Hit by floods

Floods in Clare

We drove to London yesterday through heavy rain and some deep floods, fearful that the car might be swamped, but fortune smiled and we got through. Ann met her friend Sylvia who lives in London, but we had to show her back to the Stratford Underground Station, as she would get lost on her own. Hopefully she found the right platform.

On returning, I went to meet the Hundon Men's group at our local. We had a newcomer, called colloquially Yorkshire Dave, who reminded me of how soft is that dialect, though he lives in Manchester now. He was visiting one of our group to sing in a "Friends of Friendless Churches" group, set up to fund ancient but unused churches that might otherwise be demolished. They met over 40 years ago at an OU Art and Design course, and Yorkshire Dave still teaches art including a weekly etching class at Rawtenstall in Rossendale, home of some of the Moorhouse ancestors. He has just written a book on Model Villages, but has thus far been unable to find a publisher.

We has a quiet rant about the problem of maintaining modern cars. One guy needed new spark plugs. No local garage could tackle the job as it required the manifold to be removed which needed special tools, so he had to take his car to the dealers in Cambridge. It cost him £393 for four spark plugs. Another wanted to replace the battery in their Mini which had gone flat. He couldn't even find the battery, and that too had to be taken to a garage where they dismantled some sub-assembly to reach it. A third, less lucky than me, had swamped his car in the village floods, and had to have it towed away; it won't be back till the New Year.

Ducks take refuge

Today I took the dogs to Clare to walk in the park. The path by the river was deep in water, and even the ducks were seeking refuge on a log. Getting back to the car, a man said, "you know your front number plate is missing?". I drove furtively home, keeping an eye for the police, thinking it must have been stolen from the car in London. Seemingly, bad people take these plates and fix them to their own cars so they can speed or steal petrol. Ann started to order new plates for me, but then thought, perhaps it had been washed off by the heavy floods. We drove back along the lower road in her car, each keeping an eye out for a plate. Suddenly Ann saw it - on my side, but I'd missed it - and pulled the car in. I leapt out and ran back, but it was someone else's! Then coming back level to the car, I saw my the tip of my plate sticking out of the water in the deep ditch, completely invisible from the road. I had blamed the guiltless Londoners unjustly; it had clearly washed off by my own rush through the water (complete with a complex plastic surround, held on by five screws, now bent), and I had driven both ways down the M11 illegally. We would never have found it had Ann not stopped for the other plate.

Byron wonders where the path went