Thoughts and Observations

Thoughts from beyond the pond. 

“O sacred hunger of ambitious minds” – Edward Spencer. The Faerie Queen(1596)

 

I enjoy fast food and make no excuses for my love of burgers, chips, and the like. As I don’t eat fast food often, it remains a treat to enjoy occasionally. Naturally, I relish fast food because I don’t fast, but I eat fast. My mother maintained that I was a cross between a Labrador and a sticky-tongued toad. My father has just denied any responsibility for any part of my genetic makeup. I scoffed food as fast as possible before my elder brother confiscated all the good bits. So, it wasn’t genetics that made me eat like a tornado; it was survival.

I grew up in London and learned to dine out rather than eat at home from a very early age. My mother’s main culinary skill involved over-cooking Brussels sprouts for Christmas, but her mother, who also ran the bar at the Hackney Empire, was part-owner (so I was told) of an eating establishment on Lea Bridge Road, which I would frequently visit. My Grandmother ruled the place with a rod of iron, which looked remarkably like a large pea spoon. Dressed in a housecoat straining at the seams, a scarf tied round her head, and a cigarette in her mouth, she would remain behind the counter, never mixing with the clientele. She just stood there dishing out tea, which mostly missed the cups, and shouted at customers to collect their food, which lay on but elevated from the plate by a layer of melted lard. Miraculously, the cooked food never slipped off the plate, despite being lubricated. I loved it, but please remember that heart disease death rates have fallen steadily since the 1950s.

Life wasn’t all lard and blocked veins; there was sophistication. At this time, espresso coffee had arrived in London, and my brother, being older, hep and far from square, would steal money from my piggy bank and, in return, infrequently take me with him when he went to a coffee bar in Soho. His favourite was the 2i’s coffee bar, which two Iranians had set up, but my favourite was Le Macabre, where you sat on coffins (search YouTube for “It's The Age Of The Teenager (1958)”, it is pure nostalgia and essential viewing). 

I wanted something with more class, more sophistication. Lyons Corner Houses and tea shops came close with table service by the lovely Nippies in their maid-like uniforms and elegant hats; my father used to take me there. He also worked in the catering industry as a company rep selling kitchen equipment to hotels and large caterers. Indeed, he heard that Lyons had opened a new type of establishment that came to the UK from the USA. Now that’s cool, daddio. He took me to my first Wimpy, and so began my love for fast food. I mean, anywhere that had tomato ketchup in a tomato-shaped plastic bottle that, if squeezed hard enough, the ketchup would fly out at least 18 inches. This was not bad table manners; this was art in action. Sadly, my father died of a heart attack a couple of years later, brought on, no doubt, not by Wimpy but by lard.

 

It is now time to update the story. A short while ago, I fancied some fast food, so I suggested a Burger King meal. Coincidentally, through different owners, Burger King started in the UK as a rebranding of Wimpy. I downloaded the app and began ordering, not knowing where the nearest Burger King was. I politely asked my dining companion, “Which burger would you like?” showing the menu options. “I don’t mind,” came the reply. I tried to stay calm, because in my world, if you don’t mind, you don’t get! The question could have been, “Do you fancy Spain or Italy next year? OK, you don’t mind, so you can go to Spain and I will go to Italy.” I know from experience that whatever I chose would be wrong once the eating started. Finally, choices were made and entered into the app, and we headed to Whiteley in search of Burger King. The app had advised us not to confirm the final order until we were five minutes away, which is tricky if you don’t know where it is. Eventually, we found it and went inside. I could hardly believe my eyes. Where were the tables with menus? Where were the happy servers and tills? This looked more like a factory than a restaurant. People were standing in front of a board, poking pictures of burgers, then waving a card at it. Behind the counter, the staff were very busy, and every so often, a number would be shouted out in the same tone of voice as my grandmother's, and a bag of food would be shoved into the hand of a waiting customer. I was confused, so I played the old man. Gingerly, I approached the busy food preparation area and looked helpless. Fortunately, a young woman came over, and I admitted I didn’t know what to do. She looked at my phone, pointed to a number, and with a finger, directed me to wait over there. I did, but there wasn’t much to see—just an overflowing bin and an empty table. After a short while, she came over with a paper bag and calmly told me it contained my order. Great, I thought, but then she handed me two empty cups. Sensing my dismay, she led me to a drink dispenser with a long list of options. I asked my friend what they would like to drink. “I don’t mind,” came the answer. I cried a little, dispensed two cold drinks, and we drove home to eat a cold burger and even colder chips.

 

“The only time to eat diet food is while you’re waiting for the steak to cook.” Julia Child

 

“Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind” Shakespeare Henry VI, Part 3, Act 5

Just before Christmas, I was at Heathrow Airport, returning from a short trip to Vienna, and I needed to find a toilet. The flight had been brief, and I knew there were aeroplane toilets, but I was raised to follow the command, “Do not use the toilet while the train is in the station.” I do not like to risk using the toilet on an aeroplane—you never know who might be below!

The toilets at Terminal 3 are grandly situated at the end of a long, clinically white corridor. The corridor looks as if it has been scrubbed and polished to perfection, and it was bright enough to put Blackpool illuminations into the shade. As I sauntered down this testimony to hygiene, I saw a crumpled mass of humanity in the distance that looked very much out of place. He was not hurt or injured; he was sprawled across the floor like some muddy teenager on your best sofa. Was he a protester, a beggar, a thief, a drunkard, even a ne’er-do-well (whatever they are)? I was ready for any eventuality, i.e. a hasty exit in the opposite direction. I was suspicious, and as I drew near, my suspicions grew until I was upon him and there at my feet was a tired traveller with two mobile phones plugged into two electoral sockets. He was nursing and caring for his and his partners, prized possessions, i.e. iPhones. I felt somewhat guilty after making such a negative assessment of him and his motives. 

On reflection, I was right to be suspicious or wary, which, given the situation, is a better word to use. We all want to be kind, i.e. the type of person who is warm, friendly and welcoming, but the truth is that, at the same time, we need to be cautious of the unexpected. I was reminded of this when watching my favourite television channel, Talking Pictures TV (Freeview channel 82). It was a 1959 episode of Dixon of Dock Green about doorstep swindlers taking advantage of the elderly, with one well-dressed crook promising their victim that they had been left an annuity while the other quietly and carefully stole cheques and looked for silver to be stolen later. At the end of the programme, George Dixon gave some sensible advice about being careful of unknown callers no matter how plausible and friendly they may seem. How right he was, but how many more doors do we have to protect today? My mother-in-law, usually a wise and sensible woman, spent thousands of pounds to receive a cash prize of millions; of course, she had been conned and lost the lot. She was not a greedy woman out for the millions, but she was too trusting a soul. The people who took her money were, to her, kind, clever, and believable; in reality, they were evil, and she saw no evil in anyone.

In one case, in this article, it was a door; in another, it was a letterbox that let the swindlers in. Again, how many more doors do we have now, not just physical but digital doors as well? A computer, a landline, an iPad, and an iPhone are more doors we need to protect. It is important not to get too pessimistic about computers, email, and the Internet. During and after COVID, they kept people in contact and informed, but like any door, it is essential to be wary of unknown visitors.

We can use tools like antivirus software and ensure that all our software is current. More accounts offer Two-Factor Authentication, where you enter additional information, such as a code sent to your phone. We can also be more cautious and less trusting when using free Wi-Fi in public places, watching what we post on social media, and avoiding sharing personal information.

If you are targeted, reporting concerns helps police track the criminal. While the Telephone Preference Service may help reduce direct marketing calls, it does not stop scam calls. These should be reported to  www.actionfraud.police.uk, while suspicious emails should be forwarded to report@phishing.gov.uk.

We all have so many more doors to protect, and we can fail quickly. Just the other day, I nearly replied to a text supposedly coming from my son telling me he had a new phone and couldn’t do online banking, so could I help? I nearly did reply to that text, but I remembered to “take five”, i.e. take a few minutes before replying and during that time, I rang his old number, and my son answered. I may have been scammed if I had rushed to respond to the text message. 

The police have produced a comprehensive and valuable resource to keep us safe. Now that Gavin and Stacey has finished, we have time on our hands, so please follow the link and read:

https://www.met.police.uk/syssiteassets/media/downloads/central/advice/fraud/met/the-little-book-of-big-scams.pdf

As well as a good lock and chain on the front door, we need to know how to protect ourselves from cybercrime I began with a quotation from Henry VI. The complete quotation is:

“Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind;

The thief doth fear each bush an officer”

Perhaps today, it should read

“Suspicion always haunts the careful mind;

The thief doth fear each vigilant user.”

 

“There is nothing wrong in change, if it is in the right direction. To improve is to change, so to be perfect is to have changed often.” - Winston Churchill.

At last, it is April; winter is fading, and spring has arrived. I will not miss winter, since it has become a season of dull, dreary, and damp days rather than the bright, brisk, and bitterly cold days where walking was a brusque pleasure rather than a despondent trudge. 

The emergence of Spring is a welcome change, and it made me think about change in general. The proverb says, “A change is as good as a rest,” and while I generally prefer the latter to the former, change happens to us all, whether we like it or not.

Changes in ourselves may be obvious as we grow and mature, or more subtle like the first time we say, “I would love a cup of tea”, or find ourselves tuning into Radio 4 rather than Radio 1. The world around us changes, as do the people we feel close to. We are animals who need to feel connected, and hopefully, the people around us can enrich our lives as the final squeeze of the tea bag does for our cup of tea.

The changes I am experiencing are rather personal, so I hope you don’t mind me sharing them with you. If you do, please stop reading and turn the page, but if you don’t mind my honesty, please keep it between us. I know I can trust you.

I read somewhere that knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit, and wisdom is knowing it doesn’t go into a fruit salad. Personally, knowledge is knowing I am getting older, and wisdom is knowing I can no longer put my socks on while standing up. Wisely, I sit down to save myself from falling flat on my face. 

Other changes have occurred to my body. There was a time when I had a waist, and my body tapered inwards somewhere between my neck and the top of my legs. This narrowing was quite helpful in keeping my trousers in place. A belt, strategically attached to the trousers, could be fastened around the waist with minimal fuss, ensuring that one’s trousers remained anchored to the body. Knowing that my trousers were secure, I could safely manage moving, running, bending, and so on.

Not only have I lost my waist, but I have gone from a concave to a more convex shape. Once, I had a waist, so where do I wear a belt now? Positioning my belt where I once had a waist was possible, but the belt seemed to have shrunk. With a pull and a tug, I could get the belt done up, but not to the same hole as before; indeed, the crease in the belt where it used to fit was some distance away. Not only that, my middle became so constricted that bending over to tie my shoes was not only positively painful, but it seemed to stop the flow of blood through my body, making me feel faint. A new solution had to be found. Logically, my belt could go over or under the bump, so I tried both. Under the bump was not a good look. It looked like I was trying to wear hipster trousers, and as only Jean Shrimpton or Twiggy ever managed to look good with a low-slung waist, I gave up that idea.

Over the bump is appealing because I always found my grandfather’s trousers fascinating. In his soft Nottinghamshire accent, he would refer to them as his Oxford bags, and they were simply magnificent. The waistband of his bags rested halfway up his chest, about a foot beneath his chin, while the body of the trousers plunged to meet the legs, each so vast that they could almost pass as skirts. They ended with enormous turn-ups; there was nothing drainpipe-like about them. They were a man’s trouser, and they certainly made their presence felt.

April 2025

I was tempted, and I thought about Oxford bags, but I can’t afford turn-ups on the trousers I have, let alone the volume of material needed for the rest. Still, my grandfather did have the answer. His bags were suspended from his shoulders by braces! Why didn’t I think of that before?

I eventually found Marks and Spencer in Hedge End using my car's satnav and bought a pair. Why are they called a pair? Is it because trousers have two legs? Anyway, they had clasps on the ends to attach to the waistband, and after much fiddling, I managed to get them over my shoulders and my legs into my trousers. The result was immediate—elegance and comfort combined. No belt now, just braces and a newfound freedom. Thank you, Granddad. It's been sixty-five years since I last saw you, and you gave me my best Christmas present. Indeed, no more socks, pants, or handkerchiefs for Christmas. I want braces in as many colours and styles as possible. “Roger and the amazing technicolour braces” has a lovely ring to it, which reminds me of something else, though I can’t quite place it.

I have been honest about my discovery of and my use of braces. Americans refer to them as suspenders, but then, they wear their pants on the outside. We are two nations divided by a common language, and I hope that is all that will separate us.

“Good grief. It's you. Now, get me out of those trousers.” Wallace. The Wrong Trousers (1993).

Far be from me to criticise a literary giant, but T. S. Eliot got it all wrong in The Waste Land. April is not the cruellest month; on my calendar, it is quite a wonderful month as it heralds the start of Spring.

 

Each season has its delights, long warm summer days, the colours of autumn, and if I can put to one side the grey, damp dismal days of winter, I can enjoy a bracing walk in the snow. When was the last time we had any? Emerging out of winter with its short cold days and even colder long nights blooms Spring. Eliot even says that the Winter kept the Earth warm! The Waste Land is recognised as part of the birth of darker modernist poetry, but for me, more meaningful poetry consists of a bit of wandering and a few daffodils. And where does he get “lilacs out of the dead land”? Indeed, he must have meant crocuses! Ignoring the poetic cadence, perhaps we need Monty Don on this one.

 

I get excited by the Spring; in my walks around the pond or along the old railway line I look eagerly for the first signs of life emerging from hibernation, be it the pond filling up faster than my bath or hazel catkins lengthening and waving in the breeze. If you can, carefully look at a hazel branch and try to find the female flowers. They are small and green bud-like structures but sticking out from the top are tiny magenta styles ready to catch the pollen from another hazel. They are sweet, and who does not stop to look at snowdrops or a carpet of spring crocuses?

 

Spring and its signs of renewal impact me more than the rituals of the New Year celebration. Unfortunately, being of a certain age, Andy Stewart and Home Service ruined that for me. My apologies to all Scots and Radio 4.

 

I live in a flat, or when I am feeling posh, I live in an apartment, but whatever it is I don’t have a garden. Still, I have a few tubs and pots, and in one I have grown Iris reticulata; they are fantastic Spring flowers with deep purple petals tipped with white, yellow and black marked nectar guides. When I see them, they are joyful, so Spring is a joyful season for me. 

 

If you disagree with me, that is fine, but can I give you a challenge? It is something I did the other day. I bought a bunch of cut daffodils, still in the bud from a local shop. They were relatively inexpensive, so I wanted to treat myself. Once home I trimmed the ends by an inch and put them in a vase with water and a spoonful of sugar. Over the next few days, the buds opened and what a delight. Every time I look at them, I cannot help but smile. For me, in that one vase, the joy of Spring is captured.

 

I look forward to my walks along the railway track seeing ragged robin and bugle gradually emerge from winter hibernation while the whole track becomes a tunnel as the trees come to life. Spring is the promise of better to come, but I know that is not true for everyone or for me all the time, but I will grasp hold of these delights while I can and hope that the feeling I have about Spring can help me cope better should my days become darker. As Wordsworth wrote in the final stanza of Daffodils.             

For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. 

Yes, this is another article about King Charles, but it is also about me, so as it sounds like a somewhat presumptuous title, let me explain. King Charles was born on the 14th of November 1948, and I was born 24 days later. His birth was front-page news; in contrast, mine was an embarrassment to all concerned and while I could not be swept under the carpet, news of my birth was.

 

I have never met King Charles and I am pretty sure he has never even heard of me. I am not part of the “Good and the Great” but more part of the “Good (I hope) and the Mediocre (probably)”. Despite this, I feel that we have grown up together because our ages are so similar. We have experienced the challenges and depravations of post-war Britain; the emergence of rock and roll in the 50s; the embracing of youth culture in the 60s; political and union upheaval in the 70s; the Thatcherism of the 80s; the dissolution of the Soviet Union in the 90s; New Labour of the 00s; Brexit of the 10s; and the pandemic of the 20s.

 

I realise fully that our experiences may not match exactly, but I thank my parents every day for not sending me to Gordonstoun. Reading reports of life as a student, I would have cried a lot and died early: although most from that community, including Charles, felt it was a positive experience.

 

One significant difference between King Charles and myself is that I have never drunk Cherry Brandy as he did at 14. It may be a class thing, but at that age, my Dad used to pass me the odd pint of mild as I stood outside the Blind Beggar Pub. A pub once owned by Bobby Moore, the only person of note that came from my Secondary School.

 

Another factor in common is that while he was the first British heir apparent to earn a University degree, I was the first in my family’s history to earn a degree, but at the other place. One significant difference, however, is that I never suffered the press and public humiliation he faced about his “talking to plants” and his love of conservation and organic farming. He has been vindicated and how prescient his views and beliefs have become. It says much for the man that I have never heard him say, “I told you so”. Instead, he has led by example at Highgrove, which has a most glorious stumpery that his father found hideous but is well worth a visit; The Prince’s Foundation at Dumfries House; his farms and many other examples.  

 

Like King Charles lll, his mother has been part of my life. I was born, lived, and raised in London and for the people and families where I lived, Queen Elizabeth ll was a figure of stability and continuity. She was the one constant that could be relied upon not to change while the world around seemed to go from one crisis to the next. When she sadly died, the response by so many people to show respect and love for her and her memory must have made many a politician feel like a fraud and envious of the regard in which she was and is still held.

 

Rather like our different opinions of Gordonstoun, if at the age of 74, I had to suddenly start to work incredibly hard as King Charles lll and Camilla have done, I would have failed. He has not, and neither has she. I shall be watching the coronation and toasting God save the King. I wish him and her a long and happy reign.

Having lived in Bishops Waltham for two years, I realise how lucky we are to have such a vibrant high street, with a good range of shops within easy reach. There are times, however, when it is necessary to venture further afield. At these times, I am sure that, like in some bizarre science fiction film, the roads outside Bishops Waltham move and change places with each other. Shopping sites such as Park Gate, Whitely and Hedge End are clear and accessible when I look at a map, but when it comes to driving to them, not only am I at a loss as to which road to take, but the roads themselves seem to change each time. Landmarks disappear or reappear at random positions; traffic lights are invariably red to warn me of the confusion ahead.

Let me give you an example; I have yet to be able to drive to Hedge End without using a Sat Nav (apology for the abbreviation). I have tried without using one but have found myself lost and desolate in various places along the south coast.  Friends have driven me there via Botley or Fair Oak or even Durley, but for me, Sainsbury's (SO30 2UH) at Hedge End is as elusive as James Hilton’s Shangri-La. For me, the postcode SO32 2UH leads nowhere but some tall gates, so I fumble around on a dual carriageway until I see a bright orange sign. Once there, I can find my way to M&S (SO30 2UH), but B&Q (SO30 4HW) is a more difficult quest; I know it is near Sainsbury's, but the only way I can reach it is to use the dreaded Sat Nav. Once on a pilgrimage to buy a tin of Dulux Apricot White paint, I found myself at the Ageas Bowl and was intrigued to find it was a cricket ground. As a fan of cricket, I was really pleased with my find, but it didn’t get my walls painted, which was sad; it is also unfortunate that I may never find the Ageas Bowl again.

Driving to Whitely is another mystery, yet it also has an M&S store (PO15 7PD) am I sensing a plot? I don’t need to go to Whitely that often, but my 7-year-old grandson loves a burger at Five Guys (PO15 7PD). His father will not let me take him there unsupervised lest I return with a young adult. When I drive, getting to Whitely seems to entail more roundabouts than Milton Keynes, but then someone gave me a lift from Bishops Waltham and I found no roundabouts only a new housing estate; just when did that appear? Getting to Dunelm (PO14 4QL) in Park Gate involves another housing estate. With such short windy roads, I am worried I may end up parking in someone’s drive.

It is only in the last few years that I have had a car with a built-in navigation system; the lady talks to me in calming tones. So now, without thought or reason, I just do as I am told. I no longer need to plan or think ahead. I drive forward and turn left or right as instructed, take the right turn off a roundabout by counting to the number she said, my consciousness in on my immediate position; nothing about where I have been or where I am going needs to bother me. Is she enabling me, or am I enabling her? Perhaps she is disabling me. What happens if she breaks down and I am lost? Maybe George Moore was correct when he wrote, “A man travels the world in search of what he needs and returns home to find it”. Thank goodness for Bishops Waltham High Street (SO32 1AB).

While writing, I have mentioned several businesses; these mentions should not be considered any kind of endorsement; hence I must add caveat emptor to this passage. I can, of course, be persuaded otherwise; please contact my lawyers, who are well known to those of a similar vintage as myself. They are called Flywheel, Shyster and Flywheel, the same lawyers as those used by the Marx Brothers.

So sang Cliff Richard, our Prince of Pop, in the same named film, in January 1963, but are we all going to do that?

 

Like most of the UK, my family and I caught Covid sometime in the past two years; luckily and thankfully, none of us was seriously ill and we all recovered. I found, however, that there were a few surprising results, not so much from Covid, but more to do with the lockdown that Covid bought with it. Before the lockdown, I would drive anywhere, I loved being behind the wheel of a car and the freedom that came with it. I have driven Route 66 across the USA; from bottom to top in Australia; right across Europe and in all the continents except the Antarctica. So, having been driving for 54 years and even at a modest 10 000 miles a year, this would mean that after driving around the Earth (24,901 miles) to get some speed up, I could have driven to the moon and back (238,854 miles one way) and I would have enjoyed every mile. 

 

When the streets became devoid of cars at the start of the lockdown, I must admit I loved the quietness, peace and feeling of openness that resulted. It reminded me of London's empty streets as a child. Then hopscotch, roller-skating, football and even cricket were played in the middle of the road. In the 1950s, cars were few and far between, the main hazard to our play being the droppings left by the milkman’s horse.

 

When we were free to move again at the end of the lockdown, I was pretty nervous about driving again, which was a shock. Initially, I did not want to drive and when I forced myself to get behind the wheel, I felt vulnerable, timid, and over-cautious. For weeks, rather than going to the shops by car, I arranged for deliveries or walked. I did not want to admit I was nervous, but I needed to drive; I did not want to isolate myself from my wider family, so drive I did, but more carefully and guardedly. Gradually, my confidence returned, perhaps not to where it was, but driving more warily is good.

 

So, this brings me back to the Prince of Pop and his summer holiday aboard a proper London bus, i.e., a Regent III RT, with none of this AEC Routemaster nonsense (apologies to non-bus nerds), which makes me think of my holiday. Yes, I am going away and driving; I am going on a bird-watching foray and staying at Lea Abbey in Devon, but am I ready to go further afield? Of that, I am not sure.

 

The thought of an airport, once a place of anticipation for an adventure to come, where my heart beats faster in excitement, no longer enthuses me. I feel that I have lost that moment. Now the thought of checking in and going through security no longer excites me but seems a chore.  One thing I will not miss is that however careful I have been; there would always be that tiny metallic item that set off the alarm and with arms aloft, I would be poked at with a metal detector. Other things I will not miss include expensive food inversely proportional to the quality, watery beer, long walks to waiting areas, the glare of the flight attendants as they check my passport and ticket and then the downward tunnel that leads us like lemmings to the flying tube. Or will I, given time, as with driving, learn to love these things again?

 

Whatever you are doing this summer, whether you are going away or not, I hope that you are safe and that when we meet again, as we stroll across the bridge over the North Pond, you have stories to tell of kindness and cheer that will keep us warm and smiling into the Autumn. 

Earlier this year, I joined a group who were reading and talking about the Archbishop of Canterbury’s Lent Book of 2023. The title of the book was Failure, and the Rt Revd Dr Emma Ineson wrote it. After reading and studying this book, I realised I was somewhat of a success at everyday failure. A statement which, perhaps, needs some explanation.

 

Two examples come to mind. The first began towards the end of last year when I decided that it would be a noble and patriotic duty to help ring the Church bells at the Coronation of King Charles. So, I joined the merry peel of campanologists at St Peter's to be instructed in the ancient art of English bell ringing.  After a few strenuous weeks, my success came when I realised that I had neither the talent, timing nor temperament needed for such an activity, so I successfully withdrew from the group. In my mind, it was not a failure but a success, as not ringing on the day meant their peels and changes were perfect. I would only have messed it up.

 

A poem by A. E. Housman best illustrates my second example of success through failure. I was introduced to Housman’s work by Colin Dexter, the author of the Inspector Morse series of novels. I enjoyed my chats with Colin as we both had an interest in an Oxford Charity. He was a pleasure to talk to and I learned much from his quiet intelligence and wit. I miss his company, as I am sure The Dew Drop Inn on Banbury Road also does. 

 

This poem was not published until after Housman’s death and it is simply number XVI in a slim volume called More Poems, published in 1936 and edited by his brother Laurence Housman. It is better known today as The Remorseful Day, as Colin Dexter used this phrase, from the poem, as the title of his final Inspector Morse novel.

 

How clear, how lovely bright, How beautiful to sight Those beams of morning play; How heaven laughs out with glee Where, like a bird set free, Up from the eastern sea Soars the delightful day.

 

To-day I shall be strong, No more shall yield to wrong, Shall squander life no more; Days lost, I know not how, I shall retrieve them now; Now I shall keep the vow I never kept before.

 

Ensanguining the skies How heavily it dies Into the west away; Past touch and sight and sound Not further to be found, How hopeless under ground Falls the remorseful day.

 

I have lost count of the number of days when I have woken up and planned all sorts of things that should be done, only to have succeeded, by the end of the day, having done very little. I am successful at not doing today what I can leave until tomorrow. I am not lazy; I am just successful at the economy of movement. Since I live in an empty nest, no one queries me, for example, “Why haven’t you taken the rubbish out?” using such words designed to prod me gently into action by pointing out my failings. The cat sitting on my lap and failing to move was always a good but unwelcome excuse. 

 

Making a success of small everyday failures is an important part of life; it is an indication of what to avoid. I learned very early that I could not kick a ball straight, so I avoided anything to do with football. I enjoyed games at school where I successfully played the injured sportsman and had to sit on the touchline. To this day, I can successfully claim to know nothing about our National sport, so please don’t ask me about the off-side rule. 

 

In the same vein, I am successful at not keeping lists of what needs to be done. It is all very well crossing off jobs as they are completed, but just to be left with a list of failures fills me with horror. I keep a list at the end of the day, but only of those things that have succeeded, which is a more positive arrangement. 

 

Success in failure is not to feel a failure. Feeling a failure can be draining, so I prefer the word remorseful. Failure suggests the end, while remorseful suggests a pause before success. As Yoda from StarWars says, “Do or Do Not, there is no try”. It is important to trust ourselves in our own abilities and not try the impossible; we cannot do everything. If failure does raise its ugly head, please find someone to talk to and help turn a failure into a success. 

 

I am a creature of habit and the older I am the more important these habits become; they give my daily life structure and context, be it finishing a crossword or, one of my favourite habits, visiting the Country market each Friday morning. Every Friday I walk across the North Pond bridge and meet friends for coffee, cake, and company, with a little shopping thrown in for good luck. 

 

On one such Friday, I had chatted and been diverted a bit too long and noticed that the cake table was nearly empty! I went over and there was one cake left for sale – a tea loaf and who can refuse that? I stretched out my hand to claim my prize when another hand slid under mine and stole the cake from me, not only that but a foot was placed firmly and painfully on mine. What could I do? Then, purely without thinking, and as a reflex, I said sorry to the woman who had claimed my tea cake. So, I was the one who apologised and was left wondering whether this was the right thing to do. I was stunned and feeling defeated and de-footed I limped back to my table and told my tale, much to the pleasure and amusement of those there. There are times when you know your friends!

 

Being too old and inflexible to lick my wounds the urge for cake grew. I had to have cake. So, after the market, I wandered into town in search of gateau and soon found myself gazing at row upon row of delicious cakes and pastries. I was transfixed and gazed with anticipation trying to make a choice when I heard the words “I’m sorry” spoken quietly at my side. Turning around I realised that, in my cake daze, I was blocking the aisle, and someone wanted to get past and instead of being brusque they had politely asked to come past. How nice was that! I immediately returned an apology and stepped aside. 

 

These two events started me thinking about apologies, apologising, and saying sorry. I can’t agree with P. G. Woodhouse who wrote in The Man Upstairs “It is a good rule in life never to apologise. The right sort of people do not want apologies, and the wrong sort take mean advantage of them.” Apologies are essential for living with people and being part of a community. An honest apology hopefully leads to forgiveness or reconciliation. It is a kind gesture that makes you feel relieved if accepted but hurt if rebuffed. 

 

There are two broad types of apologies. The first is more of a habit and may not always be appropriate as when I was pipped at the post over cake. We have all apologised when one is not needed. American friends have called it a quaint British custom. It is just being polite, recognising an accident, and not wanting to cause a fuss.  They make life go smoother and show consideration for others. The second type is more difficult and needs to be made, but that is not always easy. Sad to say I have not always apologised when I should. It takes courage to be honest and pride can get in the way and even a feeling of guilt can make it difficult. Either that or money stopped the person who dented my car from leaving a note, or perhaps they agreed with Charles I who, in his letter to Lord Wentworth wrote “Never make a defence or apology before you be accused”.

 

 

This story would not be complete if I did not say, that in the end, I did get cake. I bought a Battenburg, which, as a creature of habit, must be eaten in ascending levels of deliciousness. First the pink squares, then the yellow squares and finally the marzipan after rolling it into a small ball of delight. If you disagree with my order of consumption – I apologise.

There was a young lady called Bright,

Whose speed was faster than light;

She set out one day

In a relative way

And returned on the previous night.

(Arthur Buller pub. Punch December 1923)

One month into 2024 and would someone please tell me what happened to 2023? It was there one moment and then gone, washed away by the rain. Time is relative, so it is said, but in my experience, some relatives have lousy timing.

The theory of relativity says that I should know where I am, but not where I am going, or I know where I am going but not where I am. Any relativity specialist out there, please write to the editor of this magazine with any corrections, not to me. The earlier sentence sums up my life completely, i.e. there is a great danger that I don’t know where I am or where I am going. This worries me: where did 2023 go, and what did I do? If I made you smile, great; if I forgot your birthday, sorry; if I annoyed you, I am not sure what I did, but I will try not to do it again, is all I can say. Thus, I am relatively lost as I do not know whether I am coming or going.

I need to pay more attention to 2024. Otherwise, I may lose that too. What I do remember over the past few years is that I have lost a few close and dear friends. People who had an impact on my life. I am not the first to say that no one is indispensable, but some are irreplaceable. New Year resolutions are there to be broken, but I will make sure that I value the people around me. We are all, in some small or large way, irreplaceable to those we know, and this year, especially, I am determined to recognise and acknowledge these qualities in the people I know and meet.

Paying more attention is a good theme for the year. I am no longer in the first flush of youth, and I spend too much time trying to open packets of anything from cheese to washing powder. Frighteningly, I have been known to resort to attacking them with the largest and sharpest knife I have, as all too often, the opening instructions are written in small and, to my ageing eyes, illegible print. Also, since the lockdown, I have received more deliveries from Amazon, DHL, Evri, etc. Now, I spent time wondering whether the cardboard box should be kept or broken up and recycled. My garage is full of empty boxes, but you never know; they may come in useful one day. Is there a group called Cardboard Anonymous? I may need to follow their Twelve Steps.

Another theme of the year, for me, needs to be forgiveness; let me explain. Once upon a time, I had a friend who I think suffered from something verging on hyperthymesia, which is defined as a condition of possessing an extremely detailed autobiographical memory i.e. it seemed to me that she could remember every detail of everything we had done in the past. People we had met, places we had been, what we did, ate, or thought and especially my faults. Our conversations were often punctuated by her saying things like, “You are not going to that again, are you? The last time (add every detail) was an embarrassment for everyone!”. Mind you, she was brilliant at forgiveness, but not forgetting. She held every memory, every slight, hardship, terror and joy. She could forgive but not let go. My memory is like a sieve; I forget easily but am unsure of forgiveness. Lack of forgiveness can lead to resentment and regret. Indeed, as Tommy Lee Jones in the film Men in Black 3 espouses, the most destructive force in the universe is regret. Forgetting is not a problem, but I must try to forgive before I forget and do away with resentment and guilt.

My mantra for this year, therefore, is paying more attention to those around me, forgiving and forgetting where necessary and appropriate. It is going to be a hard year for me. So, wish me luck, resilience, and all the best for 2024, as I wish you luck, resilience, and all the best for 2024.