Love on the last train ...

The platform was crowded with late-night revellers anticipating the arrival of the last train home.
Remarkably, the information board indicated that St. Anley's homeward-bound train would be on time.
It also recommended that passengers intending to alight at Fishbourne, Bosham, Nutbourne etc. should travel in the front SEVEN coaches, owing to short platforms at these stations.

St. Anley noticed a woman.
She had shapely legs and a comely face.
He guessed that her male companion was her partner as he repeatedly caressed her buttocks.
The lady didn't seem to mind.
("He's on a promise tonight," thought St. Anley!)

The train pulled in and St. Anley boarded coach number SIX, as did several other people, including the shapely-legged lady and her man-friend.
St. Anley squeezed down the central aisle to occupy a seat which, by pure chance, afforded a view of the aforementioned legs.
Eye contact was made.
The lady smiled.
Indeed, she had a very pleasing countenance in a mature sort of way.
The lady remarked sympathetically, "You seem to be heavy-laden."
St. Anley was carrying his mandocello in its gig-bag, and another large, soft bag.
St. Anley just smiled back, wordlessly implying, "It's OK, I don't have far to go."

"Good evening," snapped a disembodied voice.
"This is your on-board supervisor. Welcome aboard this Southern train bound for Portsmouth Harbour, calling at Fishbourne, Bosham, Nutbourne [etc.]"
"Please be advised that passengers intending to leave the train at Fishbourne, Bosham, Nutbourne [and others] can only alight from the front FOUR coaches, owing to short platforms ..."

"What coach is this?" people asked anxiously.
It was unanimously agreed that we were two coaches further back from where most of us needed to be.
In unison people rose from their seats to surge forwards.

Well, it was almost in unison ...
St. Anley was delayed by struggling with his mandocello, the shoulder-strap of which had become wound around his left ankle.
He struggled.
"Let me help you," said the smiling lady with shapely legs and pleasing countenance.
St. Anley was obliged to politely avert his gaze from a generous display of cleavage as she leaned over to assist his disentanglement.
"Thank you so much," he said in some embarrassment.
"That's alright," she replied, "I always like to demonstrate the milk of human kindness!"
(Did she know precisely what St. A. had been thinking a moment ago?)

The lady extracted the musical instrument in its bag and slung it over her shoulder. She grabbed the other bag from off St. Anley's lap and tossed it to her gentleman friend.
"Here, take this," she commanded.
"Now, follow me!"
St. Anley, impressed by her authority, had no choice.
"What is this?"
St. Anley explained that it was a mandocello, a musical instrument.
"Cello coming through!" she announced as she barged her way through the other passengers. 
St. Anley followed after, his heart full of joy.

Soon this procession arrived in coach FOUR, just as the train departed Fishbourne.
At the first vacant aisle-seat the lady turned.
"You sit there!" she said.
She deposited the instrument on the adjacent window-seat, and her gentleman friend handed over the other bag.
"Thank you, so very much," said St, Anley again.
The lady bent over once more, with another, full-frontal display of human kindness.
Then she kissed him fully on the lips.
This time, St. A. kept eyes open.
"Ah, you've made my day!" he exclaimed.

The smiling lady with shapely legs found seats for herself and her gentleman friend a little further up the carriage.
She continued to smile.
The gentleman was now stroking her inner thigh.

A few minutes later the train pulled in at St. Anley's home station, Nutbourne.
St. Anley rose, with no difficulty this time, hoisted his belongings on to his shoulders and stood waiting at the door.
Eye contact was resumed.
Smiles were shared.
The door opened.
The entire company waved and said, "Good night."
The lady's gentleman friend gave a thumbs-up sign.
The smiling lady with shapely legs, pleasing countenance and other comely bits blew a kiss.

Saint Anley turned to wave before adopting a kneeling posture on the platform.
The on-board supervisor was very concerned.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"I am simply thanking the Almighty for the milk of human kindness!"

See the credits and go to sleep ...

What is the best bit about the BBC's series, Versailles?

Is it the magnificent architecture?

• Is it the opulent interior decoration?
• Is it the beautiful women who expose their cleavages at every opportunity.
• Perhaps you prefer those prettily dressed men?
• Perhaps it's the political intrigue?
• Is it those scenes of explicit sex?
• Maybe it's the violence?
• Is it the speculative dramatisation of real history?

None of the above.
The best bit has to be this ...

Autumn colours at Wisley ...

Saint Anley enjoys autumn ...

 To see the cool waters glide ...

This bonsai specimen is as old as St. Anley ...

It says so on the label ...

Leaves that were green tumble to the ground ...

Time to go ...

About a Brain Scan, or Stairway to Heaven ...

Mother-in-Law is an elderly lady who consults a psychiatrist.
"What are you here for?" asks the psychiatrist.
She looks blankly at her son-in-law.
"Because you can't remember anything," is St. Anley's response.

Psychiatrist reviews notes at some considerable length.
"Oh, yes," says he. "We'll arrange a brain scan."

Appointment for said investigation arrives several weeks later. St Anley dutifully accompanies M-in-Law to the hospital.

“What will they do to me?"
"Will it make me better?” she asks.

St. Anley hesitates momentarily, (wondering how best not to answer the second question,) before offering the following confabulation.

“Well, first they’ll ask you to lie down on a trolley and keep very still.”
“Then you will be conveyed through a very dark tunnel.”


“Ooh, that’s scary!” exclaims M-in-Law.

“Be not afraid!” commands St. Anley adopting a tone of ecclesiastical authority.
“At the end of the tunnel you will eventually see a very bright light.”

“What sort of light?” she asks.

“Oh, that will be the light of Jesus, welcoming you to His heavenly kingdom.”
(I wish!)

The radiographer calls her into his chamber.
St. Anley hums gently the melody, Stairway to Heaven.

Not many minutes later the patient is wheeled back into the waiting area.
“Oh, you’re here in heaven too!” she declares in some surprise.

"Did you see Jesus?" asks St. Anley.
"No, I had my eyes closed."
"That's why He sent you back!"
She concludes, "Well, that was a waste of time then; I don't feel any better, like you said I would."

"Oh, no I didn't!"

Disclaimer:

Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, described in this account is utterly intentional!

About being comfortably numb ...

Saint Anley has endured a bad couple of weeks.
I guess it's no worse than anyone else.
You know: interpersonal abuse, family disputes, impending bankruptcy etc. ... nothing of global nor historical significance.
Of course, all his tribulations are utterly trivial, albeit they cause him sleepless nights.

To digress ...
Saint Anley very rarely engages with contemporary popular music.
(Who is Lady Gaga, anyway?!)
However, on Sunday, while Saint Anley was trying to look at the inside of his eyelids, Mrs St.A insisted on listening to BBC Radio 2: Johnny Walker presenting Sounds of the Seventies.
Jane is a rock-chick who likes that sort of thing.
Saint Anley was forbidden to watch Songs of Praise.

Then he heard this ...

"Wow!" he said, "Where was I in 1979?"

"What did I miss?"

Now, one wonders, how can one achieve 'comfortable numbness' without the aid of illicit substances?

Saint Anley has some difficulty in adopting this position ...

Now, empty your mind and chant with me ... "ommmmm."

That doesn't look comfortable at all!

How many wives?

Now it is time to explain ...

Last week, before visiting the Mary Rose Museum, St. Anley attended a folk music club in company of somebody else's wife.
My friend Barry was there.
I introduced Laura.
Assumptions were made.

It was two days later that St. Anley, accompanied by two wives, visited the aforementioned museum where he recognised Barry in Tudor apparel.

"Hello, Barry," said St. A, "This is my wife, Jane."
Barry took a pace back. His thinking was evident ...
"That's not the wife who accompanied you on Tuesday."
Melanie, Jane's college friend, joined us.
"Oh, and here's Melanie."
Melanie being another man's wife.

Thus are sown the seeds of confusion.

It gets even more complicated ...
Yesterday I attended the same folk song club, initially unaccompanied.
I performed The Ballad of Mary Rose, after an explanatory preamble. It was rather well received, though Barry's response was ambivalent.

Then a lady arrived.
I recognised her as a near-neighbour and friend.
I embraced her warmly, (thinking, "Here's my lift home!")
The gathering gasped, "What ... another wife?!"
"I will explain later, dear," I whispered to my warmly-embraced friend.

It gets worse ...
Lucy, a lovely lady of my long-time acquaintance, asked, "Can we sing Pleasant and Delightful."
"Yes!" said I.
I stumbled slightly when it came to the line:
...and if ever I return again, I will make you my bride.

Oh dear, there's an unsavoury reputation in the making here!

The Ballad of Mary Rose ...

Last week St. Anley, in the company of two wives, visited the Mary Rose Museum in Portsmouth's Historic Dockyard.

He met a friend who was an official guide.

Barry was barely recognisable in his Tudor attire: cap, tunic, breeches, hosen and shoon.

Barry took us in hand and delivered an eloquent account of the Battle of the Solent, (1545.)

A large crowd gathered to listen.

Saint Anley was thereafter inspired to poetry ...

The Ballad of Mary Rose

As I walked through the dockyard to see Mary Rose,
I spied an old man wearing very strange clothes.
The old man was erudite ‘bout maritime things:

Of historical seamen and ships of the Kings

He adopted a most magisterial pose,

Went on to declaim in eloquent prose.

*[His language was strange, archaic you’d say.

For ‘S’ he’d use ‘F’ like they did on that day.
(Be careful if you mean to say ‘suck!’)]

On 19th July, MDXLV of our Lord,

Mary Rose weighed her anchor, 400 on board.

Little room for manoeuvre, a very slight breeze,

She made for the French fleet upon the high seas.

She tacked onto starboard, her port side went down.

Gun-ports left open, so now they must drown.

Thirty-seven crewmen survived on that day

To speak of the chaos and dreadful affray.

On 19th July, in those days of yore,

The old man survived … he’ll tell you more.
The cabin-boy survived ... he'll tell you more!

CT, July 2014

It scans, with only a little shoe-horning, to the tune Shores of Old Blighty, (Graham Miles.)

* I might miss out that unsavoury interjection about 'S' and 'F'.

With many thanks to Barry who enlightened our visit considerably.

I suppose we should have tipped him a groat-or-two, but we'd run out!

Mandela Day ...

I declare a global day of mourning ...

Listen and weep ... Simple Minds, Mandela Day

An Autumn Walk ...

10th November, 2013 ...

This was a day to die on: clear skies, sunshine and a gentle breeze giving only a mild autumnal chill.
Jane and I determined to walk the entire perimeter of the Chidham peninsula.

Cobnor Point looking SW down Chichester Channel.
Isle of Wight on the horizon.

Another perambulation ...

Not a bad day.

The weather forecast was for sunny spells, occasional heavy showers and strong winds.
Those 'strong winds' were estimated at about 24mph.
St. Anley, being unable to cycle that fast into a head-wind, put on his boots and walked his customary circuitous route to the local Post Office.

This was the only 'sunny spell' ...

Nutbourne Channel at low tide.

Remember those glorious fields of barley?

Ready for next season.

There is something special about a lonely tree ...

What looms within that sky?

Something made St. A very cross ...

Deposited alongside a rural footpath.

... very cross!
Yes, it's a plastic bag.
I guess it contains dog poo.
The dog owner is to be marginally commended for not leaving this excreta to adhere to walkers' footwear.
However, dog poo must be biodegradable.
Plastic bags are not!

There is a more responsible way of discarding faeces ...

A pile of horse manure ready for spreading.

Now I'll clean my boots ...

Oh, they're not that bad ...
they'll do for another day!

Learning Latin ...

I once knew a teacher.
Let’s call him Harry.
Harry was immediately likeable.
He was one of those people that you instinctively know will be a good person.
He would gently share his considerable wisdom without condescension, but he would stand no nonsense.
We looked forward to his lessons.

He tried to educate us in Latin.
When the class appeared disinterested he would talk about dinghy sailing.
We became familiar with terms such as 'sheet', 'halyard', 'boom', 'gunter', 'gaff', 'jib', 'tack' and 'clew'.
... but we never really learned the Latin.

Harry taught me to sail the school’s Heron class dinghy.

Ready about!

Harry would drive to school in a convertible 1950s Sunbeam Talbot.
That was immaculate, and clearly his pride and joy.

Harry's was a RH drive in blood and custard.

It was rumoured that he had been a mosquito pilot during WWII.
He never talked about that.

He insisted on teaching in a classroom with all the windows open, even in the depths of winter.
“I’d rather freeze to death than burn,” he used to say.

He shared other pearls of wisdom:

• “To work is a privilege.”

(Only in later life did I understand the veracity of that.)

• “Human beings are always fearful of change.”

(I’d already learned that from personal experience.)

I only achieved a ‘D’ in Latin 
... but I won my school colours for dinghy sailing!

THANKS, HARRY!

Abeunt studia in mores.

Moving House #1 ...

People have asked Saint Anley, “What made you move house?”
His summary answer is, “My wife!”

The whole story is, however, more complicated …

September, 2013 …
St. A and Mrs St. A are returning from home a leisurely cycle ride along the West Sussex coast.
Jane, in the lead, suddenly cries out, “Turn left!”
To turn left is not the way home, but before St. A can argue, Jane has taken the corner at break-neck speed generating considerable g-force.
Just north of a railway station they discover a new residential development where a large sign announces, “SHOW-HOUSE OPEN.”

To view the show-house requires people to go through a comfortably appointed sales office.
Veronica, the sales exec., greets them engagingly.
“What is your situation?” she enquires.
By this, of course, she intends to discover how serious we are about relocation.
Within moments Jane has divulged every confidential detail of her assets, our savings and investments.
“No, our house is not on the market,” says Jane.
“Ah,” says Veronica, “Have you heard about our part-exchange scheme?”
“Now, this sounds interesting,” thinks St. A, but Jane, true to form, does all the talking.
“From what you say,” says Veronica, “You should be able to make this work.”

St. A trembles at the thought of relocating all those redundant items that have been carelessly stored in the loft over 15 years.

“Would you like to view the show-house?” enquires Veronica. “This way.”
In deepening depression, St. A follows.
“That’s lovely!” says Jane as we enter a new, clean and tastefully appointed entrance hall.
We are guided through room after room that have all the character of a home that has obviously never been lived in: immaculately clean, no mess, no clutter.
The furniture and decor are not completely to our taste, but it’s only the show-home after all.
We sit for a while in a light, airy conservatory.
“Is the conservatory included?” asks Jane.
“Errr, no,” replies the sales exec. “For twenty grand we can put one on,” she adds in an undertone.

At this juncture, St. A’s depression achieves the quality of terminal melancholia, as he consumes all the complimentary boiled sweets that are on offer in every room.

We return to the office where Veronica plies Jane with all sorts of promotional leaflets, plans and artists’ impressions.



Artist's impression.

Veronica recommends a solicitor and a mortgage broker.
St. A looks on and listens in silence.

St. A reluctantly agrees when Jane says that we will go away and think about it.
After all, there's no urgency; most of the development is far from complete.

That same evening, a Saturday, Jane studies all the documents in mounting anticipation.
St. A dutifully prints out a copy of what joint finances we think we might have.
“We can do this!” declares Jane excitedly.

At 7.00pm the telephone rings unexpectedly: “Hello, I am a solicitor. I hear you are interested in a part-exchange deal with [housing developer].”
(Now, how does he know this?)
St. A passes the phone to Jane. There follows an animated conversation to which St. A is not party.

Phone rings again: “Hello, I am a mortgage broker …”
“Jane, it’s for you!”

“Right,” says Jane later to a morose St. A, “We’re going back tomorrow!”

St. Anley endures the first of many sleepless nights.

For a Reluctant Rifleman I once Knew ...

 

 

 

“I didn’t join the Army to kill.”
That’s what the soldier said.
“I joined to have a living.”
… And now a man is dead.

“You were only following orders.”
That’s what the M.O. said.
“You're a professional soldier.”
"So what? … now a man is dead."

They said he was my enemy:
A devil in disguise.
Now he’s dead he can’t harm me,
But what they said was lies!

He wasn't my enemy at all:
Just the wrong side of the line.
I wept then as I watched him fall.
"Take these pills and you'll be fine!"

I never knew the man I killed.
He didn’t say his name.
Unintroduced, his blood I spilled.
Now he’s dead ...
We're all to blame.

CT, 09/2013



 

 

Dupuytren's #8 ...

Five weeks post-op ...

Now, this is looking better.

 

It took the wound in the centre of St. Anley's palm 4 weeks to heal.

He has been attending a hand clinic on a weekly basis for some aggressive physiotherapy.

The physiotherapist has a charming demeanour and a pretty face that disguise an expertise for inflicting excruciating pain.
"Pain is good!" says she as tears appear on St. Anley's cheek.

Then, along comes an occupational therapist who carefully fabricates a splint from some thermo-plastic material ...

"You need to wear this only at night."

After two nights of sleepless discomfort and Anglo-Saxon expletives St. Anley is quite impressed ...

Look, my little finger
is almost straight!

"Fine," Mrs. St. Anley says, "Now you can get on with some chores!"

Country walk #4 ...

Look what St. Anley discovered yesterday ...



Blue berrys.

Not being a seasoned forager, he declined to pluck or taste this fruit, but later showed the image to Mrs St. A.

"They are sloes, (prunus spinosa,)" she declared.

Now all I need are ...

• 500 grams of these berries
• 250 grams of sugar
• one litre of gin

 ... and considerable patience!

Country Walk # 3 ...

Earlier St. Anley exulted about golden fields of barley.
Now look what has happened ...

As it says in the folk song ...
They've cut him off at the knee!

... and bunged him on a cart.

Then hired men with crabtree sticks cut him skin from bone.
And the miller has served him worse than this ...
                                    He's geround him between two stones.

See/hear http://youtu.be/_NNgLqz89Z8

Doubtless, the wheat will be next ...

Such is the cycle of agriculture.

Country walk #2

With camera battery fully charged, St. Anley resumes the commentary.

I wrote about the main road.
There are two interesting establishments ...



A very fine farm shop that sells local produce.



A hostelry for refreshment ...
not open yet!

Here is the stile over which St. Anley hopped ...

Now he's on his way home, retracing some of the route of the outward journey.
Here is a miscellany of images ...



A dog on wheels.

 

One lost shoe.

Two lost shoes.

Benign clouds.

 

 

Thornham Marina.

Rocks over which thou shalt not climb.

Detritus.

Horse riders.

Horse poo.

Pollination.
Look carefully ... you'll see a bee.
 

The sign reads:
"There's no such thing as the Dog Poo Fairy."

Now, it's back through the copse ...

Rest a while.

 

A desirable residence available for rent.



 

Somebody wants to build houses on Maybush Orchard.

 

 



Don't let them!
You can sign a petition at http://www.savemaybushorchard.com/

Nearly home ...

This is St. Anley's local pub.
It's not very good, and it's shut!