Jul 16

Day 16 – Beyond Our Ken

So Ken Clarke’s ministerial career has ended.

I knew Ken 35 years ago when I was a simple back bencher. Ken told me once that he loved Westminster so much he would have to be carried out in a coffin. I hope that does not happen soon. Ken was very kind to me on one notable occasion and I have followed his career with great affection and interest ever since.

Ken was Minister of Health, Secretary of State for Health, Home Secretary and Chancellor of the Exchequer, and these are just the major posts I can reel offf without recourse to Google. Ken held all these posts successfully. He must hold the record for holding more ministerial offices than anyone else in modern times. He was pipped at the post in 2002 to be the Conservative leader because of his support for the E.U. If he had been a man of less integrity he would have beaten Iain Duncan Smith to the leadership. Ken is delightful company and a jazz expert. He is the largest tree to fall in the political jungle in many years. His departure is profoundly sad and the eclipse of a generation. So Ken has gone. It’s so depressing that I don’t have to believe it if I don’t want to.

—

We stayed with loyal friends in Rugely, David and Katie Brown. They kindly drove us to the start point of our Monday and Tuesday walks while our car was being “sorted”. Dinah enjoyed herself so much she decided to mark the occasion by gnawing one of Katie’s special shoes. We walked ourselves more or less senseless round Atherston and on to Ansley and then we trekked along the motorway and round Birmingham to Cooksey Green to stay with another kind friend, Liz Landale, the widow of Sandy, who died roughly two years ago. I can see him in my mind’s eye as I write this and I can hear his measured voice. Liz is the mother of James Landale the BBC commentator. Their house is absolutely lovely.

—

Beggars Can be Choosers

Earler this week, I walked past a man crouching on a mat in a damp doorway. He was carrying a placard stating he was hungry and homeless. I fumbled him some money and offered a prayer that he might find the courage to change his life. He was looking down so as not to meet my eyes, as if he had been crushed by a series of hideous circumstances. Poor man.

I try to give beggars small change whenever possible. Some people claim this is the wrong way to provide aid, and that we should instead support the local caring agencies. However, that just seems too cool and clinical for me. I know that beggars are likely to spend cash on booze and drugs, and that perhaps they might be conmen – but so what? If they are rogues let that be on their consciences and not mine; and if they choose to spend any cash on booze or drugs, then at least I hope they will derive some enjoyment from that.

Letting Go
The question is, how did this beggar get to where he is? I doubt it’s that hard. Addiction perhaps? Just a few bad decisions, the result say of bankruptcy, and then the wife leaves. Perhaps this was followed by a spell in the slammer and so his “friends” desert him in righteous indignation. Then comes a shattering loss of self-confidence and the downward spiral spins out of control. Finally, the man gets used to his miserable lot. It’s all too horribly easy: there but for the grace of God go we all.

I can’t help wondering if the man actually wants to stop begging? This may sound like an odd question, but a while ago I came upon a woman who developed a pioneering method of curing stammering among young children. I used to stammer when I was young and so I had more than a casual interest in what she had to say. As part of her programme, she would ask her audience of parents to think of the most precious object they owned. Then she told them to imagine losing that treasured possession, and asked them to describe their responses. These varied from panic or shock to deep sadness and bereavement. Finally, she stunned her audience by declaring, “Now you know what it will feel like for your child to lose his or her stammer.”

For a moment there would be utter bewilderment – of course, nobody believes that a child wants to stammer. Such a speech impediment can lead to ridicule and will likely have a severe impact on a child’s social life. However, what the therapist wanted the parents to understand is that sometimes holding on to a disability can be less frightening than change. We get used to our weaknesses and build them into our relationships. They become familiar, part of our world and integral to our self-image – bizarrely, they can be very hard to let go of. Change – even change for the better – can be disorientating, threatening and traumatic.

So maybe the tramp I saw is used to his lot. Perhaps he’s convinced begging is all he’s fit for, and scrounging has become his life’s default position. Perhaps he feels trapped without any options, and that begging is now a life sentence. Yet we all have choice: we can lie on our mats and beg, or get off them and walk away.

Carpe Diem
In the Gospel of Mark, there is a fascinating story of a cripple with a dedicated group of pals who determine to find Christ and beg Him to cure their friend. Jesus is preaching in a house so crowded that the men cannot gain access, and so they scrape a hole in the roof and lower their disabled friend to rest at Christ’s feet. Jesus responds and the man walks away rejoicing.

The point of this story is that the crippled man actually found the courage to finish with his past and get off his mat. He could have decided to stay just where he was and beg for the rest of his life. However, he had the raw courage to embrace the revolution of radical change.

I have a friend who had a profoundly difficult upbringing. He tells everyone the sad details of his feckless father and an emotionally frozen mother who both spent his childhood as drunk as owls. As far as I can tell, my friend has achieved remarkably little with his life; he blames the litany of jobs lost and failed relationships on the emotional fractures he suffered early in his life. When he relates his story, a glassy look crosses his face; you can almost hear the tape clunking into a slot in his mind as his saga is related for the umpteenth time.

The trouble with this is that we all know people who have suffered a ghastly childhood and yet who have somehow managed to muster the grit to forge a new start. We also know those who apparently enjoyed a wonderful childhood, yet who spectacularly went to the dogs and ended up by staying there. There is no inevitability about it and we have choices: to silently suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to seize the day.

I think my sad friend has chosen to remain a victim. I’m sure if challenged, he would deny this bleak analysis – he expects the world to be endlessly sorry for his plight and to excuse his failure. However, he should read Mark’s Gospel and draw a line. I’m not denying this won’t take huge courage, but it’s never too late.

Jul 15

Day 15 – Derby, Death and Lust

We are not too keen on south Derbyshire. Sorry, but it ain’t a patch on the beautiful north. Today we faced vast expanses of scrubby grass randomly blotted with humungous clumps of elephant eye nettles. Fine fun if you are a flea but a stinging misery for us. The farmers who grow their miserable crops of beans across public paths should be driven across them stark naked. If they want a volunteer beater I’m your man!

We were then obliged to cross the A38 both ways. The cars and tankers, all apparently driven by swivel eyed zombies, zoom along as if they were racing at Silverstone. I suggest you should check the validity of your life insurance policies before crossing. Then we found we had made a false start because there was no bridge across the River Love. So, in order to resume our correct route, we were forced to retrace our steps and we had to face the A38 for the second time in an hour. This trip was the ultimate laxative as it seemed so unnecessary.

Still, we are making steady progress. General Montgomery insists that every yard of our 260 mile trek is walked and any backsliding by me is met with withering contempt and a swipe with her stick.

–

Walked through vaguely improving bits of south Derby and then we hit Swadlincote and it all went pear-shaped again; it’s one of the more dismal places we have walked through in the last five years. We lunched in Chicote in the graveyard of the local church. The church was locked, as usual!

I woke up out of sorts. Then I read a booklet prepared by my friend James Pringle, in which he quoted a work on spiritual depression by Martyn Lloyd Jones. Lloyd Jones mantains that we spend too much time listening to our inner thoughts, which are often negative and depressing, when instead we should be talking to ourselves and questioning the dark influences that can drag us down. I spend the morning brooding about this.

–

The Long Goodbye

I saw yet another news report claiming that the number of deaths amongst the elderly rises sharply when winter conditions are poor. The implications of the report are obvious: that our mean old government should do something about it by increasing heating allowances, providing better pensions, improving NHS services, and so on.

Not that this affects me of course, for I am still two years younger than the age Nelson Mandela was when he became president of South Africa. However, should we be actively looking for ways to prolong the lives of those who are already very old? Don’t get me wrong – of course I don’t want anyone to suffer unnecessarily or to die unreasonably before time. But do we really want to live to be 100 or 110? Do we seriously expect that doctors will one day announce they have cracked it, and we can all live forever? When is the right time to die? Is a lingering, lonely and aching old age better than death?

We all have to die of something at some time, and I recall there used to be a release from this mortal coil called flu. In the hard, old days it was called the “Old Man’s Friend”. In today’s marshmallow times, medical science has zapped flu as deadly enemy number one along with dozens of other ailments that used to carry people off to a relatively early death.

Joy and Woe…
On the face of it, that has to be a very good thing. But as the poet Blake told us “Joy and woe are woven fine”. That means that whenever we hear good news there is usually a sombre shadow hovering in the background to spoil our fun and make us think. This particular dark shadow guarantees that whenever we read of yet another medical breakthrough, another couple of months can be added to our life expectancy – already longer than at any time in the history of the world. So we are destined to spend ever longer in what Ronald Reagan’s wife, Nancy, called “the long goodbye”, often a time of acute misery for us and invariably a time of great worry for the families who love us. They have to watch us growing bald, batty and doubly incontinent in, say, one of Weston Super Mare’s geriatric wards.

Now, I have nothing against Weston Super Mare or any of its excellent geriatric wards. I am using them as a symbol for anywhere that – in one of my more savage nightmares – I can vividly imagine myself creeping inch by inch towards death.

The poet Philip Larkin wrote a searing poem called “The Old Fools” where he ponders why those living alongside other ancient, dying people aren’t screaming at their terrible one-way fates? He ends the poem with the chilling words, “Well, we will find out”. And so we may…

So whenever I go to a contemporary’s funeral and hear colleagues lamenting that “he died before his time” and about how unfair that is, I often think that perhaps my dear, dead friend is fortunate in quitting while he was still ahead.

The Birds of Lust
As I walk past yet another church, something springs to mind – not that I need reminding! A short while ago, I saw a young woman in church and immediately fancied her! It was not just a fleeting thought – this felt like a real connection. She was about 30, slim and edgy. I looked away at once for I didn’t want her to see me slavering away in pew three. But I couldn’t stop admiring her out of the corner of my eye and imagining. You don’t need the details… nothing particularly original about any of this.

Funny though – you would have thought that after all this time that sort of thing would have died a discreet death, or at least the old Adam would have faded to leave me in crumbly peace with nothing to prick me other than a few memories. But no, damn it, here it was again, hot and red-raw, and the years melted away like snow on a windowpane in a warm westerly wind.

Kingsley Amis wrote that the imperative of lust was as if he’d spent most of his adult life chained to a lunatic. He was spot on. And my lunatic started to gibber away and pluck relentlessly at his rather flimsy chains as if I was still a lad of 20 and as randy as a squirrel in a sack.

I told Jane and my children in a rather jokey, guess what sort of way, for I have found that secrets can turn dark and septic, and then they fester. I suppose old men are always frightened of being laughed at. I’m well aware that all the clichés are true, especially “There’s no fool like an old fool”. The family looked at me indulgently – my daughters with a touch of incredulity – and Jane was kind and sympathetic. She gave me a hug for she knows that this nonsense has nothing to do with my love for her. Betjeman wrote in his poem “Late Flowering Lust”:

I run my fingers down your dress
With brandy-certain aim
And you respond to my caress
And maybe feel the same.

Yes, of course, he knew all about it too!

Martin Luther knew how to deal with lust. After all, monks are likely to know as much about it as anyone. He wrote, “You cannot prevent the birds of lust flying about your head: but you can at least stop them from nesting in your hair.”

Not much hair to nest in these days so I’d better start flapping away.

Jul 14

Day 14 – Talking to the Cleaners, Taken to the Cleaners?

Please tell me why it is that, when you ask people how they are, they usually reply:

“I’m good!”

I haven’t questioned their moral status, so it’s a wierd reply when you come to think of it.

The second mystery to me is: why do we have Brazilian cleaners who can’t speak English, working very well I should add, tidying our office? It doesn’t make sense to me. I am told that there is youth unemployment, yet I cannot recall ever being solicited by any English young to do the job. Why not? And, while I am on the subject, why is Oxford so well served by enthusiastic teams of Bulgarians and Latvians offering to clean cars? When I asked the team leader why they didn’t employ U.K. nationals they looked at me in incredulity and flapped their arms as if this was a dotty question.

I’ll bet Kracow and Buenos Aries don’t have teams of the English seeking to clean cars and houses! What is wrong with our young? Are these jobs too good for them?

–

Greetings from Glasgow

This morning, I listened to an early news bulletin. At first, I struggled to understand a single word and briefly wondered what language the newsreader was speaking? Then I realised that he had a heavy Glaswegian accent and after a while I got used to it.

I am sure that the BBC is trying to be inclusive and politically correct, but has anyone ever told the journalist in question that if he is making a career out of transmitting information, then his accent is – as are all regional accents – something of a barrier to clarity of meaning? Sorry about that, but it’s true. Of course, I draw a distinction between strong accents and regional intonations: Sir Malcolm Rifkind, Gordon Brown and David Steel (Lord), for example, all have delightful Scottish burrs.

A Common Language?
I have difficulty in understanding more or less all American films. The actors appear to mumble without moving their lips, evidence of the old saying that we are two countries divided by a common language. Perhaps the actors think their grunting is cool. Personally, I would rather understand the plot than suffer their muttering, but who cares about that? However, the world news is in a different category altogether. I want to hear it and BBC communicators should be accent-free.

The same goes for vicars. I understand that hardly any theology colleges teach trainees how to articulate, breathe correctly or project their voices. Now if actors are taught these vital skills, why aren’t vicars? Though, now I come to think about it, perhaps it’s just as well they aren’t – for if churchgoers could actually hear what their vicars were saying, perhaps they might opt to do some gardening or play golf instead!

A Place in Society
We pass yet another nursing home. I am sure it is beautifully run – yet…

I read that in Samoa houses are made from “sennit”, a plaited coconut fibre. Apparently the Samoans think that if old people make the sennit, then it will be stronger and more long lasting. So if you are building a new house in that country, you ask your grandfather, “Please make me some yards of sennit – then my house will last much longer than anyone else’s.” So Grandad does that. He feels useful and he has a place in society.

And what do we do here in the UK? We force people to retire as soon as possible, and then we hide our elderly away in care homes.

The Beautiful Game
A while back, I tried to get tickets for a Chelsea/Everton football match. It was total chaos.

Apparently, many of the “official” tickets had already been bought by a tout. As I wanted the tickets to give as a present, I felt obliged to pay the gross sum demanded on my credit card. Lloyds bank at once blocked the payment on grounds of suspected fraud. Apparently the site and the person to whom I was directing the payment were based in Spain!

My suspicions were inflamed. I was given a number to ring – the taciturn man who answered informed me the tickets were apparently owned by a “third party” and based offshore for tax reasons. Silly me, I should have known.

I still can’t be sure if this was a bona fide site or not, or whether my card details were handed to a rat with a gold tooth based in Madrid. I suspect they were and I tremble.

All this fits my views on football exactly. A wonderful game ruined by greed and easy money, and where many of the leading lights have all the qualities of a Labrador minus the loyalty. And these people are supposed to be the role models for our young!

Jul 13

Day 13 – Capability and Browns

We walk from Longford to Hilton through flatter and less picturesque country.

The paths are overgrown and prove nigh on impossible to pass. At the end of the day we both look like damp wrecks.

We stayed last night with a capable and dynamic couple from Zimbabwe who are building up their lives in the U.K. from scratch. They arrived penniless. They prove that Zimbabwe’s greatest export is their most capable and creative people.

We needed to move near to the Audi agent in Stamford to get our car fixed and so, most generously, our great friends the Browns, who live close by, are giving us an ad-hoc bed for Sunday night.

Impossible Questions

 

I was once asked if there are any circumstances that might conspire to turn me into a mass murderer? What about you?

 

Let’s start at the beginning. I am sure that evil exists and that it’s possible for people to become consumed by wickedness. For all sorts of reasons – weakness, lust, hubris, misguided teaching, several episodes of mischance – who knows what? – seemingly good people can end up travelling down the wrong path. It can be very difficult to backtrack once this road has been taken.

 

Of course, I am not condoning evil, but I would expect that few people whom we today brand as wicked – unless they are clinically mad – would have chosen to end their days universally renowned for their villainy. Stalin and Hitler are extreme examples, but I doubt that even they would have chosen the path of wickedness at the outset of their lives.

 

Written in the Stars?

So we must be careful. Are we all capable of great evil or is it only “other” people who commit such vile acts? Are we right to thank God that we have been spared wicked natures?

 

How self-aware are you? We have to be very sure of our own strength of character to be able to declare from the comfort of our armchairs that if we were to be really tested, we would hold out against wicked actions even in the face of death.

 

I went to RMA Sandhurst and served six years as an officer in the British Army. It was an easy life and, as Harold Wilson – bless him – turned his face against our participation in the US-Vietnam war, a time of relative peace.

 

However, if fate had seen me born 20 years earlier in Germany, I might have been sent to the Eastern Front where the initiation test for many new arrivals was to shoot unarmed Jewish women and children. To refuse would mean being shot as a traitor and a coward. Would I have been prepared to sacrifice myself or would I have passively accepted the prevailing lie that the Jews were no better than vermin? I might have ended up as a mass murderer. What about you?

 

Murderers and Martyrs

Jesuit Francis Xavier arrived in Japan in 1549 and set about founding a number of churches. Sometime later he was expelled and the Shoguns demanded that all his thousands of converts should denounce their faith on pain of hideous torture and death – the age of Christian martyrs had begun. The persecutors produced a “fumie” plaque, a bronze portrait of Jesus in a wooden frame. Those who agreed to step on it were freed, while those who refused were killed in ways I will not describe here. Apparently the fumie imprint of Jesus was flattened by thousands of feet.

 

If you had been a believer, would you have refused to trample on the face of Jesus? If you had been born Jewish and sent to a death camp in 1942, what would you have done if you had been ordered to stoke the gas chambers?

 

Such questions haunt me, for it would be all too easy to take the road leading to hell. We can only pray that our moral fibre should never be thus tested.

 

In The Gulag Archipelago, Solzhenitsyn wrote:

 

“If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?”

 

 

 

Jul 12

Day 12 – Talking the Walk, with a Passion

We walked through the Derbyshire Peak DIstrict, which Jane and I hunted over in days gone by. We were regaled about Zimbabwe by one ancient farmer, who told us that charity starts at home and that Mugabe was “spot on” in his views on the homosexual community. Jane and I decided to cut our losses so we walked on. I must advise the gay lobby that they have work to do in rural Derbyshire.

It was very hot and humid, and hilly with it. I decided to join Dinah splashing in the Dove river and I was just about to dip my head in the shallows when I saw a dead lamb floating towards me feet first. The water trickled from my horrified lips.

As we walked down “Bonny Prince Charlie’s Way” we were joined by Michael Hastings (Lord), his son Carl and a mutual friend James Woodward. Mike is the chair of Zane’s Council of Reference and one of my closest friends. We met many years ago and our senses of humour seemed to mesh. Mike – bless him – walks with us each time and we always have great fun.

James helped Zane Australia get its regulatory permissions. He is very bright and a trusted friend.

–
Talking the Walk

I think of the reason why we are walking.

There are many worthy charities and God bless them all. But Zane is the charity I founded some ten years ago. Amongst various activities – clubfoot and vulnerable women’s support to name but two – It looks after a vulnerable group of aged pensioners, forgotten people whose lives have been devastated at a time such that it is far too late for them to recover. If they have children they will have left Zimbabwe to find work. So they are often very lonely. It could be any of us. Zane is in business to help them grow with dignity and help them retain their self respect. Zane employs the services of twenty-eight people – the bulk in Zimbabwe – and as a colour-blind charity It is unique in southern Africa.

Jane strides on ahead. Apart from helping me run Zane, Jane runs CEF – the Oxford Community Emergency Foodbank – now a major charity in its own right.

We have four children and all are married. We have ten granchidren. Our lives are enriched with family and our charities.

There are three things for a man to live for: “A maiden to woo, a battle to fight and a cause bigger than yourself to live for.”

Jane Is my maiden. I have fought plenty of battles and Zane is my cause, far bigger than myself, to live for.

–

In the last year Jane and I have been questioned closely on more than one occasion as to why we continue to work for the poorest of the poor in Zimbabwe and in Oxford.

The reason is, put simply, that we have been called to do so, that as long as we have puff we will continue with the work until we drop. Surgeon Lord McColl told us once of an incident that ocurred after he and his wife, who was a Nurse, had worked from early morning until night operating on a mercy ship in Africa. When they were returning home they were obliged to pass through Cape Town airport. There they met a party of friends who had been partying on safari for weeks and living high on the hog. McColl told me that his friends appeared to be envious of his and his wife’s exhausted state.

Jane and I are having the time of our lives.

–

A Bear Garden

The Woodstock Passion play was a deeply moving experience. There were at least 800 spectators and not all were believers by any means. Indeed, why should it be necessary to believe in God to participate in church activities? All you are doing when polishing the church brasses, changing the flowers for the Sunday service – or enjoying a local Passion play – is participating in one of the customs of your tribe. And there is not exactly a surplus of communities around these days.

Our play was a valuable community exercise. Chronic loneliness is endemic in today’s society and the play brought us all together. It was an opportunity for laughter as well as plain, innocent fun, and the result was wonderful. At least 80 of Woodstock’s finest were involved and the churches united – well, most of them – to make it happen.

But it didn’t all go smoothly – of course, nothing worthwhile ever does! The manager of the smartest hotel in Woodstock complained (ring me and I’ll tell you which one). We were told afterwards that she complains about everything so we shrugged and just got on with it. But, it was beyond parody.

This voluble Italian lady snarled at our excellent and kindly producer: “We expect to hear a pin drop on Sunday morning in Woodstock, so why should we have to put up with your noise?” We tried to explain that it was important for the community and it only happened once a year, but we got nowhere.

“Why should our guests lunching in our lovely hotel have to watch you crucifying someone in the garden opposite?”

The acronym NIMBY has never seemed more apt…

Racist!
“This lady tells us that you have been using insulting language!”

My gym manager looked deeply distressed. I followed him to his office and sheepishly explained that I was playing the role of Pontius Pilate in the Woodstock Passion play and that the lady may have heard me practising my lines under my breath.

He stared blankly at me. “Passion Play? Pontius Pilate? What are you talking about?”

I spent 10 minutes explaining what the Passion play was all about and who Pontius Pilate was, but I might as well have been talking in Esperanto for all he apparently understood.

The offending lines came from my first scene: “What are these ghastly Jews doing here at this hour of the morning?”

I apologised profusely and by the end of the conversation I even managed to make the two of them laugh. But it took some doing. You can see the problem – the idea of political correctness was not an issue in Roman times!

An Eye for an Eye
I understand that a performance of an Oxford Passion play was barred by a licensing council official who assumed it must be a sex show. More’s the pity that the organisers didn’t proceed regardless. It would have been salutary to see Christ led away in handcuffs by the local police – and then he would have to face the magistrates as he did 2000 years ago. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.

On the evening of our dress rehearsal, I was standing on the pavement watching the crucifixion scene. A car drew up. The driver’s voice was hesitant: “What’s going on?”

“It’s the new parking laws,” I replied. “The council is very tough in these parts.”

Jul 11

Day 11 – Last of the Summer Wine

Tyred and Emotional

We walk at Olympian speed and soon we are staggering through a derelict bog set on the side of a cliff. I now know why we have’t seen another walker since the Lakes. They have more sense.

When we arrive at our lunchtime rendezvous there is no sign of Richard. We wait at least an hour with the best of the day dribbling into a rictus of impatience. I question Richard’s intelligence and then his parenthood. Where can he be? We are out of contact for there is only internet text or internet facilities in the boondocks. But then a text message trickles through and Richard has had a puncture. Apparently a huge nail had done for us. Richard is forgiven. He manages to change the tyre so we have to abort the afternoon’s walk and fit another.

–

We discover that the nail through the tyre had wrecked the wheel as well as the tyre. The specialist at the tyre centre told me that, in his experience, he had never seen more damage. So, what with the Mercedes that backed into us and now the nail, we have suffered more car damage in three days than in all our other four walks.

–

Last of the Summer Wine

At my 65th birthday party, our daughters amused guests with the following observation: “There are five topics that no decent Englishman ever talks about in polite company: money, politics, religion, sex and death. These are the only topics Dad ever talks about.”

Of course they are right – these are the only subjects worth talking about! The rest is yap. And if readers think my repertoire is a tad repressive, it has a wider range than that of the poet W.B. Yeats (who only ever talked about sex and death).

Vicars and Knickers
Death and sex are two issues that make us acutely fearful. This is the reason that these topics form the basis for so many so-called “jokes”, whereby anxieties regarding both subjects are subconsciously relieved. So the next time someone tries to tell you about the three vicars and the hand in the knickers, remember that he – and it’s always a he – is deeply anxious: be sorry for him and please pretend to laugh!

As I grow older, I find myself present at an increasing number of funerals and memorial services. Usually congregation members shift uneasily as they look at watches, mobiles and the ceiling – anything rather than look at the coffin. It’s all so grim that you have to deal with it with a good dose of black humour. My favourite death joke comes from the American comedian George Carlin:

“The most unfair thing about life is the way it ends. I mean, life is tough. It takes up a lot of your time. What do you get at the end of it? A death. What’s that, a bonus? I think the life cycle is all backwards. You should die first, get it out of the way. Then you live in an old age home. You get kicked out when you’re too young, you get a gold watch, you go to work. You work 40 years till you’re young enough to enjoy your retirement. You do drugs, alcohol, get laid, you party, you get ready for high school. You go to grade school, you become a kid, you play, you have no responsibilities, you become a little baby, you go back to the womb, you spend your last nine months floating… you finish off as an orgasm.”

No Solutions
One of the saddest and cruellest side effects of our “sophisticated” modern-day society is the way in which we have perfected brilliant ways of keeping people alive, long after any pleasure or meaning has vanished from their lives. Society has not yet embraced euthanasia but this subject will not go away. “There are some problems,” said Enoch Powell, “to which there are no solutions,” and I suggest that this is one of them. I suspect as the Christian view of life becomes an increasingly minority perspective, we shall become more and more open to allowing people to take their own lives with dignity when they choose to do so. In Imperial Rome, assisting at someone’s suicide was considered a merciful act. So whether you like it or not, I predict this radical change will occur at some time during the next decade.

When I Was a Boy…
As we grow older, we must guard against complaining that everything is going to hell in a handcart or how awful, greedy and unmannerly the new generation is. The miasma of miserable complaint from oldies towards the young runs down the ages like a sniffling nose. Over 2,000 years ago, the Roman poet Horace captured the characteristics of the eternal Victor Meldrew: “Our parents’ age (worse than our grandparents’) has produced us, more worthless still, who will soon give rise to a more vicious generation”.

The best antidote to this sort of misery is for us to recall our own foolishness and errors when we were young. Kindness, tolerance and magnanimity should be the stamp of old age, not mean-mindedness and resentment that sours us and rightly bores the young.

Jul 10

Day 10 – All the World’s a Stage

And I Marched Back Down Again…

I presume you recall Julie Andrews carolling away about the hills being alive and all that? Can I remind you that she was trilling away on top of a mountain. They kidded us that this was in Switzerland but I am sure it wasn’t…It was sited just outside Macclesfield and I have just climbed the bloody thing three times.

It happened like this I was plodding up this ghastly road – the sort of road that Kafka’s castle was on. – and when I turned round Jane had vanished. I grew convinced that she must have scooted ahead of me when I was preoccupied with the meaning of life or sex or death, happy little soul that am, but even when the road straightened out Jane was nowhere to be seen. Then an efficient looking lady walked towards me from down the hill and she told me Jane was nowhere to be seen.

I thought I had better wait and asked the woman that, if she saw Jane – small, with a vast straw hat… she is held together with bits of string, – to please give her this simple message:

“It’s all your fault!”

Like a demolition contractor, I like to get my retaliation in first.

Jane then sent me a text that reads; “sorry …come back to the bridge.”

When I got back to her the efficient lady had just delivered my pithy message.

Rare for Jane to admit fault.

I thought I wouldn’t rub it in, magnanimity is my middle name, so we walked in silence, until she said twenty minutes later;

“That was your fault…if you had done what I asked you to do then you would never have gone on as you did.” And on she went, “Darling, you have no idea.” What a diamond edge she can give that word when cross!

I was too out of breath to argue.

A Good Read

“I saw Sue Gibbs’ beautiful memoir ”The Call of the Litany Bird” in our host’s bookshelf today. It’s beautifully written and a must read for all those who recall Zimbabwe’s history with affection and sadness. Readers can get it on Amazon.

All the World’s a Stage

We are nothing like as confident as (we hope) the world thinks we are. Fortunately, most people take us at face value, and have little clue as to what’s going on beneath our cobbled-together facade. I learned some years ago that we should never take people at face value. Often we make lazy and foolish judgements about others based on the most superficial knowledge, and we are frequently wrong.

Time and again, I have convinced myself that so and so actively dislikes me and is purposefully cutting me dead only to find that instead he or she was preoccupied with problems or is in fact deeply shy. Further down the line, you often discover that the same person is actually delightful company and shares your passion for, say, poetry. It’s clear we should always reserve judgement.

Often we are so used to our own façade, we are only dimly aware that it exists. I am reasonably self aware, and I am convinced that if people knew what I was really like, I would be a friendless man. When this feeling overwhelms me, I try to follow Julie Andrew’s sugary advice: I hold my head up high, whistle a little tune and hope no one is watching me too carefully.

However, on occasion I become convinced that someone can laser through my cover. For example, I am positive a lady at church has me sized up and that she profoundly dislikes what she sees. I can tell by the way her expression slightly alters when she spots me; her head seems to shake and she frowns slightly – I know she knows. Whenever this happens, my mouth dries and my hands grow slightly damp. Mentally I begin to stammer the sort of apologies we used to make as inky-fingered fourth-formers when confronted by the head of house for smoking or other immoral behaviour.

Home Truths
The root is fear. P.G. Woodhouse suggested that if a telegram were to be sent to say 30 vicars at random reading, “Flee, all is discovered,” they would all instantly depart.

I have never thought that particularly funny because I think it’s probably true. I have often imagined my office door opening to reveal two men in striped suits silently standing there. I see myself nodding, then rising to tidy my desk. Not a word is uttered because I know it’s pointless. The fact that I am a complete fraud has at last been discovered.

Not for the first time either. I recall that when I was in the army, I bought dinner for a girlfriend in a smart London restaurant. I was young and gauche, and she was very pretty. I was out to impress – I talked incessantly and I was sure that at the end of the meal she thought I was Mr Wonderful.

When the coffee arrived, an older man strolled up and sat down at out table uninvited. I was about to protest when he sneered, “Just shut up! You have ruined my meal with your bragging stories. Everyone here was laughing at you. You are a dreadful little upstart and you should be ashamed of yourself!”

Then he turned to my girlfriend and advised, “And you are far too intelligent and attractive to be going out with a jerk like him, get yourself another boyfriend.”

I’m afraid to say she took his advice. It took me some time to recover…

Heart’s Desire
Men, particularly men, ought to be careful. I have a friend – let’s call him Mark – who was as faithful to his wife, Judy, as a randy ferret. He was known in the army as the “guided muscle” and he lived up to his reputation right royally. He was clearly deeply insecure and he filled his emptiness and loneliness with casual sex with whomever he could. He even convinced himself that his long-suffering wife was wholly unaware of his philandering, but of course she knew all about his hobby from day one. It would seem that most wives have something of a talent for spotting the signs of womanising and drawing the obvious conclusions.

Of course, the fact that Mark was a serial fornicator was well known to the couple’s circle too – after all he had made passes at most of the wives. Despite this, Judy decided to keep her husband’s infidelity a “secret” for years. While her four precious children were still growing up, she believed the best way she could protect them would be to turn a blind eye to her husband’s behaviour.

However, on the very day the youngest child left university, Judy announced that she had had enough of the evasions, lies and humiliation, and she wanted a divorce. Mark was gobsmacked but after he had recovered his equanimity he tried to play hardball by saying he couldn’t care less and would at once move in with his latest mistress.

“Fine,” responded Judy. “Do what you like but I still want a divorce.”

Off went Mark to tell his mistress that their fling was now a permanent relationship.

“Permanence is the last thing I need,” she laughed. “I cherish my independence too much – our twice-a-month motel meeting is all I want out of this.”

My pal has ended up completely alone in a grotty Clapham flat. It should be a warning to us all really: be careful what you wish for. As the old saying goes, there is only one thing worse than not getting your heart’s desire and that is getting it.

Jul 09

Day 9 – The Guide Dog and the Elephants

What a dreary morning! After someone drove into the car a funny little light went on which we think we must be seen to by the official agent; this has introduced a degree of uncertainty into the proceedings. We have decided to take each day as it comes, and on we plod as we await the prognosis about the car.

Guide Dog
I walked into a shopping arcade with Dinah on a lead. Shoppers billed and cooed and Dinah then decided to give one helpless old lady one of her more exuberant greetings – the Dinah “Hello” – consists of her giving a wild war cry and leaping three feet in the air, launching herself at whatever target presents itself, before sticking her vast tongue into their ear. When the old lady had been picked up and had more or less recovered, a bossy official announced to me that “dogs are prohibited”, but then he saw how old and decrepit I am for he then said: “I presume she is a Guide Dog?” I just walked on. How he could imagine that the fool Dinah, who had just flattened a passing pensioner, could guide anyone beats me.

–

Am I allowed a little sneer? Okay it’s just a little one. One of the things we note as we flog along is that often the smaller the detached house, the larger the gates with gold topped spear heads. Some of the smaller houses parade lion statues on their walls with abrupt notices: “ Strictly Private: Keep Out!” with speaker phones to pour even more discouragment on the hapless herds of the impertinent. The subtext is “I am considerably richer than you are, you peasant!” I am reminded of the saying “big hat; no cattle”, or as Sylvio Berlascone might say:“Nice mink: no knickers.”

—
A Privilege 
Each day brings a fresh surprise and Sunday evening was a special treat. I knew the name “Honeyford” but, such is the speed of events, I couldn’t recall where.

Angela Honeyford is the widow of the great Ray, who died two years ago. He died too late to see his prescient forecast, that multiculturism makes no sense, accepted by all leading respected political parties .

Ray was the first-class head of a school in Bradford. In 1984 he spoke out against the Asian community who were determined to ensure that their children, whilst enjoying British social and political privelege, were to be educated with the values of the Indian sub-continent intact.

Honeyford saw that, if we are to preserve the future of our country, we have to integrate our recently arrived minorities through a shared school curriculum and a secular rule of law that protects women and girls from the kind of abuse which he saw daily.

There was an easily predictable explosion with placards denouncing Ray Honeyford as “Ray-cist”. He was forced to resign. The educational establishment lost one of its most humane and public-spirited representatives. He continued to protest against the educational establishment’s plans to remove all signs of patriotism from our schools and erase the memory of England from the cultural record.

Ray was heroic and a gentle man who was prepared to pay the price of truthfulness at a time of lies.

It’s a privilege to be the guest of this man’s widow.

–

Elephants in the Room
We are a couple of spacewalkers with sticks clicking down a long tarmac road. It’s slanting with rain. The sky has elephant-coloured clouds chasing towards us and we have a gloomy, sodden hour to go before we plan to stop.

Then, before long, the elephants flee and we can see enough blue to make a sailor’s trousers. Then, after we turn down a steep track that rises and falls over fields, the day transforms into a sunny Turner pastoral oil painting.

We believe fondly that the people who are running the country aren’t totally stupid, that those who rule over us are working with a sense of history and common-sense, that they have access to the best advisors available to make our country significantly freer, more prosperous and contented than, say, before both the world wars that dominated the last century.

We are commemorating the beginning of the first world war. It’s not a long time ago in terms of world history but of course it’s as relevent as the Roman invasion to many of today’s young, who couldn’t care less what either were about.

But, imagine for a minute you are the shade from a northern soldier and you have risen from your grave, in which you have lain these past one hundred years. You fought for freedom, for King and country. Simple stuff, perhaps, but your family was comforted that you did not die in vain.

You revisit your home town and take a look at your old school. You find they are teaching English as a foreign language. The first language is not German, which it might be if we had lost either of the world wars, but Urdu! And many of the children believe they are living in an alien country, and some have been taught that women are inferior to men, and that white women are no better than prositutes. They are taught that their culture is superior in every way to that of their host country.

As you clamber back into your grave you might be forgiven for wondering why you bothered to fight at all…

Rogers and Hammerstein observed in ther musical “South Pacific” , “You’ve got to be taught to hate and fear, you’ve got to be taught from year to year, it’s got to be drummed into your dear little ear, you’ve got to be carefully taught. You’ve got to be taught before it’s too late, before you are six or seven or eight. To hate all the people your relatives hate, you’ve got to be carefully taught.”

How has this happened?

We walk on. The clouds have returned.

Jul 08

Day 8 – Your Place or Mine

Today was a trial. Someone backed into our car: it poured with rain and we were soaked; the dog seems to think it was a bird and “flew” out of the car window (fortunately unhurt); we got lost and wandered for what seemed like hours getting increasingly frustrated. But we are postive! We have arrived unhurt, battered but unbowed and it’s amazing what a gin and tonic can do. .

We walked from Strand to Swinton and then to Eccles and on to Trafford. We started down a wooded valley. The noise from the M62 is simply terrible and we had to shout to make ourselves heard. I suppose residents get used to it but we both found the relentless noise stressful.

When we emerged we were walking through some of the bleakest urban areas in the U.K. When the mills died many of the aspirant youth left leaving the helpless and aged behind. Many of the streets resonate with little hope and loneliness.

A shop as we passsed was advertising “clean manure.” I have now seen everything.

We passed a plump girl of about ten (I reckon) gnawing a Mars Bar and drinking a bright yellow sugary drink.

As readers of past blogs will have read I have commented on “flab” Britain before, but I have to say that they look at least 20 per cent worse today than they did four years ago when we started walking. The men are as plumped up as the women with their vast paunches creating small bow waves as they plod along.

We stayed with a retired doctor who told us that no one feels able to say anything to the obese for fear of giving offence.

So we have check mate. We have a conspiracy of silence in which heart conditions and diabetes are allowed to flourish. This creates misery for the sufferers… and vast bills for the taxpayers via our overburdened NHS.
The other acute concern is that fat children mix with other fat children, so playgrounds are today thronged with overweight children. So, I suppose, being the fat kid on the block is today the norm. The thin kid is the freak.

We walk through a thick scattering of litter clogging the paths, the drains and the gardens. Many of the windows are plastered with the cross of St George and posters parading “England”. Who will break the ghastly news to them that we lost weeks ago?

Its easy to sneer and laugh at obesity and squalor. As someone who has enjoyed privelege in my life I should be careful. I was taken to task in the last walk by a man who had just read one of my harsher descriptions of urban deprivation. “I wonder,” he said gently,” what silent and courageous work goes on in these unhappy circumstances.”

Of course he was right.

Your Place or Mine?

Today, one of our young walkers regaled me with details of the opportunities afforded nowadays by two “apps” that facilitate immediate bonking. One is “Blendr” for heterosexuals, while “Grindr” caters for the homosexual community.

He told me that he had used one of the apps. I commented that the whole thing seemed an empty experience to me. He replied: “Yes I suppose it is but, as empty experiences go, it was one of the best!”

Bim Bam…
Apparently when you walk into a pub in any major urban centre, there will be plenty of people in the immediate vicinity who are “up for it”, that is, to avail themselves of immediate sex with someone they have never met before. It’s the ultimate immediate gratification. The apps use the user’s mobile’s location device to show them who – within the surrounding area – may be feeling similarly inclined. The two lucky people then swap text messages and can meet to swiftly look each other up and down. If they fancy what they see, then it’s “your place or mine”? Then off the pair trot to commit the capital deed, and it’s another notch on the bedstead and “Bim-Bam, thank you Mam”.

Well I suppose it’s a tad better than hooking… no actual money changes hands. But this way of gaining satisfaction offers no commitment, no romance and no respect. People are treated as objects of convenience. Would I own shares in either of the two sites? Are they any worse than “Wonga?” I wonder, does the Anglican Church own shares inadvertently in either Blendr or Grindr? Perhaps it’s better not to ask!

I scowl with disapproval. I wonder what women, in their heart of hearts, truly feel about this sort of thing. In my day, women were said to be the gentler sex and humankind doesn’t change much, if at all. I know some women claim this sexual upheaval or revolution is liberating and wonderful, but perhaps it’s just that they’re keen to be seen as “laddish” and popular, the sort of girls who are “up for anything”. And the majority usually follows the example set by their peer group.

Nineteen Sixty-three
If I was still young, then who knows how I would react? Or you, dear reader? I missed it all by a whisker. It was Philip Larkin who summed things up succinctly:

Sexual intercourse began
In nineteen sixty-three
(which was rather late for me) –
Between the end of the “Chatterley” ban
And the Beatles’ first LP.

So that’s that! I discuss my thoughts with Jane, and we both agree that the great Maurice Chevalier had a point when he sang in Gigi, “I’m glad I’m not young anymore.”

Commitment
Recently, I went to watch our three-year old granddaughter, Amelie, dancing in a school show. Her parents warned us she might not actually muster the courage to appear on stage, but she did – and of course, she was a triumph! She whirled and rolled and pranced, and we were thrilled that she was brave enough to perform. It was a great breakthrough for her.

However, the other performers were not exactly Darcy Bussell. In fact, to be cruel, there were some adult dancers who were downright ungainly. I sniggered at them. What a farce! How could they make such a public spectacle of themselves?

Then I saw that there some of the children on stage had Down’s syndrome. I suddenly realised that this was a hugely important occasion for them and that the older dancers I had been sneering at were their teachers. I then wondered to myself how much time, toil and tears – and sheer love – had been invested in this performance. I was watching a triumph of love and devoted care over acute disability. It was awesome and as I have never spent even a single minute helping Down’s children, I realised that my cynical, hard-nosed, snotty attitude was a downright disgrace. I felt deeply ashamed of myself and the memory lingers still.

The Show Must Go On
Some time ago, I employed a salesman whose Irish granny was taken gravely ill. He was away for 10 days, and each time I asked him when he was planning to return to his job, I was made to feel profoundly unsympathetic to his family’s plight. The good lady was 94, and as the salesman was neither her doctor nor the undertaker, I couldn’t stop wondering what he thought he was doing with his time?

My friend, Cassandra Jardine, one of the Telegraph Group’s leading writers, died two years ago aged 57. She left a husband and five children, some of whom were still young. Her actor husband had a part in a play at the time and never missed a performance.

Go figure as they say.

Jul 07

Day 7 – One Man’s Meat

We switchback out of Blackburn playing matador to the vast number of fancy cars that seem intent on goring us.
Half way down a precipitous hill and a mere foot away from the trafic rode a pretty little girl on a bike at great speed. I reckon she was about eight. I asked her if her mummy knew where she was and what she was doing? She nodded vaguely and gave me a gorgeous smile. Should I try and find her mum? Jane had gone on ahead. In the wake of all the publicity that surrounds old men and young girls a red hackle rose in my mind. Reader I settled for suggesting to her that she gets her mum at least to buy her a hard hat. Its a sad state of affairs that single men worry about helping young girls. Were my intentions noble? Of course they were, but you can’t prove a negative!

The Hosts with the Most
Three cheers for the hospitable Zane hosts who offer us such a warm welcome and so many unexpected kindnesses. In the last four walks we will have stayed with over 100 people. One of the main pleasures of the trip for both Jane and me is to meet such a wide variety of kind folk who are becoming friends.
It is invidious to name some, for if we do that, why not all? However Jane and I want to highlight the substantial number of heroic widows who keep on being positive, often in the face of considerable loneliness.

 

It is relatively easy to find friends to do something with but it is rarely possible to find people to do nothing with. We live in a world which is often indifferent to the plight of others. Without sounding preachy, when you next give a party why not ask a singleton along?. The numbers at dinner don’t have to be even. Guests usually come to eat and talk, not mate!

 

Richard the driver is a great asset. He took over from our national treasure Harry Campbell whom we much miss and who was a hard act to follow. Richard is a very different character and we have all become close friends, we laugh at the same sort of things. As a retired military man Richard is used to looking after unreliable, whining and often incompetent soldiers who leave things behind as a matter of routine and are often unruly and late, so he is well attuned to looking after us.
He does have the occasional fixation. He is insistent, for example, that one of our hosts’ relations is a serial killer because she has, so he says, the mad eyes of a Crippen! When we held a recent function in London he stalked up to me and whispered:
” There. Look! There she is again!”
He is convinced that she has buried her father in the rose bushes of her house. The poor woman looks wholly virtuous to Jane and me, but who knows? He may be right.

One Man’s Meat

“Ethical investment” has become fashionable and firms have been set up offering such a service. I saw Comic Relief as well as Amnesty International being pasted in a recent Panorama programme, allegedly for investing some of their reserves in what were deemed to be “unacceptable” investments.

The trouble is that this area is supremely subjective: what’s one man’s meat is another’s poison. Take one example: I happen to loathe everything to do with tobacco. Why? Because I watched both my parents die from smoking related illnesses. In my mother’s case, she suffered a hideous, choking death. Others are relaxed about the substance (I can’t think why, but there you go.)

Some people loathe defence companies while others shun firms related to alcohol. Personally, I am relaxed about defence and I am also open to investing in companies dealing with alcohol. Of course alcohol can be grossly abused, but then so can many things. For example, too much of the wrong kind of food can cause obesity or cars may be driven too fast. These products can be abused and may kill or cause social mayhem, so where do you draw the line?

Wonga Woes
The poor old Archbishop of Canterbury came spectacularly adrift when it was found that the Church had inadvertently invested in Wonga, the very business he had chosen to strongly criticise. He confessed that it gets increasingly complicated: most banks are involved in loaning money at high interest rates and charge clients Wonga-sized sums for taking brief unauthorised overdrafts. Even so called “respectable” businesses such as W.H. Smith sell pornographic magazines on their top shelves; most hotel groups have a porn channel in rooms that can easily be accessed by their residents; food companies often suck nutritious elements from products and replace them with fat or sugar; and then there are the finance houses…

Take a look at the PR firms and advertising agencies, which try and persuade us to buy things we don’t want with money we don’t have. Most accountants, however they strive to dress it up, are involved with tax avoidance. Many TV companies make a fortune from gaming companies, property companies often house companies involved in all sorts of derring-do and even derring-don’t, and so it goes on. Any company that is without sin can cast the first stone!

ZANE has a modest reserve for it’s impossible to run the charity properly without one. I have told our advisors that I dislike tobacco companies and obvious porn; with that in mind, their job is to make as much money as possible to expand ZANE’s work. I have a dreadful image of having to tell a starving pensioner or a child suffering from clubfoot that we can’t afford to help them because we have an “ethical” investment policy and we have run out of money.

Perhaps Mother Teresa, when facing yet another grinning rat with a gold tooth who was offering her a fat case full of grubby bank notes, had the best answer. “I will accept money from any source,” she is alleged to have said. “If it’s money from a wicked source, we will sanctify it by spending it on the poor.”

Twisting in the Wind
Even though I am not a close friend of Andrew Mitchell, his situation offends me. The police have spent thousands of hours investigating what went wrong; five policemen have been discharged for conduct unbecoming, and one has been jailed. The police Commissioner, Sir Bernard Hogan Howe, has been obliged to offer Andrew a public apology.

Yet Andrew is still twisting slowly in the wind, his career more or less destroyed and now facing a defamation action financed by the ghastly Police Federation. Apparently Andrew accused a policeman of not telling the truth when he was accused of using the word “pleb”. If the Police Federation is going to finance all actions when the word of a policeman is brought into question, then presumably anyone who pleads “not guilty” when the evidence against him or her relies on police testimony is likely to face an action backed by the Federation. The courts will be busy indeed.

What fills me with profound disquiet is the extent of the police corruption that was surrounding Downing Street, for that is what it was. It’s not just a matter of a bent copper or two; there appears to have been a conspiracy on an industrial scale involving numerous policemen hell-bent on damaging the government and bringing down a cabinet minister if they could. Just like the Goodfellas – but without their looks or charm – they were prepared to do anything necessary to get the business done.

The gang might have succeeded if Andrew had not been angry, persistent and wealthy. He and Newsnight were able to investigate. Unfortunately for the conspirators, one of them was fool enough to invent a witness; then, like Humpty Dumpty, the whole shoddy enterprise had a great fall.

Various questions need answering:
1: It appears that Andrew received – to put it politely – limp-wristed assistance from the “anything for a quite life” Cabinet Secretary at Number Ten. Has there been an apology?
2: How many other police conspiracies are there out there against, for example, impoverished and unheard of members of ethnic minorities?
3: How many innocent people are languishing in the Nick who shouldn’t be?
4: Why should anyone believe a policeman again without corroborating evidence?
5: Various newspapers such as the Sun jumped on the anti-Mitchell bandwagon and sought to kick him senseless. When will they apologise?
6: Smelling blood in the water, various parliamentary colleagues put their snotty thumbs down when Andrew needed help. When will they apologise?
7: Ed Miliband: scathing, merciless and plain wrong. When will he apologise?
8: And last but not least, when will Andrew get a Cabinet job back?

Peeping Tom (Part II)
In my last walk commentary, I detailed the time when I was growing up in Edinburgh and how, during a game of hide and seek, I inadvertently witnessed one of my mother’s friends undressing while I was hiding in laundry basket. Sensitive readers will understand why it took me some years to recover from this ordeal. But only half the story was printed – I’m afraid another part of the saga landed on the editor’s floor.

Our Edinburgh home was a large looming Victorian house situated in the Morningside area next to the Cranley Girls’ boarding house. For many of my formative years, I spent a great deal of time perched on the bathroom hand basin gazing at the windows of the boarding house. I was desperately trying to see a girl – any girl – taking a bath. This was the only spot in the house that enabled me a view.

I was hopelessly unsuccessful. On one occasion, I saw a mottled face looking out and then I glimpsed a blurred figure, but it was all so indistinct that it only inflamed my imagination to fever pitch. The one thing I did once see with 20-20 clarity was a pair of navy blue bloomers hanging across the bathroom window, and then there was a mighty crack and the basin fell apart under my weight.

One of the ZANE staff read the story before it went to print. The telephone rang in my office.

“Oh Tom, what a terrible story” she objected. I asked what was wrong with it. “My mother went to Cranley”, she replied. “You may have glimpsed her without her knickers. That’s too terrible a thought to contemplate. I may have to resign.”

I attempted to pacify her. I had seen nothing, but she knew it wasn’t for want of trying. I thought I had succeeded in reassuring her, but then something happened between the story and the printers. Reader, she spiked it.

Well, now you know the full sorry tale – though you have to concede it’s a pretty tame tale by today’s standards!