Monday, September 08, 2008

lakes 2008



















A bike is standing at a railway station with the rain dripping off the dark-green anodised metal of its handlebars. It is Nick's bike and he is standing behind it, waiting for the train to Windermere, from where he will cycle to a large farmhouse near Coniston and assist his cousin Julian in celebrating his 60th birthday with various Arthur Ransomelike activities (and wine and trifle).

Now, the following sequence of events may be out of order or fractured, as I was exposed to a powerful and increasingly potent narcotic during the week, known to connoisseurs of the Borgian arts as Andrew's Feet.

From the Station I had a delirious descent into Bowness-on-Windermere, looking for a bike shop, so that I could buy a new inner tube to replace the one that had developed a slow puncture on the prospect of being taken to "The North". As I passed the Police Station, I sought advice,
"Is there a bike shop?"
"Not really, but you won't cycle on the pavement will you sir, otherwise we'll have to fine you?"
"I've just come onto the pavement to ask you if there's a bike shop."
My aggrieved tone cut no ice.

I crossed on the ferry and surveyed the hill on the other side, I then took the track along the shore in the forlorn hope that the hill might somehow vanish. When I rejoined the road later, it was still going up, this would be a theme for the day. I travelled on through Potterland and wheezed my way along the quiet side of Esthwaite Water, where, in a fit of wild optimism, I consigned the waterproof to the panniers. Then, on to Hawkshead, to look for a late lunch. After a mooch, I ended up in the Sun Cafe for a plate of that most Cumbrian of dishes- Irish Stew, which was excellent. I then started up Hawkshead Hill, at this point my older edition maps showed the lack of the laser accuracy of the newer versions (I presume), as the contours were wildly different to the reality, such was my disbelief that I had to stop five times to consult the map, at least when it had swum back into focus.

However, to every up there is a down, so that I arrived, brakes smoking, about ten minutes from the top, at the farm. I was first! After hosing down my sweat-streaked body, I settled down to a cup of tea. The door was banged on, it was young people.

"Have you seen some really old people?"

I thought about my reflection in the mirror.

"No."

"Oh sorry."

I thought about saying, "Do you mean Julian?" but decided this was less than charitable, so waved goodbye. Had I said, "Do you mean Julian?" I would have determined that they were part of our party, and were in fact looking for their Grandparents (Mrs Julian's parents). As it was, I settled down on the large sofa, and spent fifteen minutes failing to work the DVD player before "others" arrived.

There was much tea.

The next day was the day of the party, large parties of various folk arrived and drank tea, before having lunch where they drank wine, followed by tea. An enterprising crew arrived in a Wayfarer (dinghy sailors please accept my apologies for potentially excruciating joke) and then offered a quick trip down the lake. A very quick trip actually, me I'd have put a reef in.

The day after, the boat was rigged and put on the water.

"What boat?" I hear you say.

Well dearie me, did I not say? The GP14 bought on EBay by Sheila (Mrs Julian), was rigged and floated off the trolley into the tree, put back on the trolley, moved to the right and refloated, then rowed to the landing. As we wait for Julian, (nothing new here, his elder brothers have been standing around, hands in pockets, cloudwatching for sixty years), the boat slowly fills with water, a condition that will persist over the next few days leading some of us to postulate that the SS Trenchfoot may be a good name for it.

He arrives (cue the rolling back of clouds and a quick burst of the Hallelujah Chorus), and once the family Handley are ensconced, I let go the boat. Then walk down the landing, climb over the wall, walk down the "beach" into the lake to field the boat as it runs ashore. I turn the prow and shove off again, this time the centreboard goes down and they're off for a quiet meander up the nearly still lake. Several gentle zephyrs develop hernias as they artfully play with the sail and discover that the boat is full of several tons of water. Several trips later and we get the self-bailers to work by dint of speed but as soon as we slow, water pours into the boat around the edges of them. Eventually we call it a day, and run the boat onto the trailer and from thence into the tree, back into the lake, a shift to the right and up into the field.

A barbeque is declared for the evening and I go off to Windermere with Louise and Tom for what proves to be the most frightening (though not exciting) trip of the week. We go to Booth's supermarket, a supermarket that makes Waitrose look cheap, a supermarket that if it could boast the tiling would rate with Harrods, a supermarket that brought tears to my wallet. We drive back, laden with sausages and vegeburgers, and scour the outbuildings for tinder. As I put a lighter (note to self, make sure that you have matches for a barbeque as the heat and flame pouring back out of a lighter means you get a few more overdone sausages, formerly known as fingers) to the paper it starts to rain. Umbrellas appear in the hands of the sous-chef and the barbeque continues.

As the week goes on, different people take charge of the evening meal, so we have a large veggie curry, followed by a cheese selection from Booths. This includes an Epoisse, which brings forth the comment that it smells like placenta; what a fabulous comparative body the newly parented have, several sorts of vomit and faeces (including temporal change, "Cor that smells like an [insert number][insert time interval{day/hour}][insert item]"), plus a whole range of eructations various. A pizza night, "Cor that looks like [insert pre-digested foodstuff]" and a leftovers night, "Cor that looks like... oh it is."

Days are spent pruning the tree with the mast, so that by the end of the week the boat rolls into the water unimpeded from any part of the field. One day we decide to ascend the Old Man of Coniston (or Kachenjunga). As we go up I turn to Steve who is labouring under the weight of steroids and various other drugs, all of which conspire to raise his blood pressure to something a giraffe would be proud of.

"How are you doing?"
"Once upon a time this would have been exhilarating now I'm just terrified that I'm going to have some sort of cardiac disaster!"
I reassured him.
"No with raised blood pressure like yours, you're more likely to have a stroke!"

I thought the resultant frosty silence unworthy of him, so pointed out there was a pub at the bottom. We went to the pub and bought a keg to go with the pizza, after a pause in the street and much deliberation we put the keg in the pushchair and carried the baby; it's all about perceived value they tell me.

Sadly the week came to a close, though for me there was a ray of sunshine in the fact that I would be separated from Andrew's feet by about 50 miles (only just enough I reckoned). After tidying up, I mounted my trusty steed and set off back to Windermere, halfway up the hill I decided that I was squeaky and should use my inhaler. I stopped off the side of the road and breathed out before applying the inhaler and inhaling with force! The foil datestamp that had fallen off the cylinder consequently found itself teetering on the top of my trachea prior to a descent into lungland, we were both quite surprised! Fortunately I had sufficient breath to manage a coughing fit and so avoided the irony of being found face down at the roadside having choked to death on an asthma inhaler (for US readers this is irony, do not confuse it with sarcasm).

A stop at the traditional sweetshop in Windermere netted me some liquorice goodies, some of which would last to London, unlike Julian's supply of Pontefract Cakes, which lasted until Steve saw them and "unconsciously" scoffed the lot.

At Euston I had to break into the Guards Van to liberate my bike, and that, as they say, was that.

Monday, July 14, 2008

The Tale of Foxy Roxy and the King of Gloom. Book the Fourth.


The next day I decided to have a day off, so camp out, under a parasol, alternatively staring out to sea and reading. The breeze is constant off the water, next time I catch sight of myself in the mirror I note that my hair has a volume and a backsweep of heroic proportions, I look like Martin Sheen after a nasty surprise.

Later in the day I decide to go for a snorkel, I pick up the camera, anoint myself with suntan lotion and roll into the sea. I snorkel out to the reef, and, after an interesting time in the surge, exit over the edge and start snapping like a madman. After nine shots, strange things happen with the camera, I come back to shore and look through the viewfinder, the water on the inside bodes ill. I retreat under the bedclothes and open the back, the film is wet - "Bollocks!". I consign the film to the bin and put the camera in the sun to dry.

A new guest has arrived today - Ralph, he is off with Roxy for the next few days taking photos, this is how he makes a living poor soul, warm water diving with a camera, sounds awful, you can visit his websites here (check out "latest"). When he returns I collar him with my damp camera, he suggests Said may have the appropriate jewellers' screwdrivers. Said does, takes the camera to pieces, air blasts it, desalts the electrics, and miraculously gets it to fire - what a star.

In the evening I eat in town, and return to drink the recently departed Joey and Nick's last beer, which they have kindly left for me, I decide to wait for a shooting star, and park myself on one of the loungers. Three satellites come past and the moon rises drowning out a lot of stars, I decide that three satellites may equal one shooting star. Then, an evanescent streak as a piece of dust donates its atoms to the Earth, I feel a pang of joy, tempered with the fact that this is also, inevitably, our fate.

Morning comes, and I discover that I'm deaf in my right ear. As Roxy applies drops I apply courage,

"Umm, Roxy, I, umm, do you think you might umm, like to have, um, dinner with me before I go?"

"That would be very nice, you're very kind."

"Well it's hardly expensive." Damn! Damn! Damn!

"I'll choose somewhere 'young.'"

Damn, damn, damn.

So there I was, committed to an evening of several hundred people chattering to Roxy while I ate dinner.

I decided to have another day of doing nothing, and then decided to start my novel:

"The Regent's Canal winds through North London like a ribbon of pustular snot streaming from the nose of a cold-ridden child....."

or

"Tom Landrover, flicked his tail, stretched his back, brushed down his whiskers, and, staring at the rainclouds gathering, decided it was a good day to go to the barn and torment some mice."

or

"I ran my hand down Roxy's naked flank, watching the skin dance and shiver as my touch excited her, she rolled onto her back, her green eyes steeped in lust, guiding my hand, she arched her ba...."

Hang on! Now I was completely deaf, apart from a mosquito whine of tinnitus, plus it hurt. I decided to go to the Doctor. Said and I head off in a taxi to the recompression chamber and surgery. The Doctor is a quiet man, who after a brief interview produces some sort of jeweller's/torturer's tool and picks (as in axe) at the tamponade that used to be my earwax and, that since I have repeatedly exposed it to depth, has become a sort of crown cork. This hurts like merry hell but on the third mining trip into the fudge sundae, there is a pop, and sound rushes in. I leave with the advice that I should soften the remaining wax with olive oil three times a day, so it is that I go to town able to dress salad with a mere tilt of the head.

In town, in the evening, a local lands a 2m plus shark, there is a mixed reaction, the locals, who after all have been fishing here for quite some time, are ecstatic, some of the visiting diving sorority are in tears.

The next day I am deaf again, I suspect the trauma from the Doctor's gouging, even so we all head off for the Full Moon, with our driver Sallah taking a route known only to him. This was doing Ralph's back no good at all, as he seemed to have done something to it the previous day. Even so he seemed impervious to my sympathetic explanations of how bad mine was, and that if he thought he had a bad back he should try the 17 kilos of lead I was now burdened with.

My first dive of the day is Moray Gardens left, a trawl through a set of pinnacles with the big Giant Clams. On the way I litter pick, accidentally exchanging two kilo's of lead for some trash, consequently my safety stop consists of me finning to the bottom with Said holding me down.

Over lunch - a "Tunisian Salad" - couscous with tomato, Said straps another kilo of weight to the bottom of my tank to "hold it down". Hoorah a new record at 18 kilos! The first dive of the afternoon is in Three Pools, there are three pools, as we exit from one a fish attacks Said who has invaded his territory, nipping at the wrist of his wetsuit, Said 1M 75, fish 8cm! I manage to spot a Shrimp and Goby combo, these are described in the book as commensals though symbiotes may be nearer the mark, this particular combo is a Graceful Goby and Red-Spotted Goby Shrimp by the time I have signalled to Said, the Shrimp has gone to hide, so there I am being excited by a fish, while diving, whoop-de-doo! As we slump on the bottom for our safety stop, a snakefish comes to hunt. I return to shore with my full 18 kilos, having been unable to shed any surplus due to Said's careful monitoring.

After a tea break, dive three (Moray Garden Right), Ralph had pointed out a pinnacle on the way out which he said was "stuffed", it was. We also saw a couple of Trevally (a relatively large predator) patrolling the shoals.

Got back to base and met two more guests, Del and Chris. Del a recently qualified lawyer from Pembrokeshire and husband (?) Chris from Australia (Norfolk Island, about halfway between Oz and New Zealand, so not really Australia at all). Del was due to do a course with the other instructor Ollie, and Chris, after an assessment dive, was due out with Said and myself. They looked about 12. I ate and went to bed early.

The next day - more diving. Today I waited for Chris's assessment, having exhausted the possibilities of the Lighthouse (they, of course, saw a Napoleon Wrasse, which can grow up to two metres in length, described by Said as "enormous", though I had come to learn that Said saw a lot of "enormous" things. I did wonder whether he'd realised that things look bigger underwater, though I was still revelling in the purchase of my prescription mask, where they don't). Then we went on to Canyon to do the Coral Garden, which was very pretty with the biggest clams yet seen ("Enormous" Said) and a lot of clownfish. At one point I was minding my own business when I felt something at my throat, after waving my hand about I was confronted by two Cleaner Wrasse who looked distinctly reproachful. When I told the boys about this at lunch, Said said this was not uncommon and asked if I hadn't seen his signal. This turned out to be rubbing one index finger up the side of the other. Yes I had seen the signal and was pretty sure that in other cultures it meant something distinctly different to "Look there's a Cleaner Wrasse!" so rather than enquire too far, had ignored it. My mind now at rest, I put my body into a similar state of repose.

After lunch we move on to the Blue Hole and the Bells (I was going to put a link in here but most of the links appear to be dedicated to the showing of bodies of people who have died in the Blue Hole, if you're interested you can Google "Blue Hole Dahab") The Blue Hole is just that, a hole, it is used by extensively by freedivers, and also by idiots who think they can push the limits, there is an exit at about sixty metres, which proves too tempting for many people. Their memorial plaques appear on the walls of the amphitheatre surrounding the hole, here's one, "To James. Who didn't let fear diminish his dream." - Twat.

We walk (with my extra 18 kilo's I waddle) to the entrance to the Bells, this is a rift that descends, that's exactly what it does, it just descends until you exit on a cliff that does exactly that as well- descend. It is called the Bells, as you bang your cylinder on the side walls as you go down. I manage, to Said's relief, not to drop anything into the void, and we emerge from the crack at ten metres and then contour round the cliff. Under an overhang Chris points out a large Octopus, the drop-off itself is covered with fish, millions of fish, it becomes clear that as Des Res's go, the piscine equivalent of Hampstead/Seattle is a drop-off. On the edge of visibility the bigger predators patrol.

A Cornet Fish falls in love with Said , lurking behind him and occasionally swimming between his regulator hose and his head, apparently they're renowned for using divers as cover when hunting, though Chris and I were convinced it was love. Just as we turn to enter the hole, Said points, Chris follows his pointing finger and contemplates, just in case, I grab Chris's arm, point wildly and yell, "Turtle". The "Enormous" Turtle looks at us with faint disdain, surfaces for a breath and then slides gently off into the coral. We fin over into the Blue Hole. In the centre of the Hole you can see - blue, nothing below, nothing to the sides, but blue, at ten metres the surface is still visible but not for much longer, this is why people die, with narcosis they swim off the wrong way, never to return. Said floats perfectly still at ten metres, and starts to move up out of my field of vision, I put air in the jacket and monitor my depth gauge, Said goes higher, the needle on the depth gauge goes higher, I inflate, and inflate, Said comes back into my field of vision and then passes, I deflate and sink past him again. This carries on until we reach the other side for our safety stop, where we sit surrounded by bottle tops. At one point I am startled by a school of small fish that suddenly make a ceiling above me, and then just a quickly disappear, however, Chris is terrified by the end of his weight belt appearing by his chin with the sole intent of drinking his life blood.

We return, Roxy, preoccupied with having to see the "Management", blows out dinner but promises breakfast. So my non-romantic client/teacher tete-a-tete has been turned into a power-management experience. To console myself, I stump off to Friends for Kofta and a Shisha, dowsing every cat in sight mercilessly, and return to the Furry Cup for a bottle of Stella (an Egyptian as opposed to Belgian beer). At 11.00, the universe turns a switch, the sea-breeze drops and dies, A few seconds later a hot wind comes roaring out of the desert behind me, snapping the flags out straight, rather like having an energy efficient dragon creep up behind you.

My last day and the paying of the bill, as a lot of you know, parting with money, for me, is a painful experience. I stayed with Dive Urge who I felt were keener to get my money out of me than the restaurant touts down the strip. my food bill was remarkably round, and the transfer from the airport was £25 each way, when I query that it might be an idea to tell people this, the Manager consults her computer and informs me that it is in the first e-mail I received, seeing as I have no computer to prove this, and that I am too weak to say, "Show me!" I let this pass. ("No it wasn't Lindsay, by the way!").
At breakfast Roxy helps me with my pancake before going off with Ralph. I head into town with Ollie and Del and have a final snorkel, where I am rewarded by two Scribbled Razor Fish, about 70 cm and shifting between dark blue and silver.

I return and drowze, before distributing tips and the contents of my wash bag, as I put the last of my Egyptian Pounds in the tip box I am presented with a request for my lunch money, "About £10." Actually about £6.20 mate. So it is slightly disgruntled that I leave my Life-Partner-To-Be (I just have to talk her round) to drive through the desert in the gathering dusk, before arriving at Gatwick in the small hours. I get to bed at four, today is Open Day, I will be in at 11.00 to talk to schoolchildren and their parents, I will only hear the ones on my left.

Tuesday, July 08, 2008

The Tale of Foxy Roxy and the King of Gloom. Book the Third



Another day, another diving course.
After my fruit pancakes, I had the briefing for the "Deep Dive". Being moderately nervous, in fact I'd woken in the middle of the night umm- vocalising, I was being stalked by girl-guides in a London Underground tunnel, (don't ask me , it was a dream), I put this down to the heat, .... where was I? Being moderately nervous I asked Roxy to go through the signals again. She shows me "up", "down", "something is wrong", "No not those, there was another one I didn't recognise." We stare at each other for a couple of minutes and finally decide that it may have been a "safety swim" (a cromlech - see top - with a wiggling tail).

As this is my official "Deep Dive" I have to do a number of tests designed to show the effects of narcosis. I have previously completed a quiz (17 seconds) which I have to redo at depth. Question One throws me, while sitting in the hotel, "What is the Capital of Slovakia?" We eventually come to a mutual decision that "Bratislava" will do as an answer. Then into the jeep and off to the Canyon (lengthy video on YouTube here ).

The Canyon is a rift in the reef, there are several wide chambers and some narrow squeezes (to be avoided). To get there you have to exit over the reef from a pool, at low and high water, or wind, this can involve current. We exit as a group comes in, they totally fail to spot the Octopus that is sitting on a pinnacle just at the exit, we (Roxy) however do spot it. and watch it blanch and prickle. Then we move off, down to the top of the drop off before turning left and meandering up to the rift.

At the Canyon we adopt the pose and skydive to the bottom, my suit compresses (finally) and the air becomes considerably thicker, as though it has been mixed with a small amount of honey. The first task is to compare depth gauges, we do; Roxy:- 33.3 metres, Nick:- 2 metres. Ho Hum. I do the quiz, some naughty person has changed the sums (17 seconds). Then I have to turn my back while Roxy changes something, which I then have to spot. I turn and turn back, a few seconds later I realise that instead of having the regulator shoved in her gob, she's got her snorkel. At this point narcosis must have set in as I fail to fail to spot it for the next five minutes and instead, point it out straight away, next time the mask is on upside down. We ascend through a column of Sweepers/Glassfish who occupy the inside of the shaft, waiting for the onset of evening when they will leave, I wonder whether they will all leave the same entrance, like bats.

We return and spend our surface interval in the cafe, drinking tea and chatting, I sit in the sun wearing my sarong, shirt, hat, with my arms covered in a towel. As we prepare to move on I go to the toilet, when I return the cafe owner is deep in conversation with Roxy. Apparently he has a brother in Cairo who needs a wife, with Roxy, everyone has a brother in Cairo who needs a wife, even I have a brother in Cairo who needs a wife. there is, of course, the question of field-testing for the biCwnaw.

We move on to Rick's Reef (Yes Roxy I know but if people want to look it up, oh all right!) AKA Roxy's Reef and drift slowly back passing large nurseries and huge clouds of Anthias (more fish pics here ). Behind there are shoals of Sergeant Majors, possibly sniping. By now I have favourite fish : The Humbug Dascylus which has just black and white stripes but the blackest black and the whitest white, the Whitespotted Puffer, who, safe in the knowledge of his toxic skin, lies moribund with large dark-rimmed eyes, it reminds me of a recently told-off Basset puppy. We arrive back at the Canyon pool and head for shore, and from thence back home. I have asked for a guesstimate, it arrives and upon opening I adopt the expression of the Whitespotted Puffer.

Still, life goes on and I have to pick my other adventure dives, because I have failed to realise that the paper has two sides I suggest a DPV - a Diver Propulsion Vehicle. Roxy thinks this would be a good idea and assents to my choice with typical South African reticence, "Fuck Yea! We hev got to do thet Mun!" or accent to that effect. I stroll of to see Lindsay, "Hi I'm thinking of doing the DPV are you going to get me one?"
"What's this then Boys and Toys?"
"No, the DPV is an essential diver tool, it allows the diver to explore a larger area, it allows the diver to get to places without using precious air and in the case of tandem use, confers these advantages on both divers."
".... You'll have to rent your own."
"Oh - ok."

In the evening I pluck up courage and head out into the town where I end up, after a chat with Mohammed, who's very excited because his wife is coming from Faversham in September, and who's now a good boy because he's married, look, and wearing his ring. At this point a couple of willowy half-clads come past and look at the menu,
"Russian?" I venture, making a guess on the flesh to cloth ratio.
"No. Hungarian. Very easy."

I order the Bedouin lamb, which turns out to be a stew. The meal turns into the usual marathon, with free soup, some dips, and, finally, the ubiquitous watermelon. It also involves every cat in Dahab coming to check out my meal and lounging Bast-like on my sofa. To celebrate my courage in going out by myself I indulge in a shisha, while watching the moon rise over Saudi. At this point one of the waiters arrives with a bottle of water,
"Ah well, when in Rome." I twist the top off and drink, it is tap - desalinated. confused and with a constricted throat, I wash my hands with it - nonchalantly. When I return, Joey takes great delight in telling me that I have drunk the "cat gun" which has a hole in the top for shooting the cats. there is much hilarity all round, well, nearly all round.

We chat about diving and Joey's time with Unilever (we manage to come up with Fred Trussel in common, for you Unileverites), then she tells me about the survey she did on Diego Garcia with one Professor Jacqui McGlade - my flatmate in 1976. We also talk about the trials and tribulations of running a Ski Chalet in France, to be frank I can't detect that many.

The next day Roxy and I bum about while Said tours all over town and manages to come up with one DPV, we decide to "share", and head off back to Lighthouse as we reckon the pose factor will be better there, plus there may be a chance of getting it back if we drop it. My instructor takes the DPV in and gives it some extensive testing, I float and watch, after a few minutes I decide that it could do with a bit more thrux and a lot of poke, then I focus on the DPV. Eventually I'm allowed to have a go, though I can detect the pout even around the regulator. It's quite cumbersome and sinks when it stops but it's good, slow fun, though nifty on the turns. We ride tandem for a bit and a Lionfish comes out of his oildrum and cruises towards the overly large, overly noisy, invader of his territory, we turn to chug away, prepared to drop the DPV and swim should it charge, it'll be faster!

After a lounge about, we move on to The Islands, probably my favourite dive area of the holiday, a reef just off the shore and therefore with different species. This section of reef has been split by an earthquake a few years ago so that it's interesting to see the different patterns of regrowth; some 2mm some 10cm. There is also a Barracuda nursery in one of the pools. This was where I did my compulsory navigation section, difficult stuff like trying to swim a ten metre square, to make matters fair, I, of course, shut my eyes during the legs of the swim so that I couldn't correct by line of sight. No really, I did. Then I was taken off for a jaunt, where , much to my chagrin, I failed to pass under an arch without clouting it, see it still niggles. Though I did find my way back to the start when requested, even throwing in a false dogleg to make my instructor think she'd beaten me. However modesty forbids me to go on about it. I was told I was the only person ever to do it though, no I was, I can't believe she says it to everyone, surely not.
Back to base to prepare for the night dive, this involves going to the toilet several times and then putting on the wetsuit. As I don my supersize shorty and longjohns, Roxy appears in her newly repaired seal suit, she looks svelte and smooth, like a ..., like a seal...with knockers. I stare ruefully at my centimetre of clunky rubber, any stirrings I might have felt being suppressed by 1. the constrictive clothing and 2. the constriction in my circulation, as the dread hour approaches. With the cheesy grin favoured by the true dominatrix, Roxy announces that it is time. Said eager to avoid carrying my gear, appeals to my vanity and offers to carry my gear. So it is that I waddle down to the launch pad and am then dragged ignominiously across the reef to the prosaically-named "Trench", I fin generously to assist, rather sacrificing the role of "client" I thought.
We drop into a strange, bleary world; the reef has been washed of colour, the day community of fish has dwindled, approaching a table of acropora you become aware that it has fish threaded through its horns, threaded so that nothing appears outside the coral to be nibbled. For me, everything appears out of focus but my breathing rate slows, my buoyancy miraculously comes together, and we float in the night, surrounded by a nimbus of diffuse light, itself pierced by the focused rays of the torches. the sand slope away beneath us and disappears into the dark. you can imagine a long, slow fall down this slope away from the light, through and into the bottomless dark - so I don't. Instead I concentrate on the Featherstars, all seeking high points and waving their arms to catch anything floating on the breeze, we pass a Basket-Star who has an edge on the Feathers by sheer size, its arms span at least 70cm, as the wash from our fins catches it, it collapses back in on itself, to nothing. Other highlights include a pair of large Sea Slugs cruising the sand, a Spiny Lobster whose eyes glow red in the torchlight, sparky phosphorescence when I hide the torch, a cone shell (a Marlin Spike ), some shrimps and getting back alive without being eaten by Goblins.
I fin back over the reef and plod wearily back up the road, Said having cheerfully employed his reverse psychology again, sort out the gear - and there we are - done. Now all I have to do is fill in the next five days, I resolve to be brave.

Friday, July 04, 2008

The Tale of Foxy Roxy and the King of Gloom. Book the Second


Tuesday and an 8.00 am start (some holiday), Bakar had got up early to do my pancakes. I boxed my gear as I'd been taught, and was immediately told by one of the other guests, The Expert that I'd done it all wrong. So, wary of his tattoos, I redid it his way. Roxy arrived, glanced at the box and told me I'd done it all wrong. So, wary of the patooties, I undid it, and then redid it the way I'd done it.

We bounce South along the coast past the Hilton, The Swiss Inn and the Meridian, all of which inspire a lack of confidence in the continued existence of the well being of the reef, to arrive at the Full Moon Cafe and mock Bedouin encampment - with toilets - one of which seemed permanently occupied (I found out later that this was the "European-style" one).

A BRIEF SCATOLOGICAL DIVERSION - this is after all, one of MY blogs, readers of a nervous disposition should look away now : In Egypt, as with all Muslim countries toilet behaviour does not include toilet paper. Instead one washes the anal region with a handy spray (or hosepipe), being, of course, careful to use the left hand (which shouldn't be used for anything else). This is a very refreshing and very hygienic way to post-cathartic cleanliness. However, after 10 days of this, one discovers that the hairs on one's bottom, normally kept short by toilet paper, have now grown to a length, whereby the reuse of toilet paper causes plucking, and thereby intense pain.

Ok I've finished.

We dive (with an extra 2kg in my pocket, which falls out at some point) and rattle through some tests before pootling. On the way back we watch another group enter the water there are four and one instructor, one of the group, a girl, is having some sort of trouble, the instructor rattles of a set of hand signals that appear to indicate castigation, I have no idea what he was on about and I'm an informed observer. Roxy followed my gaze and then added to my lexicon of sign with one that I can't find in the manual. In order to liven things up I did my Controlled Emergency Swimming Ascent: adopt a Superman pose and scream your way to the surface like a cheap but satisfying firework (Ladies - any interest?). This is described in the manual as making an "Aaah" sound.

For our surface interval we drink Bedouin tea (a mixture of black tea and sage leaves), and talk about work (mine) and chests and bums (hers).

As Roxy's patooties approach normal temperature (easily spotted by a trained observer such as myself), and we think about the next dive, Nadia, the daughter of Mein Hostess arrives,
"Can we borrow your regulator, there's a little something wrong with mine we'll be very quick."
At this point I must have lost my presence of mind for, after more reassurance of a speedy return, I assented. After a fruitless wait we drove to Umm-Sid with the damaged regulator.
The pressure gauge was, "blowing a bit", this meant that if you put your finger over the drainhole, the rubber cover would try and blow itself off, I was dubious and said so.
"That's all right," says Roxy magnanimously, yet at the same time condescendingly, "if you run out you can share mine." I still can't understand how someone with such an obviously large vital capacity can use so little air.

In the water it becomes evident that the pressure gauge leak is a mere blip on the equipment failure horizon, in fact the regulator does not appear to be connected to its hose at all. The driver goes off to get a new set, I snorkel, Roxy points her chest South for a bit of pre-dive nipple thermo-therapy.

Eventually the water closes over our heads and we head off spotting the fan corals and eels that this dive is known for, we also spot something else: As I round a bend Roxy rattles at me (I had by now discovered what that sound was, I knew it sounded metallic but put it down to something natural, like a Parrot Fish - with dentures) there, nestled in the coral is a 50cm rock wearing a very glum face, it is definitely a Stonefish, a big one. Roxy is very excited and swears, sadly I can't persuade her to poke it and so determine the species - you look at the pattern on the pectoral fins, just before your vision shuts down.


More tea, and lunch. Then off to Golden Blocks to drift to Moray Gardens, as we drift we find an Octopus, for me, a big one. they have a peculiar psychology Octopuses, for example our Octopus, "Oh bugger, think I've been spotted, I'll slip out the back way. Oh bugger, another one. Ok I'll disguise myself as weed. Not working, look I'll get on top of this rock and disappear. Well it's obviously not going to work if you're watching, so, look away now, and now back. See, I've gone!" We left it disguised as a rock - with eyes and a siphon.

"We saw an Octopus, quite a big one."

"The one we saw had two inch diameter suckers." counters the "Expert" who I suspect thinks he has a ten inch penis.

In the evening we return and I do my Open Water Exam, at one point I must have got flustered or lost interest as I only got 98%, though to be fair I was losing a bit of sleep over the non-decompression tables. Two dives I could manage, three would throw me a bit. Roxy threw in a bit of expert tutelage, "Buy yourself a dive computer."

The outshot was that I passed and moved on to Advanced the next day


Monday, June 30, 2008

The Tale of Foxy Roxy and the King of Gloom. Book the First


A man is sitting on an aircraft seat surrounded by an orange aircraft, he is torn by the desire to stare out of the window to determine where he is on the face of the Globe, or to try and lip read Fantastic Four - Rise of the Silver Surfer. Eventually his dilemma is solved as FF is replaced by In Her Shoes ("an attempt at making a pile of twaddle into an uplifting film" - Hayes Review of Unseen Films). As he turns his attention towards Alexandria, we see that it is Nick and that he is on his way to immerse his body in the Red Sea in exchange for vast amounts of Moolah.

I arrived at the enormous barn that is Sharm El Sheik airport, sadly just behind a Russian Behemoth. I chose a queue, after ten minutes the man in the booth suddenly woke up and started processing everyone at speed, this meant I was in the right queue, an uneasy feeling sidled into the echoing chamber that was my brain, and slid cool fingers down my spine. My ride turned up after five minutes of aimless wandering, though to be fair I didn't have any luggage. Then we zoomed through the nighttime desert, over the pass at 600m and into Dahab where after a quick wrap, I met my fellow guests; Victoria, Howard and Maggie, Joey and Nick, they offered me a beer - what civilised folk. Victoria, who was leaving the next day, told me that my instructor would be Roxy (her instructor from the previous week), and that Roxy was blonde and tanned - she failed to mention the crush she had, and the fact that she hoped I'd drown thus maintaining her exclusivity for a while longer.
I go to bed and sleep fitfully, perhaps the heat, perhaps whaddya call it? oh yeah, terror.

I work my way through the Egyptian breakfast and chat to Victoria, then Roxy arrives all 5 foot 10 inches of her, a blonde-crop South African Amazon
"Can you have a South African Amazon?" you may ask.
"Of course," I reply, "they were invented by the Greeks,"
She gets me to sign stuff and then tells me to take my clothes off,
"So soon. You old charmer." flashes across the frontal lobes before being rudely expunged by the arrival of Said with a wetsuit for me to try on.
She then plonks me down in front of the DVD, starts it running and disappears to don her bikini, occasionally she will appear with an admonition to drink more water, I do, diligently, and without argument (Hayes maxim: Never argue with anyone taller than you are, or women, in either case you will lose, in the event of both criteria applying, you will lose - big time.). When I press the pause button, a delighted shout of , "Toilet break!" greets me. I endure PADI videos for three hours, the term, "Good Job!" enters my lexicon of least favourite phrases, "Didn't drown - good job, high five!" I find myself involuntarily muttering the standard UK response to, "Good Job!" every time the DVD utters it, and it utters it often, so that we get a dialogue between a Mid-Western Diving Instructor full of fulsome praise for his winsome pupils, and a disgruntled Brit with a bad case of Tourette's syndrome.

I fill in the knowledge reviews at the end of the chapters, and then we get the gear set up, well Roxy does, I sort of make an attempt, then another, then another until the cylinder fails to fall out of the Buoyancy Control Device (BCD) harness. I then don my centimetre of neoprene and melt, climb into a Landrover - and melt, get out of the Landrover and have more than my entire body weight in lead strapped about my person and also slipped into every available orifice - on the BCD. After that I lock my knees and fail to stride manfully to the sea, I manage instead, to stump along like a bloke who's just discovered that someone has stuck an extra 25 kilos of various metal items about his person. Imagine our surprise when I fail to sink.
The first four tests go well, Roxy demos and I follow, most of it (if you'll pardon the pun) comes flooding back. A few tests later and I'm thinking, "A man has cut your throat, no, my throat, and is going to punch me in the chest, no, your chest, no, as you were, my chest (not that there's anything wrong with your chest, quite the opposite - if I'd noticed, which, of course, I haven't). HANG ON- NO AIR! Take my alternative source! Now you're holding my hand and we're waving at someone in the distance. we're going away on our honeymoon - cor!"
I discovered later that we were pretending to ascend. Three hours after, I realised that the reason we were "ascending" was because one of us had run out of air and that continuing to pootle around the ocean sharing a tank was thought to be "bad form".

Anyway such was my skill that we went off to have a look at the reef for the rest of the tank. The approach to the reef looks like the approach to the edge of an overburgeoning landfill (this is sometimes added to by the presence of plastic bags, both stuck to the coral and drifting past). All sorts of bits of refuse tumble down to the sand. When you get close you realise that this is thousands of blocks of different corals, all fighting for space. Within the gaps in the coral there are fish, and within the coral itself other things live, so that Brain Corals sport Giant Clam embedded in them.

We first come upon a pair of Leafy Cup Corals populated by some, ummm, really pretty fish, in the distance the reef edge looms, a 15 m cliff, patrolled by "big" fish; Unicorns and Parrot. Underneath me I have a Boxfish about 25cm long with a Cleaner Wrasse giving it a going over. There are Orchid Dottybacks of a bright, electric violet, there are big Wrasse with soleful, doleful eyes giving reproachful stares from under their patch. There are... there are a lot of fish. A useful website can be found here .

We return and Roxy, after complaining that her "Patooties" are freezing off, (Afrikaans for feet, I presume), orders me to strip - again.

"What here?" I think, "In front of all these people?" then it dawns, I have to prove I can swim and float. I give an exhibition, Front Crawl (normal and bilateral breathing), Breaststroke, Sidestroke, Backstroke and finally Doggy Paddle, with added spluttering (the latter only appreciated by true connoisseurs of the natatory arts). I then float on the World's second saltiest sea for ten minutes, not floating is not an option, 4 stone anorectics could float on this. After my forehead crisps I turn away from the sun. Roxy remains on shore, slumped in a lounger, presumably warming her patooties.

We return, rinse the gear and fill in the log book. Ever the glutton for punishment I head out to the reef for a snorkel, passing a Puffer fish on the way, he lies moribund on the bottom secure in the knowledge of his toxic skin, this is a fish without ambition. I patrol the reef for a bit until I get cold and then return past a small grey moray, who still threatens me (the Glaswegians of the aquatic world), a Glass-Finned Lion Fish preparing to go on the evening prowl, and back past the Puffer who would roll his eyes and sigh if he could.

In the evening I have some sort of steak in some sort of sauce and then stroll into town, past a series of restaurant touts, and meet up with Ali at the fountain where we discuss (in order of priority) his shop and its contents, the relative merits of girls of different nationalities, his shop, would I like a girl of a different nationality and finally, his shop. When I say "discuss" my side consisted of nodding, raising an eyebrow and saying goodnight.

I returned home and went to bed after first sweeping the cockroach leg decorating the bathroom floor into the drain, I found the owner, dessicated, behind the window grill, later.

Fruit pancakes with yoghurt and honey for breakfast, this would continue to be my breakfast for the rest of the holiday, such was its fuelling power. Roxy got me to give her the dive briefing and then we were off back to Lighthouse, the wind having come up and Lighthouse being sheltered, for some more tests ( Eh? Sorry, I was watching that girl swim past from underneath, smashing ars.... Oh right - recover my regulator.) and a pootle over the tyre dump. We returned to Lighthouse in the afternoon where Roxy found a small Blue-Spotted Ray hiding in the coral, as she shifted onto the next dead bit of coral to allow me to see properly an unseen Scorpion/Stonefish took off from underneath her hand, first time I spotted her breathe twice in a row.

That evening was Maggie and Howard's last so we ended up in Ali Baba (which boasts a hygiene certificate). As I was halfway through my Barracuda steak Howard came up with, "Do you know what ciguatoxic is?"

"No."

He explained that animals that are lower in the food chain may be toxic, when they get eaten those toxins pass into the body of the predator, and so on up the food chain so that the large predators may actually be poisonous.

"Predators like Barracuda."

I ceased to be hungry.

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

Spring and the middle-aged man's fanny, or rolling my arse.


A man is standing on the platform at Paddington station, he is bemused, his bike reservation was to hand at the information desk, the train was on time, there was a bike transport area, after some jiggery-pokery his bike actually fitted (though not on the extreme left unless you unship the handlebars). Everything seemed to be going swimmingly, I (for, yes, it is me) became nervous. I checked the seat reservation; Coach B, seat 73A. Here we are; Coach B, seats 1 - 72. Well thank goodness for that, I thought my luck had changed. I journeyed in Coach C - the unreserved coach.

I arrived and cycled down the Exe to the Z home, where we chatted and ate and drank gin. In the kitchen there was a noticeboard bearing the legend "I May Roger Webster" in Carole's handwriting, Crikey what sort of "open relationship" family was I visiting? Upon enquiry it was revealed to me that this said "1 May Roger Webster", a garden designer.

The next day we set off for Haytor and Houndtor, several lumps of granite that stick out of the easily accessible bit of Dartmoor, Alex (10) had recently done Houndtor with School and was eager to demonstrate the route/give parents conniptions. We (adults) rested at Haytor, while they (children) scrambled all over it. Then we moved on, passing quarries, down the slope to the River Becca as it trilled its way down the valley. There We had lunch, while They found a rope and a branch, and demonstrated the innate ability of children not to keep their feet above water. After lunch, we ascended to Greator stopping only to catch a lizard (my first catching of lizard, managed to keep its tail on too), admire it, possibly save its life (there was a tick - we Vaselined it), and let it go again. Then Greator, and a guided tour up it by Alex, I cheated and used my height (it's not often I can say that). Then on to Houndtor for some more scrambling, on the way up we sent up a deer (roe), and at the tor were serenaded by a cuckoo, not very unusual you may think but we could actually see this one. Then we returned, stopped at the rope for more getting wet, then contoured round Haytor as it was bound to be quicker than the dogleg we had previously come down - it wasn't.
No-one fell asleep in the chicken, though it may have been close.

Bank Holiday Monday, and with much grumbling our youthful twosome arose to complain about being taken out walking again. being adults we said, "Tough!" and bundled them into the car, bribing them with the promise of a real life tank (Sherman, pulled out of the sea in 1984). The tank rapture lasted about 3 minutes after it became clear that you couldn't climb on it - a war memorial, in it - the same plus welding, or fire the gun - all of the previous plus laws against ordnance. The tank is a memorial to the US troops who died during Operation Tiger, a gross cock-up of the military kind in 1943. We left the tank behind and set off along the cliff path to head to Start Point, the view being partly obscured by professional sibling whingeing and a few bands of rain. The path is supposed to "shimmer with bluebells" at this time of year, when the sun is out it probably does, at this present moment in time it was merely smeared with bluebells. Halfway to Start Point in the shadow of the cafe-that-used-to-be (soon to be 16 apartments in a New England style - made of wood presumably) Carole and the boys were lured back to Beesands and a cup of tea. Paul and I, soldiered on through the squalls and ate our emergency spiced carrot cake in the lee of the lighthouse, then we soldiered back again.
Back to Exeter and a quick visit to Wetherspoons, now set up in the Non-Conformist Meeting House where you can hear an almost audible hum from the previous residents spinning away.

Tuesday, Carole had a clinic in Plymouth so I went along for the ride, not to the clinic but to Plymouth. I stopped and ate my lunch on the Hoe, admiring the student body burning away in the bright sunshine. It was interesting, a choice between football or revision, expect the female student body to do considerably better than their male counterparts this year. After lunch I headed down to the Barbican and discovered that this was the port rather than the big castle full of soldiers. At the Barbican there is the National Aquarium, I investigated £9.50 ($19), hmm it was a lovely day and the aquarium was indoors. I mooched off and discovered the Plymouth Gin Distillery, I investigated £6.00 ($12) hmm, it was rather hot outside and a walk in the shade could be good - I plumped. The guide was from Bangor (my alma mater) and I was the only one on the tour, so two gin tastings and two sloe gin's later I arrived at the bar for my free gin and tonic, to be fair I had to have the second gin as I'd blown my taste buds with the cardamon seed in the botanicals tastings section.
I met with Carole and returned to the Zed pad, where I spent the evening packing and repacking, seemed quite difficult, can't think why.

The next day I took the boys to school as Paul was off somewhere, I chatted on the way with Alex while Tom found a friend. Hands in pockets he trailed behind in earnest discussion, "Afghanistan? What do you think the likely outcomes are Tom?"
"Well, tricky question, I mean there's the UN line and then the US options."
"Yes but... Oh here we are, see you in IT."
I turned to Tom,
"Bye Tom"
This is a boy who has spent the weekend hanging on my arm like a puppy discovering hormones, offering his neck for a hammerlock and curling into me on the sofa.
"?...........bye."

I retreat back to the house, load the bike and head off to the station. Forty minutes later and I'm lost in Exmouth but only slightly, I find a sign and follow it up a long slow hill-from-hell at the top I check the route map, this is not marked as a steep hill - Joy! I continue along the back roads to Ottery St Mary the sounds of the live firing exercise on Woodbury Range punctuating the shimmering heat of the day until they faded into larksong. There I storm out of the village in the wrong direction, a short time later I storm back into the village, storm the ATM, and storm the bottom 50 metres of the hill out of the village, I then storm to the kerb and nonchalantly drink some water as if this is what I meant to do all along. It takes 20 minutes to get up the hill, nonchalantly drinking every time a car comes past, and pushing solidly when they don't, there are a lot of cars. By the top of the hill I have drunk a litre of water and have a belly which seems to be independently sprung to the rest of me.

We (my stomach and I) continue. Ahh, the joys of cycling, it's a great way to see wildlife, usually insectal and heading towards you at 10mph. I now have a theory about day flying insects, it is this: instead of being attracted to light like moths and other night fliers, they are attracted to patches of darkness, such as pupils and open mouths. "But" you say, "Why not grit your teeth, then they will only see pearly whiteness and not be attracted?"

"Cos I can't get enough oxygen that way!" I reply.

Other joys at this time of the year are the hedgerows, often as I came round after a minor infarct I would see, red campion, ragged robin, lords and ladies, wood anemone, cow parsley and, of course bluebells (I'd also see bluebottles hanging about to make sure, as I stirred they'd fly off with a sort of disappointed buzz).


We (the bike and I) continue, I turn round and backtracked to my last missed sign, there is a roadworks sign and the promise of long delays, I pat the crossbar, "Not for us eh, my proud beauty?" Slipping off down the road I ride across a patch of what appears to be virgin tarmac, it is, very virgin, in fact it's still wet, the bike slews across the surface, ploughing a furrow (I can supply a grid reference) and then we're back on the old surface, the tyre picking up every loose bit of gravel and vegetation it can possibly find. A bit further down the road I find the boys, I try and hide my front tyre as I slip past.


Eventually I find myself up on a ridge, at this point I must have lost my presence of mind because I blithely turn right at a T rather than a crossroads, and zoom down the slope, at the bottom I get off, curse and plod back up. When everything comes back into focus, there 50 metres further down the road is the crossroads, it even has a little signpost, "Route 52" it says, it is my route. It is at this point that I realise that one is supposed to steam (ha!) down the main road until one sees another sign, only 25 miles late. I swoop off the ridge towards Honiton and pull in, brakes smoking, outside the B&B Tracey Mill. Angie meets me and gives me some bad news, "We're off to market tomorrow, will 7.30 be ok?" "?!".


I pull up the stairs to the Miller's room, shower and snooze. In the evening I limp into town in search of food. As I pass the Church I am roundly and comprehensively abused by the local derelict. I pass on to the Vine, "Food?" "Not in the evening me Dear." So I plump for a pint of Otter and then head off towards the Indian, abuse man is slumped outside, reloading his invective. Fish and chips it is then. I return, have a chat and go to bed, the room eerily lit by the glow coming off my knees.


The next day, after my early breakfast with the other guest, a Portugese gentleman who has spent most of his life restoring gold-leaf and woodwork in churches, and is now off to Brazil to build beach buggies, I mooch till the roar of commuting and the school run fades away. This is the day I don't get lost but do do a lot of walking, every time I dismount to trudge ignominiously up a hill, cars appear from nowhere, a spate of cars wearing sneering expressions.


At Membury I am drawn by a sign that promises coffee in a 14th Century (that's a hundred years plus before Chris Colon discovered the US) longhouse. I sit on the terrace entertaining Florrie a rotund black lab. I carry on post coffee and trek along fifty metres of the road from hell, fifty metres and I get one tanker and a very large van, such is my haste to get off that the chain makes a break for freedom at the most inopportune moment, and so it is that you find me pushing oily-fingered up yet another hill. The top is bare and promises a long downhill into Axminster, a paradisaical downhill only punctuated by enormous blasts of wind removing the red Devonshire topsoil and hurling it at passing two-wheeled travellers. As I commence the long hill up from Axminster my red Devonshire fake tan is punctuated by rivulets of sweat. Just at my turn off before the main road a caravan turns down the lane and comes to a grinding halt, "That's GPS for you! It said 'bear left' and it's not the A35 {all six lanes of it}!" Ah me, here's a machine that tells me where to go so I'll abdicate all responsibility for: A. Direction. B.Common Sense. C.Eyesight (the sort of mentality that's found in people who will quite happily bag their dogs excreta, and then leave it hanging on the railings for someone else to bin. Feeling superior I mosey on down the lane up to the point where I have to cross the A35, there is a miraculous gap and I'm away over Trinity Hill and then the long haul on the brakes down to the coast. I always find downhills rather like schussing, you zoom off exhilarated your eyes start to water with the air-blast of your passage, and then a still small voice says things like, "What are you going to break if you fall over now?" "What happens if the front wheel explodes?"


I arrive at Seaton, a faded Victorian seaside town populated by the elderly and the recently parented. I sit on the Prom 'til the Land Train wheezes past with five people in it. Then I head off to Colyton where I am spending the evening. I'm slightly early so go fizzing around the town until I can find a Cream Tea, I eventually find Liddon's dairy and order some FRT (which cost me £4.50, sadly these days I don't know whether this should read "£4.50" or "£4.50!". I arrive at my accommodation the Cobblers and am shown into my room, with the en suite hidden in the wardrobe, and a slight aroma of fried food. I have a shower in the vertical coffin and punch the ceiling tiles out as I do my armpits, I also keep thrashing the walls with my genitals as I turn about, but this happens in most showers of course. As evening descends I stroll about the town looking for somewhere cheaper to eat, and end up in the Kingfisher pub next door where I have a steak and ale pudding, oh and a couple of pints. As I return next door, I notice that by not eating there I have diminished their clientele by 33%. At night it rains, the rain that i should have tomorrow, surely there is something wrong.


The next day is my final one of the tour, I chat with mein Hostess about the season, the butchers, the huge site that Tesco have acquired in town, and then I'm off up an enormous drag from Seaton. The ride continues in a similar vein, this is the sort of ride where you stop at a sign that says,"Beer Village 1/2 Mile", look at the road snaking downhill through the trees and think, "I'll bet that's lovely - next time maybe?"


After the up I did a bit of along and then down into Sidmouth a beautiful Victorian Seaside town approached via a ford (fortunately circumvented by a footbridge). A view along the front to the left reveals the wreck of the Napoli, a container ship that ran aground in April, a view along the front to the right reveals..."Jeeesuss, Mary and Joseph!" .. reveals a cliff of gargantuan proportions, with a road going up it - mine. It was a lovely walk. At the top I zoom off to Otterton mill and stop for tea and a very expensive slice of tart. I carry on - hardly burdened by my Orange and Sweet Chilli Bankbreaker, and in homage to Monty Python, stage a "falling off" outside Budleigh Salterton. It was at this point that my trusty (though previously untrusted) signs desert me for a couple of turns but I eventually find the old railway track that will take me back to Exmouth, despite it turning into unsigned Urban Blight for the last mile or so. I arrive to find the Station ostensibly closed, after a circuit I wait until the "little man" opens the doors and allows everyone to catch a train. Thus it is, I arrive back at the Z's in time to go to Cricket Practice, fortunately the bar was open for those parents eager to partake of their parental duties, plus it beats walking the dog.


Saturday was Party night, so the day was spent wandering around every cheap shop in Exeter looking for bits. When I asked if she thought the orange would take - but perhaps I should explain - the Theme - "What you were wearing in 6th Form" (i.e. School when you were 17 or 18), it was a 5oth party.


Paul was very impressed with Carole's punk outfit, so impressed that I had to take both a back and front view of it (see pictures), I am now intending to write an article about "Keeping the interest in your marriage. 34 - the Goth Shop."


Paul and I went to the bar and ordered beers, "Are you with the Party" says the barman to middle-aged bloke with ginger hair and a blue and red zigzag painted on his face (can you guess what it is yet?).


"No." I replied, I think he caught the sardonic whiff. The party continued, the next day was quite quiet apart from the fact that I cooked a hotpot, and still got castigated for not enough roast potatoes after I'd doubled my first estimate. I went home.