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.