No blue cheese, no blue films but definitely a blue funk.

It is interesting (as I used to tell students before departing from the curriculum)… In this instance the interesting detail is that the X-rated Goldilocks heading seems to be one of the most popular things that I have written.  That should make this one another chart-topper.

Having had no contact with TOO since the spat with RtBoM, last Saturday I popped in to town to do a few SLJs with the intent of returning to get on with big jobs…  Aye, right. Checking my e-mails, there was one from TOO, Phyllis had gone on a pilgrimage and Jim was feeling abandoned.  Thus an RVP had been arranged at O’Shaughnessey’s and I had no time to go and change my paint-splattered tee-shirt; friends (and Guinness) are more important than sartorial elegance.  I hot-footed – and was first there (by a short head – I think they all lay in ambush).  Despite Xbob(!) being in residence I was invited to join TOO and her post-pub for fish and chips and then to stay over; it would have been churlish to decline.  It might also have been a Latin verb to decline but I believe that it is now taught differently, fortunately.  I am reminded of the old kiddie rhyme: “Latin is a language, as dead as dead can be.  It killed the ancient Romans and now it’s killing me.”

Sunday became a day of return (they needed to go shopping so I got a lift halfway to base) and recuperation – and Monday was not much more productive.  The roundabout journey after the last refuelling meant that the journey to see SENGO would again be testing the range of the bike but I was determined to resist the urge to fill up before necessary and thus not investigate the true range of a full tank.  My out and out bravery stood up so well – until it was actually called into question.  I watched the mileage increase as the blobs decreased, I was getting twitchy but managing my phobia.  And then the penultimate blob vanished and the wee flashing petrol pump started flashing.  Sod Captain Mainwaring, I panicked.  I know that the reserve tank holds enough to cover those last few miles and that there are several garages betwixt SENGO and the last services; but still I succumbed.  At £1 a gallon more than down the road I did make it a squirt and spurt top up, though.  Funk, yes, profligacy, I should cocoa.  Blue funk?  Definitely.  

80% is a significant result in most statistical tests, so this one is a bit of a result – especially as Nieve had the wind up her tail and was playing hard to get at.  Granddad rules apply; I might have got away without being the statutory embarrassment to my own kids, when it comes to grandchildren the gloves are off!  Don’t want to be photographed? Tough!  Every silver lining has a cloud; holiday childcare costs are so high that time off has to be eked out – but it did give me the opportunity to spend a couple of days pushing swings and helping with garden tasks.

 

The rewards for some things may (or may well not) be in heaven – helping to replace a missing fence panel lead to this ill-gotten haul. Gooseberries are amongst my favourite fruit and there, needing to be moved to facilitate the new panel, a type that I used to scrump wholesale but haven’t seen in the shops for many a long year.  All I need to do now is take successful cuttings.  The mother of some old friends who lived in the same street when I was a child knew when I had been round in the summer – she would go out to get some gooseberries to make a pie and end up doing a passable imitation of Old Mother Hubbard – and I always (justifiably) got the blame.  Ee it was a time to reminisce and to fill my boots – and the red ones are just as tasty as I remember.

As clouds go, the only one was just a wisp in the sky.  On Wednesday evening I left post bath time – and then decided that a cup of cocoa was required at the penultimate services.  The latest edition of Private Eye was adorning the shelves (it was due to be released the following day) – and the cryptic crossword is so good; it adheres to all the conventions but the clues are real pubescent male, tit and bum humour.  I love it!

How time flies when you are having fun – with a day at WVM on Thursday I should have aimed to get back to base before 01.30…  But with only two outstanding clues to solve who could blame me?  Two delightful van boys, summer holiday traffic; despite having been given a long and tortuous route when I had asked as a favour to have a short one, the day passed pleasantly and quickly and I was first at the MB and B (this is becoming a habit) before Geo.  We knew that TOO was coming , albeit later, and thought that Stu was as well but when Xbob(!) arrived we were pleasantly surprised (and barely missed Stu at all).

Claire, who used to live aboard but has ‘gone ashore’ (it does seem a tad dramatic when the cut is only fourteen feet across at the broad locks), has been helping a couple of locals with repainting.  She has access to cheap scraping thingies for angle-grinders and so now I have a ten pack and no excuse, except…

When Sundeep passed the camper ( a couple of times) for its MoT he had mentioned something that needed attention and I had (eventually) booked it in for Friday morning.  Jolly Jonny Jeff, formerly the Mad Mechanic, was at Sundeep’s working on his van.  He had texted (a rare occurrence since his remarriage last year) whilst I was at SENGO’s .  The upshot was that I rode round to JJJ’s on Sunday morning, had a coffee and a blether and then went for a wee biker’s excursion.  With a weather forecast for heavy showers it was not a propitious day for a cafe biker ride but the rain gods were with me – I rode on quite a few wet roads but did not get rained on at all; huzzah, and thrice huzzah (particularly as I had gone out “sans wetties”).  It is nice to be back in riding for the hell of it mode after the hard work with the single cylinder BMW.

The downshot was that Sundeep had texted on Friday morning (and I had not turned my phone on before arriving) to put me off as his grandmother had had a double stroke and was in hospital.  Not having seen JJJ’s mother for a while I was shocked when I saw her on Sunday morning (she lives next door to him now) – she is looking her, advanced,  age and a bit more.  With Raj (Sundeep’s wife) having her mother less than hale and hearty as well it was not a light-hearted visit – and Raj had a car accident on Friday, to boot.  Fortunately she was not injured.

A Lawyer Calls.

Mr. Planning is an anomaly, how can we plan for the future when we don’t know what it holds?  has had a Damascene conversion (almost).   As a direct result of Buster’s travails I burst into a totally alien fit of activity – and allowed it to run its full course.  It will not compete with the Amazon or Nile (or even the newly cleared streams of the marais, come to that) but charity shops and the council tip will benefit from my trimming down and largesse – which is not anomalous.

I have heard that Victorian maids kept a clean nightdress under their pillow in case they died or were taken ill in the night; the spirit lives on.  Despite there being no-one that I would be likely to call in circumstances similar to Buster’s (my family all live too far away and I have no contact details for any neighbours) I started an interior tidying.  Whilst travelling light I have accumulated an awful lot of clutter but, being a polymath (or fart in a colander, depending on one’s perspective), I need walking kit, biking kit, boating kit, books, crosswords, tools for bikes, tools for boats, tools for the cottage; oh, the list is endless.  Whatever happened to “if I can live out of a Bergen for six months, why not for ever”?

Thursday became a scamper about day, Mattie had been in TBS and we agreed to meet at Ryka’s, a transport cafe turned biker haunt in the shadow of Box Hill.  My exploration of the bike’s true range meant me driving via side streets and back roads until the dreaded one blob started flashing – and then I lost my nerve and back-tracked to a nearby filling station.  A casual enquiry there elicted that I was going to be late, heavy traffic on the direct route confirmed it; I was still there first.

It was the cunning adaption of typefaces from several different motor-cycle marques to make their own logo that prompted me to borrow (and adapt) J. B. Priestley’s title for my own.  Remembering how McDonald’s tried to sue one Mr. McDonald for using his own name on his mobile salmonella special beside Loch Ness we wondered when representatives from Triumph, Yamaha, Kawasaki, Honda or Suzuki would be popping round with threats and writs.  There is another greasy spoon that I frequent called the Wondercafe which used to use an inverted ‘Golden Arches’ as part of their logo but don’t anymore; I can only guess why.

Part of the reason for meeting Mattie, beside the pleasure I get from seeing any of my sons and their families (a too infrequent pleasure, nag, nag, nag) was to pay him for his latest must have item – a rather becoming little number which keeps these open-water swimmers warm once they finish their swim.  Until I saw his first event I had not contemplated the organisation – the number of stewards in canoes and paddling surfboard lookalikes, buoys placed to mark the course.  Considering it is a for the pleasure sport rather than for glittering prizes there is a lot of behind the scenes effort required.

Post our meeting he scampered off for his training for the next event and I wandered up to a park near WVM where there was a social evening including softball, beer and crisps.  Cunningly, when invited to play I just pointed to leathers and big, clumpy bike boots; the beer and crisps were more easily accommodated.  A woman from Japan (and thus more versed in things USian) who has just finished working for WVM explained why left handed gloves fit on the right hand and vice versa – and they can’t spell arse.

As daylight faded I drifted off and, in the course of my peregrinations, wandered over Waterloo Bridge.  It is a while since I have been there during twilight but I am pleased that I did:

Looking eastwards, towards the city, the ever-changing skyline presented a wonderful sight, with the mixture of old and new buildings. Whilst to the south (Waterloo Bridge sits atop a bend in the river) the aspect is of old and older buildings:

Those cognisant of the London skyline may appreciate that I have managed to transpose east and west, these two pictures would make more sense if in each other’s position but planners have managed bigger blunders.  I should ever worry (and that is not an admonishment).

Having seen the views on Thursday evening but decided against stopping – the new, big barriers seemed an invitation for aggravation from the forces of the crown for so doing – and Mattie spoken about all the rubbish food he has been eating of late I hit on a cunning idea for Friday evening.  By oxo to Waterloo station, a wander over the bridge, a drift around the National Theatre re waiting for the correct light (god, I’m becoming a luvvie) and then on to the Wonky Restaurant seemed like an incredibly good way of spending Friday evening.  Not that I am becoming an old curmudgeon or anything but… just like the nostalgia, the Wonky Restaurant is not what it used to be.  Once it was rammed to the rafters, full of noise and bustle; on Friday is was sepulchral.  Polite but forgetful staff, few customers, ah me, how times change.  A quarter of a century ago it was alleged to have the rudest waiters in TBS.

Somethings, however (fortunately or otherwise), don’t.  Leaving the restaurant, Soho was full of Soho on a Friday night characters and also raining.  Piccadilly underground was so busy I opted to walk along Regent Street to Oxford Circus despite the rain – and whooping children, wandering drunks and ‘Parisienne tart’ haute couture.

On the final train I was accompanied by a youth to one side who was either as high as a kite or suffering from an acute anxiety disorder and to the other by a couple who were either/or drunk and both suffering from personality disorders; it was an explosive mix.  By the terminal station the two males succumbed and, midst much swearing, had come to blows.  My days of separating warring drunks are long past, as battle raged above my head I carried on with an already completed Soduko; it seemed the better option.  The fight appeared to be heading for a points decision and another passenger appeared to have rung for the train to be met by paid pacifiers.  After visiting Ryka’s perhaps the brief could find another fee, defending either of the combatants.  What goes round… is often circular.

As I reread and edited this entry a thought came to my mind, perhaps inspired by thoughts geometric after the last line above.  I am an Ovid reader of ancient Roman poetry and an aphid fan of entomology – but I really should avoid bad puns.

Moules, boules and fireworks galore.

Buster, a fellow river rat, has been in the wars whilst I was away.  He is a friendly enough old chap who makes a living doing work on other people’s boats; I believe that at one time he was an examiner for the Certificate of Compliance (formerly known as Boat Safety Certificate until too many people complained that it contained totally illogical conditions with nothing to do with safety; damned bureaucrats).  He has been treated badly by life in general and has a few scars to show for it.  Now he has a few more…

Firstly, he lit his oven but didn’t and then went to fill the water tank (and did).  On his return he thought the oven didn’t sound as if it was alight; it wasn’t.  Unfortunately he pressed the ignition as he opened the door – and raised his eyebrows to a far greater height than would have been possible had they still been attached to his forehead.  He then, in short order, knocked an extremely sharp knife off its rack and, not knowing what he had dislodged, reached round to save it, thus severing the tendons and nerves in his right little finger (he is a sad and forlorn looking chappie, with right arm slung high and restrained).  To complete his little tale of woe, he suffered a heart attack one night and needed to enroll the aid of another resident to call for medical attention.  He was surprised at how many (quote) big, burly ambulancemen managed to crowd into his boat.  Without too much in the way of empathy I said that at least that was all three and now he could relax; apparently that was not an original comment.

My well-known neuroticism regarding low fuel levels in vehicles had marred the drive to the ferry.  I had been running the tank down so that I would, hopefully, manage the whole route on one overfull tank and be able to put in a sensible amount .  Thus I declined an offer to visit Cathy in her new house.  I had used the bike on Friday to attend the Juillet Quatorze celebrations in LRB and returned with two blobs remaining on the fuel indicator (the third had seemed to vanish in very short time) and then only done the Chatelain’s bread run until loading for the journey.  Imagine my absolute horror!  With bike on its sidestand (the only one it has) only one blob was showing; zut alors, non and merde!  As I drove away I was on tenterhooks regarding whether or not I would even make Redon and a garage.

Juillet Quatorze and, on the left, the masses enjoy their moules frites whilst, on the right, the next shift queue to pay for their forthcoming pleasures.  Whilst, further along the quay, some local, folksy, yachties entertain…

and others are entertained.  It would not be Brittany (which it most definitely was) unless someone started an impromptu dance, which they did.  Breton traditional dancing is not for the easily bored – it entails linking little fingers and taking dainty little sidesteps accompanied by the minimum of arm swinging and, sometimes, when passions are really running high, going up on one’s tiptoes between steps!  I presume it dates back to when women wore silly, high, lace bonnets which would have fallen off without too much exercise.

After all that excitement it was a good job that the fireworks were spectacular.  Following the attack in Nice on Juillet Quatorze last there was a discreet but firm police presence – both ends of the quay were blocked by police and council vans and pedestrian barriers but no over the top dampers on the enjoyment such as prowling, heavily-armed security forces.  It is sometime since I have been to a public fireworks display so it may be my memory at fault, but they were quieter than I remember; there were none of the earth-shaking, feels like the artillery popping by, mega loud ones.

Damned low high-tech.  For all the electronic wizardry in modern vehicles fuel levels are still measured using what is in effect a cork and a piece of string.  The float is obviously on the high side when the bike is on its stand and as I drove off the next blob reappeared.  I filled up at the furthest garage (ie, closest to the port) and filled it until the tank cap was floundering out of its depth.  By halfway (and my regular pit stop) only one blob had disappeared but still, the middle blob had vanished in next to no time, so I refilled just in case – and got to the port with four out of five blobs still visible; damned neuroses.  The whole return journey was completed and still the one, flashing, get petrol now or die blob has not been left on its own – and I have ridden to within 20 miles of the French total route length.

According to the technical specifications I should be able to do it.  Bonne Courage, I need Bonne Courage; aye, right – just not when it comes to running out of fuel.  At least I know for next time.  In honour of Brian the Bactrian Bike and its noble efforts I include another photo:

On the bright side, I could even mount up without the former indignities of holding what should have been my swinging leg and hopping towards bike like a knight of old jousting.  I have not shed years and stiffness of joints, just got a bike with a lower mounting height.

In the spirit of Bastille Day and the whole of France making whoopee (its USian meaning may apply but I mean this in its UKian sense), for Saturday I had been invited to lunch with the British neighbours for whom I have become a Hobnob runner – and a pleasant lunch it turned out to be.  We (the male of the couple) and I adjourned for a post-prandial game of boules – he has had his own pitch installed (and that attracted an interesting story but for another occasion) and for our second game were joined by another Brit, who seems to have a predeliction for Russian women and was somewhere in Siberia as I was travelling through earlier in the year.  The first game was a close run thing – it went to the last point – but I faded badly and was a poor third in the next.  As I went back to LTC my (French) neighbours, who also have a private boules park, were in residence, with Dominique, Nanou (his wife) and JoJo and Christienne (his wife) all sharing a wee gargle over hot boules.

Part of the not using the bike over the weekend was that invitation and me hosting ‘High Tea’ for the other Brits from the next hamlet. My vice is revealed – they arrived bearing Cahors, Chateau Latrine, various vintages (all in one bottle)!  Oh, it was a grand way to spend an afternoon.  And then I packed.  It was a recipe for something to go awry and it did.  As I pulled in for my pit stop I realised that I had forgotten something…  Banksy’s bread was still atop the microwave (and so was the rest of mine).  One person’s loss is another’s gain, I have e-mailed that couple and told them where the secret key is currently hiding and invited them to rescue the bread.

Alarum! Alarum! Eventually… Perhaps

Mattie, being sans bike had offered me his tank bag so the bike resembled a bactrian camel, with saddle bags, tank bag, and daybag strapped on the pillion.  The main disadvantage of a tank bag is the need to remove it to reach the fuel tank (there is, in all truth, a clue in the name).  Thus the pit stops became funereal in pace.

As Cathy, Lena and the anonymous tent-dweller departed I was woken but did my duty – rolled over and went back to sleep.  Part of the reason for all the kit was an excess of food that would otherwise go to waste and a full dhobi bag.  Because of the food I didn’t need the market but still wandered in to Redon for lunch – and did the dhobi at the dhobikhana; I had not enough clean to last and her washing machine had gone but mine not yet replaced it.  The ever changeable Marie was friendly but Christian was diffident; it keeps me on my toes.  Feeling the need for some movement but not taking the excessive heat of the afternoon I wandered round my four mile route in the late evening.  One advantage of the later constitutional is the variety of wild-life – bunnies bouncing about near Michel A L’Ouest’s farm.  There being a plethora of Michel’s differentiation can be difficult.  When Michel A L’Ouest was so-named us Brits of little colloquial French didn’t know that a la’ouest is French for talking to the faeries; sometimes things just happen that are so appropriate…

Although I was once told that the flood plain is not open to farming the silage was being cut – and I saw a bird, the breed of which has excited me ever since.  Eventually, talking to a British couple who live close-by I think the mystery has been solved.  Cathy had suggested that my description matched a stork – although she had forgotten the English name.  Her description being of the bird that brings the babies made me glad that I had a vasectomy all those years ago!

If it is not one of those it may be a Sacred Ibis (not an hotel for pilgrims) – apparently there were some imported to enhance an aristo’s house and, as ever, some escaped.  The parakeets of South West London have competition.

There is an attempt being made to reinvigorate the marais (wet and boggy flatlands) and one of the streams therein has been cleaned out.  In one of the now more available streams I saw one of a mammal which I had seen in a pair some years ago and not been able to identify – it is a coypu, of that I am now convinced.

It (or they) were there again and seem to be resident; it (or they) seem to be rather pleasant wee creatures. Whilst trying to come to grips with my new, super-dooper, big camera I am using the bought for a song, tax-free Andorran one; without a zoom function (as far as I am aware) it is not great for wildlife photography (as evinced by the stork, which I had to enlarge so much s/he has gone all fuzzy round the edges).

To celebrate The Lions exciting last test in New Zealand and drawing of the series, the sun beat upon us for the next week at silly levels. Fortunately the weather has now broken, the gardens watered (even more fortunately, mainly at night) and the temperature settled at a level that Geo. will be able to manage.  Mind, as he and his family are not due for another 5/6 weeks anything can happen – and most probably will.

With the confusion surrounding Cathy’s move I had offered my help.  She had moved many capital items to another repository as her brother was available to help but then needed to get them to the new house.  Altruism has its limits – I said I would be available after the Lions game… and was waved at by one of the drivers in the convoy which passed the scene of my back-sliding spot.  It being before the weather broke it became a sweaty and soggy weekend, humping beds upstairs (she has rented a town house, with garage and kitchen on the ground floor and all else one floor up.

Despite her brother, another Christian (by name, not necessarily inclination) only being available the weekend before he arranged to meet us at the new house on Sunday morning and so the whole weekend became a get her sorted time – and still there are bags and bits and pieces to go.  My mega clean through has been frustrated (and that is definitely not worth holding the front page of The Thunderer).

Veolia, the water board equivalent,  had written to arrange an inspection of the sewage system, for which I needed to be present. Making the appointment had an element of farce, as did the outcome.  I had asked Cathy to make an appointment, which she tried to do.  At the first attempt there was no time available; the second attempt was before they were taking bookings for the later date… Eventually all the problems were overcome and the survey took place.  As I expected, the system does not conform to current regulations (I have had nothing done during my ownership and I don’t expect JoJo’s dad took too much notice of then current regulations when he moved in). The report, as far as I can make out without my dictionary, has threatened a plague of locusts, Bubonic Plague (despite the best attempts of the revolution) and TOMA failing to agree a new contract with Birthday Boy unless I get the system up-rated.  However, there is no need for undue haste – I have four years to get something more or less agreed and then perhaps we can come to an arrangement about an extension…  Hide your first-born but not too soon, they will get very hungry hiding in the attic for all that time; like British Rail, the heavens will rain blood but only eventually.

It being the months without an R – and the French schools having broken up for the summer – moules frites abound.  Of all the menus in all the world it had to be this one, play it, Sam, play it.  “If moules were the only dish in the world, and I was the only boy…”

To finish: a photo to attest to the smoothness of the new bike.  According to Nuclear (or some other sort of weirdo) Physicists (which is a bit of a tautology), a fly hitting the front of an express train causes it to halt.  The fly has to go through zero to go from forward motion to rearward travel and the two touching surfaces must be travelling at the same speed, hence the train must be at zero also. Thus the train is stopped by the fly.  In similar vein, the butterfly in the air intake must have created the same effect – and I didn’t feel a thing; Suzuki will have to pay to use this one.  Only one butterfly was hurt in the making of this advertisement…

Doubting Thomas’s defeated.

Gainsayers hang your heads in defeat; cynics of the world unite, you have nothing to lose but your unhappiness!  Vladimir Illyich couldn’t have put it better himself.  Cathy and Lena have, apparently, moved out – as the former said they would.  It was not quite as easy as it sounds – midst much huffing and puffing and to-ing and fro-ing the house which seemed almost perfect was  now you have it now you don’t until after Cathy had part moved to a room in another hamlet.  Last weekend was the only time when her brother was free to help her so she had decided to go then – and then the estate agent gave her the good news…

Having had a pleasant week, with Tuesday and Friday at WVM and with more than pleasant van boys on both days, the BMW sold, the money in the bank, letters from the DVLA, one informing me that I was no longer liable for any fines etc. accruing and the other to repay a month’s road tax on it, it all finished on a pleasing high.

WVM has a couple of showers available and I do dislike a long, sweaty journey after a long, sweaty day so, on Friday, I drifted, fresh and fragrant, into a local pub close to base.  It is a suitably quiet place, well suited to the more mature, likes proper beer, character; I feel at home there.  Having missed a phone call from the one of my sons I was due to meet at silly o’clock Saturday morning at a countryside lake 100 miles from base I texted that I would have a quick pint and then ring; the best laid plans of mice and men will aft times gang awry…

Pete, of my neighbours Pete and Uta (phonetic), had come in whilst I was deep in the bowels.  He was in talkative mood so it was a wee while before the phone call, as one would expect.  The drive to near Cirencester was long and followed a sack of potato roads.  After that there was neither time (I had stopped several times to check the route and thus lost any slack that I may have had) nor space to enjoy the last few miles.  Also the directions which he had been given and passed on to me in unexpurgated form were not totally accurate.

I was now on the horns of a dilemma – fortunately Dai Lemmar was not on duty with the Lions, neither did I feel it right to dial Emma. I had offered to scullion for TOO before his barbecue but the long and very clean knickers road beckoned…  Everybody has their price; a woman threatened with the painful death of her child would slit the throat of her lover to save the babe.  Honour came a long way second, but it was worth it – long, fast bends, no speed cameras; the inner geriatric juvenile let loose.

Back at BSB I changed quicker than a chameleon striptease artist on speed and was off and running, like the Light Brigade at Balaclava.  The next change was not clothing but from oxo to bus – and there was some sort of delay on the route I needed.  To exacerbate the situation still further, I was nose deep in crossword and did not notice that the bus was on a detour; instead of five minutes from bus stop to his house I eventually got off with a half hour hike; the vegetables were all prepared by the time I arrived (and the pots washed [tee hee]).

Despite my dereliction of duty everybody was exceedingly kind and I was not told the Lions score.  Stu, the other book end, had offered me a lift on Sunday morning and TOO has Sky Sports on his tv, so as well as breakfasted I also saw the highlights with the excitement of not knowing the score.  All in all it made for a pretty wonderful Saturday – a new experience in watching Mattie at his first open water swim (a sport about which I knew nothing before), a grand whizzy ride and a barbecue (prepared and cooked by someone else) amongst most of my best friends…  After The Lord Mayor’s Procession.

Stu dropped me off in quite good time – and it was I who had caused any delay in needing to watch the end of the rugby – but then came the handcart with hell on its destination board.  I knew that I had a couple of jobs outstanding – like packing, emptying the khazi, putting the deck back in place and getting the promised biscuits for a couple of Brits who live in the next hamlet.

The M25 is renowned as the world’s longest car park and lived up to its reputation.  It is a good job that UKian uses motorway because the USian ‘freeway’ certainly didn’t apply.  Quite why at 12.30 on a Sunday lunchtime it resembled a Monday morning rush hour escaped me.  I used to justify motor-bikes with the line that a Ferrari in a traffic jam could only go as fast as the Morris 1,000 in front – and once almost had an unscheduled dismount caused by uncontrolled laughter when I was weaving through traffic (by coincidence, also on the M25) and whizzed past a Ferrari immediately behind a Morris 1,000.

Although I was making better time than the cars, lorries and coaches I decided that the shorter route via the M3 was still a better option – despite the road works and 50mph speed limit – than what was shown as another 50 minutes for cars on the other route.  Then a quick bit of road to where I have thirteen miles of country lane – and a bloody great coach lumbering along with ne’er an opportunity to get past.  Fortunately the A3 was flowing and clear (and I got a bit of a wellie on) then – merde alors (I was almost at the [French] ferry)!  Another mother of all traffic jams; I wiggled; I waggled; I shuggled through – and finally got to the booking-in kiosk just as the nice man was putting the cat out and his rollers in, with milk bottles on the doorstep and him in his pyjamas and dressing gown (metaphorically).

To cap off a day of motoring frustration, I mislaid my passport and had to park up and look for it as we disembarked and then decided that petrol would help – and had to queue for ever and anon there.  There was no curfew but the open road was just too inviting – and the faster one drives the more fuel one uses…  It was not only coffee and khazi that were beckoning at the halfway marker.

Eventually to LTC, to be met by a tea-light that Cathy had left burning, like a yellow ribbon tied round the old oak tree or a welcoming lighthouse for a returning mariner.  It might only be thirty-five leagues from Ushant to Scilly, it is more from Andover to Arsenal.  There was a veritable car park of cars outside and a tent in the garden – and most of Cathy and Lena’s kit gone – apparently to various store-places hither and thither.  Without access too highlights or replays I have offered to help move their remaining kit next Saturday – but definitely not until after the deciding test twixt All Blacks and Lions.