What a crazy world.

Where do you begin to sort out logic from total unmitigated, unacceptable rubbish?

Take the doctors. 50 years ago, they were hard-worked, under-paid but so, so caring. You phoned the doctor and he came in the night. He saved my life at 3 in the morning, when I had peritonitis.

Now they are thinking of going on strike!

We finally got a hospital in Somerset. Glastonbury. We waited twenty years for something that improved the lot of mankind by nothing. We still have to drive 30 miles to A & E in Yeovil if there’s anything wrong because all the money was spent on an elaborate building where old-people could be given long-term care and they can’t afford to staff it with doctors who can do more than put a plaster on.

And, how come in this modern, technological, all-singing, all-dancing age you can’t get to see a doctor? You have to plan your illness. Look at the calendar and decide you will be ill in two weeks’ time when the doctor can see you.

Even an emergency. ‘I’m so sorry but the doctor’s emergencies are all taken and so are his phone-calls. Please try later!

It’s crazy – it’s ridiculous and it shouldn’t happen. In 1901 – perhaps but not in 2012.

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A spot of Trouble in my Waterworks

So there I was sitting on the floor with my head under the sink.

The question: what am I doing there? is the wrong question. The answer is plainly obvious, since I am surrounded by the bowels of plumbing: two outlet pipes and a u-bend.

The question: what on earth am I doing there at eleven o'clock at night? is also the wrong question. And, had it been asked at the time, I would have said, it was also somewhat irritating. It is quite obvious what I am doing: I am cleaning the drain.

But the question: do you know how to fit these pieces back together again?

That question - maybe hurtful in its tendency to cast aspersions on my mechanical ability - is entirely relevant to the problem in hand. Bulls eye!

You could continue and ask kindly: But shouldn't you be in bed?  Or: Won't you get cramp sitting on the floor like that?

But however relevant such questions might be when you are in a tight spot (as I was, crouched on my side with my head jammed inside the cupboard under the sink), such perception, however kindly meant, does nothing to resolve the jigsaw puzzle in my lap.

 And however much I lecture myself that I have done this before (several times) and have profited by having clean smelling drains for yet another six months, the pieces fail to jell: for I simply cannot remember!

Was the u-bend under this drain or indeed under that? Have I lost a piece?

I rush outside and examine the spot on the ground, where I had tipped the disgustingly gruesome water. But there are no misplaced pieces of pipe.

So if it is all here in my lap, why does this pipe have three outlets? I'm positive it had only two before I washed it. I scrutinise the pieces. Honest, there really are only two bits of pipe into which it can fit. So how come I also have three washers left over?

And: where the hell did I hang my rubber gloves?

Visualisation of the drainage system produces cramp, my toes curling like up like stale slices of bread, causing me to screech in agony and hang on to my toes, until the spasm has passed. Sadly it fails to produce an image of the piece of pipe on which my rubber gloves had, in fact, hung for the past five years.

 I glance at my watch. One o'clock! I look outside at the peaceful square, neighbours on all sides sleeping soundly, the square cocooned in a haven of blissful sleep.

Nothing for it but to give in. And yet …

'Tomorrow,' I said aloud, 'the moment I awake I will call the plumber and that will cost me at least a hundred pounds.'

It is amazing how the threat of unwanted expenditure clarifies an aging mind. Instantly the pieces made sense, the long white tubes clipping neatly together to form two drains, one horizontal bar (on which my rubber gloves hang), and a u-bend, each piece clean and sweet-smelling and designed to carry, without leaking, waste water into the municipal drain. 

One last job to be done: I stick my head back under the sink, working my way along each pipe inch by inch, trying to memorise where each piece lives in relation to the next.

'Well' I said, glancing at my watch and a silently sleeping square. 'At least I've saved myself a ton of money.'

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Fashion most extraordinary.

I have to admit I hate piercings. Ears I can tolerate unless there’s a chasm in the lobe as wide as the Gotthard tunnel through the Swiss Alps, A neat stud in the nose – I can also tolerate . Fine, until you go swimming when it turns into the Trevi fountain in Rome. But tongues, lips and eyebrows turn the wearer into an advertisement for Edward Scissorhands. Let’s be honest, nose rings either look like ossified bogeys or something that should have 4 legs, stand in a field, eat grass and bellow.

We are always reciting don’t judge a book by its cover – but hey, sit me opposite a bloke covered in piercings and tattoos and I make a judgement – rarely complimentary.

Okay, so it’s prejudice pure and simple. We all have our pet peeves and the chap is probably an absolutely super guy. But be honest – he isn’t making the best of himself. And, besides ringing all the bells at Heathrow security, he’ll never get a girlfriend. Blokes should be like that advertisement for Brita water. Pure and simple with no additives.

And while I’m having a moan ... Young guys should be dragged into a shop and forced to inspect their rear in those stupid trousers with crotches level with their knees. Besides dislocating their hips and making them slurp along the street, they look as if they’re wearing a nappy.  I feel like starting a campaign. Bring back real bottoms.

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Mr Heinz and I

In the years after the war (no, I mean the second not the first) food was in short supply and it was then, as a small child, I was introduced to tinned food. The well-meaning people of Australia, Canada and South Africa sent us food parcels – can you imagine? I remember Epicure sausages and tinned peaches and condensed milk. (I once stole a small tin from the larder and tried to eat the evidence. I gave up before I got to the end).

Food was so difficult to come by that housewives became a dab hand at spreading butter on bread only to scrape it off again. And the joint on Sunday always had a bone in it which ended up as soup on a Thursday.

My family had been bombed out of Croydon and I was later allowed to go and stay with old-neighbours in their tiny flat, 5 doors from where Vera Lynn lived. (Something that was pointed out to me every time we passed the house. ‘That’s where Vera Lynn lives. The forces sweetheart, you know.” I didn’t for at least 40 years.) The little flat possessed a tiny corner cupboard. Mostly empty, its middle shelf always had 2 tins of Heinz Baked Beans on it. My introduction to heaven – beans on toast. It was ‘the thing’, ‘the tradition’ that I had beans on toast for supper whenever I stayed with Mr and Mrs Noakes.

No one can quantify just how strong the whole childhood memory-syndrome thing is but I can tell you this, I have stayed faithful to Heinz Baked Beans for 60 years. It didn’t matter a jot that they stuck the price up and up till it became 0.69p or 0.71p (My mother would turn in her grave at the thought of paying 14s 2d for a tin of beans, but I didn’t care. They were Heinz and that was all that mattered.)

Mr Heinz and I were about to celebrate our diamond jubilee when he took out the salt and turned nectar into tasteless pap! Heartless and unforgivable treading on my childhood memories like that. I am now suing for divorce.

Okay, I know the arguments about salt and I never use it in cooking and never buy processed foods or ready meals. But I can’t help feeling like king in the nursery rhyme:  

The King asked the Queen, And the Queen asked the Dairymaid: "Could we have some butter For the Royal slice of bread?"

The Queen asked the Dairymaid, The Dairymaid said, "certainly, I'll go and tell the Cow now Before she goes to bed."

The Dairymaid she curtsied, And went and told the Alderney: "Don't forget the butter for The Royal slice of bread."

The Alderney said sleepily: "You'd better tell His Majesty That many people nowadays Like marmalade instead."

The Dairymaid said "Fancy!" And went to Her Majesty.She curtsied to the Queen, And she turned a little red:

"Excuse me, Your Majesty, For taking of the liberty, But marmalade is tasty, If it's very thickly spread."

The Queen said "Oh!" And went to His Majesty: "Talking of the butter for The royal slice of bread,
Many people think that Marmalade is nicer. Would you like to try a little Marmalade instead?"

The King said, "Bother!" And then he said, "Oh, deary me!" The King sobbed, "Oh, deary me!" And went back to bed."Nobody,"he whimpered, "Could call me a fussy man; I only want a little bit Of butter for my bread!"

The Queen said, "there, there!" And went to the Dairymaid. The Dairymaid said, "there, there!" And went to the shed.

The cow said, "there, there! I didn't really mean it; Here's milk for his porringer And butter for his bread."

The queen took the butter And brought it to His Majesty. The King said "butter, eh?" And bounced out of bed."Nobody," he said, as he kissed her tenderly, "Nobody," he said, as he slid down the banisters, "Nobody, my darling, could call me a fussy man - BUT, I do like a little bit of butter on my bread!

Shame on you Mr Heinz. Right your wrong and restore the flavour to beans. Then we might not need a divorce after all.

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Getting the priorities right

Ok – we all know the world is changing but why do we always throw the baby out with the bathwater. There’s loads of good stuff we've got rid of that we should have kept. Um … like men standing up for women on the bus for instance, and saying ‘good morning’ instead of ‘Alright?’ and if cars are parked on your side of the road, the oncoming traffic has priority!

But things have gone too far when McDonalds change the recipe for their milk shakes!  They were the closest thing to heaven that you could find. For ten minutes after you bought them you waited, saliva dripping from the corners of your mouth, for the ice cream to melt enough to slurp it up through the straw. They were so divine that when I collected my daughter from hospital after having her appendix out, we stopped at McDonalds for a Big Mac and shake. (Don’t get me started on Big Macs!). We also stopped there on the way back from hospital after she had her first baby.

On Saturday after a long day signing books at Waterstones in Canterbury, (It was fabulous if you are asking. Running and Time Breaking are super reads) I arrived at Paddington hot, thirsty and exhausted.” Chocolate milkshake,” I said 

… how could they! I was almost apoplectic with disgust.  Chocolate powder carelessly sprinkled into vanilla mush? (Guessing here but I presume a strawberry milkshake is strawberry powder carelessly sprinkled into vanilla mush and banana ... well, you get it.)

I mean, I’ll put up with horrendous weather, overcrowding on the tubes, delays on the railway & a lousy government - again. But changing a life-saving milk shake? What are they thinking about?

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My latest love affair

I have a new love in my life - no it's not a man. Its railways! Okay, so perhaps railways and men have some similarities. Neither are totally dependable. Frequently, they arrive late and the slightest bit of cold weather and they can't get started in the morning. But unlike men, trains are rarely short tempered, in fact train managers behave with great chivalry and cheerfulness. And trains go pretty much everywhere these days whereas you often have trouble getting the man in your life to even go to the supermarket. And can men introduce you to an amazing kaleidoscope of new people, new places and new scenery? You'd need to change your lover weekly to get the changes in scenery that railways can offer. Usually with men it's same-oh same-oh, and where's my dinner? Of course, Reading's a mess, bitterly cold and nowhere to sit, and the ladies loo at Paddington remains a disgrace even though they have rebuilt most of it. But St Pancras is divine. It's an amazing feeling when, ticket in hand, you arrive at the station and find the train waiting ready to board. You definitely can't do that with a man.

On the downside, if you're waiting at Reading, do keep your eyes peeled on platform 7. Trains arriving there have a nasty habit of leaving behind passengers who are sheltering from the wind and don't hear it arrive. Hmm - that is definitely not like a man - you always know when they arrive!

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Aliens have landed

You know those stories about UFO's - doesn't it seem strange that since the turn of this century they've all disappeared. No longer do seriously intuitive people see their ships criss-crossing the sky at night like the tail-end of a comet. If I was a believing man, I might say - they've gone because they've completed their mission.


Next time you see kids in the street - take a good hard look. They're most likely aliens in disguise. Nothing else can account for the ease with which they manipulate technology. Take my granddaughter! She walked into my house last Sunday and proceeded to grab a bunch of wires and connect my radio to my cd system - which by the way I've had for at least 7 years without being able to use it - and get it working perfectly in 2 seconds flat.

Logic says that's not normal. I'm normal. She has to be a supreme being - in other words an alien. People like me can't possibly be alien - we are definitely earthbound humans. How do you tell? I would have needed at least a half hour, plus specs, magnifying glass, dictionary, instruction,s and a large glass of wine before I could make it work.

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So what is life!

Promotion, promotion, promotion ... I'm supposed to be a writer and writers write - well they did last time I looked. I don't get time to write, what between tweeting and blogging and wishing someone a happy birthday on Facebook. I'm sure Ernest Hemingway never had this problem. If I remember correctly he swanned off to a new country, dranks pots of the local vino, and dashed-off a book. The only thing I dash off is yet another email to my publisher asking what font they used on the cover of A Fishy Tail.

This computer age is missing out - big time.We had this poem when I was a kid. 'What is life if full of care, we have no time to stand and stare. No time to stand beneath the bows and stare as long as sheep and cows.'

Does anyone today ever stand and do absolutely nothing but look about them? I wonder. Answers on a postcard please!

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To be ... beautiful or not to be ... beautiful

Samantha Brick's article in the Daily Mail, about woman disliking her for being so beautiful while airline pilots send her champagne, is a delight. Although no longer young, I was once mixing with princes, prime ministers, world-famous sportsmen, films start, and not a few beautiful woman, including the 1970 Miss World, Jennifer Hosten.

What strata of society does Samantha move in, where women are so jealous of her beauty they dislike her on sight? Definitely not top drawer. Beautiful women - and I emphasise the world beautiful - in my experience are as lovely on the inside as the out. If it is just the outer skin, people rarely find them beautiful and then they cold-shoulder them. I do hope that's not the reason why Samantha find herself out in the cold.

 To give her the benefit of the doubt, either she is writing the article tongue in cheek or she is seeking publicity - and that she has got in spades. I congratulate her on a job well-done.

Note to self:  But what if she really believes this. No way. Nice looking she is, but no show-stopper. I have seen women walk into a room and reduce it to total silence. Would Samantha even be noticed? 

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Frothing at the mouth

I try to erupt on Twitter but it's not a serious medium so blogging it has to be. So what's got me so riled?

I guess the fact that politicians never learn. In comes a new government and immediately they decide to change everything - no waiting to find out what actually works. A good headteacher changes nothing in the first year of a new appointment. The old adage ' if it ain't broke don't fix it' would save the government billions of wasted money - tax payers money naturally. But do they take notice - no.

So having decided to waste billions changing the health service which was at last becoming efficient, they have turned their attention to roads. Living in the country, thousands of us suffer from a lack of transport. Our last bus to Bath is 5.40 p.m. What happens to workers who finish at 6 p.m.? Cars are a life-line. And now they are talking toll roads! At least they aren't talking but exactly like gas, electricity etc. etc. etc. this is how it will end up. So I am angry. In times like this I wish we were more like the French - expressing disapproval by a visible presence on the streets.

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A Piece of Paper

I understood the great benefit of the computer society was getting rid of paper. The reverse has happened. Today, no one dare move without the right piece of paper.

At Bath station Saturday morning, the 8.13 for Paddington could not leave the terminus because one of the crew members had turned up for work without the right piece of paper! I guess it was his identity card. Wasn't there anybody on board that could vouch for him? So the railway came to a halt! Fortunately a crew member from the next train went in early and, eventually, 24 minutes behind time - the train appears!

In Sheltered Housing, carers can't change their schedule for an unexpected hospital release unless there is a care package in place to say they can! The only relative of the very ill can't be spoken to by medical staff because they don't have a piece of paper to say they can and the person concerned is too ill to write it.

I despair.
Throughout British society, paper comes first. No one can talk to you, do anything for you, take anyone anywhere, without that piece of paper saying they can! 

If fishing vessels had waited for the relevant piece of paper before they crossed the Channel to Dunkirk, half the men rescued would have died!
I cannot believe the independent streak of freedom-loving Britishers has been wiped out?
It's time we got rid of this obsession with paper. 

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