Witches, Mediums and the Tarot

Last night was my second Hundon men's group meetings at the Rose and Crown. It was smaller than previously, with only four of us sitting outside in the warm evening. It grew more and more chilly as darkness fell, and someone asked if anyone wanted to go inside? But we each said no, we were fine: a bunch of old men, none wanting to admit to weakness before the others. Finally, Derek's wife Jean turned up to drive him home, they having moved to Clare a while ago. "You're still outside?" she asked, "Aren't you cold?" Waking home with a neighbour from the group, he said "it did get cold sitting out."

Derek had mentioned that Jean had been to see Ronnie Buckingham, a famous medium who had visited a packed Hundon Hall earlier in the week. This immediately drew the skepticism of the group, all engineers or practical men, who wanted to know what he said, or if he could tell anything of Jean's past that was genuinely unknown to anyone else. Jean was reluctant to say too much, but admitted she went for the entertainment value, which is fair comment. His method is to announce he has a message coming through, perhaps from someone's parent, or partner, brother or sister or a child, and ask if anyone has lost such a relation? Inevitably someone will admit to having some close loss, and he then sounds them out with a series of half-formed questions, gradually teasing the story from the emotionally vulnerable subject and making it sound as though he, Ronnie, is presenting these hidden facts from the beyond. But I kept my views to myself, for Jean was understandably abashed by the doubters and reluctant to say too much.

In my GP days, one of my patients was known as the Billingham witch. Velma had a flat hidden above the shops, reached by stairs and a common walk-way. So many people visited her, a neighbour had painted in large white letters, "The witch is at 10a, not 10", with an arrow to guide people away from his door. She looked the part with long, midnight-black hair, decks of cards and a crystal ball on the green baize table, mystic symbols pinned round the walls lit by candles, and the curtains half shut against the sun. She always offered to tell my fortune, and wanted to know  my birth sign, but I used to tease her and say she ought to be able to tell me. She also offered to put a curse on anyone who upset me. She never gave me my fortune or pronounced her curse, but she did make a good cup of tea and bacon butties and provided a welcome break in a busy day.

I know, though the Hundon men's group don't, that Ann does Tarot readings, but that is not hocus-pocus. She uses the cards to explore the hidden conscious and help people express emotions, fears or memories they may have suppressed. Ann never claims to "read the cards", but uses them to express ideas within the subject in a form of Jungian analysis. Like an analyst or a doctor, she keeps her confidences and doesn't reveal what people have told her, but all who go to her appear to be greatly helped, so – as a great believer in deep or primitive motivations in our lives – unlike a medium or simple witchcraft, this is something I do agree with.

Getting a builder and tube talk

Getting workers in Suffolk is difficult, for they can be selective in the jobs they take. For months we've been trying to get someone to repair the crack that's appeared over our window. Many didn't return our calls. Others promised to come but didn't. A few came and said they'd give a quote, but didn't and the crack continued to widen and lengthen, and now there is a crack in the internal coving above the window. Finally one came, and gave a proper quote. Today after a repeated delay for a mixture of excuses, he finally arrived to work at the brickwork and replace the window, which no longer opens. I had to go to London for meetings, so Ann dealt with him, but at least he seems to be doing the right things.

For some time, Ann has asked me to try and get a bottle of Orange Wine to try. I asked in many varied shops, some with Luke when he came to stay and we saw parts of London advertising wine shops, but to no avail. Today I found somewhere in High Hoborn, down a dark alley close to the office block where my meetings were. The store was filled with tasting bottles and glasses, and the manager, a young Portuguese man, recommended Doc Alentejo, a special Portuguese Vinho De Talha white whose grapes were trod in the traditional manner, and left to ferment in open vats with all the bits still in, and a layer of olive oil to keep the dirt and flies out. The grapes are grown in the hottest region of Portugal, Cape Bojador, and have to be picked a full two weeks before other regions. It was a lovely dark wine with a subtle taste of fruits and very little acidity, wonderful with salads in the sun. It was pricey, but I splashed out for Ann - she's worth it.

Returning from Holborn, the tube was packed and I had to fight a pack of pressed bodies to force my way into a carriage. At Liverpool, enough people left for me to get a seat, and someone else let a woman from further up through to the adjacent seat. It was hot, and she wore a heavy coat which she struggled to pull off, so I offered to help by pulling the sleeve down. She was unusually grateful, and went into a long monologue about why she wore the coat which she had chosen specially from Marks and Spencer's. It had cost £80, and had multiple pockets. She lives in East Ham, and complained that it was crime ridden, with gangs of bag-snatchers roaming to seize any bag they could, her own bag being snatched several times, so now she kept her money dispersed round the pockets and only carried cheap carrier bags, of which a fair number were displayed at her feet. By the time I reached Stratford, we were chatting like old neighbours - a rare event on trains and tubes, where standard behaviour is to bury one's head in a book or protect against the possibility of conversation with headphones firmly plugged in, carefully ignoring everyone even when pressed together.

Lost on the A14

Ann has gone to Birmingham with MA and the girls to visit the world's biggest Primark and do some girlie shopping. It did not get off to a good start though when the phone went at 09:00 and MA said "We're outside. Where's mum?" Mum had thought they'd arranged for 10:00 and was still getting ready. Hopefully they will meander the horrific queues of the A14 and have a good day, when finally they arrive.
Update at 10:00pm: Ann has just texted to say the A14 is closed and she's following a diversion through country roads, and likely to be another hour away.

I have just finished the new book by Rod Liddle, The Great British Betrayal. At last I've found a writer who seems to sum up everything we have thought about project fear and the Remainers' anti-leave disinformation war. BBC bias against Brexit is so blatant that we routinely joke about it as we point out the latest piece of propaganda. The latest tonight is the report of Johnson's visit to Wales, which has promoted the new Fear-Smear that there will be civil unrest and tractors blocking the roads if we leave. 

However, Liddle did stop the book at the point of May's ignominious exit, so I have written to complement him on the book, and sent the hope that he might eventually be able to write a sequel, The Great British Comeback, if the new Prime Minister can actually succeed at this Herculean task.

The frustrations of Kent

On Dungeness Point

Our away-weekend was a mix of relaxation and frustration. The journey to London was swift and uneventful, sailing through to Stratford and parking with ease in their underground carpark by the hotel. The journey to Dover next day found every approach road blocked by tailbacks for the docks. It took nearly two hours to move a mile, and we finally escaped to have lunch outside Folkestone before making the most of our spontaneous freedom to revisit Dungeness Point, the home of a huge nature reserve, Britain's tallest lighthouse and two Nuclear Power Stations. 

In London on Friday, we stayed at the Staybridge Suites hotel in Stratford, with a superbly equipped room and full breakfast for a modest price. In contrast, the old Churchill Hotel on Dover front, now a Best Western, which used to be the grandest hotel in a grand town, and is one of the few buildings to have survived the intense bombing of the war, should now be renamed the Worst Western. The room is tiny, badly laid out, with tired decor and no breakfast, for a fee that is higher than the smart London suite.  The window is an ill-fitting pre-war sash with peeling paint and an inclination to slam shut when we don't expect it. But we can't leave it open, because a pigeon landed on the sill, began cooing loudly, the stepped through into the room. Ann shooed it out, and we had to wedge the window open just a crack using a folded towel.

Ann at Margate

Next day we returned home determined to have a traditional whirly ice-cream. Our first stop was Broadstairs, where we had veggie pies in the wonderful Chapel Bookstore cum Restaurant cum pub, leaving us too full for our standard visit to the luxurious Italian Morelles, Moving on to Whitstable, the town was packed with revellers enjoying the famous annual Oyster Fair (not famous to us, who hadn't known about it till this moment), so we were unable to stop. Again to Herne Bay, home of many of Ann's ancestors, but again bursting with London holiday makers. Finally to Margate where we could park on the pier, but where there was a dearth of ices. We consequently enjoyed drinks instead, before having one last try on Sheerness at Queenborough, and Minster-on-Sea before giving up our search, defeated.

The perpetual dichotomy between promises and whoopsies

Robot cleaner before its death

Edwin's friend in Cambridge has a £500 robot vacuum cleaner, and for some time Edwin has been pressurising us to buy one, not appreciating that – in contrast to us – has friend has a small bachelor pad with no stairs. Our arguments were backed up today by the Chemist's assistant in Claire, who bought one and set it to clean her rooms at midnight each day. Until one evening, their dog did a whoopsie which the cleaner duly processed and cleaned up, clogging its innards beyond repair. She had to throw out the whole thing.

Never ask a Cambridge student for directions. They are trained to never acknowledge ignorance of any question, and will always willingly provide an answer, even if the truth lies 180 degrees away from the direction they suggest. I first came upon this phenomenon when I was a teenager, listening to Radio Three (or The Third Programme as it was then called). A Cambridge graduate was being interviewed for his favourite piece of music. "When I first went up to Cambridge," he confessed, "I was asked in someone's rooms which was my favourite Brandenburg. I knew little about music, and took a blind guess, 'Number 3'", which they then played. By coincidence, I had recently jointed World Record Club to learn a little about classical music myself, and they had sent the Third Brandenburg as a complementary E.P. to thank me for joining. I have enjoyed it ever since, but now all six Brandenburgs can be fitted on one CD.

I was reminded of this yesterday, when Boris took to the podium to outline our future. As a breed, politicians generally attended Oxford, but I suspect that this institution ‒ steeped in history and classics degrees as it is – is even more rigorous in never admitting ignorance than Cambridge, which should have a more scientific attitude to ignorance and inquiry. We are promised the earth; nothing is impossible; we are moving to the golden uplands of prosperity and delight, with good housing for all. "Oh good," I think, "bring it on!" No politician ever admits to doubt or uncertainty, nor do we the public expect them to. We look for reassurance and hope, for bright skies ahead. We live in expectation of a miracle worker, but are always doomed to disappointment. Still, I must admit it is good to see the glowing rays of optimism shine for a few hours at least, before they are greyed over by the gloomy clouds of reality that beset Theresa May. Perhaps, just for once, we really will have a saviour who can solve the dichotomy between promises and achievements. That would be a saviour worthy of the name. Or perhaps - like the robo-cleaner - Boris will plough his merry path, promising to clean up everything before him, until he too hits the shit.

A scan and hot weather

Yesterday I had my first CT-scan since the diagnosis of cancer last year. The two technicians had beautiful smiles, which I knew would disappear when they tried to cannulate my arm, for the veins are very poor now. Sure enough they missed the vein and I ended with an extravasation of contrast dye, but they did succeed in finding a suitable landing site on my wrist. I had to wear a hospital nightgown and lie uncomfortably on my tummy with arms outstretched while the machine pushed and pulled me through the X-ray device. Every few minutes, an anonymous voice boomed out orders in rapid succession like an American Drill Sargent on the parade ground: "BREATH IN! BREATH OUT! STOP BREATHING!!!" It was so loud Ann and the other patients waiting outside could hear it shouting, leading a few of them to wonder if they could face the voice. Finally it was done and I staggered out in flapping nightgown, a cannula strapped to my wrist and a large icepack wedged at my elbow over a swollen bruise. Those other patients not already discouraged by the voice now wondered what they were in for. Now I must wait for the result when I see the oncologist again in two weeks.

Later I walked the dogs in Clare Park. The heat was intense even in the early evening, and by the river we met a fellow dog-walker who recognised our two from the kennels, where they had played with her dog. This was a golden retreiver called Ellie, that enjoyed diving in the river for a swim. Five girls had stripped down to their bras and panties and began to jump into the water too, leaving their clothes heaped on the footpath. It all took me back to my own boyhood, when in the heat of summer dad would drive us to a large torpid river where we'd strip and dive in from the bank, feeling the mud with our toes and thankful to cool in the shade of the trees over the water, while mum prepared a picnic. 

The front of our house has developed a large crack in the brickwork over a large window which, lacking a lintel, has sagged under the weight of the bricks. We were expecting a builder on Monday to replace the window, fit a lintel, and repair the brickwork. On Sunday he phoned to say the window wouldn't be ready till Tuesday. On Tuesday he phoned to let us know the window makers had suffered a fire in their warehouse, so now it would be Thursday. Tonight he phoned again to say they won't get the new glass till Friday and could he come then? No he couldn't, we said, as we would be away Friday and Saturday. Unfortunately next week is already fully booked for him with other jobs, so God knows when he will eventually arrive.

Remembering the Moon Landing

Yesterday, the 50th anniversary of the Moon landing. Along with most people who were: a) old enough to be aware of the event, and b) Still young enough to be alive and have ones marbles - I remember where I was at the time: on Isle of Wight ferry out of Portsmouth for Fishbourne. The ferry captain was relaying it through the Tannoy system, so we could hear live broadcasts streaming from Apollo 11. Most summers, I went there to stay with Colin and his family, friends from my first days at University. I used to dream of flying rockets, and was an avid reader of all the children's space adventures, especially Journey to the Moon, serialised on radio each week. My boyhood pastime was to build mock control panels from sheets of paper, covered in dials with movable pointers held by split pin brass paper fasteners. We had no television in London, and I don't remember them having a television on the IoW, so the Captain's relay was all I heard of it.

Looming closer is my first follow-up scan since I was first diagnosed with cancer last summer. I confess to some apprehension, wondering what might be found, or if I'll be given the all clear till the next one. I shall update this bulletin on Tuesday.

Yesterday, we had lunch in the Red Lion, Suffolk's only veggie pub. The grub is good, with a big and varied menu, but the portions were far to large for we two oldies. We both left a good half of the main dish, which besides being such a waste of food, looks as though we're insulting the chef by not eating up. Why oh why can these places not offer smaller portions? We would gladly pay the full price for the joy of finishing a meal without being bloated, or looking wasteful.

Then on to Ipswich Marina, well known to us from our boating days, and still a lovely place to sit in the sun and sup wine. We did notice a disproportionate number of old people on the boats, some quite infirm with sticks. One old couple with a few bags of shopping made a valiant effort to scale the ladder of their huge power boat. It must have been over 40' long, and looked new, costing probably over £250,000. They clearly had spent their savings on it, but could hardly get aboard. The old lady struggled for a while trying to undo the zip of the canvas awning, but had to give way to her husband who finally managed to get into the cabin and help her in. There was a stiff breeze blowing, and the huge freeboard of the boat would be difficult to handle at low speed in the confines of the marina and the Ipswich lock. I would like to have seen them moving the boat, but I can't imagine the woman jumping ashore with the lines, so I guess they just use it as a floating picnic table most of the time.