixteen and then again at seventy. That leaves an awful lot of years in between to feel miserable. My memory is that sixteen was actually a rather confusing and troubled age. I loved the twenty five to thirty five decade. Why on earth would you be happy at seventy? Most people are starting to get distinctly decrepit, nothing works the way it used to or should and the papers are full of people popping their clogs of your age or younger. The chances are that at seventy you’ll be dead in less time than it has taken your sixteen year old son  to realise that he’s supposed to be super happy. Who on earth dreams up these reports and why? It must be somebody at the BBC who’s concerned that there won’t be any news other than Brexit for the foreseeable future, so let’s do some detailed research that will create deep and meaningful headlines so that we can get Alistair Campbell and his sixteen year old daughter onto PM for some deep and meaningful questions that will all be answered, “So”….etc. It’s driving me bonkers. I love listening to talk radio, but every interviewee from politician to chief executive of a worthy charity starts every answer “So”. What’s wrong with you people!! So “so” must now be added to “like” and “you know” as cues for hurling rotten tomatoes at the transistor and if that fails, hurling the transistor in the bin.

How did I start with romantic February and end up with ranting at the radio? A dozen red roses are on their way…..

Overheard whilst strolling along a beautiful Bath back street today; “let me give you some marital advice”, said a young woman to her colleague/partner/lover/husband/brother/stranger she’d just met. “Never tell an angry woman to calm down”. That got me wondering what you are supposed to do when one’s better half starts going off; “that’s it Darling let it all out, go on really vent your spleen, I can take it”? I have a nasty feeling she probably would. Turn your back and walk away whistling? Might not fully resolve the situation. Imagine she’s the Queen and back away still facing her as you tell her how much you love her and it’ll all be ok in the morning? At least you’d see the saucepan coming. Get down on one knee and concede you’d been a complete pratt, she, as always is completely right and won’t she please forgive you? That might work, if you can summon up enough genuine humility. Or you could just say “calm down, woman, calm down, you’ll give yourself a hernia”…..then turn and run like hell.

I was in Bath on a brief overnight visit to see a “witch” who’s been keeping me vaguely erect and healthy for quite a few years now. She practises a form of chiropractic called Network Spinal Analysis (NSA), which is designed to train the body to self-manipulate and heal itself. It might sound like hocus pokus, but I am living proof that it works. Without it, I wouldn’t need to worry about flying saucepans, I’d be on a flying saucer up to Lalaland. It’s a technique that combines physical and emotional healing and it’s the emotional side that I’ve found particularly intriguing. I won’t go into all the details, but something happened to me as a young lad that I had put well to the back of my mind. During one session this whole escapade came out. It happened well over fifty years ago but suddenly I got an incredibly strong smell of the individual concerned. I had completely forgotten it and when I try to bring it back now, I can’t. But during that session it was unbelievably vivid, almost overpowering. Many people are now experiencing the extraordinary benefits of her methods and I can’t recommend it highly enough. Please look up Network Spinal Analysis on the internet and specifically Dr Thomasina Craster who runs Abundant Life at the Bath Practice.

I called her a witch. No doubt in mediaeval times she would’ve been consigned to the dunking chair, but she reminds me of another Lady who called herself ‘The Witch in the Tower’. I’m going back to the mid 1970’s when Major General Sir Digby Raeburn was the Governor of The Tower of London. His wife, Lady Addy Raeburn had extraordinary powers of healing that were just a natural gift. She had no idea why or how it worked, it just did. She would hold her hands close to whatever part of your body was injured and you would feel all sorts of heat and ‘pulses’ running through the area. I met them at the Inter Service Skiing Championships in Austria , where they were officiating, Lady Raeburn having been an Olympic skier for Britain before the Second World War. I had a particularly good run in the Downhill to finish third, but crashed through the finish, my legs having turned to some form of glutinous jelly, and badly dislocated my shoulder. It was excruciatingly painful and meant that I couldn’t lift my arm for weeks, which was becoming an issue as I was supposed to be carrying out Public Duties (what the men in bearskins and scarlet tunics normally do) at The Tower, where carrying a sword and moving my arm around was a fairly essential part of the procedure. Addy learned of my difficulty and suggested I visit her rather magnificently appointed Queen’s House on Tower Green for a ‘session’ or two. Nothing much happened on my first two visits apart from little spasms running down my arm, but on the third occasion my arm acquired a life of its own and suddenly started going up, up, up until I was waving it around above my head, like a policeman on point duty. It was without question one of the most bizarre experiences of my life, but we became firm friends and later I couldn’t walk into a room where she was without feeling her electricity and starting to twitch like an electric eel. (Actually I’ve no idea if electric eels twitch, but it sounds as though they ought to?)

The conventional medical profession does a marvellous job, but there’s so much more we have to learn, that science alone cannot yet explain. These are the continuing adventures of ….

 

I’ve heard a very familiar saying a number of times in the last few days and it’s got me wondering where on earth it came from; “that’s the best thing since sliced bread”.  Who on earth dreamt up such a ludicrous phrase? Certainly not the bread knife manufacturers. They must have been spitting bullets when some numbskull invented the machine that will render a harmless loaf totally and perfectly divided in less time than it takes to say “marmalade or jam”. It wouldn’t have been the good old fashioned proper baker, who knows that keeping the crust on a loaf for as long as possible will keep it in better shape. It would’ve been somebody in that time in the middle of the last century when convenience foods were becoming all the rage. In those tiresome days it was quite hard to find a local baker as the mass-produced, cellophane wrapped, preservative stuffed, hideous white loaf took over the known world. Ok there was a massed produced brown version that purported to have some greater health benefits but that was, of course, complete baloney.

My father used to insist on at least three slices of white toast for breakfast, I think mainly to wind up my mother, who was fearful that if some fell on the floor it might poison the dog. There wasn’t much choice then, but nowadays we can slip down to the delightful local deli, where there’s an amazing choice of artisan sourdoughs that have the taste buds salivating at the mere sight. What greater pleasure can there be than carefully lining up the new loaf, making the first incision with that very expensive Toledo steel breadknife and smoothly cutting a straight line to produce the perfect third of an inch slice, of symmetrical, soft, crusty deliciousness. It’s possible I might sound a bit anal about this, but what is so difficult about cutting a straight slice? I have yet to meet the woman who can achieve this simple task. My wife produces lop-sided doorsteps that would offend the most John Wayniest of cowboy builders. I then have to waste a perfectly good slice squaring up the persecuted loaf. Worse, she is unabashed and unashamed; unaware even of her heinous crime. Before the politically correct brigade inundate me with protestations of vile loathing could I just point out that ma langue est firmly dans ma joue as I take a few moments off from doing the ironing, finishing the housework and polishing the silver. When I say “what greater pleasure”, I was exaggerating for effect. Like you, I can think of numerous more pleasurable experiences…. washing up, doing the laundry, ironing, cleaning the car, having sex….the list is endless. But there’s no question, that first incision is an eagerly awaited highlight.

So, what of other sayings? “It’s raining cats and dogs”. Taken literally it’s impossible to fathom. Can you even visualise a sky full of poodles, collies, whippets and Persian pussies crashing earthwards in chaotic profusion? Could it come from Cockney rhyming slang, meaning logs perhaps? Or clogs….it’s always wet in Holland. A quick reference to Google has thrown all sorts of spanners in the works. Now there’s another one. Not hard to detect it’s meaning but what lowlife toerag would actually put a spanner in a working engine with evil intent? I love the word toerag. (spell check wants it to be two words, irritatingly). It has an almost onomatopoeic venom that you can spit out in all but Royal circles. It sounds as though it ought to be a swear word, but Google confirms that it is informal English meaning “a contemptible or worthless person”. It was used a lot in the military but I never seem to hear it now. Perhaps there are no more contemptible people worthy of the description?…..

Returning to my opening salvo, whether your bread is stuffed full of preservatives or lovingly created by the gnarly fists of your local dough-basher, there is one item no household should be without; the much maligned supermarket plastic bag. Whilst it might be totally anti-social and superfluous in our modern society (isn’t everybody’s society modern?) a loaf of any description lovingly wrapped and made reasonably airtight will last three times as long as one left alone in the bread bin.

It is currently raining cats and dogs and some toerag has put a serious spanner in the works for my bread making plans. On that note…..good night.