No hope

In the dining room of the Green Lawns Hotel, I find myself trapped in a 1950's novel. Fuzzy, muffled musak, possibly of a foreign origin, plays irritatingly in the background of this vast and empty expanse of white linen. Two elderly waitresses dressed in regulation black and white hover impatiently. It's the first week of September so no children but where are the Saga folk? Two couples who dare not speak in loud voices are present plus a solitary German who is trying to explain the origin of his name to the disinterested lady who only wants to know whether he requires coffee. I have a sea view from my table for four. Clearly, the other three are not turning up. I must move my chair some distance from the table in order to enjoy the panorama which means I cannot see the lights of Falmouth Bay whilst eating. There is no sea view from my bedroom despite the fact that I had to climb a staircase akin to the north face of the Eiger. The food is so bad that I dare not venture back into the dining room for the breakfast I have paid for the following morning. I write some notes on a spare piece of paper in th hope that they will think I am an hotel inspector.

En vacances

With propellers creaking in anticipation, the Noddy plane is in full throttle for the departure from Southampton when the pilot’s charming voice comes over the intercom. He wishes us a pleasant flight but feels it necessary to advise us of the potentiality of some minor turbulence at Avignon; only to be expected at this time of year he suggests pleasantly. Those of us in the know immediately decode this kindly meant euphemism as a warning that a full-scale mistral is in evidence at our destination and that those seated in that little triangular bit at the front of the plane are currently on def com three.

He’s right: it is a pleasant flight until the ten minutes to landing buzzer sounds ominously. On cue, we suddenly drop a few hundred feet and the crowd gasp before laughing in consensual embarrassment verging on hysteria. Down we lurch once more and, as if we have practised beforehand, all grab armrests or the back of the seat in front in perfect synchronisation. This time, no-one laughs as we embark on a period of rhythmic swaying which sends the baby in row twenty into a deep coma. The runway is in sight when the acrobatic dare-devil driving the plane decides to swoop back up into the heavens. With dread in our hearts, we realise that the first attempt to land has been aborted. The second descent is akin to bumping step by step down a never-ending staircase. Leonie passes me a handy plastic bag. One unfortunate piece of information that those familiar with Avignon airport possess is the knowledge that the ground staff charged with dealing with emergency landings do so by bicycle. Eventually, of course, we arrive and the company disembark, not sporting the usual shade of pale English skin but, this time, with a shared green pallor.

Leonie gets her own back

Tuesday night in casualty at Henri Duffaut hospital is much like that infamous Friday night two years ago: grown men in hysterics, small children trying to break the sweet machine, 500 hangers-on on the smoking balcony and a general escargot-like air of laissez-faire on the part of the administrative staff. Last time, I was the damaged one on the inside and dear Bev was the kindly soul waiting with the walking wounded on the other side of the door. They don’t allow for any possibility of cross-infection in the world of French medicine. It doesn’t matter who you are, who you’re with or what’s wrong with you: the ill or damaged person goes in one door and all the kids, drunks and other assorted friends and family wait elsewhere. Last time, Leonie hopped onto the Noddy plane and flew faster than a gnat to be with me. This time, she was on the inside. Last time, I was ten months into my sabbatical. This time, we’d been in France five hours. That’s what comes of trying to be financially prudent: in the supermarket, we’d opted for the cheaper olive oil contained in a killer bottle with a lid fixed for all time. From the corner of my eye, I’d noticed her attacking it with a serrated-edged kitchen knife but, being scared of this efficient school-teacher, thought it best to keep my own counsel.

Snippets

At last the awkward 14 year old boy has arrived poolside. Ten days in and he’s finally off the phone, off Facebook and off the balcony.

Two things that make baked aubergines a disappointment: emmental cheese and an oven door that requires a patio chair propped under the handle to retain the heat.

Overheard in Provence at 8.30pm when the temperature is still 30C and the evening cicadas are chattering pleasantly amongst themselves: Have you ever been to Blackpool? My God, it’s awesome.
Flip-flop over the gravel. Guess who’s back? Only yesterday we were discussing that business with the wasps last year and here he comes again, replete with the world’s largest blue flippers, enormous yellow goggles and a snorkel. He’s looking even more like Dougal from Father Ted and his dad’s still telling him to stop obsessing about insects.

Hangover

In Arles, whilst the newbies are scouring the market for souvenirs or following in the trail of Van Gogh, we find a previously undiscovered shop in which we pass a happy hour or so. It’s full of things that no-one needs such as beautiful note-books and such-like and has been designed especially for us. I am paying the price for sitting up late last night drinking with a woman who works with famous comedians – she shares my view of Ricky Gervaise – ‘a one-trick’ pony. I stumble around unenthusiastically with a large bottle of water waiting for two cups of expresso to take effect. Subsequently, we search relentlessly for a favourite clothes shop which we have misplaced but give up and head for lunch only to walk straight past it. Today, there is nothing inside that we want except for a very expensive handbag made from red net and lace. Leonie says I can make a similar one from an old skirt of hers. It could be my winter project.

Leonie quotes

You can drive – it’s only up the road. (Is this all I’m capable of?)

Is the waist elasticated enough? (The diet starts Monday)

Mummy!! Get it off me (A large grasshopper)
I hate it when you use that voice. (Trying to warn her that big insects are in close proximity)

Are you struggling? (Arles market with a hangover)
I can’t even ******** well reverse my own car! (Having a row with herself at Les Baux)

You’re too near the edge! (Heard constantly throughout the holiday)

The mouse

It’s fast becoming an annual pilgrimage to Les Baux. Other people go there to see the amazing Cathedral of Images and wander the ancient fortified streets of this hill-top splendour. We go to look for a mouse and have a row.

Another downfall of being financially careful on holiday, apart from slicing your thumb in two, is the tendency in our family not to buy the thing you’ve seen and really want just because you don’t need it. In 2007, trudging unhappily amongst the gift shops of Les Baux, my father saw a little metal mouse working on a computer….get it? He forever rues the day that he failed to make the purchase so now my daughter and I religiously yomp up the steep lanes in search of said rodent. Three years on and still no sign of it.
Talking of hills, for the uninitiated, Les Baux is located in the middle and at the top of Les Alpilles; a small range of olive grove laden mountains. The road from St Remy is tortuous: just a blur of zig-zags on the map. Finding a space in the miniscule car-park at the Cathedral of Images is almost a lost cause. Leonie has a row with herself and says she’s leaving me there. It only takes two seconds to realise that we’re not on a handy bus route and she’s back with her own unique blend of expert parking advice. I look forward to moving the hire car, on which the damage liability is 800 euros, up to the village car-park situated on a sheer cliff drop.

Assumption

Having decided it would be a nice idea to watch the torchlight procession to celebrate the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, we find ourselves sitting by candlelight in the stunningly beautiful basilica of the Abbey of St Michel of Frigolet. On entry, we decline the option of long, thin candles. However, as it becomes apparent that we are about to be more than mere bystanders, and will be the only participants without a light, I go back outside to exchange all of my end-of-holiday coins for a couple.

At 9pm, the church is packed and the abbey bells ring out to welcome in the chanting white-robed monks. All the locals join in the refrain of Joyeuse Lumiere and it is, of course, quite wonderful. Incense is spooned into an apparently very hot large golden bowl and smoke rises in huge plumes. We remain standing for the first part of the service until the monks light their own candles before moving amongst the congregation to light ours. So, far from being privileged to simply watch the spectacle, we now process with everyone out of the basilica and into the dark night. About two hundred of us walk slowly up this little footpath in hidden Provence singing and clutching our candles. The emotion is overwhelming. Finally, we reach the foot of the illuminated statue of the Virgin where the service recommences. I look upwards to the vast star-filled sky that hangs over this small and perfect mountain.

Apero Dinatoire

On our last night we are kindly collected by John who executes a spectacular ten point turn in front of the gites during which he manages to wedge the front right wheel in the rock garden under the plane tree. Having engaged the attention of all the al fresco diners who were not expecting cabaret this evening, he then escapes and narrowly misses a parked car before knocking down three large potted shrubs. The audience do not clap.

We have been invited for the legendary aperitif and pass a few convivial hours at Karil’s converted stable block which is situated in stunning countryside in the middle of nowhere. We are eleven in number: a very cosmopolitan bunch comprising Brits, Swiss, Indian and French. And largely due to the inclusion of the latter, the singing commences as soon as is politely appropriate i.e. when it becomes clear that no more food is available. An interesting rendition of ‘she’ll be coming round the mountain’ is undertaken simultaneously in three different languages. All have different meanings so whilst John and I are going with the least bawdy of the English versions Ganesh is apparently singing a famous Indian love song. Naturally, ‘sur le pont d’Avignon’ receives a rousing inclusion and to further add to our cross cultural soiree, we play that old favourite – who can sound the least like Edith Piaf? Pieter, who is an artist, is obviously appalled at the disintegration of the apero dinatoire and slips quietly away. Later I spot him: a solitary figure walking purposefully through the orchard. I ask Karil if he is leaving home. She says she thinks he is looking for cats. As you do.

On our return, I suggest to John that he drops us on the road to save the dangers of the car-park. Instead, he decides to make his exit by turning in the pitch black of the heavily wooded junction at the end of the drive. We disembark and watch his manoeuvres through finger-covered eyes. He is literally between a rock and a hard place. In fact, I have a strong suspicion that the phrase originated at this very spot: between what we know to be the edge of an orchard, a deep ditch and three large boulders strategically placed to mark the sharp turn and drop in the road. The front left tyre now matches its opposite number in disrepair and the boundary once marked by the stones has moved some distance. Bon nuit.

Morrish and the monkey canes

I remember when karaoke was all the rage whereas now it’s THE QUIZ. A prerequisite for participating in the former was being so drunk that all efforts could be forgiven. An absolute necessity of success in the pub quiz is being stone cold sober. There are some further interesting sociological comparisons between the two activities: in the days when karaoke was king, one would probably have been what was then referred to as a ‘regular’ at the pub; karaoke being simply an excuse to become more sloshed than usual. How the alcoholic ingestion of the great British public has evolved over the years as cirrhosis becomes the ‘must have’ accessory of the new 24/7 millennium. The young lie prostrate on weekend city streets whilst the middle-aged are downing yet more and more wine and vodka in the comfort of their homes. So the quiz is an excuse to get out into the social atmosphere of a pub - where there are no regulars - for reasons completely alien to the raison d’etre of such establishments.

Here we all are in the Red Lion for their inaugural quiz evening. Further observations: each team consists of members of a mixed age, this being necessary for those wishing to answer questions in all categories. The drinks on the table comprise a mixture of cokes, lemon and limes and other non-alcoholic beverages essential to being ‘on the case’. A great deal of time is given over to choosing the team name, ensuring that the pen works, nominating someone with clear hand-writing skills to fill in the answers and ensuring that no other team are using an I Phone. This is serious business. Last week at St Peter’s Finger, it was all down to the person who knew the recorded weight of the largest pumpkin ever nominated for the Guinness Book of Records. We were out by over 100 kilos!

The picture round is a disaster. Marty Wilde was apparently Tony Bennett. Our Shirley Bassey turns out to be Gina Lollabrigida (spelling mistakes are not counted). Zsa Zsa Gabor was Barbara Windsor…I told you that! Strangely, from the depths of somewhere, we were successful with Arthur Mullard. Who? We catch up on current affairs and collapse momentarily on sport; but only because the quiz-master gave us an incorrect date and because the only two racehorses we’ve ever heard of are Red Rum and Shergar. Neither of these apparently won last year’s Derby. There’s a short interlude for the smokers to leave the building and an announcement that Rudy is at the bar doing tarot readings for only ten quid a pop in the next room. Can he tell us if we’re going to win?

Despite the fact that we don’t know the weight of the world’s largest sheep…247 kilos… which, bizarrely, we wrote down but subsequently altered, Morrish and the monkey canes win by a mile. Thirteen quid is ours for the taking, the most difficult task of the night being how to divide this between five. It seems a lot of work for such a pittance but it’s the glory that counts.

Resistance

Just back from a weekend at the house of my ancient parents where a visiting aged aunty is also in situ. When I say aged, I mean in years: father is 84, mother is 81 and Aunty Grace will be 80 in October. So that’s a combined 245 years and it took me longer to calculate that than it does for Aunty Grace to tot up who owes what in the weird card game she taught us. Or amass the total number of pills they take between them for various ailments; all of which are seriously debilitating and none of which hinder their chosen lifestyles.


Arthritic hands can no longer knit. No problem: we’ll just move on to appliqué, patchwork and cross-stitch. Slipped sciatic discs cause sleepless nights but dare not intrude on bowls. Bad knees may warrant a second thought with regard to eighteen holes of golf but only momentarily: we can walk the first nine and take a buggy for the rest. Infections and contagions are rampant but dismissed in the light of line dancing and creative writing. They aren’t even a consideration in the decision of whether to engage with overseas’ male friends on the part of Grace who seems to be under the impression that she’s just turned fifteen. The house remains spotless, the vast expanse of garden is pristine and wonderfully complicated meals appear with regularity, chosen with care from a veritable library of cookery books.

Who do these people think they are? Have they no weaknesses? Can’t they just behave quietly in their dotage? This generation don’t know the meaning of ‘chill out’. It’s positively exhausting being in their company. Aunty Grace complains of ‘feeling lazy today’. What she means is ‘relaxed’ but it’s not a word known in their vocabulary. The ‘lazy day’ comprises a five hour yomp round Warwick after which I have to lie down quietly in a darkened room.

Throughout the weekend, I listen to them talking together. It’s tricky for an outsider because an inability to maintain related conversation might be the only crack in their armour. This holy trinity share two things in common: they each have a view on anything and everything and they all possess a malfunctioning hearing aid.

All of their many interests, experiences and opinions are voiced simultaneously and often without a common theme, apart, of course, from the maintenance of bathrooms about which there is a heated debate. This concerns the option of keeping cleaning materials available versus the eyesore of doing so when you could easily wipe down the shower with a handy flannel. I have no contribution to make as I am sharing a bathroom with Grace who resides in the anti-flannel camp. She has taken over all potential spare space with more toiletries than might be imagined in a Boots’ warehouse. It’s ok. I put my soap-bag in a small hitherto undiscovered corner. I go to bed at 11.30 and nod off quietly to the sounds of her gurgling and swishing and dripping followed by that weird howling noise that the toilet makes. I am woken up at 8.30 the next day to more swishing and gurgling and shut the window so that the Sunday-morning-sleeping-in neighbours don’t have to experience the weird howling noise that the toilet makes which is currently drowning out the pleasant sound of the village church bells. Has she been in there all night I wonder?

It’s only slightly noisier than the previous evening when the three of them were in musical competition tuning in their hearing aids. Late night three-way conversation on the efficacy of Lanzarote versus the tastiness of streaky bacon versus the current drabness of Marks and Spencer is hard enough to follow. Accompanied by tired hands rubbing against ears, it’s virtually impossible: ring, ting, screech. It’s a regular Tubular Bells. Is this where Mike Oldfield got his inspiration? Did he make millions purely by the inspired addition of a mandolin whilst observing his own relatives?

I drive back to Dorset for a bit of Sunday third generation experience. The man-child is cleaning. Always a worrying phenomenon to intrude upon when one has been absent.

Did you have a party? I ask warily
Why are you here? comes the welcome
I live here

I look around for something to eat. Were I at my parents’ house, I would probably find the odd Lobster Thermidor and Isles Flottant in the fridge. No such luck in this establishment.

Do you fancy eggs on toast.
Is there any bread?
Yes, but I can’t read the date says the visually impaired mother
Doesn’t matter as long as it’s not blue comes the student mantra
It’s blue
What about those slices underneath?
No, they’re not as blue as the others

Eggs it is then. I might have a bit of a nap after this.

The old red flag

A hot summer’s day in deepest Dorset finds us walking along a leafy lane accompanied by the Ulster Prison Officers’ marching band. What strange surrealism is this now? Only a few hours later, we will retrace our steps in a tranquility that will suggest this has been nothing but a dream. The thousands of folk that are gathered along with television crews and those making documentaries in these con-dem(ed) times will, apparently, have vanished into thin air. For now, however, this is Tolpuddle at the climax of the Martyrs’ Festival.

Firstly to the church and the grave of James Hammett who was the only one to return to and stay in Dorset where, for his troubles, he died a lonely death in the workhouse. If only he could have foreseen how his life and those of his comrades would be celebrated. Here is a Methodist leader, come to lay a wreath which, inexplicably, has disappeared at the last minute. No problem, says the good lady vicar of the parish as she graciously gives him hers. Here is an aged and fragile Tony Benn, unrecognizable now in any other context. Here is an upbeat Billy Bragg who will congratulate the Bristol Socialist Choir on their rendition of two of his songs after Hammett’s descendants have laid their flowers. In the corner of this sunny churchyard, I wonder at the relevance of all this. Then I remember that I’ve just lost my job.

The grand parade, which is seemingly endless, is a magnificent spectacle regardless of one’s politics. Apart from the Socialist Workers’ Party who, by tradition, must look threateningly miserable, everyone is happy. Smiles as wide as the many coloured and beautifully crafted banners abound. There are balloons and streamers, kites and flags, dogs and pushchairs and all types of bands. They say it’s the biggest festival Tolpuddle has ever witnessed. I wouldn’t know….it’s my first. There is a slight delay to the parade’s commencement as an aged gentleman waving a huge flag of England refuses to move from the front of the leading band. No-one knows if this is a protest and, if so, what against. Two whipper-snappers from the local police force arrive in seasonal rolled-up shirt sleeves and manage to persuade the trouble-maker that there is every possibility of him becoming flattened in the immediate future.

Following the suitably shortened speeches, we later sit amongst good-natured crowds in the glorious sunshine listening to Billy Bragg. The red wedge has taken over the mantle of Mr Benn. Between songs, he preaches, shouts, advises and deals vociferously with a small band of hecklers who feel that Billy’s sold out with his celebrity appearances on Question Time. Largely, I don’t care. I am too busy enjoying the music, the sun and the crowd as I look out over the green fields of Dorset through a row of huge bright red flags.

Here is Billy, almost a child star, unique amongst his contemporaries for insisting on singing live on TOTP. His voice is even sronger today!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xjUA3RU4B8E

Dreaming Spires

Outside the King’s Arms, with glasses of refreshing lemony lemonade, Leonie asks if I’ve seen who I’m sitting next to. Now who? In Bath the other week I found myself squashed under an umbrella with Fabio Capello. I bet there’s not as many folk seeking his autograph these days as there was then. I look round as casually as I can and there at the other end of the bench is Alan Bennett. He is speaking in French about free wifi connection in Paris. Next thing you know, it’ll be Robert de Niro talking Italian in Lidl. Am I to be continually stalked by the rich and famous?
I study Alan Bennett. He seems thinner and younger and is not wearing the trademark blue shirt, green tie and v-necked pullover. This means little as Capello was not dressed in his M & S suit and was, therefore, in disguise. However, the bottoms of Alan’s trousers are grubby which leads me to believe that he is a masquerading doppelganger.

It’s not him I whisper. Leonie is undeterred. As Alan Bennett gets up to leave, she asks:
Are you Alan Bennett?
Who? asks Alan Bennett.
Alan Bennett replies Leonie
No says Alan Bennett, but thank-you for asking.

In the Botanical Gardens, we are hunting the Snark. As you do. Ten actors from the ‘renowned’ Shiplake College in Henley are doing a raucous turn with a Bandersnatch made from ripped-up bin bags. And very amusing it is too. We trail after them in the city’s heat and, after it’s all over, small out-of-control-screaming children chase the actors in and out of the bushes. We sit on the brown remains of the lawn and eat melted ice-cream in tubs. Mine is honey and stem-ginger flavoured. A straw would be useful at this point.

When I arrived earlier, it took me three attempts to work out how to get into the Westgate car-park. Round and round and round we go and where we end up nobody knows. Eventually, I pulled into the ground floor and found a space. Whilst I was busy texting Leonie to inform her of my location, she pulled into the space next to me.
Couldn’t have done that if we’d arranged to she notes.

Much later, after the grand day out and the evening’s open-air performance of Romeo and Juliet, we are walking back to the Westgate behind a man with a bottle. When he starts shouting at nobody and throwing things in the road, we both become wordlessly syncronised: slowing down and retrieving our car keys from the depths of our bags ready to stab him in the eye. This is a strategy I taught my daughters when we lived in Boscombe. Arriving safely at the Westgate, we discover that the cost of retrieving our cars is greater than the price of a return train ticket to Oxford would have been.

NB. There have been some offline comments relating to the previous blog. Name and shame I say.

Yesterday, upon the stair, I met a man who wasn't there

Actually, it was 8.30am last Sunday and the man in question was certainly there on the landing, in body and wearing only a pair of boxers, but sadly not in spirit. I was making a move upwards with the intention of taking a shower. Another one of those pointless conversations at which our family are so adept ensued.

What are you doing?
I heard a banging noise
I’ve been listening to banging noises since you came in at half past five
I think there’s someone in there
Where? The airing cupboard?
I think there’s someone in the bathroom
Well, who could it be?
I don’t know
Well, why don’t you open the door and find out?
I’m not sure
Well I’ll open the bloody door then. I want a shower.

At this point, some dawning of memory obviously kicks in.

It’s alright mum
No it’s not bloody well alright. I want a shower.
I’ve got it under control
Got what under control?
I’m not alone

Now some sense of understanding kicks in with me

Is there a woman in the bathroom?
Yes
Who is it?

Memory not so good at this point.

For God’s sake Jack. I want to get to the boot sale.

The boot sale is very good. I am stocking up on Christmas presents owing to the fact that I won’t be able to buy anyone anything good once I become an impoverished student for the third time. I also bought myself a Beanie Baby pterodactyl in pristine condition with label attached for 50p. I arrive home and show my goodies to Jack. He informs me I have purchased a collector’s item and will make a killing. I will be able to buy proper Christmas presents. We rush to the internet and discover that the going rate for Swoop, the pterodactyl is 99p. That’s 49p profit which will be negated by the postage for selling it on eBay. Jack’s not looking too good.

So who was that in the bathroom then?
I’m really sorry mum
Was it Sami?
No it was Laura
What, big Laura?
No. The other Laura
Where did she go?
Big Laura came and got her
Where does she live?
I don’t know. I was trying to help her out
Oh. Is that what they call it now? This house is too small for that.
I’m really sorry mum.