That brick patio (mentioned in No 196) is proving a reluctant finisher. Here I am in the middle of a beautiful sunny day, sitting inside writing, when there is soil to be moved, sand to be shovelled and bricks to be laid. Procrastination is a wonderful thing! I remember well my Grandfather always used to say “DIN”; do it now. Good advice that I have singularly failed to follow most of my life. Sadly, my daughter seems to have inherited the disease. It’s always especially galling when someone ignores your advice, based on what you’ve consistently failed to do but know you should have.

I knew pride was coming before a fall when I was “bragging” about my various sporting activities in my previous blog. Sure enough during a rare outing playing hockey in a “friendly” training match at the Saffrons on Wednesday evening I collected a very hard hockey ball travelling at great pace from very short range right on my ankle bone. Of course I was incredibly brave and barely winced, but it became increasingly sore as the session progressed. Despite waking a whingeing wife at 1 a.m. to dig out some theoretically pain-relieving paracetamol, (I had searched the whole house before resorting to the bedside table) sleep was an elusive quality that night. A precautionary visit to A&E (an establishment with which I have become depressingly familiar) the following morning, showed no broken bones and thankfully normal service is gradually being resumed. Undeterred, I shall probably give it another go next week, being strong of arm and thick of head.

Talking of which, I encountered a really interesting argument this morning. The School’s regular tree surgeon, (we have a lot of trees) was visiting to assess what needs to be done in our row of gardens. We’ve been trying to get Tree Preservation Orders removed on three giant weeds, otherwise known as sycamores, that are destroying a wall as well as significantly reducing our sunlight. (If left to their own devices, sycamores would cover the land quicker than Covid 19). Despite many logical arguments for their reduction, if not removal, the hoops and jumps to be negotiated are daunting. During the discussion I pointed out that it isn’t only the trees that are destroying the wall, but the ever-invasive ivy too. This elicited the magnificent response that it’s not the ivy causing the damage, it’s because the mortar is too weak and old and therefore small gaps appear, which allows the ivy to infiltrate! I was curious as to when he was going to stand as our next Member of Parliament.

So, on to politics….watching Boris the Bountiful cosying up to President Joe, or Joseph Robinette Biden Jnr, at the prelude to the G7 conference I was reminded of that brilliant film Love Actually when Hugh Grant, as the British PM, oozes charm from every pore until he catches the visiting US President making unwanted advances to his secretary and future amour, at which point Grant showed uncharacteristic steel in telling the President just what little ole England thought of Big Brother. I wonder if any such scenario will evolve this week? Mr Joe seems like far too decent a gentleman (if not too old!) to be indulging in any Stateroom canoodling, but perhaps there’ll be a clash over borders/protocols/agreements/sausages or chlorinated chicken? Boris has been known to emulate the Vicar of Bray on the odd occasion.

Regular readers will perhaps remember that I have mentioned Nutri-Spec a few times, being the American functional medicine company that supply a range of supplements that are specifically designed to suit an individual’s needs. To ascertain what blend of nutrients best suits you, you take increasing amounts of their patented Oxy Tonic first thing every morning until your poos and/or gaseous emissions start to smell like rotten eggs. (At which point you have achieved ‘saturation with negative valence sulfar’ (sic) ; for the medically inclined. Oxy Tonic is a ‘potent protector against pathological hyperplasia’ just so you know). You’ll be glad to know that I achieved that embarrassingly smelly state early in the process, which means I am well sulphated, most important for fighting coronavirus, as well as general good health. Apparently.

I hear the sound of distant sharp sand…….

I think I’ve created a new word. Certainly it’s not one I’ve heard before. Septathlete. I like to think this rather aptly describes your correspondent after a significant reduction in dimensions, a diet that would make Gwyneth Paltrow envious and an exercise regime to match Mo Farrah, on an average day. (Ok I exaggerate for effect). Having now entered, kicking and screaming, my eighth decade it seems quite a descriptive word for an old fart with delusions of youthfulness.

Whilst pedalling for an impressive forty minutes along the sun-swamped promenade last evening, my eye (observation being one of my many and varied skills) was caught by a most unusual sight out to sea. It was a beautiful, calm evening with the setting sun sliding towards oblivion behind Beachy Head, the shimmering blue water as flat as a mill pond (I’ve yet to work out why a mill pond should be any more mirror-like than a dew pond?) and a pleasing absence of cloud; except that is for a long roll of cotton wool half a mile offshore that stretched from Beachy Head in the west to Hastings in the east. I guess you would call it a sea fret, which is common at St Andrews in Scotland, but I’ve never seen one quite like this in Eastbourne. It appeared to be only about twenty feet high and was static and very clearly defined. Fog in the ChanneI, Europe cut off as someone once famously said. I stopped a few times to take snaps on the hugely inadequate iPhone 6S, but it proved totally incapable of capturing the true majesty of this extraordinary meteorological feature. There was a similar roll of beautiful fluffiness coating the top of The Downs the other day. I blame Global Warming.

I mentioned Keeley Bats in my previous blog. Oliver and I went there last week to invest (an appropriate word!) in a new, expertly moulded willow that will hopefully see him through a season or three of College and club cricket. Tim Keeley and his brother Nick learnt the bat-making trade from the renowned John Newberry, who made many of the best bats when the noble knights Viv Richards and Ian Botham were putting allcomers to the willow sword. (I still have one of his bats that I acquired over forty years ago, admittedly with rather more araldite and binding tape than it featured when leaving his factory). The Keeleys occupy a barn in the middle of the East Sussex countryside near Ashburnham. It’s a charming drive just to get to the “factory”. In the car park, there are neat stacks of raw timber and machinery to strip and shape, but the joy really starts once you walk into the cavernous building. You are greeted by yet more piles of timber, this time graded and shaped and already recognisable as nascent bats, and either Tim or Nick to help you select the perfect blade for your needs. £300 for a Grade 1 (it would be £450 in a shop) down to about £100 for a Grade 3 bat. Here is the man who actually crafted the piece of willow you’re holding, to advise and recommend. It’s a wonderful feeling, especially knowing that the likes of West Indian opener Chris Gayle and Indian legend Virat Kohli, amongst many others, have trodden exactly the same path. Many of the bats you see on TV, sporting various manufacturers names, are actually made by the Keeleys. Ollie liked a Grade 1 that Nick offered for £250 as it was slightly discoloured, but then he found another “Grade 1” that didn’t have the classic close grain normally associated with top bats, but Nick reckoned it would perform well. We could have that one for £150. Luckily Ollie really liked the feel and look of it so the countryside cruise had been more than worth it. This visit occurred days after I had played my first game for thirty years, keeping wicket with a rather small pair of Youths gloves. Temptingly they had a selection of beautiful gloves lying around on the desk by the till. It was too much, I couldn’t resist! I am now the proud possessor of only the second pair I have ever owned. It’s not impossible they will never be used in anger, but they are an essential part of the septathlete’s equipment cupboard and anyway, its fun having Ollie chuck balls at me in the garden; good father/son bonding time. In the last twelve months I have acquired a new tennis racquet (that gets used three times a week), new graphite shafted golf clubs that magically send the ball in the direction I intend (and that hasn’t happened for a long time!) and various items of cricket paraphernalia that are encouraging thoughts of a comeback. I did even try out a demo hockey stick the other day, supplied by the Eastbourne Hockey Club sponsor, WCP. It’s only £300 for a decent weapon…..a snip. I vividly remember my very first stick. It was a Slazenger “Flick” that you could almost bend in two (the modern stick is stiffer than Casanova on viagra) and cost my mother the princely sum of £6. I suppose in 1961 that was quite a lot of money.

The inexorable pull of our beautiful garden, doused as it is in the warm glow of evening sunlight, is exerting its irresistible force, demanding that I complete the latest brick patio feature that I stupidly started yesterday. The effort will be worth it though.

Today is the meteorological first day of summer. Apparently. The good news, after just about the wettest May since maypoles were invented, is that this important milestone has coincided with a small heatwave. Suddenly the garden has burst into life with a kaleidoscope of colour and weeds that John Wyndham would have been proud of. Cue the inflatable pool. It’s about eight feet across and three feet deep, enough to submerge completely in ice cold water, which is very good for you. Apparently. It’s not very good for the lawn though, but my protestations on that front fall on deaf ears.

Whilst heading off on one of my regular West Country tours last week I was wasting valuable time crawling at 50 mph on a long stretch of the M27, which is undergoing a perennial upgrade to the laughingly designated “Smart” status, although it has as much chance of joining Mensa as Eeyore. At one point a sign informed us of “Delays till…..2021”. I was slightly confused by this. Did it mean later that evening (8.21pm), in which case it was unusually precise? If it was talking about the year, it would be hard to be more imprecise as we are roughly halfway through the twelve months. It is possible there was a word missing; like September for instance. Either way, it wasn’t good news.

Eventually, the dull highway gave way to the snaking lanes of Somerset. My route took me through Ilminster. I was concerned about that, expecting to see streets full of lepers and long-coviders, but to my surprise everyone looked remarkably healthy and happy. Then it was on to Chard. Another surprise with no sign of a singed ember, let alone a major conflagration. Finally I journeyed through Wellington, where I was worried I might meet my Waterloo, but just got the boot. After further meanderings I ended up in Bath; a very clean City.

There was a time when I thought that the South African postal service was the worst in the world. However this week’s happenings lead me to believe that they have serious competition from USPS. I stupidly thought that must have some connection to UPS the courier service, when some supplement suppliers in Pennsylvania were explaining to me why the expensive package I had ordered from them still hadn’t arrived after nearly four weeks. Apparently USPS, or the United States Postal Service normally guarantee delivery within an impressive thirty days, but because of Covid it is now a sixty day service. That’s two months or one sixth of the year. This is the World’s superpower we are talking about. How on earth did they attain such elevated status with this level of incompetence? The real triumph is that as I was talking to the suppliers to try to trace the parcel, the USPS returned it to them…..after twenty eight days. Because it was incorrectly labelled. Apparently. At which point it seemed sensible to try UPS. After five lengthy and expensive transatlantic calls and three to UPS in London, miraculously the much anticipated package will now be delivered in two days time. Apparently. Don’t ever knock the Royal Mail again. (Although one Royal Male deserves all he gets!)

Remind me to tell you about Keeley cricket bats next time. Oh and the time I drove under an articulated lorry in my beautiful red roadster. My sister in Canada reminded me about that after my previous post. By email. So much quicker than USPS. But then so is Eeyore.

As a hurricane blows and gardening or other outdoor pursuits look mightily unattractive, I am cosily perched at my desk with nothing better to do than file a new edition of JaJa99.

I am currently going through the process of being accepted as a volunteer tennis coach at school. You might think this would be quite straightforward. In which case you are unfamiliar with modern bureaucracy! Hopefully by Monday week I will emerge from four weeks or so of vetting, checking, form-filling, referees and interviews that will allow me to impart my extensive knowledge and experience to the teenagers of this establishment; as an unpaid volunteer. This is of course a Government requirement. It’s all part of our modern society that requires, for instance, at least four signs around the iconic cricket field that warn “CAUTION cricket is being played here”. These tastefully produced blue and white wooden boards are nailed to walls that are about three and a half feet high, meaning that almost all but Snow White’s assistants can see over the wall. Hence, at the same time as reading the notice it is possible to lengthen one’s field of vision and observe that there are indeed white clothed persons undertaking the traditional English pursuit and therefore there is the potential danger that a small red leather ball might….MIGHT come hurtling in your direction. Alternatively, the field is deserted, as it is for the majority of the time, in which case the greatest danger is that a squadron of seagulls will be disturbed by a groundsman and take flight in your direction, opening the bomb bay doors as they pass overhead. It’s mildly interesting to contemplate how many trees have been felled to facilitate the placing of such totally unnecessary and absurd notices in many venues around the country.

On a radio programme earlier today they were talking about the duties of traffic cops and were asking for listeners motoring experiences. I confess there has been the odd occasion in my life when I may have marginally exceeded the permitted speed limit. The first instance I remember was in 1972, when at the age of twenty one I had a brand new, shiny red MGB convertible. I was putting it through its paces on the new by-pass around my home town, when a policeman bravely stepped out in front of me and waved me down. Radar traps were a new thing then and clearly the technology wasn’t as good as it is now. I got away with a severe warning because I was going too fast in a 30 mph limit for the radar to register my exact speed! Not long after that I was again at the helm of the red monster hurtling towards the Belfast docks early in the morning for a brief break from internal security duties when an RUC constable flagged me down and informed me that I was not entirely compliant with the current speed regulations. I apologised profusely whilst showing him my RAF identity card, at which point he stepped aside, saluted and with a cheery smile wished me well as he waved me on my way. A few years later I was the proud owner of a Lotus Europa John Player Special. You cannot own such a thrilling drive and go slowly. I had my adopted brother alongside me as we hurtled from a Catholic friend’s wedding service to the reception, some fifteen miles away. If you have ever attended a Catholic wedding mass you will know they do go on a bit. We were both wearing morning dress, but I guess the lucky bit is that it was before the champagne reception. Eager to be first in the queue for bubbly I was showing my slightly nervous passenger what the little charger was capable of. I hadn’t noticed that a uniformed gentleman was slowly gaining on me on his very powerful BMW motorcycle. When he finally overhauled us he was visibly shaking, explaining that he had had to go extremely quickly to catch us. I was very tempted to suggest how dangerous that was, but untypical caution overcame my bravado. Richard just happened to be a solicitor and I did say to the slightly fraught, leather clad officer that I would have to consult my lawyer beside me before making any comment. Said officer wasn’t amused and on this occasion, the first of many sadly, I got done.

For the most part though, I have been reasonably lucky. Another time I was in a different Lotus, a beautiful little white convertible Elan Sprint, coming off the M4 Motorway into Chippenham in Wiltshire. In those days there wasn’t a 70 mph limit on motorways, but coming off it, there were quite rapid changes down to 50 and then 30. I well remember being stopped by an unmarked, vivid purple Ford Capri, whose occupant told me that I had just broken three speed limits in quick succession which was enough for me to lose my licence there and then. Fortunately, he was obviously so enamoured by driving such a gauche car that he let me off with only one offence and a warning as to my future conduct. (Which never did improve.) I don’t mind a fair contest, but when you’ve been driving a hire car on business in Italy or Holland and get a fine through the post seven or eight months later, via Europcar or Hertz, having passed a camera at 36 mph, all the fun has gone out of motoring life. It’s just possible Brexit may have stopped that particular form of torture?

For any officers of the law who happen to be reading this I am now a reformed character and observe every limit with absolute punctiliousness. Driving a rather dull Citroen helps.

The saga of absent-mindedness continued this morning. Up early and rushing to ensure I wouldn’t keep Mrs T waiting for our early morning dog walk, I put the percolator on in plenty of time to ensure I would have the essential go-mug of coffee for the walk. As the allotted time approached, the pan of milk was getting hot but no sign of any percolating? Almost too late I realised that the hot plate upon which the coffeemaker was perched was in fact stone cold. Someone had omitted to perform the simple, but fairly essential act of turning a knob.

I’ve just heard an interesting new word; “frenemies”. It was uttered by a gold expert talking about China and Russia. He was referring to the fact that such countries are in the process of weaning themselves off the US dollar as the World’s reserve currency. No doubt it will soon enter the popular lexicon like other trending cliches. Data, roadmap, cohort, diversity and protocol immediately spring to mind. Professor Niall Ferguson, the renowned epidemiologist, was on the radio this morning begging the Government to provide a roadmap for something or other. I’ve always felt that “roadmap” is a very useful word for describing the pages of the atlas that sits behind the passenger seat in the old jalopy. It seems to me it’s a descriptive and precise word which describes the blue, red and black lines that if followed properly will lead you to your intended destination. When talking about coming out of lockdown, what’s wrong with schedule or programme? Of course I’m being really thick because anyone with an ounce of intelligence knows that if you want to sound authoritative, knowledgeable and in control then you have to use deep and meaningful words. Luckily our politicians are much brighter than me, so they have realised this important fact.

There was another new phrase this morning, coined by the boss of Mitchells and Butler who own a large chain of pubs and restaurants. He was rejoicing in the fact that his premises are open for business again, but bemoaning his inability to make a profit until “vertical drinking” is allowed. This conjured up all sorts of images. Is everybody currently drinking horizontally? If so, I am bucking the trend. I’ve always found it really tricky to drink lying down, call me odd. But surely even those sitting down at his tables are vaguely vertical whilst swallowing a tube or two of the amber nectar? I guess what he means is “standing at the bar”, but that’s only a presumption on my part and until people stop talking gobbledegook and stick to plain english, much guesswork will be required.

Referring back to my previous missive, you will, I’m sure, be eager to learn of how the wardrobe fitting went. The great news is that my forty year old Welsh and Jefferies classic, three piece, 100% lambswool, mid-grey pinstripe suit fits almost perfectly. The waistband is a fraction tight, but nothing a few more abstemious days won’t resolve. In fact all the jackets, including the Norfolk jacket, fit as if they had just been made for me and are all almost as good as new. What an endorsement for Savile Row. The trousers incidentally are proper “gentleman’s” apparel with no belt loops, merely internal buttons for braces, the only way that trousers will hang correctly, I seem to remember Mr Welsh (or was it Mr Jeffery?) explaining. (Gentlemen, incidentally only use button braces, not those nasty things with dragon’s teeth). Such sartorial niceties are largely lost I fear in our modern, mass-produced, throwaway culture. My next challenge will be to venture out into Eastbourne society wearing the Norfolk jacket and plus fours…..on a cold winter’s day on The Downs perhaps? When everyone else is snuggled up in front of Ski Sunday with thickly buttered crumpets?…….I’ll keep you posted. Maybe.

The naked soil of my new veggie patch is crying out for seeds and manure and with the sun shining and mercury soaring into the early teens I fear I can no longer put off getting my hands dirty. Or perhaps I should just go and get vertically drunk.

P.S. I have just read an email from the Secretary of the Army Air Corps Association reporting the passing of Staff Sergeant Bernard Osborne, formerly of The Glider Pilot Regiment, at the age of 97. Bernard crewed a crude Horsa glider on Operation Market Garden (of Bridge Too Far fame) in the first lift on 17th September 1944. He remained in the area of operations around Nijmegen in Holland, before escaping across the river as the battle drew close;……and we’re all worried about “anxiety” and “mental health”. There was a lot to be said for a stiff upper lip. Rest in Peace Bernard.

P.P.S. For those of you unfamiliar with a Norfolk jacket and there may be one or two, it has very cunningly designed hidden folds behind each shoulder that allow the free wielding of a shotgun without ripping the centre seam of the jacket. In normal use you would hardly notice them. Ideally it should be accompanied by a Sherlock Holmes style deerstalker to complete the image; the Missouri Meerschaum Country Gentleman Corncob pipe is an optional extra. The last time I wore mine was on a rough shoot (in Norfolk of all places) on my best mate’s farm. I missed a large cock pheasant with the first barrel and by the time I brought the second barrel to bear the poor thing was so close it disintegrated in a hail of lead, never to grace His Grace’s table. Never again.

In golf, I’ve been trying to shoot 70 for years. There’s no doubt that 70 looks a lot better on a scorecard than it does on a birth certificate. I commenced the fateful day by putting my coffee percolator on the stove without any water in it! Fortunately I realised my stupidity before the whole thing ended up in a pile of molten aluminium. That, along with a few other examples of crass absent-mindedness, lead me to believe that the slippery slope is no longer a wonderfully steep, powder-covered mountainside, but one that involves a constant stream of apologies for important dates and tasks forgotten. Curiously, I did dream about powder skiing last night on some spectacularly wild and difficult slopes. It’s funny how much better I’ve got since I last skied three years ago. I find that with golf too. The longer I don’t play, the better I get……However, all is not lost. I recently attended a Grannies Cricket Club golf day at the lovely Goodwood Golf Club. It was a chance to hook up with old friends who I hadn’t seen for many a moon, one or two of whom were wearing the colourfully striped maroon club blazer. I suggested that the one that had been sitting unloved and unused in my wardrobe for decades should go to a new home. The last time I tried to put it on, I didn’t get beyond one arm. Before parting with it, I wanted to check just what size it is and was staggered to discover this morning that it fits perfectly. How I must have shrunk! It does go to prove the value of quality. It was made for me, probably forty five years ago, by Welsh and Jefferies, renowned Savile Row tailors. The blazer is almost as good as new. If I go on having nets with Ollie and generally finding the middle of the bat, I might even be tempted to start playing again, in which case the venerable garment might get another outing or two; what fun.

Back in those carefree cricketing days, when I was a footloose and fancy free bachelor with a bit of spare cash, I had a number of suits and jackets made by W&J, including a splendid Norfolk shooting jacket and plus fours. They too have been taking up hanging space for many, many years without venturing out into daylight. I’m wondering now, after the blazer shock, whether they might once again be usable? I’m enjoying delaying testing the theory for the same reason a mature person declines the biscuit today in anticipation of a full box tomorrow; a concept that my children have yet to grasp. Of course the shooting jacket will not be used for its original purpose, even if it does fit, as I have long lost the pleasure in the mass murder of low flying living objects. The shame is that as the son and heir is now 6’3″ and possibly still climbing there is no way dad’s expensive purchases will ever fit him.

As I write, I am listening to various world-renowned (apparently) gold experts talking about their favourite subject. The big question is whether there’s another Klondike gold rush around the corner; well more specifically will the price of gold finally battle it’s way out of its recent doldrums and start making me the fortune I’ve long anticipated and long been disappointed about. It all depends on inflation, interest rates, the bond market, yields and whether Oddjob is successful in nuking Fort Knox. As long as there’s Pussy Galore we needn’t worry. The general consensus is that we’ve seen a ‘double bottom’ (nothing to do with Pussy Galore) and that we can now look forward to a long steady ascent into the sunny uplands; except gold never quite works like that. It’s currently around the $1,850 per ounce mark. Some of the experts are predicting it could be at $7,000 within a few years. If you don’t own any, now’s the time to buy some it would seem, but please don’t take this as professional advice…..markets can go down as well as up, etc. However, I do have that very catchy Birley Shassey (is there a better Spoonerism?!) Goldfinger theme tune going through my head…..”He’s the man, the man with the Midas touch. A spider’s touch. Such a cold finger”. That’s me…..

What’s in a name? I always thought ‘Aircutz would be a great name for a chain of airport barbers. I think it could do quite well. In my early days as a golfer I thought Titleist was pronounced “Tight-list” and never considered why it was so called. It was only when I got into the professional game that I discovered it’s actually “Title-ist” because their balls have won so many titles….well, players using their balls have anyway. Titleist is owned by Acushnet (no idea) who also own Footjoy; what better name for a shoe company. I’ve had a bit of fun this week with son Ollie. Footjoy have been kind to me for many years, looking after my walking needs with great shoes, so I’ve never bothered to investigate their website, but lovely Chloe, who looks after Tour players, suggested that if Oliver wanted to design his own pair, he could do so on the Footjoy site. Design your own MyJoy shoes…what a brilliant concept and we came up with a really unusual look that his lordship loves. Joy all round.

Apparently “Fatty” is no longer considered appropriate. Back when I was a slip of a lad, my best mate at school weighed 18 stone. He was a nightmare to tackle on the rugby pitch. He was only about 5’10” so had considerable mass. We had almost daily bouts of name-calling when I would taunt him with “fatty”, while “spotty” was his swift response. I suffered from awful acne. I’m not sure either of us particularly enjoyed it, but it was all part of growing up and learning some resilience. Nowadays you’re subjected to scorn if you suggest somebody’s “big”, especially if it’s a girl. I sometimes feel as though I’m walking on broken glass. When I started on Ski Sunday back in 1989, I was given strict instructions that the competitors were “women”, not ladies or girls or anything else, despite the fact that talking amongst themselves they were always “girls”. Heaven forbid if I got it wrong.

I’m probably a long way behind the times (almost certainly!), but I learnt of a new idea today (new to me); a bug hotel. Apparently it’s now really desirable to have some sort of honeycombed box in the garden that ants and other insects can flourish in. Far from being undesirables, they’re actually essential for bio-diversity and the preservation of other species. You can buy all sorts of five star establishments at all sorts of fancy prices or just find a couple of pallets that have fallen off the back of a lorry and construct your own. As I’m about to plant up my veggie patch I might just pass on the “bug encourager” for the time being.

So Ramadan is over. But in my non-muslim world, the need for fasting continues. Having experimented with fasting all day on Mondays, a practice I found most rewarding, I am now trying a new regime of ‘intermittent fasting’, a method encouraged by Nutri-spec. If you care a jot for your good health and happiness I would urge you to have a look at it. The eating plan involves consuming just two meals a day with at least five hours in between meals and no nibbling! As someone who has over-eaten and over-picked for years it’s an interesting exercise in self-discipline. The rewards though, far outweigh any sacrifice.

Only another nine days to enjoy the thrills of 69. The passing of such a landmark will hopefully go largely unheralded. After all, what is there to celebrate about achieving one’s allotted time? Seemingly anything after this is a bonus to be cherished, or scorned, depending on your point of view! Looking out into our sun-swamped garden, where Alison has been pouring bucketloads of loving care and attention, lingering a little longer looks an attractive option. It is fast becoming a horticultural masterpiece that will surely demand an Open Day or two. I suspect the memsahib might baulk at such a suggestion.

Today I learnt, whilst dozing with Radio 4 in my ear, marks two rather contrasting, but not totally unconnected anniversaries. The first, two hundred years ago, was the day upon which Napoleon Bonaparte departed this mortal coil. He was, theoretically, France’s last dictator although only time will tell! It’s mildly amusing to contemplate whether he would have given Chanel No 5 to Empress Josephine or whether it would have been a case of “not tonight Josephine”? It was on this day one hundred years ago that Coco Chanel launched her iconic ‘parfum’ upon an unsuspecting world. I had no idea until now why it was called No 5. As far as I know there was no 1,2,3 or 4? Upon consulting the all-knowing google it transpires it was the number of the sample presented to her by perfumer Ernest Beaux. They could have called it Le Parfum Beaux, but No 5 is inspired in it’s simplicity and universal appeal. I suppose in a way it’s the same as The New River, which used to flow along the end of my Grandmother’s garden. It’s actually a canal that was built to supply London’s drinking water and at the time “New” probably seemed the simplest appellation. As it was built in 1613 it’s probably due a name change. I digress. Apparently Chanel No 5 is a “highly complex blend of aldehydes and florals – including rose, yland-yland, jasmine, lily of the valley and iris – layered over a warm, woody base of vetiver, sandalwood, vanilla, amber and patchouli – this perfume satisfies Chanel’s request that No 5 smell like a “composition” rather than any single flower.” Now you know. Better than the compost I have under my fingernails anyway. A dinner table that included Napoleon, Coco Chanel and Donald Trump would be interesting n’est ce pas. Seemingly The Donald is about to be let loose on Facebook again; another very good reason for boycotting Zuckerberg’s zoo time.

You will be thrilled to learn, I’m sure, that last Saturday’s potential flirtation with disaster on the hockey fields of Eastbourne proved to be an enjoyable and stress-free experience. The ageing rock stars were very well behaved and yours truly was rather more competent, albeit far from flawless, than on the two previous outings with a whistle. After the game I was able to venture along the way to sneakily watch the son and heir performing with bat and ball against Brighton College. I was greeted with a ludicrous sight. A number of parents, who were equally eager to revel in their offsprings’ genius, were gathered on the main road looking over the wall, as they had been ejected from sitting in their cars, well outside the boundary. This meant, that instead of sitting in their bio-secure bubbles, they were all gathered together with not a hint of mask or social distancing. I hasten to add this is not the school’s fault, they are merely following Government protocols, but surely this is another case of the Law of Unintended Consequences? Having long been a believer that rules are made for the obedience of fools and guidance of wise men, I do wonder when common sense will prevail in all this malarkey?

I am now off to discover what ylang-ylang, vetiver and patchouli are…..I’m so ignorant.

Hooray, hooray, the First of May, outdoor bonking starts today. For fans of the great outdoors and all its pleasures, it may still be a trifle on the parky side for prancing around naked in the woods, but the more adventurous may find a way?

I’m afraid the last two weeks have passed in a blur of inter-stellar travel; well ok Dorset and Somerset aren’t exactly on the moon, but finding time to sit quietly with the typewriter has proved elusive. I can belatedly report though, that winding through the narrow, sun-kissed lanes of rural Wessex has been a brilliant reminder that there is still something of old England left. The worry is that with the new lockdown craze for working from home, itinerant city-dwellers will invade the rural idyll and the peace and tranquillity that inspired Hardy et al will be gone forever. The Madding Crowd will no longer be Far. The Natives will be hoping they Return from whence they came. (Please consult Wikipedia and Thomas Hardy if all that is lost on you).

Whilst enjoying my mesmerising cruising I was reluctantly forced to refill the go-mug with a Costa contribution. It seemed to be environmentally sound that I should pass the aforementioned receptacle to the barista to refill it without wasting one of their waxed cups. However, the uniformed (not uninformed!) lady politely informed me that the latest ‘elf ‘n safety Covid rules don’t allow this. I therefore had to have one of their cups, which of course they had touched, from which I would pour the contents into the Camelbak. In a vain attempt to at least save a plastic lid, I suggested that they should leave that off as I was going to pour it straight into my mug. But no, that’s against the rules too. It seems it’s highly dangerous to pass over an uncovered cup. So it’s ok for me to drink from a paper cup with a lid that grubby hands have been all over but…..oh you get the point hopefully. Later in my journeys I stopped to fill up with petrol (actually diesel, but don’t tell anyone) and risked a refill at their Wild Bean Cafe (getting very adventurous here) and went through the same rigamarole again. Only this time they accepted my go-mug, but I had to place it into one of their china mugs, so they didn’t have to touch it. It was obviously a trainee operating the knobs and he was having a nightmare. After about ten minutes the highly qualified barista/till operative/pump attendant came to his rescue and the medium, almond milk, decaff latte was duly poured. However, as he brought it to me, he took the go-mug out of their mug and passed it to me…..a little more time required with the ‘elf ‘n safety trainers I fear!! I’m ashamed to say that I took it without getting out the wet wipes or hand sanitiser and proceeded to drink the entire contents. I’ll let you know if I end up in hospital.

The dreaded E’nS raised its ugly head almost immediately upon my return to the bosom of my family last night. Mrs T informed me that as a matter of some urgency the school admin staff would be round to bolt the Calor gas cylinders on my two barbecues to the wall. Why would this be necessary I pondered? To which the inevitable reply was “Health and Safety”! I really do fear for our future. The world has gone completely stark staring bonkers….and that’s not outdoors!

Not wishing to make this a catalogue of complaints, but I can’t resist having a swipe at C.G.Fry, the well-renowned builders of a fine new estate on the edge of Bradford on Avon, where we have invested in a small property. There are a few outside “snags” that need rectifying, which the Customer Services office have assured me on numerous occasions were on their list to fix. They would, however, need a period of dry weather to carry out the repairs. April, now sadly deceased, was the driest month since Pontius was a pilot, with day upon boring day of relentless sunshine and drought. It was only slightly disappointing then to discover that the fairly simple repair work is still outstanding….. which is more than can be said for C.G. Fry’s after-sales service!

The Bank Holiday weekend looks set to see the last of the blue skies and sunshine that we’ve so enjoyed throughout April. Monday heralds an Atlantic depression swooping in with torrential rain (much needed) and forty mile an hour winds; perfect timing just as the apples and cherries are bursting into full, spectacular bloom. Today however, I will at least stay dry as I unwillingly submit to the torture of umpiring the Eastbourne Men’s 3rd XI. They are a bunch of highly skilled, but slightly over the hill hockey players who have a reputation for truculent behaviour. The list of volunteers willing to take on the role was rather short….in fact there weren’t any. Hence muggins is stepping into the breach. It would be an understatement to say that I’m nervous, particularly as my last two outings with the whistle have been less than brilliant. The ageing cogs of the grey matter whirl a little more slowly in one’s seventieth year than once they did, sadly. Wish me luck……

Where has the last week gone? That’s a rhetorical question and I’m not expecting a response, although I would of course be delighted to hear from you should you wish to comment. I have adopted a new routine as a result of suffering a heart attack and fairly extensive study into the things that I should do to promote a healthy mind and body, thereby hopefully extending my time on Planet Earth, although I have no aspirations to match the late lamented Duke for longevity. As an aside, isn’t it extraordinary how it’s taken his death for so many people to realise what a national treasure he was? Anyway back to the new schedule. I have decided that as Lent is now a distant memory the consumption of the occasional glass of red wine should be permitted, but never on consecutive days. This should serve to keep the “units consumed” well below recommended levels. Secondly, I am having a total fast day every Monday. This has been my fifth week of doing it and whilst it doesn’t get any easier with time, I’m determined to stick with it as I can already feel the benefits. Now a stone and a half lighter as a result of an incredibly healthy diet, I’m feeling rather virtuous. This is all a rather long-winded way of explaining how I came to today’s thought!

Without food, drinking becomes an even more crucial pastime and so numerous Go Mugs of coffee are interspersed with the occasional green tea and a fine cup of Earl or Lady Grey at teatime. This afternoon’s scented delectation made me wonder what has happened to The Great British Tea. I’m not talking about the drink, but the meal. That splendid social occasion that used to be such a crucial part of my grandmother’s afternoons. At 4 pm precisely the cake stand would appear, loaded with delicious biscuits (not cookies!), finger cakes and the odd chocolate finger if you were lucky. Alongside it would be a plate of delicate white squares, otherwise known as cucumber or egg and cress sandwiches, neatly cut into bite-sized chunks with the crust disdainfully discarded. Small porcelain plates would be laid out with napkins and knives and invariably the best china cups and saucers would be there, poised to receive the perfectly brewed Darjeeling, which Granny would pour from the matching teapot, being sure to coat the cup’s surface with a little milk first; most important. As was warming the teapot for a couple of minutes before adding a small amount of boiling water to let the tea brew before filling the pot to the top. An elegant tea cosy was another essential. The good ladies of the Parish were often invited to join Grand Mama for an hour or so of social chit chat and no doubt not a little gossip. Being part German, there was one particular German cousin who used to be invited regularly to help my ageing relative stay current in the lingo. Those occasions were best avoided by a scruffy young teenager, although a quick dip into the cake stand was de rigeur. Whilst yours truly failed miserably to meet the dress regulations for these occasions, the ladies would invariably be done up to the nines, usually with a cute bonnet perched on their immaculately coiffured bonces, small handbag and gleaming white gloves an essential accoutrement.

Tea was still an essential part of life in my Army days. The typical working day finished around 5pm, when all the young officers would retire to the Mess for a life-giving slug of builders’ brew and at least three slices of thickly buttered, preservative loaded, pre-sliced and mass produced white toast, weighed down with equally commercial raspberry jam. On high days and holidays there might even be a chunk of Victoria sponge which the late arrivals would probably miss out on. This heavenly repast would invariably be followed by a twenty minute cat nap in the deep faux leather club armchairs, that served as a rejuvenating prelude to the evening’s high jinx, which included a three or four course formal dinner at 8pm sharp. What healthy lives we led!

Whilst the institution of Tea seems largely a distant memory, the Grand Hotel in Eastbourne still serves a Savoy style spread for those with deep pockets and we do occasionally have special friends round on a Sunday for tea and crumpets and one of Alison’s delicious home made cakes. Her secret recipe fruit cake is the summit of indulgence. Happy days.

My thought was inspired by listening to BBC Radio 4, once the citadel of RP (Received Pronunciation) and listening to presenter after presenter, guest after guest, smudging their “t’s” as if they’re an inconvenient truth to be ignored and buried. The Great British T truly is dead in all its senses; well certainly mortally wounded anyway.