I write with a gut full of turkey and plum duff (actually I made that up for the sake of traditionalists, we had a delicious fruit salad and meringues, hand crafted this merry morn by Mrs T), with a tremendous sense of excitement and anticipation of a coming year that will herald a new dawn. The cheese-eating surrender monkeys have graciously re-opened the Channel after a pointless forty eight hours of point-making, Britain and the EU have finally concluded an eleventh hour trade deal, Covid is reeling under the combined assault of vaccines various (well it will be soon), the shortest day is behind us and Christmas Day has been a proper cold, clear and sunny one, perfect for walking canines and teenagers across the wide open spaces of Salisbury Plain. Only another visit from the Almighty’s son would enliven an already heady day.

To further add to the sense of untold happiness, we’ve just spent time on the phone to York-based family and a lovely What’s App video conference with sister and cousins near Vancouver. The wonders of modern science. When I was a lad I recall we had to book a Christmas transatlantic call weeks in advance and then there was no guarantee of a usable connection. How the world has shrunk. I have a tremendous sense that Britain is going to bounce back and flourish without the constraints of Europe and Covid. Our financial predicament will be a hindrance for a while to come no doubt, but the innate ingenuity and native cunning of Brits will see us rise from the ashes like a born-again Phoenix on speed, soaring to the sunny uplands of Bojo promise.

My only slight concern is what effect chlorinated chicken might have on my already overburdened gut. I am afraid I don’t have any statistics to hand (regular readers will know of my disdain for such things) as to the number of people in Britain who fall ill with salmonella poisoning each year, but I fancy it’s a very small number. On the whole, good husbandry and a hygienic kitchen lower the risk to almost zero. I’ve eaten a lot of chicken in my sixty nine years but have never fallen foul, so to speak. So why is it that mighty America feels it necessary to wash their foul in a poisonous chemical? Assuming that we achieve a significant trade deal with the US of A and they insist on inflicting their Genetically Maltreated crops and sanitised chickens on us, will we know what’s what? Presumably our strict food labelling laws will permit us to identify and boycott their abuses of nature? What a triumph of mob rule it would be if the imported goods rotted on supermarket shelves for lack of interest amongst our nation’s shoppers.

For now, half a delicious M&S turkey crown and the remnants of a roasted cow await our delectation; only a few antibiotics to worry about there, no doubt.

I am afeared I have been so overcome with tiers that my writing has been a washout. Actually much water has passed under the bridge since my last missive, in some cases literally. This past week I visited our house in Wiltshire which is temporarily empty pending the arrival of new tenants from France. Such is the world we live in, they agreed to take No.17 after a virtual tour, as they currently live in London. When they did risk leaving the Capital for the outer reaches of Empire they were overwhelmed by the stillness and silence of our rural abode; which is actually in the bustling market town of Bradford on Avon, but is nonetheless a peaceful retreat when compared to the twenty four hour raucousness of Londinium. I was able to enjoy a few peaceful and pleasurable moments there myself and left feeling slightly saddened that it won’t be us moving in there for awhile yet. Journey down the hill into the centre of Bradford and you find testament to the recent deluginous (if there isn’t there ought to be!) weather. The historic old stone bridge is still functioning as a passage between the two sides of the town, but the fast flowing River Avon is lapping at the top of its arches, threatening to pass not just under the bridge.

Part of my brief visit to Wessex involved an even briefer excursion into my favourite English City, Bath. Because of the revolting Tiers and Lockdowns, Bath’s famous Christmas Market, which attracts thousands of visitors from far and wide, has been given a year off. Nonetheless the charming Georgian streets were bustling with shoppers anxious to fill their stockings. It’s alarming to see how many shops now stand empty, some providing temporary shelter for charity shops, but I was particularly depressed to see that Maythers is closing down. It’s a card and stationery shop that’s been a privately owned stalwart of Milsom Street (Bath’s main thoroughfare) for longer than I can remember. Apparently the lease is up and it’s just too expensive for the owner to renew. No matter what time of day you went there, it was always busy and doing a roaring trade. How very sad that even they can’t withstand the onslaught of Covid.

I remember when I did my post-graduate radio journalism diploma course, learning about the findings of “The Glasgow School”, which had highlighted how the use of incorrect or inflammatory language in news bulletins can almost subliminally influence the way one thinks. They aimed their ire particularly at the BBC, which as a traditionalist and long time supporter of Auntie I found annoying. However……listen very carefully to the adjectives and phrases used nowadays and, like me, you may find they have a point. We can no longer have just a “plane crash”, it has to be a “deadly” one. When the story tells you that three hundred and fifty people died, I guess it’s pretty obvious it’s deadly! If you have to use an adjective at all, wouldn’t “fatal” be better. In the same way Covid or Coronavirus can’t be mentioned now without calling it “deadly” or “awful” or “terrifying”. Matt Handsup declared this morning that the new “mutant” variant is out of control. So bulletins all day have been leading with the story that “the Secretary of State for Health has declared that the new virus is out of control”, as if we are all about to be overrun with the Black Death. In my humble opinion it’s the most outrageous scaremongering, both by our inadequate politicians and the manipulated and manipulative media. When pressed, the so called “experts” concede that whilst it APPEARS that the latest variant is more easily transmitted, there is no evidence that it is any more virulent or dangerous, which means that the vast majority of the population will not suffer any serious ill-effects whatsoever. Do listen carefully to the news and analyse the language used. Even Auntie can longer be trusted to tell it in an unbiased and objective manner.

Talking of water passing, I’m relieved to report that a recent PSA blood test revealed that the Tutt prostate seems to be in fine working order…….just thought you’d like to know that.

V Day +1. The day after the vaccine that will save the world was launched in Britain. As the lead story on the BBC News at Ten told us last night, ninety year old Margaret Keenan was the first person on the planet to be injected, other than the thousands who had been involved in the trial. This was indeed heady stuff. Huw Edwards gazed at us with that Welsh intensity that is appropriate for funerals, but otherwise shows all the humour of a hanging judge, to ensure that we realised the huge significance of this moment. He handed over to Hugh Pym, one of the health correspondents who has become a nightly fixture on our screens, to take us through every fascinating second of this epoch making moment. Margaret was shown in all her wheelchair glory, undergoing the rare experience of having a syringe inserted into her upper arm. She survived this intrusion without a wince, brave lady. Afterwards she very graciously consented to be interviewed by the Pymster. His first question was straight out of the junior sports reporters list of things not to ask; “How does it feel?”. “Oh it’s fine, I feel very well thanks”, replied the nonagenarian. As if there was a chance the vaccine might have instantly floored her, or left her in a twitching, jabbering heap. But the next question was a stroke of genius. “Would you recommend other people to have it?”. So here is the very experienced BBC Health Correspondent asking a ninety year old lady in a wheelchair (who admittedly seemed to be in full possession of her marbles) whether, will all her enormous medical, scientific and research experience, it is something that the wider population ought to be doing? Surprise, surprise, she said “oh yes, I’d recommend everyone to have it”. I was immediately convinced of its efficacy and am now impatient to undergo the procedure myself. Who knows perhaps I might even be interviewed by a cub reporter from BBC Radio Sussex, anxious to know if I felt any instant side-effects. But wait. The headline on V +1 is that two NHS staff members have suffered a severe allergic reaction. Oh dear, that wasn’t in the Master Plan. But it appears that they both suffer from severe allergic reactions to getting out of bed in the morning. No cause for concern then.

The good news, for people who find the constant updating on the number of “deaths” etc mildly tedious, is that Brexit is now so imminent it’s fought it’s way back into the bulletins, even if it has to wait for the full, fascinating story of the day’s Covidity to play out. It’s amazing that Noel Edmonds hasn’t been called in to adjudicate on the final salvos of Deal/No Deal. Instead it’s being left to Bojo and a very elegant Presidential lady from the EU to have dinner in Brussels to decide if there’s any point in negotiating further. I can understand why. If you’ve never eaten out in Brussels you should. The Belgiums are exceptionally good at football and not bad at cycling, but their main claim to fame has to be their haute cuisine. Where I was based with the Army in Germany in the early eighties there was a Belgium Officers Club which we had access to. Dining there was a truly memorable experience. Will Boris therefore be so intoxicated by the convivial surroundings that he gives away the family silver? We won’t have long to find out. I confess my nails are already down to the quick with all the excitement and drama.

Personally, as I’m suffering a severe allergic reaction to BBC News bulletins, I definitely won’t be risking a needle in the arm, hoping instead for my Iodine Salt Pipe and copious quantities of Vitamins C and D to provide natural protection against all invaders.

“We are first to get the vaccine because we have the best regulators and the best scientists, in fact we are the best country in the World”. Are Boris Johnson and his lieutenants completely devoid of any common sense at all? At a time when we need all the international friends we can get, are Gavin Williamson’s motivationally patriotic and stirring words really what is needed? The man was about as much use as a tank without tracks at the Ministry of Defence and he’s made a horlicks of Education. Now he’s stirring up ill will amongst our friends and allies with brain dead proclamations of Churchillian patriotism; only Winnie would never have been so stupid! Where are the Statesmen, the men or women of intellect and stature amongst our leading politicians? Perhaps we should let Marcus Rashford have a go at running the Country…..

Pursuing the medical theme of No 163, I heard an amazing tale yesterday of a fifty year old woman who was given two years to live having had a full hysterectomy, only to learn that the cancer had spread. After one session of chemotherapy she decided that wasn’t the way to go and sought alternative therapies. She turned vegan, worked on turning her body alkaline and attended regular treatments in an oxygen chamber. That was four years ago and she has since been given the all-clear; no sign of any cancer. Why isn’t that being proclaimed from the rooftops?

As the whole Brexit debacle nears its denouement what delicious irony there appears to be relating to fishing and France. I may have this wrong, but it seems to me that President Macron is prepared to veto a deal if his fishermen aren’t given free access to British waters for at least another ten years. But if there is no deal, Britain will quite legally declare those waters as British and no one else will be entitled to fish in them. What a pretty pass.

I am looking forward to the final of the Autumn nations cup when England take on France. The cheese-eating surrender monkeys may have found the answer to the longbow, but have they prepared a defence to Eddie Jones? Twickenham will literally echo to the sound of two thousand fans cheering on a full strength England team against the visitors who will be minus twenty five of their top players thanks to an agreement between the national selectors and the leading clubs. Jones’s men will have egg on their faces if they don’t win handsomely. It wouldn’t be the first time,

I have recently become a follower of Dr Sarah Myhill, a qualified GP, who after many years in General Practice has gone down a more preventative medici, natural road and is now recognised as a leading authority in the fight against many modern diseases, including cancer, diabetes and the “chronic syndromes” like Pain and Fatigue. Dr Myhill’s starting point is diet; as per the old computing adage, “rubbish in, rubbish out”. She has lots of other great ideas, but is convinced that none of them will work well without first adopting the paleo-ketogenic diet. If you want to know what that means there’s lots of explanation on her website and You Tube. In very simplistic terms it requires you to cut out most carbohydrates, particularly all the modern rubbish that causes supermarket shelves to groan in agony. She’s not alone is saying that sugar is a killer, but she goes further in believing that most fruit contains far too much sugar to be good for us. She limits her recommendations to berries and then not too often. The other key is to imitate our forebears and eat seasonally. That means strawberries in January aren’t great. I’ve just eaten quite a nice bowl of berries, but it was intriguing to see the labels noting Country of Origin. The blackberries were from Guatemala, the blueberries from Peru and the raspberries from Spain; not only not very seasonal, but also pretty disastrous for the global climate. She also advocates taking a lot of vitamin C in the form of ascorbic acid. She recommends five grams a day and a lot more if you start to feel ill. She also advocates a salt pipe with drops of iodine in to inhale through the nose and mouth. It’s all aimed at enhancing our immune systems so that vaccinations become unnecessary. 

The phrase “she’s a very grounded person” is often used, but what does it mean? Just as I’ve been reading up on the Myhill theories, I’ve been sent a video about “grounding” or “earthing”. It’s the idea that we have lost touch with nature and that by the simple expedient of walking barefoot on the ground we can alter our electrical balance and therefore reduce inflammation in the body, which is the cause of so much trouble. Even better, apparently, is lying naked on the ground! I reckon gardening barefoot might be the answer. Is it all mumbo jumbo? Only by trying it can one find out. There’s no question that if the sun is shining the extra vitamin D will help.

The Times today has a report that the World Darts Championship is to go ahead with spectators, but with fewer than usual and fancy dress will be banned. This is unconscionable. How on earth can grown men be expected to throw darts at a cork board without Father Christmas, Where’s Wally, The Smurfs and Bully from Bullseye to cheer them on in a beer fuelled frenzy of hysterical support? It just won’t be the same. At least the practitioners have presumably been able to practise their intricate skills during lockdown. I’ve often wondered what’s better for the competition arm; throwing darts or raising a heavy pint to the lips? 

As I wander lonely as a cloud through the guardsmen-straight beeches of Friston Forest, now denuded in full winter trim, the evergreen and distorted Scots pines provide the only colour save for a light tan carpet of billions, maybe even trillions of fallen leaves. It’s a quirk of nature that we strip off in summer and wrap up warm in winter, while the trees do the exact opposite. Where a few weeks ago it was easy to hide in the forest, now daylight permeates from one side of the great swathe of beeches to the other. It can be a depressing time of year, but it’s almost December and in not much more than three months everything will be bursting into life again. Take solace from that knowledge, when you’re feeling morose and down in the depths of January.

Talking of guardsmen, I was reminded when listening to the late Peter Jones (a legend of BBC Radio thirty years ago) commentating on Diego Maradonna’s Hand of God goal, of an amusing moment when he was describing the build-up to an FA Cup final. He said, “and there, standing proudly erect in the centre circle, the Massed Bands of the Household Division, their instruments glistening in the sunshine”. That made the Christmas tape!

I was accompanied on my arboreal stroll by Callie, the whippet lurcher, who has the speed and agility of a whippet combined with readily identifiable traits of the collie and miniature poodle who also feature in her immediate heritage. Callie thinks she is a scout at the head of an Infantry Point Section advancing across hostile territory. She loves to walk delicately one hundred yards ahead of me, scanning left and right, as if expecting an ambush at any moment. Every now and then she will dart off into the undergrowth in hot pursuit of a squirrel or three, which often causes a major detour. She will suddenly reappear from behind, come hurtling past at high speed and once again adopt a gentle padding some way ahead. Her most fun is when she finds another canine who is willing to play. She is so quick and being small, has an incredibly tight turning circle so that as yet she hasn’t found another beast to match her. She loves to be chased and lets the chaser get close before finding another gear and staying just far enough in front to keep the sparring partner interested. If they give up she’ll then chase them. The dogfights that my adopted father happily survived as one of The Few over the skies of the Home Counties were almost invariably won by the pilot who could pull off the tightest turns. Callie is reminiscent of a Spitfire in that regard. Recently she’s adopted another habit. If there are other humans ahead she loves to go and attach herself to them, walking beside their heels as if they are her owner. Whilst taking in the fresh sea air on the Prom the other day, two very chic ladies turned in some alarm to ask if this limpet belonged to me, as they were concerned that she was lost. I was able to put their minds at ease with a smile and a ready demonstration of her instant obedience…..she disappeared off into the thick bushes, only returning when she was ready. Man’s best friend; a gem.

I am happy to report that your correspondent is in considerably better humour than was the case on Friday. This despite being surrounded by grumpiness. I guess Covid and its restrictions are taking their toll.

Enjoying a lovely Sunday afternoon cycle ride past Eastbourne pier I again witnessed the spectacular sight of a murmuration of starlings swirling around the golden dome at the end of the pier. This was a much smaller murmuration than the one I saw last week, when there were thousands of birds swooping and swerving in a dark mass that was constantly changing shape like a shapeshifter or an amoeba on steroids. I watched the formation soar and plummet around the dome for half an hour at least. Who knows how long it was there for? Every time the giant black “jelly” headed towards town it dramatically changed direction, throwing off a squadron of fifty or so birds that followed their leader in a straight line into the centre of Eastbourne. Each time it happened the cast-offs took exactly the same route, disappearing over the rooftops presumably heading for Starbucks. After satisfactorily refuelling and fully nourished they would return in their individual squadrons and rejoin the main formation, which in itself was fascinating to watch. There were so many starlings flying in very close proximity and constantly changing direction that it’s hard to imagine how there were no mid-air collisions. There were far too many airmisses to report to air traffic control. (I wonder what a Starling Mayday sounds like?) Amazingly, not one bird fluttered to the waiting waves having suffered wing fatigue or worse.

If Starbucks is the natural home for starlings, I’ve realised how Ramsgate acquired its name, thanks to a piece on Farming Today early on Radio 4. Apparently the bulk of Britain’s sheep exports to the continent go through the Kent port. The activists are up in arms because of the dreadful conditions the animals suffer en route to a Parisian gourmet’s dinner plate. No doubt things will only get worse in the New Year, when a combination of tariffs and euro-bureaucracy delay their departure by a day or three. There’ll be a lot more bleating then.

Those of a slightly nervous disposition might want to gloss over the next paragraph. Something happened to me today that I have never experienced before, but have often heard tales of pro-golfers suffering a similar affliction whilst playing in a tournament. I had journeyed across Sussex almost into Kent to visit a specialist clinic where I was having blood drawn to be sent to Germany. It grieves me to report that the Germans are streets ahead of us when it comes to analysing possible diseases and their causes, that frequently leave the NHS baffled. Anyway, I digress. Having completed the leech work, I had to sit around for half an hour to allow the blood to settle in the sample tubes. At this point, in the middle of deserted countryside, I realised my revolting guts were on the verge of serious revolution. This wasn’t going to wait forty five minutes for me to get home. I’m normally quite choosey about where I park my bottom, but now I had no choice. Fortunately I found a convenient lay-by with woods close at hand and thanks to a packet of tissues lurking in the glove compartment I was able to complete a hygienic evacuation without the hint of damage to clothing. Phew! Unlike one golfer of my acquaintance who was caught seriously short on the 10th (after a strong curry the night before) and was unable to avoid a messy soiling. He had to abandon everything below his waist in the woods and carried on playing in waterproof over-trousers…..which on a steamy hot summer’s day can get rather sweaty, thereby creating a further chafing problem. What a nightmare!

So the influential and brilliant unions of workers at Heathrow Airport are calling on their members to call a number of strikes throughout December to overturn management plans to cut their salaries. This is, of course, an economic masterstroke. The Airport and airlines have lost billions of pounds thanks to the pandemic, so it makes perfect sense to further limit their income; income that is desperately needed to pay the staff that they are trying to keep, rather than just sack them….a fate that has already befallen so many private sector workers. News came today of further Union genius. The Government is apparently considering putting a three year freeze on public sector workers pay. Said employees already enjoy rather better pay and conditions than their struggling private sector colleagues and their jobs are guaranteed, with handsome pensions for the most part. With the biggest hole in our national finances ever outside wartime, does the Government have any choice. We are all going to be hit incredibly hard but the people who should be hit hardest are unrealistic, self-interested and stupid Trades Union leaders.

Such thinking brings to mind a couple of moments in my long years of being flown around the world. Commentating on European golf tournaments we always used to rush to get home on a Sunday night. Ninety per cent of the time we made it, but every now and then things conspired against us. On one occasion coming back from somewhere in southern Spain, our Easyjet flight was cancelled (not an uncommon occurrence!). The only remaining flight home was with Ryanair. I rushed to their ticket sales to be informed that, yes they did have a few seats left. “I’ll take one please, how much”. (Expecting them to say £150 top whack).”That’ll be £350 please Sir”. Having recovered my equilibrium I wondered whether with only minutes to go before the gate closed it wouldn’t be better for them to fill the seats at a sensible price (low-cost airline?), because at that rate they could stuff it up their jumper. “I’m afraid it’s non-negotiable Sir, take it or leave it”. I left it, vowing never to fly on Ryanair again. I haven’t and further I take every opportunity to slag them off to anyone who cares to listen. I might even have gone up to £200, so for the sake of £150 they have lost my custom forever and potentially that of others who’ve been persuaded by my venom. Not great business I would have thought.

My ire has long since subsided on that one, but I still harbour unpleasant thoughts towards KLM. A few years ago I was working at The KLM Open (The Dutch Open) just outside Amsterdam. A week earlier my Best Man’s older brother, a man who I had known for fifty years and was extremely fond off, died horribly and unexpectedly. The close knit Norfolk family were distraught. There was no way I was going to miss his funeral on the Saturday of the KLM Open. I gained permission to fly home on the Friday night and as long as I was back for work on Sunday morning everyone was happy. It was going to be so easy. KLM operate a regular service from Amsterdam to Norwich Airport, which is practically on my friend’s farm. Every other KLM flight to regional UK airports was under £100. Amsterdam to Norwich is about a forty minute flight. The cost? SEVEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY POUNDS! I kid you not. I could’ve flown to New York or Johannesburg for the same money. On this occasion I had no choice. I paid the money with the avowed oath that I would never fly with KLM again, or any of their partners such as Air France. I have been true to my word, despite the fact that I could have used them often, being a regular voyager through Bristol Airport. They were sponsoring the tournament at which I was commentating. I pleaded with them, but no, that was the fare, take it or leave it. There are moments in life when I am genuinely lost for words. That was one such occasion. It was the circumstances that particularly rankled. I was emotionally vulnerable, it was a journey I had to make and because I had to be back for KLM’s own bloody tournament there were no realistic alternatives. KLM, I hate you.

I’m afraid I have been a grumpy old git all day today, I know not why, so I apologise for inflicting that lack of humour on you. I had meant to tell you all about a brilliant murmuration of starlings that I witnessed yesterday. It will enliven Monday’s blog…..I hope.

Friday 13th passed without a quake, or even a slight tremor. Phew! I even got a response to my beg for help with leaf clearance from the appropriately named David Mould, or Leaf as he will henceforth be known. I don’t know why that never occurred to me before. Leaf was my Producer on golf for many years and has recently been elevated to the peerage with an excellent and richly deserved promotion to be Director of Television at the European Tour, replacing the self-satisfied Stu Nichol who has returned to America from whence he came, after a hatchet job on a few old farts like me. I seem to remember he was a mate of Trump’s….. but perhaps he just liked talking about him. Broadcasting is a cut throat game and most people suffer the chop at some point, generally when a new producer or editor comes in and they want to make their mark with new people. I reckon I’ve been axed more than most though. Perhaps I just wasn’t very good! I guess I was lucky to survive as long as I did. The icons often go on well into their eighties. Think of so many of the great old names of BBC Sport, the last remaining of whom is Peter Alliss, who could still be heard commentating on The Masters golf highlights at the tender age of eighty nine, albeit with a voice so flaky it was hard to recognise it as him. He would have loved seeing Bernhard Langer finishing in a tie for 29th place and beating his last round partner Bryson DeChambeau in the process. The American, who makes the Incredible Hulk look rather less incredible, had boasted that he would overpower Augusta and bring it to its knees. Langer was often a hundred yards or so behind DeChambeau off the tee, but the German has all the precision of a finely engineered BMW and with two Green Jackets to his name (for winning The Masters), he knows how to negotiate his way round the treacherous old course. He’s become the oldest player to make the cut at The Masters at the age of 63; he’s defying gravity. He was one of the Big 5 on the European Tour back in the ’70s, 80s and 90s. Of those, Seve Ballesteros died tragically young, Sandy Lyle and Ian Woosnam still play seniors golf, but with little success and Nick Faldo has long been a respected voice in the Commentary Booth, as they like to call it in America. (Although as they call them “announcers” over there, shouldn’t it be the Announcers Booth?). For 13 years Langer has been breaking all records on the Champions Tour (for the over 50s) and shows no sign of heading for the 19th hole. Meanwhile, I can’t say I’m sorry for Bryson DeC. I don’t know him well but his brash arrogance was always tempting fate and golf can be a supremely humbling game.

Talking of BMW’s precision, it was mildly satisfying to learn that even German excellence can take a tumble occasionally. A friend has recently bought a brand new, all singing, all dancing 5 series BMW (strictly speaking I don’t think it’s vocals are great and the footwork is distinctly dodgy but you get my drift hopefully), of which he is justifiably proud. However, within days of taking delivery of it, it’s back with the dealer to have an electronic fault fixed that caused all the instrumentation to go blank. They think it needs a whole new dashboard…..oops, expensive.

Finally back to Leaf. He sent me a photo of very clever giant plastic scoops with long handles that strap onto your arms, so that in one swift movement you can gather a large quantity of leaves and transfer them either into a barrow or take them straight to the tip. They’re not quite the magic wand I was hoping for but they’re certainly a big step in the right direction. Thanks Mouldy…..fancy giving me a demo?

A funny thing happened to me on the way to the shops today. I confess I’ve not always had the most amicable relationship with traffic police and particularly traffic wardens. In days of yore they very wisely wore caps with a yellow band, which was presumably to ensure that you didn’t park on their heads. Perhaps in response to that old joke they now wear fairly nondescript soft blue things that look about as smart as Eeyore. I’m prepared to concede that originally they may have had some role in bringing order to the High Street. Nowadays, I’m convinced they are recruited and paid as unofficial tax collectors whose main purpose is to replenish the ever-diminishing coffers of local government, irritating local traders in the process as would-be customers are frightened off by the patrolling vultures. Anyway, for a change I had parked legally today outside our local grocers and was returning to my French diesel (I know, I’m sorry on both counts) when I spotted not one but two of the jackals. As I passed I duly quipped how good it was to see “not one but two” of them on parade together. I did say it with a smile, but the response surprised me. “We have to”. “Why’s that?” says I. “Because since Lockdown 2 the abuse towards us has gone up 100%”. “Oh dear” I humbly responded, feeling a little embarrassed and shuffled off mumbling an apology and secretly wondering whether more had been recruited or whether that meant they were 50% less effective in terms of windscreen stickers posted.

How many times have you seen a simple invention that solves a problem that has irritated you for ages but you didn’t have the wit to devise the solution yourself? It’s happened to me so often that I can’t believe my stupidity and lack of creativity. A few days ago I spent the afternoon clearing up the profusion of fallen leaves that were littering our garden by a combination of raking and blowing them onto a large sheet and from there onto the tip at the end of the garden. It was quite satisfying to see the end result, but to no one’s surprise the carpet of fallen detritus is again as deep as ever. The longer they stay there the wetter and soggier they get and therefore the harder to move. In the past I’ve used two pieces of plywood and a wheelbarrow which works well enough but is also time consuming and quite back breaking. The Stihl blower is reasonably effortless but you still have to do something with the enormous pile it creates. Surely…….surely there has to be an easier way? I love trees and wouldn’t be without them. The Autumn colours are spectacular and an essential element of our wonderful seasons. But……there has to be a magic wand. Where’s Harry Potter when you need him?! Ideas on postcard please, to Julian Tutt, Number 12 Sycamore Lane, Leafbourne, Sussex.