March 2024 – GREGORYNESS

HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT

15 March 2024

As an experience this one is probably second to none. The grandeur and importance of the setting, and the quality of the presentation were all breathtaking. I was almost overwhelmed by the amount of information to take on board, and parts of the tour even evoked an emotional response from me.

What am I talking about? A trip to the Houses of Parliament. Everybody should go. It should be mandatory. And throughout we were told that being shown all this isn’t a privilege, it’s our democratic right. Well, it may be what we’re due but it certainly felt like a privilege to me.

It’s relatively easy to get on a tour. Write to your MP and ask if you can visit. He or she will get their parliamentary secretary to arrange it for you. If there is any choice in the matter, arrange an early timeslot because if either house is sitting then you are not going to be allowed inside the chamber. I went on a Tuesday morning at 9am. As the first group through we were not going to be denied access, and would have fewer people to jostle with. Going that early meant that I stayed overnight in a hotel, but since I was in London for other reasons too, that didn’t seem too onerous.

You have to be on-site well before your tour, however, because there is airport-style security to get through before you get anywhere near the Palace of Westminster. For me, it was a rainy day too, which slows everything down as you struggle with wet weather gear and umbrellas.

The tour starts in Westminster Hall, an enormous empty stone-clad space. It was built in 1022 so it has seen a lot in its time. At places on the floor there are brass plaques to commemorate famous events which occurred just there. The lying-in of state for Queen Elizabeth II for five days, and for her mother and father before her. Winston Churchill too; odd for a commoner. The spot where Charles I was convicted of treason and executed. Quite a lot going on for an empty room.

We had a rather impressive tour guide. A lady of diminutive stature but a perfect diction, and an impeccable understanding of British history and parliamentary habit. About twenty of us wore headsets and listened as she delivered her commentary to a microphone, on the hoof. Such equipment looked like overkill with so few groups around, but it became clear later on that groups can tend to overtake each other and it’s important to stick with, and be able to hear, your guide.

At the top of the stone stairs at the far end of the hall is the last time we can take photographs as we turn into St Stephen’s Hall. A statue-lined hall where the earliest parliamentarians sat opposite each other and debated. The designs of both Houses of Parliament pay homage to this original design by arranging the benches to face each other confrontationally. One of the statues here, depicting a Lord Falkland whose importance would otherwise have been forgotten, is now famous because suffragette Margaret Humes chained herself to it in 1909. In removing her from it, the statue lost one of its spurs; damage which has never been repaired as a memento of the event. It’s all a reminder of how our democracy in its current form is still in its infancy. Both men and women have been able to vote only since 1928. The minimum voting age was reduced from 21 to 18 in 1969.

Just beyond St Stephen’s Hall is the Central lobby, a circular space in the middle of the building. It’s where people can, in theory, lobby their MP. I recognize it as the space where MPs are interviewed on TV after some important vote or other in the house. To our left is the entrance to the House of Commons, to our right the House of Lords.

Straight ahead is the Members’ Lobby where MPs can pick up messages from pigeon holes, though nowadays messages are more likely to be emailed or WhatsApped. It’s also where they pick up the voting papers for the day, which detail what is going to be debated in the chamber, and copies of Hansard which provides verbatim coverage of the previous day’s debates. All this under the watchful gaze of giant statues of David Lloyd George, Winston Churchill, Clement Attlee and Margaret Thatcher.

The tour continues through the No Gallery. If the vote on a debate is close then the division bell may ring and MPs make their way to the Aye Gallery if in favour, or the No Gallery if not. These galleries are on either side of the House of Commons chamber. It is assumed that MPs can get to the appropriate gallery when summoned within eight minutes, no matter where they are on the Palace of Westminster estate. Once in the gallery their heads are counted; the very origin of taking a poll.

The chamber of the House of commons is remarkable for at least two reasons. You’ve seen it on TV, but in reality it seems much smaller. It’s not small of course; in theory, well over 600 people could be in there. Microphones and cameras are positioned everywhere. We could stand between the famous green leather-covered benches, but not sit on them. On the front benches sit the Prime Minister and his Cabinet, and the rest of the MPs are back-benchers. This is mirrored on the opposition side of the house. On the central Parliamentary Table are the famous Dispatch Boxes and the holders for the Mace, which represents the Monarch in the chamber. The Monarch, of course, is not welcome in the chamber – ever since Charles I and the civil war – and that’s why he has to be preceded by Black Rod who has the chamber door ceremonially slammed in his face, and has to knock with his ebony rod in order to gain admittance. The door is now showing signs of wear and tear due to this treatment.

I was struck by the contrasts between the very old and the very new. The place seems, on the face of it, to be biased towards leather-topped tables and piles of paper. Yet the central table in front of the Speaker’s Chair has tiny data screens in its many recesses. In fact, there are screens everywhere – there must be a massive IT operation going on in the background.

Although I found myself getting emotional about the seat of democracy, the reality of the situation is that people are told how to vote. MPs are expected to vote with their political party, and are constantly being ‘whipped’. Rarely are they allowed to vote with their conscience, or at the behest of their constituency. If the matter is an important one, or close-run, then the Whips Office will underline the voting orders. The most important matters are marked by three underlines – a so-called Three-line Whip. Failure to vote in the expected way could result in expulsion from the party.

We moved over to the House of Lords. Architecturally it is very similar to the Commons except that the leather benches are in red. There are more of them too, since there are over 700 lords. Tony Blair introduced a cap of 92 on hereditary peers, people who pass their peerage down to their children. Most people are life peers; when they die, their peerage dies with them. Some life peers are created by political parties, other people are rewarded for their good works in normal life, or for special knowledge or experience they have acquired. There are 26 Lords Spiritual – the bishops – and the far end of the Lords chamber contains an ornate gold-covered throne. The monarch is welcome in the House of Lords. The Lords Speaker sits on a great red ‘wool sack’. Like the Commons chamber the Lords sit facing each other, one side with the government and the other in opposition. But unlike the Commons, the Lords chamber has a series of central benches to house lords without any political affiliation – the so-called cross benchers.

I’ll say it again. I was both affected and excited by all of this. Here was the machinery of our government, surrounded by artefacts from the history of our nation over the last millennium. Going there, seeing all this, and having it explained to you is certainly a privilege, but it is also your right.

I’m planning to return, to sit in the Strangers Gallery above the chamber of the Commons and watch a debate going on. No need to book for that; you can simply turn up on the day. There is a ballot to do this on a Wednesday when it is Prime Minister’s Question Time. It is also possible to turn up unannounced to watch proceedings in Select Committees.

Just off Westminster Hall is a café where you can sit and chat. It sounds like many MPs do just that. The coffee and pastries are lovely. And there is a gift shop full of expensive yet tawdry tat – just to bring you down to earth again before facing the rain outside.

ON THE BUSES

14 March 2024

I wrote a blog a couple of years ago during the great pandemic, which lamented the fact that I’d been issued with an Oxfordshire bus pass, but there was nowhere to go. Since that time, Ann and I have made enormous use of these passes and employ them all the time, even basing a holiday on the Isle of Wight on the knowledge that we could stay centrally in Newport and travel out each day on the buses.

The benefits are two-fold. One is obvious, that the tickets are free. You can make a mistake and it costs you nothing (but time). But, for me, the more important benefit is that I don’t have to tell the driver where I’m going. Often I don’t know.

A recent overnight stay in London where we visited the Houses of Parliament, and the Imperial War Museum for some family history work, saw us travelling on London buses the whole time. The Tube is a rather expensive alternative and, yes, we are simply cheapskates. But from a London omnibus you can see where you’re going, and which famous landmarks you’re passing. That we’ve never done this before is because you’d have to know where your destination is, and get off at the right time. We’ve just been too frightened even to try.

Google Maps is what makes the difference. It know where you are now, and you simply type in the name of where you’re going, and tell it that you’re going by bus. It then tells you where the bus stop is, what number bus to catch, when the next bus is due, and how many stops to stay on the bus for. In short, it turns you into a Londoner.

Oxfordshire bus passes will not work on London buses, but they are valid. This seems to be because London buses are set up to take Oyster cards – you just can’t tap on with your bus pass. However, the driver is perfectly happy for you to wave your bus pass at him as you climb on-board.

All this happy and payment-free travel made us rather blasé and caused us some delay in the end. On the way back to Paddington Station we forgot to check Google Maps and sailed on by without noticing. We had to retrace our steps on a return bus only to find that we’d missed the last off-peak train back to Didcot. Ann and I had to console ourselves by having an evening meal in a nearby pub with a pint of beer, but it meant that we didn’t get back home until 9.30pm – what with the bus ride from Didcot to Wantage.

And so to today. I had to go for a hospital appointment at the John Radcliffe in Oxford. We drove to the nearest of Oxford’s park & rides, and left the car there for £2. Then we thought we’d catch the X3 bus to the hospital. It was 10.45am and the appointment was at 11.30am. Perfect.

Then Google Maps told us that an X32 was just about to arrive, and this would also go to the hospital. It was running late. Nevertheless, it showed up almost immediately and we jumped on. The problem was that it went in the wrong direction and took us half the way home again. We’d caught the bus going the opposite way – bamboozled by the fact that all buses face the same way at the park & ride bus station. This was a disaster. I needed to be at a hospital appointment in forty minutes time and here we were hurtling away from Oxford on an express bus. It was a head-in-hands moment. The first stop was on the outskirts of Didcot – miles away. But, by some miracle the next X32 heading in the right direction, also running late, was passing on the other side of the road and we jumped on. Queue the comedy chase music.

Unbelievably, having done something so stupid, and so consequential, I was only late for my appointment by eight minutes. Hurrah for the buses. But we’re making a mental note: even though it’s not necessary to tell the driver where you’re going, just ask him as you get on if he’s going anywhere near where you think you need to be.

THAMES VALLEY POLICE COMMISSIONER ELECTIONS

17/05/2021

Ann and I broke new ground last week. We’ve never worked together before (except in the areas of home-building and child-rearing), and neither of us have worked anywhere for the past two years. But here we were driving to work together on a Monday morning, slightly fearful that we hadn’t left early enough to get through the Abingdon rush hour. Better to sit for half an hour in the work car park, than to wait half an hour at home and arrive late – I’m sure was the thinking behind this.

We weren’t late. After queuing for ages with the other election count officials we were in the counting hall and sitting at our own socially distanced desks in the vast indoor tennis hall. I’d been here two Decembers ago, for the General Election, when it had been all hands to the deck throughout the night. This was a little more laid back.

There were five of us in the team, and a supervisor. It was duly noted that we had two Anns, one Anna and an Andrew in the team. The fifth member, boringly, had a completely different forename. And the supervisor was called Ann too. How wonderful! Two thirds of the team had also counted in recent days at the County Council elections and so were well-versed in the techniques. Except that this was, importantly, a slightly different sort of election.

COVID had seen to it that all elections are conducted slightly differently. People in the counting hall normally sit fairly close to each other, work together at sorting baskets, and exchange piles of ballots to check each other’s work. Now we were very definitely not required to sit closely together, and to count everything twice as a self-check. Each desk had a large plastic screen on the front so that the scrutineers, the agents and officials who can, if they want, stand in front of your desk and observe what you do, remain socially distanced.

But this election had an unusual ballot paper. There were two columns into each of which a single X could be marked. The left-most was the first preference, and the other the second preference. Our first task seemed quite straightforward. There were four candidates, and we had four wire baskets placed between us each labelled with a candidate’s name. All we had to do was to inspect the First Preference column for an X against a name, and then place the ballot paper into the appropriate wire basket. This is called sorting. However, you have to keep your wits about you because ballot papers must be pulled out if the voter has selected more than one candidate, or no candidates at all – these are spoiled papers. Papers are also spoiled if the voter has decided to register some kind of protest by writing or drawing on the ballot. But they are not spoiled if the voter has employed a tick or a Y or even a squiggle to indicate their choice – as long as it is inside the box. A paper is still valid if the voter has changed their mind and scribbled out their first attempt and placed a new X elsewhere. So, quite a lot going on.

The supervisor had made it clear that accuracy was far more important than speed. It wasn’t a race. Yet one of the A’s to my left had got her rubber thimble and was flick-flick-flick-flicking at around a ballot a second. We weren’t panicked.

The next job was to count the now homogenous piles for each candidate. The supervisor had flicked through to make sure the piles were homogenous. It was our job to count, and recount, piles of ten and to secure each pile with a paper clip. Ten such piles are rubber-banded together to make a hundred. Although we weren’t expected to check at this stage, I found several examples of the wrong candidate in the ‘homogenous’ pile. Probably due to Mrs Flick-flick-flick to my left. This is quite simple, but essential, to resolve. If candidate B is counted in the pile for candidate A, then B is one vote down, and A is one vote up – compounding the issue.

By some miracle the grand total for our team exactly matched the total reported by the polling station. It was midday by then. We simply had to sit and wait whilst other teams recounted in order to get their numbers to match too. Then the numbers had to be accepted by the count headquarters, probably in Reading. And then we had to wait for Reading to assimilate the results for all the counting stations up and down the Thames Valley. In fact, this wasn’t achieved until about 4pm.

We occupied ourselves by strolling around the tennis hall, strolling to the portable loos outside the hall and returning by the half-mile route to secure a one-way flow through the building, doing a sudoku, visiting the coffee van outside the hall, going to the loo again, and so on.

The supervisor explained to us that if one of the candidates got 50% or more of the vote on the basis of the first preference, then they had won outright, and we could all go home. A ridiculous thought went through my mind. What if more than one candidate got more than 50% of the vote? Phew, I was glad I didn’t say this out loud. Then I thought I would say it out loud, to get a laugh, and then excuse my stupidity on the grounds that it was less extreme than that of a government minister. The minister for Education had once told parliament that he wanted ALL schools to be above average. There was a minor ripple of approval.

No candidate did get more than 50%. We had to go into a second stage where we would sort and count on the basis of the second preference. Once again, our team got the total bang on again – in spite of the best efforts of Mrs Flick-flick-flick. And again, we had to sit and wait for our colleagues to recount. And then wait again while HQ determined that a general recount wouldn’t be necessary. Finally, we were allowed to go home at 7pm.

The key advice for elections like this is that if you have a candidate you would really like to win. Make them both your first and your second preference. Initially I thought this would invalidate the paper. It doesn’t. It gives your chosen candidate the best chance of making it through.

It had been a 9.5-hour day at £14 an hour. The team were actively working for about 3.5 hours and waiting for six. But just as in the General Election, I went home satisfied that the process is sound, and that fair play was properly observed. If only the American electorate could emulate this feat.

IMPRESSIONS OF A SMALL COG IN THE DEMOCRATIC MACHINERY

13/12/2019

Last night I was a counting assistant in the General Election. I have to say that whatever misgivings I, personally, may have about the continuing integrity of the Union, or the wisdom of turning our backs on our near-continental friends and putting our trust in trading with Trump, at least I am content that the electoral machinery is robust and sound. The result truly expresses the wish of the British people. So, I was very proud to be a small cog in the democratic mechanism.

It was all a bit of an eye-opener though. I turned up at the Abingdon Recreation Centre at 9.15 along with a couple of hundred other counting staff. There was a high-security presence and lots of ID checks, though I imagine this is all easier to contain at night when fewer people might be milling about. The airport-level concern stops as soon as you’ve got your little ‘counting staff’ wristband though.
This counting station was run by Vale of the White Horse and South Oxfordshire district councils – which are the same thing nowadays. So, there were four constituencies to count – from Wantage in the west, to Henley in the less-west. I was working on Henley voting slips. The small army of staff was dwarfed by the size of the counting hall, which normally houses five indoor tennis courts. This means it’s unheated. And all the ballot boxes come in through permanently open doors until midnight.

My little team comprised another Andrew and an older lady named Yvonne, who was initially a bit aggy-naggy about the fact we were moved from a relatively warm position in the centre of the hall to an area of arctic tundra near the open door and the massive windows. But she warmed and we were all best of friends by the end of the night. I had been completely unaware of the process, so here’s a little recap on what happened.

Boxes were shipped in from all corners of the region from 10pm onwards. The first task is to verify their contents. This is the longest process and was expected to take up until 2am, which it very nearly did. Each box is opened, and the contents tipped on the desk in front of the three of us. The task is simply to count the bits of paper (without worrying what’s written on them). Paper-clipping them into tens, and rubber-banding them into 100s. All the while being scrutinized by clipboard-bearing candidate’s agents, peering at what you’re doing at close range. The number the team comes up with is compared with the number reported by the polling station officer. If it’s not the same, then you’re simply told to check them all again. This is why verification takes so long. A little rubber thimble is the best, probably the only, way of picking up a single slip from a pile of them. I lost mine at one point and was completely handicapped.

We had a little break at 1.40am when verification was complete. We’d been given a bottle of water each, but now we were given a chocolatey oat bar and told to go upstairs to the warmth of the coffee bar and get something to eat and drink. Big TV screens up there heralding what was going on in the rest of the country but, do you know what, I wasn’t interested. The job-in-hand was to get our count done and correct.
Back in Iceland the scenery had changed slightly on our return. Now there were wire baskets with a candidate’s name on each one, and one marked ‘doubtful’.
Stage two is called Sorting. Now all the boxes have been validated we can forget the polling station and think about the constituency. So, once again, box contents are tipped on the table but now we sort them into their appropriate baskets, and anything dodgy goes in the doubtful pile. This is surprisingly difficult and we’re all nervous because each paper represents somebody’s intention, and a vote for the candidate. The agents are now peering at us very intently. But actually, this process only takes about an hour.

And the final stage is to count the votes. So, once again, we are gathering up piles of 10, then 100, then 1000. Lots of paper clips and rubber bands. But the number of votes, and spoiled papers, must equal the number we first thought of (in verification). And the process throws up lots of discovered errors in sorting. So, we all ended up counting, and counting, and counting again until it was dead right.

And finally, the bit we all see on TV, the results are announced, and the winner makes his or her speech. It’s interesting to see the stages being dismantled as they serve their purpose. Once the result is announced, there will be no recount. So, the paper clips and elastic bands we’ve painstaking put on the voting slips are stripped off. The slips will be archived (and presumably analysed) but their immediate task is over.
It turned out that I voted for the horse which came last in Wantage, but we’d been told to show neither pleasure nor displeasure at the result. And, as I say, the important thing for me was being a small part of this great machine to determine the will of the nation. I drove home at 6am.

A LOAD OF NONSENSE

18/04/2022

I’m always amazed at the brain’s retentiveness for trivial nonsense whilst items of true importance are carelessly discarded, never to be retrieved again. In essence, if I regarded an item as funny then it will have been indelibly impressed on whatever internal structure it is which provides a home for these thoughts. I don’t suppose it is ever as simple as remember/forget. The whole memory retrieval process shows signs of being very complex.

As I grow older it is clear that people’s names are increasingly difficult to bring to mind. Most will recognize the feeling that they know the name; can almost see it bubbling up through the swamp; that they have located the index entry and the librarian is even now retrieving the document for them. But it is also clear that the rules of conversation demand that the retrieval has a time limit of, maybe, five seconds. It’s surprising then that we are so often guilty of starting a sentence in the knowledge that there is a missing component about two thirds of the way along. The calculation is that the answer will arrive before it’s needed. Given the necessity to offer some sort of solution within the five-second limit, the ever-resourceful brain comes up with a stopgap which suggests that the mental linkages are more complex than one might think.

I recently began a sentence which would require the name of a famous snooker commentator. It wasn’t there, but I knew it would come. I only had five seconds of course, or my listeners would conclude that I’d had some sort of seizure or had silently expired on the settee. So, I offered what I had, Steve Zodiac the well-known puppet commander of Fireball XL5. The true answer, when it finally came, was John Virgo. That’s mysteriously close, isn’t it? Something like a cryptic crossword clue.

Something similar occurs when I play the real game. I’m no expert but I can make a valid contribution to the clearance of a table. But, more frequently than is good for my confidence, I will line up a shot and work out all the angles, only to find that it is the cue ball which disappears into the pocket. As though I’ve calculated the correct co-ordinates but mentally applied them to the wrong formula. The outcome is the mirror image of the expectation. I can’t explain it, but since a snooker table is a minefield of physics calculations anyway, perhaps I shouldn’t be too surprised by this.

Even non-players will have seen enough of the game on television to know many of the stock commentary catch-phrases. “How’s your luck?” when cannoning the cue ball into the pack of reds. “Where’s the cue ball going? WHERE’S THE CUE BALL GOING?” And, given the distain that snooker has for the use of adverbs, “He’s hit that a bit thick”. But, without a doubt, the most memorable piece of snooker commentary I can recall, was so stupid that I felt compelled to record it in my diary sometime during the 1980s. “Jimmy White is making the balls talk. And what a story they have to tell”. It was only the hushed and reverential tone which elevated this word salad to partial acceptability.

Words are very important. Now that I have grandchildren it’s the misuse of words which can provide the biggest belly laughs. Two of them were in the bath one day and the boy was demonstrating his grasp of anatomy and physiology. “I’ve got one of these, which is called a penis. And she hasn’t. She’s got a China”.

My first job was with Oxfordshire County Council. I was young, and my humour was juvenile. I have a recollection of being very pleased with this COBOL computer programmer’s joke from the late 1970s…

“You have to be a bit of a character to have a slash in a binary field”.

Which is hilarious, obviously, and also technically plausible. But there was an earthier and more adult humour in the office which, frankly, shocked me a little. One of the women had gone on holiday and had sent a postcard to the office. It read, “Am writing this in bed. Wish you were here. Mary”.

In another place, another time, and a little older, I found that in addition to my normal duties I also had to run the coffee club. It was my role to buy in all the tea, coffee, biscuits and crisps which the office block needed. But after some years I got a bit sick of this and so devised a poster to tender my resignation. “Dear members, the coffee club and I have decided to get divorced. Over the years I have purchased over 500 bags of coffee, and I think those are grounds enough. Signed Bev R Age”. Yes, still juvenile.

But now it’s the senile things which make me laugh. There are, situated around Wantage, several very impressive developments of flats for the older generation. One has a poster which is intended to drum up business, but unwittingly offers a rather gloomy prognosis for the buyers. Set against a large photo of smiling, older people drinking prosecco and eating croissants, is the headline WELCOME TO THE NEXT CHAPTER OF YOUR LIFE. And a little further down, LAST FEW REMAINING.

Putting names to faces. That’s always been difficult. But putting names to faces you’ve never seen before – that’s on another level. In the town where I live, I’m quite well known. This is mainly due to a decade or so as compere at the concerts of the local brass band. With the bright lights on I might be looking at a couple of hundred people, but all I could see was a black void. The audience could see me alright though, and soon came to recognize me as the bloke in the dickie-bow who cracks silly jokes the whole time. The problem comes when shopping in the local supermarket and a complete stranger claps you on the back and says “Hello Andrew”. “Oh. Hello… er … um … matey”.

The problem has been exacerbated recently since I was press-ganged into taking on a part in a local pantomime. I played that well-known character, Gormless the robot. Since that time, more people than can have possibly been in the audience have come up to me in the street and said, “Hello Gormless”. In our church community we are often exhorted to watch out for new faces in the congregation and to make them feel welcome. Recently I spotted two likely-looking candidates and, having asked round to make sure they really were new, I engaged them in conversation. As the exchange came to a close, I touched my chest and said, “By the way, my name’s Andrew”. “Oh,” they said, “we know who you are, Gormless”.

RITE OF PASSAGE

22/01/2021

Life is full of milestones, some of them more welcome than others. The most recent for me tidies up a faint timing niggle. Did I retire too soon?

Actually, the answer is “no”. I think COVID is the main reason for thinking this. I can’t fully imagine how difficult it must be to try to hold down a responsible job whilst dealing with the joint demands of employers who want you in the office, and a government which wants you at home. I think of this once a month when the government chap comes to my door as part of the ONS survey, and hands me a COVID test kit. One of the standard questions, asked at each visit, is “What is your employment status?” I reply “Retired” and the appropriate box is ticked, but internally I’m screaming “… and can you put in the comments box that I don’t have to be retired, I just choose to be.”

But now I’ve reached the appropriate age and the government has smiled its approval by turning on the state pension tap. I no longer feel the need to explain my retirement. But there is also an outwardly visible sign of this acknowledgement, something I could wave about as a badge, a symbol of my status.

My wife, Ann, is 32 days older than me and she applied for her bus pass slightly before her birthday; I applied slightly after mine. Of course, we had Christmas, and the COVID-ravaged postal service, and BREXIT, so I don’t know why we were surprised that we should have to wait a while. In fact, we waited for ages, and then two came together. How appropriate!

We have magnificent plans for our bus passes. We can take a bus out to one of the local villages and then walk home with a picnic. We can go into Oxford, perhaps taking in a lunchtime concert or one of the museums. We could even contemplate building a holiday around Land’s End to John O’ Groats on local buses (actually quite a tedious thought). And when we’re truly old enough, we can catch a bus into town clutching a plastic carrier bag for our miniscule bit of shopping. But as we watch the empty buses passing us each day, we realise that none of this is actually possible at the moment. It’s still a pipe dream. All dressed up and nowhere to go.

04/03/2024

I suppose it’s only fair to give an update on the bus pass – one of my most treasured possessions. We use our passes a great deal – even basing a holiday on the Isle of Wight on the use of public transport from our central location in Newport. For me, there are two great advantages to having one of these passes. One is that all journeys are free. That’s a great advantage. But also, I don’t have to tell the driver where I’m going when I get on.

Often I don’t know.

FAREWELL, CROISSANTS

31/01/2020

It’s Friday, January 31st 2020. I happen to be in Portugal and have just eaten my last croissant (while Britain remains within the European family). Lovely, delicious, buttery croissants people – it’s Eccles cakes for us from now on.

Well, of course it isn’t, but it does feel that we’ve lost something. The man on the radio was trying to get Steve Baker, the former Brexit minister, to comfort us with news about how much better things will be for the country. But, of course, there’s not much to say right now. Nobody really knows how it’s going to pan out.

The Government is determined that celebrations will be muted, so as not to be triumphalist. This is fair enough, but it’s a step too far to suggest that as a consequence we’re now a happy little family again. Even though nobody declares themselves to be Brexiteers or Remainers these days, my suspicion is that people still fall into the camps they aligned themselves with in 2016. Previous remainers, although now homeless, are unlikely to be impressed by Prime Minister Johnson’s view that since nothing can now deflect the project, they should simply suck it up.

Well, of course, I am sucking it up. And I have a vested interest, like everybody else, in the country doing at least tolerably well post-Brexit. The last thing I want is to feel justified in saying “I told you so”.

But by the same token I’m faintly disgruntled at being told to cheer up.

Ann and I bumped into an old friend last week, who told us that she is having a Brexit party tonight. When she saw the look on our faces, she quickly pointed out that it wasn’t a celebration, it’s to be a wake. They’ll eat food and drink wines from a variety of former colleague nations and maybe listen to some European music or sing an appropriate song.

I was touched by news of the European Parliament, after ratifying Britain’s withdrawal agreement this week, singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’.

Am I bitter? No. Am I disappointed? Yes. Let’s just all pray that all the theories are correct, and this all turns out happily.

A DISASTROUS CURRY

17/01/2020

It’s not that I’ve never cooked before. And I’m sure I’ve demonstrated an ability to follow instructions in other spheres. But this attempt to cook something nutritious for our tea left a little something to be desired. Rather like my mother, who used to blame her deafness on everyone else mumbling, I think the recipe may have been faulty or made too many assumptions about my skill levels, in spite of the rave reviews it has received.

The dish was to be a simple and quick chicken curry.

Now, I know that it’s possible to buy jars of curry paste which have been specially blended to achieve a desired effect, and their use would almost certainly speed proceedings up. But the idea of blending my own herbs and spices seemed to me to get right to the heart of the matter.
As probably everybody else in the world already knows, the process begins with the cooking together of the spices in a hot oil. So, in go cumin seeds, fennel seeds, chilli flakes and a cinnamon stick. Then a paste made from a whizzed onion, whizzed root ginger and six whizzed garlic cloves. And finally, garam masala and turmeric.
In most hands this probably results in a beautifully aromatic paste which will delicately flavour the tomatoes and chicken waiting to be added. But the danger signs were already apparent. The spices in the oil were emitting noxious fumes which induced a coughing fit and caused me to fling open doors and windows. The whole house smelt like a tandoori restaurant and the resulting dish, although looking like a curry, was something akin to a tindaloo – a dish normally reserved for sado-masochists.
Ann doesn’t normally like strong curry, but this was the fieriest of acrid products and caused her to invent a series of fanciful motives which might have caused me to produce it. Although a novice, perhaps I had sabotaged my own dish in order never to have to cook again. And, worse, given that I seemed to be able to eat it (since it was the only way I could think of disposing of the toxic waste) then this was clearly what I like, and by implication I’ve hated everything she’s cooked over the last forty-odd years. The curry had clearly gone to her head, the reverse of where it went for me the next day.
I’m guessing that the amounts in the recipe are merely indicative – so I will be making this again, but erring on the side of caution this time.
As an aside, I certainly didn’t curry any favour down at the snooker hall that evening where my jumper was still heavily aromatic after its experience in the kitchen.

NEVER MESS WITH THE GYPSIES

12/08/2020

My grandfather was a Gypsy, amongst other things, and led a life so rich as to be worthy of documenting in a biography. A task still awaiting my attention.

I’ve often joked that I’m very interested in Gypsies but wouldn’t necessarily want to meet one. But this all came into sharp focus recently when I had the pleasure of meeting two of them.

I’d gone up to the allotment to lay some woodchips around my raised beds as paths for me to stand on, and to keep the weeds at bay. We’d had a Facebook message from the allotment tribal chief to say that there was a big pile of these woodchips at the bottom of the allotment slope, close to the road, and that they were free for anybody to take. For most people this would be sufficient encouragement, but to me it still felt like stealing as I shovelled the chips into my wheelbarrow. I’ve always had this ‘headmaster syndrome’ where I constantly expect a senior teacher to emerge from behind a bush, demanding to know what I’m up to.

So, when I heard a vehicle turn into the allotment gate and pull up right beside me, I was certain that, rightly or wrongly, I was just about to be taken to task over the wood chips.

In fact, an Irishman jumped out of the van, approached me and said “Hi, I’m Irish – from Tipperary” as though this would lend credence to his authenticity. “I’ve been looking for Terry, but he doesn’t seem to be about. You’ll have to tell him I stopped by.” Needless to say, there is nobody called Terry who runs an allotment. “So, maybe you should have a look at what I’ve got in the back of the van”. It’s quite a smart, grey, Transit-type van. It looks quite new. In the back of the van are two large, sealed boxes containing diesel generators and three chain saws, still with plastic protection around the chain. These are clearly stolen goods. This is a bit of a new one on me.

The man from Tipperary goes on. “The boss has said we’ve got to go back to Ireland today and we’ll be dropping the van off in Bristol so he says just get rid of the stuff – he doesn’t really care how, so you can have one for free.”

I look perplexed. “Free?”

“Well, the price of a good drink anyway”.

While I’m listening to the blarney, the second man has slipped out of the van, noticed that the boot of my car is open (since I’d just taken my spade out of it), and is busy loading one of the generators into it.

Well, this is not what I had had in mind, so I rushed over, complaining that I didn’t know them, didn’t know what this was (motioning to the box) and I didn’t want anything to do with it. The second man was already making his way over from the van with a chainsaw for me. So, I began to manhandle the generator box out of my car. It was enormously heavy, and it looked for all the world that I wasn’t going to manage it; it seemed as if it would fall to the ground. The two men looked alarmed and rushed to retrieve it and get it back to their van.

“Why do you want to give this stuff away?” I asked the first man. But the second man was returning, and they assumed their roles of Good Gypsy – Bad Gypsy. “Well, of course we’re not giving it away” he fumed, “What are you? A child? When did you last get something for nothing?” At this point I was guiltily looking at the pile of wood chips but said nothing.

“It would be a couple of hundred” said the Bad Gypsy. So, I shrugged my shoulders and went about my business loading up the wheelbarrow whilst they manoeuvred their van to leave the allotment – the Bad Gypsy continuing to advise me of my many shortcomings from the driver’s window. In a moment’s recklessness, just as the van reached the gate, I mouthed “Fuck Off” to the driver. The van stopped and the Bad Gypsy asked, “Did you say something?”

I was pretty certain that this needless and uncharacteristic gesture was going to earn me a beating, but I put down my wheelbarrow and said, as firmly as I could, “On your way”. And by some miracle they decided to call it a day. Phew!

I was quite shaken by this encounter. I hadn’t had the wit to take their registration number, and, in any case, I didn’t have my mobile ‘phone with me. But I felt I wanted to report what I’d seen to the Police.

This didn’t merit a 999 call and it took me a few moments, when back at home, to determine that the lesser emergency number is 101. When I dialled that, the introductory message made clear that calls made to this number still have to be pretty urgent and I was urged to report minor problems to the Police website.

The Police website is not easy to navigate and none of their suggested scenarios applied to my recent experience. I gave up and had my lunch. Still racked with guilt I thought I should try again, and this time found a route through the maze where you can report what you want to without having to adopt one of their categories. I told the Police what had happened in the hope that it might help them in foiling the Irish plot. Eight hours later they said, “Thank you. We’ve passed your comments to our local intelligence team.”

Happily, I am married to an amateur Detective Inspector, and she is very good at finding out what’s going on in our community via social media. Irish tinkers, it seemed, had set up camp in Wantage behind the sports centre and many of the townsfolk had been harassed by these people who were trying to sell diesel generators.

And I, myself, later discovered in Facebook that the travellers had now moved on to Black Bourton (between Carterton and Clanfield in West Oxfordshire), were stopping cars on the road and were jumping on their bonnets (???!!)

Now that I think about it, I should have known that these guys weren’t Gypsies, not Romany Gypsies anyway. If they had been they would have recognized my direct descent from King of the Gypsies, Sidney Gregory, and laid out sacking for me to pass over as I purloined my woodchips.

Then again, maybe they did see the bare-knuckle fighter in me when they decided not to beat me up. Or was it just that their risk analysis took in the silver spade on top of the wheelbarrow?

We’ll never know.

WRETCHED, WRETCHED ME

20/01/2020

	“Are you sitting comfortably?”
“Perfectly, thank you.”
	“Then I’ll begin.”
“I knew that mother would have to come into this at some point.”
	“Ha Ha Ha. Now can you tell me, in your own words, how you see yourself. Where do you fit into the spectrum of personalities around you?”
“Well, for many years I used to think that the world was run by my parents’ generation. I was always expecting a headmaster figure to emerge from the shadows, to admonish or reprove. And then, one day, this all changed. A wheel seemed to have moved on by one cog during the night. And I realised that the world was now being run by my children’s generation.”
	So, you feel passed over in some way, that you’ve missed the boat?
“Yes. In numerous employments, I have never really been taken seriously as a contender for a management position. It’s always been recognized that I’m a good team player, prepared to work all hours to see a project through, safe pair of hands, point out the direction and set him off – kind of guy. But nobody could see me in charge of a group of people. Then, one year, there was absolutely no other option and the executive was forced to ask me to lead the team. It was then that I realised where everybody had been coming from. I couldn’t see myself as a leader of men either. Fairly early on, in a moment of crisis, and losing track of where we were with various projects, I found myself shouting “I need a neater folder!” One of the office wags immediately found a large, yellow binder and labelled it “ANITA FOLDER”. From that point on, Anita ran all our projects and kept us on schedule. And difficult decisions weren’t made by me; I was simply relaying them at Anita’s behest. Similarly, it quickly became clear that I needed some help in managing my colleagues, and so another folder, this time labelled “MICHAEL LEAGUES”, was instituted. Between them, Michael and Anita, unpaid, ran the department – and the team went from strength to strength. I don’t know what became of me, but the folders, in recognition of their success, went on to much greater things. Anita became the chief executive case at Staples, and Michael accepted a position as a government attaché.”
	“Very funny. But you seem to be suggesting that in fact you are capable of running a team, but that you need a prop to hide behind. You wanted the team to look at the folders, not at you, as your decisions were announced. But you’re also implying that the much-less-able folders went on to achieve success, leaving you behind.”
“Yes, well I think I’ve always been able to identify authority figures both above me and below me. Everybody must be satisfied.”
	“Do you have an issue with authority figures?”
“I am burdened with personality defects which are not consonant with success as it is popularly understood. Probably the greatest, or perhaps I should say the least, of these is my overweening respect for authority, real or perceived. A memory which has proved impossible to expunge is of the day at primary school when the teacher told us that she didn’t want to hear another child ask if they could go to the toilet. To me, an instruction had been issued by an authority figure and, rather like HAL the computer in 2001 A Space Odyssey, I was torn by competing demands. The conflict was resolved by the puddle under my chair, something I could reflect on as I ran home in shorts. Careful, as ever, to avoid any roads with a hint of a Private sign, where the authority figure cannot even be bothered to identify themselves yet continues to exert their influence.”
	“I see, so roads with a Private sign, like your folders, are representative of an authority figure. The headmaster character in hiding, who might pop out and tell you off. And your primary school teacher’s edict simply couldn’t be contradicted or even questioned, and outweighed any shame at wetting yourself in public.”
“Entirely so. Perhaps my worldview is a little too black-and-white.”
	“Do you see me as an authority figure?”
“Of course I do. We’ve both contracted to take up well-defined positions in this negotiation.”
	“And are you fearful of me?”
“Of all authority figures. Even those which are harder to pin down. Like Society or The Law. Once, as a teenager, I spotted a ten shilling note in the road. Although only having a worth, in modern terms, of 50p it still seemed a lot of money to me. With nobody in sight to ask about it, I should have trousered the note like any other normal person. But the silent, all-seeing body of the law was altogether too powerful an authority to dismiss in this way. Instead, I took the note down to the police station and registered it as a found item. Then, after the requisite period of three months, I was able to claim my prize since, obviously, nobody had been in to report the loss.”
	“You’d satisfied the law, the unseen policeman – adopted a protocol which, to most, would seem unnecessary – and therefore placed yourself in an unimpeachable position. Safe to claim the ten shillings. Were you able to enjoy the money after that?”
“I can’t remember. I’m sure when I was handing it over in some shop, that I was happy to be spending money which was undeniably, provably mine.”
	“So, if there isn’t a handy authority figure in sight, you’ll invent one to fill the gap. Has there ever been an instance where a real authority figure gave you a hard time?”
“Once, long ago, I must have turned up at school with a bad case of bed hair because halfway through a morning lesson the headmaster invited me to leave the room and comb it. This would have been unproblematic if I had been one of those kids with a comb in my pocket, but this request had given me a real problem. At the end of the corridor was a cloakroom with toilets, so I ran down there to see what I could find. All that was on offer was an old bristle brush used to clean the floors, but I managed to smarm down my hair with this. A little wetter than I would have liked, and either side of my crooked parting little bits of damp toilet paper nestled, but job done. So, I was rather surprised by the nature of my reception back in the classroom.”
	“It’s beginning to sound like you feel that negotiation is impossible after your authority figure has taken up their stance. No matter what the likely outcome, you trust their judgement more than you do your own. Can you think of any reasons why you are prepared to be so passive?”
“It’s possible that I have a subconscious fear of rejection and perhaps then being unlikeable. I have been called some names in my time. A fellow college student once termed me ‘an inconsequential person’ for having failed to deliver on one or other of the social graces. And my grandchildren often refer to me as ‘Silly old Granddad’, for no reason whatever. In fact, the only person not to have given me a name is…. Myself. I have a profound dislike of the telephone. So much so, that I find I cannot say my own name whilst using one. It’s almost as though I don’t deserve to have a name. This can be quite a problem when trying to book a squash court, but the solution has turned out to be quite simple. My name has to be sung to a banal tune, like an advertising jingle. This lack of self-confidence can be picked even by very young children. When tucking my son into bed one day many years ago, he looked up at me and asked “Dad. Am I your only friend?” “Sadly, yes.”
	“Hmmm I’m interested by the ‘unworthiness of a name’ assertion. But you don’t have any evidence for inconsequentiality do you?”
“There are plenty of examples from throughout my life to amplify the point. In over forty years of trying, I have never once voted for the winner in an election. I was always the last boy standing whenever teams were being picked. Shortly after moving into my first house, a salesman came to the door and asked if my parents were in. Happily, they weren’t. The list goes on.”
	“So, would you say that confidence lies at the heart of your sense of failure?”
“Confidence is a strange business. I’m quite happy talking to you, and I would be equally happy in a small dinner party, but when there are more than nine people then I tend to close down socially. A pub situation is particularly problematic. Yet, strangely, when I speak publicly, which I do from time to time, there is no difficulty at all because, although I’m talking to a hundred or more people, which is definitely more than nine, I regard them as one audience. It also helps that what I say is scripted.”
	“I see. Well, this sounds like it could be quite a limiting characteristic. We’ll need to work hard to overcome this number-dependent shyness. And, finally, could you give me some insight into how you deal with stress?”
I’m not normally given to having a strong reaction to stress. You just have to get on with things, don’t you. But every now and again, infrequently, I will respond by not speaking to anybody. It isn’t because I’m depressed, or angry, or don’t have anything to say. The situation simply pushes me to the point where I can’t be bothered to speak. It doesn’t last for long, but my family don’t like it. They call it having a ‘mute out’. I tell them, some fathers knock six bells out of their children but the real bastards are the ones who go quiet.”
	“Right. Well, I think that about wraps things up. I’ve very much enjoyed our chat. Thank you so much for coming in. We’ll be in touch in due course, though I think it only fair to say that it’s looking highly unlikely that we will be able to offer you a position.”