There are only two sensible things to do. One is to hibernate and the other is to leave for warmer climes. I have absolutely no sense of loyalty to the British post Christmas winter. If it was a pretty, white, frozen landscape that might be different but it ain’t.

This afternoon the fire is lit which helps. Fire has an offsetting effect on January and February. Central heating doesn’t do it. You need flames and direct heat. You need crackle and flicker and colour. It’s all part of hibernation really – the falling asleep on the settee in front of the fire.

January is an austere month. A time of admonishment. It used to be of necessity, to conserve supplies until fresh growth. Nowadays the necessity comes from overindulgence during the mid winter holiday. The bleak mid winter holiday.

The austerity accompanies those who cannot flee. They are trapped. The notion of going somewhere warm for the remainder of the winter seems to clash with the idea that belts need tightening and livers restoring. So most of us tighten and restore and bend our heads to the wind glancing up only occasionally to keep our bearings.

Thank goodness for the fire.

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“MARSHALL!” A parade-ground voice bellowed at him from somewhere to his left, its echo reverberating around the hall. “Sit down when the governor’s speaking, you ignorant shit.”

Looking even more harassed than usual, the governor glanced at Jack over the top of his half-moon glasses and, recognising his orderly, gave him a quick smile. “Yes, Mr Marshall, let’s do as the Chief says, shall we, there’s a good chap.” Then, returning to his prepared speech, he tried to look stern. “Now, men,” he said, “I’m taking this spate of suicides very seriously. I’m not having any more of them, not in my prison. They’re to stop right now, d’y’hear.”

After two years as his orderly, two years of looking after this tall, unworldly man even now teetering precariously on the tubular steel chair in front of a horde of grinning, hopeful faces, Jack’s initial indifference towards him had matured into a protective benevolence. The man’s genuine paternalism, the Victorian pattern of speech that was his without affectation, seemed to Jack just two of the many endearing features possessed by the senior governor of Uppandown Prison. But to the other inmates and to the majority of prison staff, they were anything but. Charles Ambrose Dixon irritated them almost to distraction.

Jack did as he’d been told and lowered his gaze. At least he didn’t have to watch. And he’d try not to listen. He put his hands over his ears. Then he thought of the last time the inmates had been assembled for one of the governor’s homilies. Good God, that one had turned into a riot, the dining hall wrecked. Refurbishment had cost the Home Office a packet. He sniffed, and caught the stink of fresh paint even with all the food smells around; another riot so soon and Charlie Dixon’s career in the Prison Service would be finished for good – with less than ten months to go to retirement. Then Henschel – Henschel the hateful Hun – would take charge. Jack shuddered, what a disaster that would be! The very thought!

The governor was in full spate now; prepared speech abandoned, he waved it expansively. “So if any of you coves are thinking of topping yourselves you can chuck the idea right now – right here and now I say.” The chair on which he stood wobbled alarmingly and just for a moment the hopes of his audience looked as if they were about to be gratified. But, arms windmilling, he regained his balance to continue unabashed. “So I’m giving you fair warning, one more attempt and it will be the worse for all of you. I don’t like to make threats, but the next man to commit suicide will lose all his privileges, every single one of them: home leave, visits, even free association. D’y’hear, any more of this nonsense and I’ll tighten this prison until it squeaks – until it squeaks, d’y’hear?”

But they hadn’t heard, not his last sentence anyway, it had been drowned by laughter, loud and prolonged. It was soon followed by tumuluous applause initiated by none other than the very prison officer who had ordered Jack to sit down. A moment later, fingers to his mouth, the same man was to let out a long piercing whistle. It was immediately imitated by half those present.

They were all on their feet now, including Jack. Charlie may be a fool but he doesn’t deserve this, he thought. He then watched helplessly as the governor did as most of his audience had been hoping and fell heavily when the chair on which he’d been standing slid out from under him. Jack rushed to his side and helping him to his feet, pleaded with him to leave the room. “Come on, Charlie, let’s get you out of here.”

The governor scowled at him; he didn’t approve of all this familiarity and his orderly knew it, he’d told him often enough. He said so as he dusted down his trousers. “And I can’t leave while all this bad behaviour is going on, you know that too.” He advanced on the jeering mob. “Sit down, all of you. Sit, I say.” It was unintentional but he could have been talking to his dogs.

Prison officers, serious now, followed his example. Prowling the big room, they quelled the disorder, weaker men first.

Two:

Very young and new to the job, Ellen Brough, the Education Department’s administrative assistant, was unsure about her next question; lack of enthusiasm for initiatives put forward by the boss might give a poor impression at this stage of her career. But his latest idea was a waste of tax-payers’ money surely. “Where will we find a teacher of Welsh in Norfolk, Mr Tudor?” There were only six Welsh inmates, two of them black, and none of them had shown the slightest inclination to learn the language when the subject was brought to their attention. To her mind, admittedly that of a mere admin. assistant, lessons in Welsh seemed an expensive luxury.

“We’ll advertise, Ellen, in the local free press. Our teacher doesn’t need to hold any formal qualifications and even a prison can look inviting at almost fourteen pounds an hour, especially if you’re on the dole.” He grinned displaying a gap in his upper jaw. He’d forgotten his dentures again.

Ellen shook her head. “But nobody wants to learn Welsh, Mr Tudor, there’s been no response at all from the men.”

“It’s part of our heritage, Ellen, yours and mine, our British heritage. We should be able to offer it on our curriculum.” He moved closer. “And, please, call me Duncan.”

“But you’re Welsh and you’ve managed without it. If we can find a teacher, will you be joining the class?” She backed away from him putting the filing cabinet between them.

Mr Tudor looked disappointed. “I’m afraid not,” he said, “I just haven’t the time these days – a man in my position, you know.”

Ellen nodded. She knew all right; if he wasn’t away on so many visits to other prisons – pointless, unnecessary social visits from which nothing constructive ever seemed to materialise – he’d have plenty of time to learn Welsh if he wanted to. And if he spent less time in the pub at lunchtime. Yes, she knew all right.

It was eight-fifteen and the part-time teachers were starting to arrive. The first was Mr Ojibango. A large Nigerian, he seemed a very pleasant man but Ellen dreaded being alone with him. At least, he seemed to be a very pleasant man but she couldn’t be sure because she didn’t understand a word he said. Yet he purported to teach English. Ellen had asked Mr Tudor about it but his answer had confused her.

“Oh I know he’s difficult to understand,” he’d said, “but that’s not why he’s here.” Suddenly coy, he’d explained. “Like me with our Welsh prisoners, he’s a good role model for the black inmates. We’re lucky to have a black teacher.”

Being a mere administrative assistant, and only eighteen at that, Ellen had thought it patronising in the extreme to employ a black teacher no-one could understand – both to Mr Ojibango himself, now sitting opposite and smiling his pleasant smile, and to the black inmates of Uppandown Prison. But she kept it to herself, she could be wrong. She returned his smile warmly then shuffled a sheaf of papers. She felt sorry for him until she remembered the fourteen pounds an hour.

It was Friday – ‘AIDS day’. A morning lecture on AIDS/ HIV to which all prisoners had right of access at least once during their sentence, and it was Robert’s task to provide it. Robert – ‘Call me Bobby’ - Nixon, forty, coming on twenty-five, gave Ellen his usual hug before adjusting his pony-tail. None of the other male teachers hugged her, she wouldn’t have liked it if they had, but with Robert it didn’t matter. There was an innocence about him, a naivety she couldn’t explain. Once she’d met him in town and, much to her consternation, he’d hugged her in front of boyfriend Alex. He’d even kissed her. Yet Alex had laughed! Usually, Alex -ultra-jealous Alex – would threaten to punch heads if another man so much as looked her way – yet he’d laughed. And Robert had kissed her on the mouth! It was Robert’s gift, she supposed, it must be, he was such a friendly man. Right now he was smiling at Mr Ojibango. But they’d never met, had they. One of Mr Ojibango’s lessons had been rescheduled and this was the first Fiday he’d ever worked at Uppandown so he and Robert had never been introduced. Ellen did so now and, after the men had shaken hands Robert joined Mr Ojibango by the office window. But something was wrong. They were still holding hands but Mr Ojibango had stopped smiling. Ellen didn’t understand men, not yet anyway, but she’d keep on trying, they couldn’t be all that much different, surely.

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The light in the back garden has a special quality this morning as the sun does its best to poke through. Half an hour ago the allotments were covered in semi translucent mists but these seem to be lifting and being replaced by a silvery glow. There are still plenty of apples on the trees in the garden. We have picked enough for our short term needs and are leaving the rest to the wildlife. It only seems fair.

A shiver of contentment ripples down my back. I have had a cup of tea, bacon sandwich with organic white bread baked yesterday in this very kitchen, a glass of milk and a smaller one of orange juice.

I am under no pressure although there is a mirror to put up sometime today so not an entirely jobs free day.

The sizzling of the large cast iron casserole pan also provides a warm feeling. A slow cooked beef stew in preparation. Onions, bacon and garlic frying. Bottle of Marston’s Pedigree at the ready to add to the flavour. It will be great with some nice crusty bread tonight when we get back from Skegness. We also have some hand made butter left, bought at the British National Ploughing Championships last weekend.

It somehow feels right to be cooking at this time of year. That isn’t to say we don’t do it all year round but there must be some inbuilt “use up that harvested produce” instinct.

My grandmother in South Wales used to keep a pig in a sty at the bottom of the garden. That went a long time ago when they changed the law making people use abattoirs for their butchery. As a child my father remembers that pig as being one of their main sources of protein during the winters.

We couldn’t do it these days. Centrally heated houses are not great places to hang bacon although our north facing garage would do the trick I suppose. We would probably end up buying a large walk in fridge. I think we will stick to Tesco – it is only down the road.

Classic FM is still soothing away in the background. No idea what they are playing. Non-descript relaxing classic muzak. It’s doing the job though.

The casserole is now in the oven on gas mark 1 and Anne has moved onto something else. She tells me she is also making a pork dish to put in the oven at the same time. Tireless! :) For this one she is using up some cider left in the house by one of Tom’s mates. Well done friend of Tom.

The rest of the house is quiet. John is playing on the Xbox in the TV room, Hannah is away on a sleepover and Joe is at Butlins in Skegness on a County Youth Band music workshop weekend. He has been really looking forward to it. Last year he went for the first time but only because Hannah had broken her elbow and couldn’t play the flute so he filled in. This year Hannah didn’t even consider going but Joe was at the front of the queue getting his name down.

We are going to pick him up later today and to hear the “open rehearsal”. It means free entry to Butlins! We are taking our swimming cozzies just in case.

I have to go out and get a few bits for a picnic before we go. You know the sort of thing. A ham, foie gras, a whole stilton, couple of bottles of something suitable etc etc. Not really. Probably a bit more bread and some Dairylea Dunkers

Note I didn’t even mention Tom. He is out of the picture these days other than via the occasional glance at Facebook or Twitter. He will be firmly in the land of nod at this time on a Sunday morning I’m sure. Last night was the last of the two weeks of freshers “week”. He should be settling into a bit more of a routine now.

Ok casseroles done and in the oven. Light changed yet again over the allotments. John has arrived to make pancakes. Time to face the day.

10.47: Not set off for Skegness yet. Just back from Texco and the early morning mist has lifted to reveal a glorious October day. It is a joy to be alive. The cathedral looks magnificent, towering above us with its back drop of clear blue sky.

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Then the tornado breezed in. It began with the sound of a key trying to fit into the front door lock. It couldn’t. My key was already in there. I didn’t have time to react before the inevitable ring on the doorbell. I opened the front door to a cuddle and was greeted with requests for lunch at McDonalds. Ok Waitrose then. Huh! One packet of Cheezy Wotsits later and the individual tornado concerned breezed back out and left us to recover serenity.

Regaining focus, John continued with his preparations and all was well.

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It was all about the need to get there for 11am. That’s when everyone was going to arrive. None of this “look around the University”. “Just drop me off and let me get on with it”. I am pleased to say that the nearer we got to our destination the more our son became our son.

When we got there we were a team. Tom and Anne got out of the car when we were in the traffic queue and went to suss out the scene. Two major trips from car to room had him installed. The Tesco shopping trolley was invaluable.

An hour walking round the campus with other parents and offspring was rewarding. He was one of us. Tref and Anne’s son. He put up with Tref the Paparazzo and paid attention to his younger brother John.

We picked up his Students Union card, listened to the Endsleigh insurance sales pitch, waited whilst he spoke with various official and unofficial organisations and marvelled at the Warwick University campus.

Back at his room we said goodbye. Hugs and handshakes. Everyone was happy. The future is his.

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I drove back through the greenery of the Lincolnshire countryside with the windows of the Jeep wide open.

Coming up to 9pm it was still daylight and the hedgerows were alive with noise.

Breathing in deeply I could smell new growth and it made me glad to be alive.

The reddening sky to the West bode well for the next day and there was hardly any traffic on the road which made for comfortable driving.

As I approached the outskirts of Lincoln a gentle dusk fell over the city and the lights added a pleasant warmth to the scene.

I turned in to the drive and went in to a bottle of Pauillac that I had opened to breathe before setting off on my journey.

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One might associate a Boy Scout, and perhaps the occasional Girl Guide or Brownie with someone who runs amok in the woods, lighting campfires and generally getting dirty in the most ill disciplined of fashions. The modern movement however is one that has benefited from decades of progress in training on “how to handle the yoof”.

In consequence today’s Boy Scout is the model of an obedient teenager. Badges, as you may know, are the life blood of the movement. These days the boys’ work is done one time and to the highest standards. Indeed such is the enthusiasm of the lads for these activities that it is rare for a Scout not to have earned every single badge in the book by the time he reaches the upper age limit and has to leave the Troop.

This he will inevitably do with heavy heart knowing that all that lie ahead for him are the dubious pleasures of night clubs and the opposite sex.

The pinnacle of a Boy Scout’s year is the St Georges Day parade. This event is looked forward to for weeks ahead. In the run up to the day a full turnout at every Scout night is the result of the general desire to be well turned out and to make a good fist of it. A military parade ground will have not seen the like of the dedication of these boys to making the parade a huge success. Many of them will in fact have attended church services on a regular basis in training for the hour and a half of sheer boredom that is the actual St Georges Day service.

So by the time the big day arrives it is not hard to imagine the excitement of the well presented and uniformly disciplined bunch of lads as they line up for the march to the castle.

The parade is also hugely popular with parents and grandparents who turn up in their hundreds to wave at their progeny as the they pass by. Popular vantage points must be occupied from very early on in the day to secure the best view. The lads themselves rarely acknowledge the presence of their parents, clearly the discipline of their training showing through. This does not spoil the enjoyment and little brothers and sisters will continue to shout and wave undeterred.

On the particular occasion described here it was all to go horribly wrong. The aforementioned grannies had turned up shortly after dawn to line the route into the castle which as you probably know starts to narrow considerably as it approaches the entrance. By the time the column arrived the pressure of an unusually large crowd had grown to a bursting point and some of the old dears were thrust into the path of the parade, just after the first band had passed and before the elite troop of marchers that followed.

Had it been one of the ordinary troops the problem might not have been so bad but this was the elite. Being elite to a Scout means total focus on the task in hand. On this occasion it meant keeping in time to the big base drum that was banging out just ahead of them. The old dears didn’t stand a chance. They were trampled underfoot mercilessly, their cries floating unheard beneath the noise of the gazoots, the bugles and the drums.

The problem got worse as each of the subsequent blocks of marchers, eyes fixed on the man in front, saw not the human debris beneath their feet and continued to sally forth. The result was carnage, the noise deafening as relatives in the crowd lunges forward to see what was going on, crying for the parade to halt.

When the parade did eventually stop the scouts training came to the fore. The cry went out for first aid and every man jack with a first aid badge rushed to the scene. Knowing what we know, the reader will understand that this meant at least half of the boys present answered the call.

Organised chaos ensued but those long winter nights in the Scout Hut spent learning to tie a bandage with a necker paid off. It is a testament to the movement that the death toll was restricted to less than ten grannies as long lines of the critically injured were laid out tidily on the lawn inside the castle.

Access for ambulance was impossible due to the crows but gradually, one by one the casualties were lifted using a makeshift pulley system high up to the castle walls where they were lowered by rope to members of the medical profession waiting outside.

Always willing to make the best out of a bad situation the Scouts made good use of their time whilst this was going on and by the end of the day every one of them had qualified for his knot tying badge. Well done those boys. The old dears did not die in vain.

See you next year.

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In the summer months the Bishop himself could be found  hugging the walls of this edifice, slowly edging along with  the shadows as the sun moved around. Periodically he would escape to refill his chalice from the font. His vestments were a serious impediment to health during these times. Hot and airless. The mitre clung to his damp forehead and the sweat ran into his eyes stinging and making him blink.

Passing American tourists would look on at him wondering who on earth he was. It didn’t occur to them that he might be someone called the Bishop of Lincoln. He crouched there blinded and speechless, propping himself up with his crook, head tilted upwards with one hand held aloft to protect himself from the murderous sunshine.

Sometimes one of the clerics would come looking for him and when he was unable to hide the Bishop would shrink back, hard against a flying buttress. He would stand there, looking up at a stained glass window and avoiding the gaze of his subordinate, ignoring any appeal to return to the inner sanctum of the choir, despite the attraction of the coolness and the real comfort of his throne.

At night when most of the visitors had retired to their hotels rooms the Bishop would remove his heavy clothes and return, shoulders bent, to his palace where his wife would run him a cold bath.

He then liked nothing better than to sit down to a light green salad with lettuce picked fresh from the Cathedral walled garden eaten with a grilled chicken breast marinaded in his favourite dressing. The Bishop favoured a crisp white Bordeaux on these hot summer evenings especially after a hard day’s self inflicted penance. He would usually finish the bottle whilst his wife looked on, afterwards bringing him a bottle of his favourite cognac on a silver platter with a single brandy glass.

With the doors of the conservatory flung wide open to catch the remaining evening breeze the Bishop would sit back in his armchair and reflect that life was not so bad.

We saw little of this. The tall walls of the Bishop’s Palace kept hidden what we were not meant to know about and if we did pass by of an evening it was in complete ignorance of the Bishop’s twilight habits. Even had we known I doubt that it would have struck a chord with any of us.

We didn’t care. We were lost in our own dream worlds, confined by endless imagination that, whilst physically bound to Lincoln, would allow us to escape, climb mountains and swim in lakes that were far from our actual experiences. We spent the summer doing this and ended up tanned and at the peak of physical fitness. At the end of it all we had to face up to the fact that school now beckoned and we had to root in our drawers to find the clothes purchased by mothers expressly for the purpose of fitting into accepted standards of attire when furthering our education.

We walked into the form room on that first morning with absolutely no idea what lay in store for us. Miss Northeast strode in and addressed the class.

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I’ve been potting some chilli plants. Got the seeds a few weeks ago in Focus Do It All and sowed them in a tray in the conservatory. As if by magic the seedlings started to come through and got to a point where I deemed it appropriate to move them into pots. In all I have 20 or so, some of which I have moved outside and one that I took In to the office. When I am not in my room I jack the aircon temperature up as high as it will go. He he he. Looking forward to plenty of burn later in the year when I get harvesting.

I’m not really a gardener. I live just down the road from Tesco. However it is sometimes nice to do gardening type stuff. Usually it is a rush of blood that gets things into the ground but after that the weeds take control. Pesky things :). I did plant a lot of peas one year and managed to get a couple of portions out of it all. Shame really because freshly picked peas are the best. Problem is you need to plant them in industrial quantities to get a sensible amount. You do in our allotment anyway.

We are quite lucky in having an allotment over the back fence. It’s the plot nearest our house and we have a gate opening into it. The initial enthusiasm waned years ago and now we grow mostly weeds. Adrian over the back has taken half of it. He puts us to shame. they haven’t got any kids mind you so they have that luxury called time.

Ade (I don’t call him that – don’t know if anyone does, or Aidy come to that) is a lecturer in Economics at the University and he is also a dab hand at the piano. Can play anything. We have on occasion had a jam with me on the geetar and him on keyboards. Don’t do it often enough really. Last Christmas he and Sian didn’t make it to our usual singsong bash but fortunately we had Ervin the Hungarian Concert Pianist turn up out of the blue.

I had not met Erv before but he was a real revelation. He and Joe and I played a few jazz numbers. We went on until quite late. It’s good to have a solid pianist in the trio – keeps the whole set going. Ours is one of those electric keyboards with zillions of different sound options.

We had a normal piano when I was a kid in Cardiff. I seem to recall dad inheriting from someone and carting halfway across Wales. I might be wrong. Anyway the point is that having had a few lessons none of the kids really took to it and came the day of reckoning where it had to go. It was just taking up too much room in the house. Rather than pay to remove it dad just took a sledgehammer to it and demolished it in the back garden. We made a coffee table out of the polished side panel. That was one expensive coffee table.

I remember having piano lessons off Mrs Ryan Davies. Ryan was a famous Welsh comedian from the Ryan and Ronnie duo. Bit like a Welsh Morecambe and Wise. I didn’t think anything of the fact that I was in his house for the piano lessons. Ryan died quite young. He had a similar problem to Dylan Thomas apparently.

A few years ago my sister Sue and I went to Laugharne to visit Dylan Thomas’ home. It was where he wrote many of his famous poems. As a source of inspiration it is a wonderful little place. Small seaside town., plenty of bird life. Probably didn’t have many tourists before Dylan Thomas settled there and died. Thanks a bunch Dyl, the locals probably said. Does bring money into the local economy though, I suppose, although we didn’t pay to go into his house. Skinflints of what? It’s only a house for goodness sake.

On the way there Sue got a bit irritated because I was talking in an exaggerated South Wales accent. So I stopped. Then when we got to Laugharne I noted the fact that there was a Dylan Thomas tea room (very nice – I had Welsh Cakes). Continuing with the theme I pointed out many other Dylan Thomas features. The Dylan Thomas Post Office. The road that Dyl used to walk along to the pub. The lamppost that he would lean against on his way home, the Dylan Thomas bench, where he would stop for a rest and also the bush that he would stop to pee behind. This all got to Sue in the end so I had to stop that too ?.

Sue’s a violinist you know. We are a very musical family.

Outside as I write it is a classic spring day – cold and wet. There is a bit of sunshine poking through which does bring a very small ray of hope for the rest of the day. Not sure what the forecast is though. More cold and rain probably. It is very reassuring, this British weather. It it was nice all the time we wouldn’t like it. I wouldn’t anyway. I don’t think that makes me a weirdo. It’s just what we are used to.

I can’t imaging going on holiday somewhere hot and spending all my time lying on the beach for two weeks. I don ‘t like the sand anyway although the view does sometimes provide compensations. We did once go to Mick Hynan’s place in Spain. It was too hot for me really though we did have a good time.

I bought a Spanish Guitar from Cartagena. I liked the idea of going to Cartagena. It evoked romantic thoughts of the Spanish main and fighting against Spanish Galleons. Also reminded me of the Laurie Lee book “As I walked Out One Midsummer Morning”. It’s the one where he walks round Spain playing the violin for his upkeep.

That book was a real inspiration to me when I was a student. It made me want to get up and go somewhere. At the end of the Summer Term I bought a rucksack, packed some basics and stuck my thumb out. I had with me a piece of cardboard with “St Tropez” written on it. Believe it or not I made it to St Tropez. I didn’t like it there though. It was far too expensive so I moved on and found myself in Greece. It’s a longer story than I have time for here – after all we are talking tinternet time – but I will tell it one day.

It’s quite amazing that tinternet didn’t exist when I were a student. Nether did mobile phones, or PCs. Didn’t do me any harm! Time must have dragged in those days. Spent most of it in cafes and pubs. Isn’t that what students do? I’m just looking forward to when I can do that all again. Probably won’t hitch hike to Greece though. More likely to fly, or take a boat maybe.

I’ve been thinking about buying a medium sized yacht and sailing off into the sunset, although if I was heading east to Greece it would obviously not be into the sunset. Probably never happen. I’d have to learn about navigation and stuff like that. We shall see. There’salso the problem of the money to pay for it.

I’ve never had any money. That’s not to say money doesn’t come into the bank account every month. I am a salaryman. Somehow it never seems to stick around. It’s why I only take £50 out of the bank at a time. If I took £100 out it would last the same amount of time as the £50. There must be something in that, just like the Third Law of Tinternet. It’s probably called Keynes’ Theorem of Cashflow or some similar title. I’m not going to look it up though. In case I’m disappointed and there isn’t one although that would of course mean that I had invented it myself in which case it would be Tref’s Theorem of Cashflow.

I remember being the first to get a round in in the Morning Star a few years ago. Many years ago actually. Anyway the point is having got the first round in and then everyone else taking their turn it came around to me again. I ordered the drinks for everyone then found out that the twenty pounds I had in my wallet was not twenty pounds. In fact it wasn’t any pounds. Anne had pinched it thinking, reasonably fairly, that the first twenty pounds would be enough. As it happened the beer had flowed freely and we had a few Sheilas in tow drinking exotic stuff like gin and tonic which had seemed to up the total cost of a round. The absence of cash actually got me out of paying for the round though you can’t use that one too often.

It’s like using your grandmother’s funeral as an excuse to skive off work. You can only use it twice. Both mine died years ago though I’m not sure that anyone in the office knows that. Hmm…

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I’m back in my usual seat in the corner of the kitchen. It’s a pew we bought from Anne’s church, St Peter in Eastgate, for £130. I’m told that the going rate at auction is £30 but what the heck. It’s charidee. £130 is what the new flexible seating costs per seat.

The church’s loss is my gain. As seats go it is absolutely rock solid. Bedded in by thousands of bottoms, mostly now dead and buried. There is something poetic about having it in the kitchen with me, a confirmed atheist, sat on it writing. I also eat on it of course. The kids fight to sit on it when we are eating.

During its life as a repository for worshippers I estimate it could have sustained 6 large adults, at a push, sat or kneeling. Perhaps one more for a wedding or funeral. Now occupants have to be able to reach the kitchen table which realistically can only sit 4 on a side, and then not exactly in huge comfort. So it is funny when we sit down and they all try and sit on the pew, leaving a huge part of the table circumference free for me and mum. I’d prefer to sit on the pew meself but in the competitive life of the family you have to be quick on the draw and the teenagers often beat me to it.

We have an enjoyably large kitchen with two kitchen tables. A luxury I know but I work hard for it. We play snooker in the kitchen although the snooker table, brought from home and one I had as a boy in the Isle of Man, has seen better days. The cushions are pretty dead. Also we can never get it level but it doesn’t really matter. It’s more about the playing of the game than the finer points nature of the sport.

I remember going to see the semi finals of the world snooker championships many years ago. Probably twenty five years! Aargh. I went with Dave Hopkins who had secured the tickets. We both had serious hangovers the day we went and I just about made it out to his place in time for the lift.

The championships were in Sheffield and we got there in time to creep in at the back for our right at the back seats during the morning session. I think we were watching Cliff Thorburn or some such star. At the end of the morning session, which is all we had tickets for, we went along to the box office on the off chance that there were some spaces available for the next session. We hit the jackpot. We ended up sat on the front row right next door to Steve “interesting” Davis.

Steve was at the height of his powers and these were seriously good seats. We would have been on the TV for much of the time. I should see if there are recordings of that match. 1984 or 1985. I can only assume that someone had bought tickets for the whole tournament and decided to sit out the semifinals otherwise I have no explanation as to why those tickets were available.

Can’t remember who won. Probably Steve interesting Davis. These days I play with my youngest son John who has a great eye for the ball and slots in some amazing pots, and his youth has not been misspent, yet!

Fast forward a night and dawn is a coming. When I sat down on the pew this morning there was blackness outside. Despite the darkness the birds were in full voice. Twenty minutes later there is enough light in the garden to be able to see the silhouette of the trees, and the birds have gone quiet. Probably getting busy digging up worms, now that they can see what they are doing. I expect the worms think, uhoh, dawn!

It’s a tough life being a worm. Wriggling about in the dirt with, as far as I know, no chance of betterment. I guess if they were Buddhist worms they might be ok, as long as they had lead a good worm life, though gawd knows how you do that. Just making sure the soil is well aerated I suppose and then finally offering yourself up as a meal to a blackbird with a hungry family to feed. The ultimate sacrifice though one with an ulterior motive.

The drain in front of our garage door fills up with leaves every year and every year when I clear it out it is filled with worms who have turned the leaves into the most wonderful compost. I should have though of that a couple of days ago when I sowed some chilli plant seeds. It would have been a good base for them. There is already one green shoot showing though I can’t imagine it is a chilli plant. It must be a weed. I got the compost from the bottom of the garden.

Still I’m looking forward to a successful first chilli plant season. As time goes by my requirements in terms of chilli heat have gone up. When we are out for a pizza with the kids I usually go for the hottest available and it is often disappointing. This summer I will be able to take my own chillies. I’ll have a “diavolo” please. Oh and slap these extra chillies on would you? The kids are constantly amazed.

I thought I was on safe ground last weekend when we got a delivey from Dominos. I had my usual extra chillies and had half a large pizza left uneaten at the end of the meal. Unusual! Anyway the next day I went on a Morning Star pub day out to Bletchley Park. In my mind the remainder of the pizza was supper when I got home. Of course when I did eventually get home, quite late as we had stopped at several pubs on the way, I discovered that Tom had scoffed the pizza. Although I was mildly miffed I was also quietly proud that he was developing what is a manly taste for heat. Good job we had eaten on the way.

There’s a funny story there because at the second pub we visited four of us thought we were eating and so had ordered meals. Turns out that nobody else was eating. They were all saving themselves for the ”Tally Ho”, a renowned pub with food just south of Sleaford. No problem. We ate our meal in a timely manner and got back on the minibus. On our way we joked that the Tally Ho had probably had a kitchen fire and couldn’t serve food that night, or was shut. When we got there we found that in fact the Tally Ho was completely full and was not serving bar meals unless you had a reservation!!

The beer was good though but that didn’t help those who had not yet eaten and were now getting quite hungry. We ended up making a diversion to the chippy at Waddington which was taken by surprise and didn’t have enough chips cooked for everyone. Half the contingent had to wait. Life’s rich tapestry.

It was a good day out, although somewhat of an indulgence as I am very busy with work during the week and expected to do something with the kids at the weekend. Bletchley Park was great. We had the added bonus of having Dennis the Spy with us. Dennis’ first job had been working at Bletchley Park, more years ago than he would care to admit to. He regaled us with stories of the time.

For the uninitiated Bletchley was the top secret place where they cracked the German Enigma codes during the Second World War. It was still working as a listening post when Dennis was there and he showed us the basic radio sets that they used to use. He would spend hours twiddling the dial until he found a frequency with something being transmitted. His job was just to record what was transmitted. He wouldn’t get to do the decoding. A bit boring really.

The best bit was his story about swimming the lake in front of the mansion. In those days the pub used to be open for only two hours on a Sunday lunchtime. Dennis had a bet that he could consume eight pints of Guinness in these two hours. That’s one pint every fifteen minutes, for the mathematically challenged. Ever the trooper Dennis met the challenge and won the bet. Having been kicked out after the legally allowed drinking up time he then considered it a good idea to take a shortcut home across the lake so he stripped off and dived in. Good lad. I have a photo of the lake if anyone is interested.

It’s completely light out now and I note that the blackbirds are indeed out in force looking for worms in the garden. I wonder what they do when they have had enough nosh. Move over dear, there’s room for another small one on the nest. Isn’t it time we were thinking of eggs?!

Talking of which it is Easter as I write. As the kids get bigger the pile of eggs they have to consume has diminished. Not a bad thing really I suppose. Teeth and all that. I can’t remember how many Easter eggs we used to get when we were small. I’m sure it is nothing compared to the number they get these days. Last year there was a glut. Tesco seemed to have got it wrong and had too many left at the end so they were selling them off dirt cheap. This year I’m told there are none left. Probably learnt their lesson after last year or the fact that there is no longer a Woolworths around to compete with them. Perhaps a combination of the two.

I only used to go to Woolworths about once a year anyway, when trying to come up with ideas for Christmas presents. I’m sure that’s the case for many others and likely a part of the reason why they went bust. I’m sorry but I wasn’t going to go more often just to keep a national institution going. I used to go when I was a kid to buy LPs and singles. Also pick and mix sweets and fishing tackle. I would buy these garish spinners that never caught a single fish. The trout would take on look at them and snub their noses. “Huh i’f I’m going to be caught he will have to do better than that”. I never did catch one. I didn’t even like fish in those days though I’m sure that mam and dad would have helped me out.

We used to go fishing in Injebreck reservoir. It was about seven miles away from the house, a lot of it uphill. It was a really tough slog getting there. Getting back was fine of course. Downhill! They were the classic long hot summer holidays where I would disappear for the day on the bike. Only half the time was spent fishing. It isn’t particularly interesting if you don’t catch anything. The rest of the time we just lounged around at the water;s edge or went for a walk around the lake.

It reminded me a bit of Arthur Ransom’s Swallows and Amazons books. In my imagination the end of the lake could be a place of mystery and excitement. We used to buy an ice cream from the warden’s house. Manx Ices. They only sold wafers I seem to recall but that did the job nicely. The best ice cream that was ever made, Manx Ices. The firm unfortunately doesn’t exist now though Davisons is nearly as good. Not sure they make wafers any more though. Some health and safety rule somewhere no doubt, or maybe weights and measures. I don’t know.

It was a great place to be a teenager the Isle of Man. Plenty of action in the summer. In those days there were loads of summer jobs. One year, the year I left school, I was a conductor on the Isle of Man Electric Railway. The best summer job you could ever hope to have. The pay was good and I spent each day trundling up and down the track to Laxey and back. A conductor’s main job was to check the tickets and keep an eye on the “trolley” that hooked the tram up to the electric cable. If it came off, as it sometimes did, you had to swiftly get it back on again.

The Electric Railway was a superior job to the horse trams. They worked you hard on the horse trams. Long hours too. Still they were both good jobs and I guess the point is that there were the jobs around and plenty of tourists to go with it. They were heady days. We still ride on the trams every year when we go back on holiday, for old times sake. We have the same group photo, taken year after year, of all of us huddled in front a of a wet Laxey Station. The kids just look a little bigger in each one.

Laxey is a cracking place to visit. It used to have a working mine, tin or lead, I can’t quite remember though I could no doubt look it up on tinternet. It still has the big wheel, the Lady Isabella. Worth a visit, once. Also a few caffs and lovely pebble beach and small harbour. Good place to go fishing as it doesn’t suffer from seals in the same way as you do in Peel.

Changing the subject completely everyone else is out at Church at the moment. Well not everyone. Hannah and Tom are upstairs but the house is very quiet. I can also see a sparrow in the back garden. Actually I have no idea whether it is a sparrow or not, which is a bit of an admission. I do have a couple of bird watching books, specifically for the purpose of whipping out quickly to do a bit of species recognition. However they are always kept tidied up in the utility room or somewhere and by the time I get them out the bird has gone.

Blackbirds, robins, blue tits, woodpidgeons I can do. Red kites too. I actually saw about 6 red kites in a day once when doing some family tree research in West Wales. I come from a very rual area, going back a bit, and red kits like rural areas, so it would seem. It was sufficiently In the middle of nowhere for me to be without telephone reception for 30 minutes at one point, driving on my way to the National Library of Wales in Aberystwyth. It’s always a lot farther than it seems on the map.

The NLW yielded a very productive afternoon for me the first time I went there. Because it was further than it looked I was a bit late getting there and the librarian’s first response was to tell me that he didn’t think there would be enough time to retrieve from archive the long list of Welsh Baptist tomes I wanted to read. After the intial disappointment another librarian came up and said that he had the exact pile I was looking for kept ready in the back room. I had fortuitously ordered them all in advance on line. Good ole tinternet.

That year I uncovered some amazing facts about my family history. I come from a long line of Baptist ministers! What’s more my Great Great Great Great Grandfather’s nephew (my cousin umpteen times removed – no idea how many but no doubt Google would tell me) was the first Welsh Baptist missionary to die in Africa. The Reverend William Davies.

His story was amazing. He, his pregnant wife Charlotte, and two year old son ,also William, set off from London in January 1832 to go to Grahamstown in South Africa. It took a month to make it as far as Plymouth. They were then shipwrecked in the Cap Verde Islands. I found an actual account of the shipwreck on tinternet. The son was unfortunately drowned and his wife gave birth to twins on the beach, one of who died.

It too two months for them to be rescued and taken back to the UK whereupon they started again! They finally made it out to Grahamstown in November 1832. That’s some dedication. Unfortunately conditions weren’t great out there and the wife died in 1836 of what sounds like Tuberculosis later followed by the Rev Davies a couple of years later in 1838. His reports back to the Baptist Missionary Society are all available on line. They were printed in the Baptist Magazine, available online in Google books!

Doing your family tree online is a classic exposition of the THIRD LAW. It takes long hours of painstaking research, all of which races by. I have hit the point of diminishing returns as far as family trees go. To get much more info is going to take a lot longer. I’m as far back as 1766 ish and need to be on the ground in West Wales to get further. Hopefully tinternet will catch up and more records will go online soon. I know the Mormons are at it and the last time I was in Carmarthen registry office they said that the parish registers would all soon be online. That’ll save some diesel.

click here for part 3

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