... Approaching the boatyard on the edge of town and still crawling along at about 2mph I heard a sound from behind me that made me freeze. Dogs ... yapping.
Some years ago I had a neighbour, Yappy-Dog Woman. This is how I met her.
I bought my present boat from the Bodger and the Fireman who had bought it from the Chippy who had sold up and moved to Bulgaria. The Chippy sold them his boat for a song and they thought they would tidy it up and sell it on at a neat profit, which they did ... to me. The Bodger lived on his 60' narrowboat on the next door mooring and, a couple of years after selling me my boat, couldn't resist adding to his fleet by buying what could only be described as a floating night club now up for sale. He had first seen the shiny boat with the chromed interior, polished aluminium walls and ceiling, the mirror-tiled bar and the programmable disco lights some years earlier and, for reasons I cannot begin to fathom, had coveted it since. He bought the boat which left him with a surfeit of boats for the available mooring space. He advertised his 60' boat on e-Bay. There were no takers for several months and he became despondent. His face did light up though when, in the fulness of time, he received an enquiry from a woman wanting to move up from Plymouth. She had no boating experience whatsoever, but fancied a change from living in a house and having neighbours the other side of a shared wall. She gave the boat a thorough looking at and liked what she saw. She commissioned a survey and the report came back positive. The Bodger offered to let her stay on the boat for a couple of weeks to see how she liked it. Apparently she liked it well-enough and stayed all summer. The Bodger had no idea whether she would ever pay up the agreed price, but eventually she paid a deposit and his blue face turned a little more pink as he began once more to breathe. As summer drew to a close, Plymouth Lady gave the Bodger the balance. He waited several days to make sure the cheque cleared and, on confirmation that the transaction had indeed concluded, they had a formal celebratory drinks party on the boat to which I was invited.
The three of us imbibed our favourite poisons (water for me and wine for them). Someone suggested a game of Scrabble. I used to enjoy playing Scrabble. I had a Scrabble dictionary and had spent some time learning useful two-letter words. However, by majority vote, my "Scrabble Dictionary" was deemed invalid, while the 1950s Chambers English Dictionary was decided by the two of them to be the reference of choice. I lost the game by a long way since very few of my words were in the Chambers and I had to miss several turns. None of the two-letter ones I had learned were in the Chambers either. After the second glass of wine I noticed a change in the atmosphere. The woman became increasingly abusive, loud and unpredictable. It didn't take long for me to decide I needed to leave. I was almost sorry to leave the Bodger in her gentle clutches, but I figured a man in his late sixties ought to be able to look after himself or deal with whatever was coming next - and I knew he was actually rather hopeful. The thought of that made me shudder, but by that time I was well beyond caring what happened to him. The two of them had turned rather horrible.
Within days she returned to Plymouth to wind up her affairs there. This seemed to take longer than expected, but the solitude and peace were what I enjoy most about living here. Eventually, though, she reappeared like a hurricane except that, this time, she had two Yorkshire terriers in her van. I heard them coming from miles away. This was the first that anyone of us at the farm were aware of her two boys. There were already five dogs living on the farm (along with three regular visitors, who were mostly well-behaved). Their arrival, however, signalled the beginning a a new kind of hell.
Around that time I was working on a complete new repertoire for a ceilidh project and the first performance was almost imminent. I did not realise it was possible for dogs to yap twenty-three hours of every day for months on end. These dogs excelled. I don't know if you, dear reader, have ever attempted to compose and arrange music to the overwhelming accompaniment of yapping terriers, but I would not wish that on Salieri were I Wolfgang Amadeus himself (and I assure you I have not one smidge of that man's genius ... nor any other as it happens). With a deadline fast approaching I was really struggling. I explained the situation and I pleaded with her to try and give me some peace to finish, but she didn't get the urgency. She was my new neighbour and I should learn to be more tolerant. Somehow I got through the writing and the gig was actually a success of sorts. My tunes came to have titles like "Dog In The Drink" and "Two Terriers And A Chainsaw". There may have been a connection.
Things didn't get much better. She used a shared cancer diagnosis to make friends with the Horse Woman, a powerful ally to have. She managed, though, to alienate everyone else for miles around. I have no idea what kind of skill it takes to upset the owners of the village chip shop, but she possessed it by the bucketload. She upset publicans and punters in most of the pubs within a six mile radius. She complained so hard and so often at the Bodger, that he bought a riverside plot forty miles away and left the farm after living there for more than seven years. She was rude to the Engineer, who spent a lot of time trying to work out just what the Bodger had done to his boat while he was living on it. She ordered people around; resistance was futile, specially from men who were deemed chauvinistic simply by nature of the sex listed on their birth certificates. As it happens she only called me a sexist a few times, but it hurt more when she accused me of "turning" the larger of her two male dogs who started trying to mount the smaller one. "What have you done to him? He's never behaved like that before!" she exclaimed. She spent all day shouting at the dogs and, when not shouting at them to "shut up", was perched on the foredeck of her boat, having loud and prolonged telephone conversations with traders who had failed to meet her exacting standards of whom there were many. It was a nightmare. The only relief came when she fell in the river (twice) in her first fortnight as my new neighbour. She couldn't get out of the river and on to the bank without assistance. After the second dip the Farmer fixed a ladder in the water against her mooring for the next time ... I was called out to tow her broken-down boat back a few times too.
I was there the day she went too far. For nearly thirty years a very nice couple from the Midlands had a mooring for their small cruiser at the farm. They came to visit two or three times a year. They also had two terriers. These, however were kept under far better control. Yappy-Dog Woman's boys had psychological problems. They were rescue dogs who had been raised on a puppy farm and treated poorly by (of course) men (chauvinistic ones too, no doubt). One of the Midland terriers decided to assert his superiority, presumably to shut up the neurotic yappy dogs. It was behaviour I had seen amongst the dogs on the farm many times - dogs doing what dogs do, nothing too serious. However Yappy-Dog Woman was having none of this. She asked me what I would do. I said I would leave it and let the dogs sort themselves out. She broke off the conversation she was having with me and may have thought about my reply for a nano-second before launching into a high-speed conversation with herself that ended with something like, "I'm not having this!" She fair stormed along the bank to let go at full shriek at the Midland Woman. I had never before heard Midland Man or Midland Woman swear, but there ensued such a high-octane exchange of profanities that I had to leave the scene.
There were two further incidents following this exchange. The first was that the Horse Woman gave Yappy-dog woman her sailing orders, "Be gone by Friday or I'm cutting your ropes!" Unfortunately a few weeks later Midland Man had a heart attack and died. Horse Woman regrets the way she ganged up against the Bodger. It is the only time I have heard her express regret.
"Yap! Yap! Yip! Yap! ..."was coming up from behind and it froze my very blood. I turned round to see a familiar green boat. I try not to hold too fast to grudges, so I hailed Yappy-Dog Woman as she surged past. She didn't recognise me at first, because my boat is a different colour these days, but she returned the hail.
It took me ten or fifteen minutes to catch up with her. She had pulled into a place to moor next to the town park and was engaged in a row with another boater who was there before her. Her skill at upsetting people remains almost without parallel in my personal experience.
Monday, 23 July 2018
Sunday, 22 July 2018
Of Yet Another Abandoned Journey
This is my temperature gauge.
"Blimey, you're late!" exclaimed The Percussionist, "I never take my books in before you!"
I set off recently, later than usual in the year, to deliver my accounts books, records and assorted paperwork to the accountant. His office is a glorious six-hour journey by boat, which is to say a less glorious thirty-minutes in the van. These last few years I have opted for the two-day return boat-trip. Part of the reason I was late delivering my paperwork this year is because I had to wait for a two or three-day window to become available. Given the inauspicious record of taking the boat on various journeys over the past six years and the likelihood of something going amiss (given my breakdown to progress ratio) I try to leave at least one extra day for a journey. Just as well.
If I haven't used the engine for a while it is usually a bit smoky to start with. I can never remember which colour smoke is good smoke and which colour is abandon ship type smoke, although I suppose the latter would in the extreme be accompanied by flames and crackling noises. Running at higher revs tends to produce a darker kind of smoke. After a while that becomes unpleasant, so I ease back on the speed and the smoke disappears. I am also an avid watcher of the dials indicating temperature (see above), oil pressure and battery charging. It was in this state that I was heading accountant-wards.
Four hours into the journey the engine stopped. I should have recognised a spike in temperature, but to get the view in the above picture I have to be crouched down and level with the gauge. Glancing at the gauge from a standing position and at an acute angle, can instil a false sense of security, as has been proven a few times in the past and, as it happened, again on this particular occasion. Luckily, in my unpowered state, I didn't crash, but I was twenty feet from either bank - definitely afloat, definitely adrift and thankfully, with no one within earshot, sight, or probably miles, to bear witness to an audible squeal of anguish and a mild outburst of language that would have made my mother frown in disapproval.
Four hours into the journey the engine stopped. I should have recognised a spike in temperature, but to get the view in the above picture I have to be crouched down and level with the gauge. Glancing at the gauge from a standing position and at an acute angle, can instil a false sense of security, as has been proven a few times in the past and, as it happened, again on this particular occasion. Luckily, in my unpowered state, I didn't crash, but I was twenty feet from either bank - definitely afloat, definitely adrift and thankfully, with no one within earshot, sight, or probably miles, to bear witness to an audible squeal of anguish and a mild outburst of language that would have made my mother frown in disapproval.
I have mentioned in the past that the shape of my boat is not exactly standard. The cabin sides are nearly vertical. The upside is that this offers me more space inside the boat, but there are couple of downsides to this phenomenon too. the less important one of these is that the wider roof is more prone to buckling caused by expansion under the sun's heat. The more significant one is that the nearly vertical sides perform the function of a sail. Eventually my "sail" placed the bow on to the bank off the port side. I ran along the gunwale to grab the bargepole in order to poke about in the undergrowth to find a safe and relatively solid place to risk jumping on to with the centre rope. I landed among reeds and nettles that towered above me and eventually negotiated the steep bank to pin the boat in place - with amazingly few stings. After that it was a matter of agility and juggling to pull the boat in as close as possible to fix the bow and stern ropes to the stakes I'd hammered in.
Once no longer adrift there was nothing I could do but wait. The engine took a long time to cool. Maybe I was being too cautious? I opened the cap to the engine's header tank and added a little water. After a slow fill I had enough to be able to see what would happen if I turned the engine over. It actually fired up first time, so I let it run for a couple of hours. Naturally I kept a very good eye on the gauges and the space under the engine for any signs of leakage. I saw nothing significant, but by this time, it was too dark to continue my journey, so I decided to stay where I was overnight and make another decision in the morning ... assuming there was still sufficient coolant in the engine and it hadn't leaked out overnight.
The level did not drop at all. With my limited knowledge I found this partly confusing and partly a good sign. I decided I was going to risk making it back to my home mooring and abandon any attempt to take my books to the accountant via river. This time there was also to be no playing silly games with identifying shades of smoke. I kept the revs right down and crept north at no more than 2mph. The journey back took me eight hours, but that involved an unexpected encounter ...
Monday, 16 July 2018
Of Lords, a Baroness, Old Friends And Voices From The Ether
Well that was a weird day. I spent the most of the day in Committee Room 4 with assorted members of the House of Lords. When I switched my phone back on a text message popped up from a friend and colleague from Storyboat days (check the link on the right). Then as I was walking back to where I was staying in West Hampstead I thought I heard a voice call my name ...
The encounter in The House of Lords was the latest round in my opposition to the Middle Level Bill. It had its first readings in the Commons in 2017 and I attended and spoke at the Committee stage in January 2018. My own MP has never responded to anything I have addressed to him over the years, including three e-mails regarding this Bill. In the Commons debates our opposition attracted a little minority support, but each debate was upstaged by something to do with the European Union - one being on the day Article 50 was "triggered". The second reading fell foul of Theresa May's ill-judged vanity election in 2017 when one of our two most outspoken supporters, Stewart Jackson (Con - Peterborough) lost his seat. I rather hoped that would be the end of the Bill, but it wasn't. The incoming Labour MP, Fiona Onasanya, appeared to have other priorities and we never felt she understood or supported the arguments we were presenting. This meant that, when the second reading eventually took place last October, we had just one MP up to speed with our case, although a few props to the new MP for Cambridge who did speak out too. Unfortunately, as it was to prove, our robust supporter was the infamous Sir Christopher Chope (Con - Christchurch). During his thirty years or more as an MP, I have rarely considered myself in agreement with his point of view on anything. It was a difficult pill to swallow to realise that he was our main support in the Commons, but I remain grateful for that support and for the clear way in which he presented his and our objections. That makes it more of a pity that his demand for closer scrutiny of the Voyeurism (Offences) Bill, expected by many to pass through unopposed, will end up being the one thing for which he is likely to be remembered when his Parliamentary career eventually comes to an end.
The Middle Level Bill was passed through to, and debated in, the Lords and was sent through to Committee to undergo scrutiny. A couple of weeks ago I attended the House of Lords Opposed Private Bill Committee, this time for four days (which proved not to be long enough so the Committee had to be reconvened last week), and once again I was called upon to explain my opposition to the proposals, which I did in my forty-five minute presentation before the Lords Thomas, Hunt, Tree and Brabazon and Baroness Bakewell. It was an interesting experience and I'm going to come back to the Bill in a future post. For now I just want to get some new diary entries up and visible.
On the Tuesday about which I started writing this essay the Committee finished at 1pm. Their Lordships were otherwise engaged for the remainder of the day. Our little crew went down to the commoners' café to discuss our progress and buy our expensive sandwiches and herbal infusions - not for the users of this café the fabled subsidies afforded to members of both Houses. I switched my mobile phone back on and up popped a text message from Andy, my friend from Storyboat days. We hadn't seen each other for a couple of decades and hadn't even spoken on the telephone for many years. His message was reaching out to me in the hope that I was still using the same number. Of course I am and that was how we found ourselves chatting in a West Hampstead coffee shop later that same afternoon. I love meeting old friends. People sometimes express surprise that I am still in regular contact with friends from my school days and from college. I don't see anything odd in that at all. If they were good enough to be my friends all those years ago the least I can offer is to remember something of the experiences we may have shared and solidarity during the experiences our adult lives have brought. These days such contact is so much easier than it has ever been before the world wide web brought us all closer together. Admittedly friends drift apart for many reasons and there are many with whom I have not maintained contact. That's okay too. I daresay some of them would be horrified to see how I live these days.
Walking back to M's flat (another friend from my school days) where I was staying during the week, I thought I heard someone call my name. I turned to see a cyclist some way down the street resting with one foot on the ground and another on a pedal. I didn't recognise anyone and another man was walking by so I assumed they knew each other. As I turned to continue on my way I distinctly heard my name being called and turned again. This time the cyclist headed my way. This was weird, I don't know anyone in this part of London ... surely? He started talking and it was clear he knew me from somewhere. Damn my prosopagnosic tendencies. There was something about his manner and his voice, but naturally I could not recognise his face at all, so I had to ask. It turned out to be George, a composer I met at a composers' forum last year. He stopped me a couple of months later in Tate Modern. This was now a year after that our only prior contact being those two short conversations a long time ago. It doesn't make sense to me. I am in awe of how some people remember faces. I wish I could do it, but I seem quite unable to do so.
As a post-script, while writing this I have been popping out of the boat to push it away from the landing stage when another boat comes by. I've tried tightening my mooring ropes, but the river rises and falls according to the whims of the engineers at the big sluice gates into The Wash, so tightening my lines is often unproductive and occasionally dangerous. The wind and the wash of passing boats rub my boat against a couple of fenders I have in place to keep me from scraping off even more paint. I have tried yelling at people to slow down and it really doesn't make either of us feel any good, so these days I just climb out and attempt to hold the boat away from the side. If they really are going too fast I make a slowing down gesture like I learned to do when I was learning to drive. Most people just give a cheery wave back. I also avoid eye contact, because I am pretty sure I would be glaring at them and I don't really want to be that mad, angry boat bloke. Tilly 2 just came by and Paul, the owner said, "You don't remember me do you?" Of course I didn't ... argh! We met last summer, when we shared adjacent moorings in town and later in the boatyard when he had engine problems while I was in for a service. Apparently I gave him a cd. He said he showed it to some other people and they said they knew me. We talked about the Middle Level Bill and he thanked me for taking the trouble to stand up for boaters.
As a post post-script, I've just had a text message from another school friend. I think every time I have seen him since we left school he has been married to someone different, which is neither here nor there, but I can't help thinking about the heartache he must have experienced, although we all find excitement in our own special ways I suppose. Again I haven't seen him for years and he's coming over on Wednesday. I'm attending a Prom Concert tomorrow at the Albert Hall. I have a great life.
The encounter in The House of Lords was the latest round in my opposition to the Middle Level Bill. It had its first readings in the Commons in 2017 and I attended and spoke at the Committee stage in January 2018. My own MP has never responded to anything I have addressed to him over the years, including three e-mails regarding this Bill. In the Commons debates our opposition attracted a little minority support, but each debate was upstaged by something to do with the European Union - one being on the day Article 50 was "triggered". The second reading fell foul of Theresa May's ill-judged vanity election in 2017 when one of our two most outspoken supporters, Stewart Jackson (Con - Peterborough) lost his seat. I rather hoped that would be the end of the Bill, but it wasn't. The incoming Labour MP, Fiona Onasanya, appeared to have other priorities and we never felt she understood or supported the arguments we were presenting. This meant that, when the second reading eventually took place last October, we had just one MP up to speed with our case, although a few props to the new MP for Cambridge who did speak out too. Unfortunately, as it was to prove, our robust supporter was the infamous Sir Christopher Chope (Con - Christchurch). During his thirty years or more as an MP, I have rarely considered myself in agreement with his point of view on anything. It was a difficult pill to swallow to realise that he was our main support in the Commons, but I remain grateful for that support and for the clear way in which he presented his and our objections. That makes it more of a pity that his demand for closer scrutiny of the Voyeurism (Offences) Bill, expected by many to pass through unopposed, will end up being the one thing for which he is likely to be remembered when his Parliamentary career eventually comes to an end.
The Middle Level Bill was passed through to, and debated in, the Lords and was sent through to Committee to undergo scrutiny. A couple of weeks ago I attended the House of Lords Opposed Private Bill Committee, this time for four days (which proved not to be long enough so the Committee had to be reconvened last week), and once again I was called upon to explain my opposition to the proposals, which I did in my forty-five minute presentation before the Lords Thomas, Hunt, Tree and Brabazon and Baroness Bakewell. It was an interesting experience and I'm going to come back to the Bill in a future post. For now I just want to get some new diary entries up and visible.
On the Tuesday about which I started writing this essay the Committee finished at 1pm. Their Lordships were otherwise engaged for the remainder of the day. Our little crew went down to the commoners' café to discuss our progress and buy our expensive sandwiches and herbal infusions - not for the users of this café the fabled subsidies afforded to members of both Houses. I switched my mobile phone back on and up popped a text message from Andy, my friend from Storyboat days. We hadn't seen each other for a couple of decades and hadn't even spoken on the telephone for many years. His message was reaching out to me in the hope that I was still using the same number. Of course I am and that was how we found ourselves chatting in a West Hampstead coffee shop later that same afternoon. I love meeting old friends. People sometimes express surprise that I am still in regular contact with friends from my school days and from college. I don't see anything odd in that at all. If they were good enough to be my friends all those years ago the least I can offer is to remember something of the experiences we may have shared and solidarity during the experiences our adult lives have brought. These days such contact is so much easier than it has ever been before the world wide web brought us all closer together. Admittedly friends drift apart for many reasons and there are many with whom I have not maintained contact. That's okay too. I daresay some of them would be horrified to see how I live these days.
Walking back to M's flat (another friend from my school days) where I was staying during the week, I thought I heard someone call my name. I turned to see a cyclist some way down the street resting with one foot on the ground and another on a pedal. I didn't recognise anyone and another man was walking by so I assumed they knew each other. As I turned to continue on my way I distinctly heard my name being called and turned again. This time the cyclist headed my way. This was weird, I don't know anyone in this part of London ... surely? He started talking and it was clear he knew me from somewhere. Damn my prosopagnosic tendencies. There was something about his manner and his voice, but naturally I could not recognise his face at all, so I had to ask. It turned out to be George, a composer I met at a composers' forum last year. He stopped me a couple of months later in Tate Modern. This was now a year after that our only prior contact being those two short conversations a long time ago. It doesn't make sense to me. I am in awe of how some people remember faces. I wish I could do it, but I seem quite unable to do so.
As a post-script, while writing this I have been popping out of the boat to push it away from the landing stage when another boat comes by. I've tried tightening my mooring ropes, but the river rises and falls according to the whims of the engineers at the big sluice gates into The Wash, so tightening my lines is often unproductive and occasionally dangerous. The wind and the wash of passing boats rub my boat against a couple of fenders I have in place to keep me from scraping off even more paint. I have tried yelling at people to slow down and it really doesn't make either of us feel any good, so these days I just climb out and attempt to hold the boat away from the side. If they really are going too fast I make a slowing down gesture like I learned to do when I was learning to drive. Most people just give a cheery wave back. I also avoid eye contact, because I am pretty sure I would be glaring at them and I don't really want to be that mad, angry boat bloke. Tilly 2 just came by and Paul, the owner said, "You don't remember me do you?" Of course I didn't ... argh! We met last summer, when we shared adjacent moorings in town and later in the boatyard when he had engine problems while I was in for a service. Apparently I gave him a cd. He said he showed it to some other people and they said they knew me. We talked about the Middle Level Bill and he thanked me for taking the trouble to stand up for boaters.
As a post post-script, I've just had a text message from another school friend. I think every time I have seen him since we left school he has been married to someone different, which is neither here nor there, but I can't help thinking about the heartache he must have experienced, although we all find excitement in our own special ways I suppose. Again I haven't seen him for years and he's coming over on Wednesday. I'm attending a Prom Concert tomorrow at the Albert Hall. I have a great life.
Sunday, 17 June 2018
Of Premiers, Ghosts and Outsiders
The first of a series of women in startling red dresses sidled up to me. "I expect loads of people have already told you this, but several of us took a collective double-take when you walked in."
She was the first so no, loads of people had actually shown complete indifference to my entry into the hotel lobby to gatecrash a film premier of "Your Dad's Gay", a film adaptation of the first episode of Nicholas McInerny's radio drama, "How To Have The Perfect Marriage".
Illogical as it might appear, P., in France, listens to far more BBC Radio 4 than I do. He not only listens, but re-listens, records and transcribes segments or whole programmes for use with his students at school. Then he devises elaborate comprehension tasks and constructs even more elaborate marking grids, so that he can assess each pupil's understanding fairly. I have told him often, because it is true, his students are lucky to have a dedicated teacher like him; pity more of the students don't realise what an amazing prof he is. They'll find out, I guess when he reaches retirement in a few more years. Actually, that may not be true either. Once one has left a place of work one has almost inevitably gone completely. Out of sight, out of mind - exit means exit - and rarely (if ever) is one welcomed back.
P. and I first heard "How To Have The Perfect Marriage" when it was broadcast in a fifteen-minute drama slot following "Woman's Hour" - five episodes over the course of a week making up that first series. It proved popular enough listening for two further series to be commissioned. Someone told Nicholas it would make a good televisual drama too. He thought about it and opted for the sort of drama he could pitch to Netflix and realised he needed to raise sufficient funds to make that first episode. Someone showed him how to use a crowdfunding service. P gave generously. I gave less generously, but the £11k target was exceeded and a first episode was re-written, re-cast, rehearsed and recorded. We filed into the Courthouse Hotel's small cinema to watch the film and meet some of the cast.
P's contribution to the crowdfunding campaign entitled him to attend the premier of the impending project. Living and working in France made that awkward. In his outgoing manner he had already struck up something of an e-mail friendship with Mr McInerny and had revealed to him something of our own story. The series struck home with me because I related to much of the story - man ignores feelings of attraction to other men, gets married, fathers children, goes cruising ... not nice, not honourable, but the experience is unhappily common. Since P. couldn't go to the premier, I was invited - which is how I came to walk through the entrance to the function room at the Courthouse Hotel in Soho on Friday 15th June.
It is weird, but I seem to have a face that reminds people of others they know. I have been told many times that someone saw me somewhere ... and I was never there! The weirdest time was in Shrewsbury when I went for a walk with my friends, J and W, in a break between films at the Rainbow Film Festival a few years ago. Someone claimed to have seen me, but apparently in another part of the town completely. This time I reminded Nicholas and a small gathering of close friends of another of their close-knit gang who had passed away a couple of years ago. That is what caused the collective double-take.
If you can manage to get hold of a podcast of the radio drama, well done and I hope you enjoy it. I have enjoyed repeated listenings. I have no idea how the video project is progressing, but I do wish Nicholas and his team all the best. I look forward to seeing it when this flower finally blooms. It is a story that needs to be told.
Many women and many red dresses, all of them startling. One of those once in a lifetime experiences no doubt.
She was the first so no, loads of people had actually shown complete indifference to my entry into the hotel lobby to gatecrash a film premier of "Your Dad's Gay", a film adaptation of the first episode of Nicholas McInerny's radio drama, "How To Have The Perfect Marriage".
Illogical as it might appear, P., in France, listens to far more BBC Radio 4 than I do. He not only listens, but re-listens, records and transcribes segments or whole programmes for use with his students at school. Then he devises elaborate comprehension tasks and constructs even more elaborate marking grids, so that he can assess each pupil's understanding fairly. I have told him often, because it is true, his students are lucky to have a dedicated teacher like him; pity more of the students don't realise what an amazing prof he is. They'll find out, I guess when he reaches retirement in a few more years. Actually, that may not be true either. Once one has left a place of work one has almost inevitably gone completely. Out of sight, out of mind - exit means exit - and rarely (if ever) is one welcomed back.
P. and I first heard "How To Have The Perfect Marriage" when it was broadcast in a fifteen-minute drama slot following "Woman's Hour" - five episodes over the course of a week making up that first series. It proved popular enough listening for two further series to be commissioned. Someone told Nicholas it would make a good televisual drama too. He thought about it and opted for the sort of drama he could pitch to Netflix and realised he needed to raise sufficient funds to make that first episode. Someone showed him how to use a crowdfunding service. P gave generously. I gave less generously, but the £11k target was exceeded and a first episode was re-written, re-cast, rehearsed and recorded. We filed into the Courthouse Hotel's small cinema to watch the film and meet some of the cast.
P's contribution to the crowdfunding campaign entitled him to attend the premier of the impending project. Living and working in France made that awkward. In his outgoing manner he had already struck up something of an e-mail friendship with Mr McInerny and had revealed to him something of our own story. The series struck home with me because I related to much of the story - man ignores feelings of attraction to other men, gets married, fathers children, goes cruising ... not nice, not honourable, but the experience is unhappily common. Since P. couldn't go to the premier, I was invited - which is how I came to walk through the entrance to the function room at the Courthouse Hotel in Soho on Friday 15th June.
It is weird, but I seem to have a face that reminds people of others they know. I have been told many times that someone saw me somewhere ... and I was never there! The weirdest time was in Shrewsbury when I went for a walk with my friends, J and W, in a break between films at the Rainbow Film Festival a few years ago. Someone claimed to have seen me, but apparently in another part of the town completely. This time I reminded Nicholas and a small gathering of close friends of another of their close-knit gang who had passed away a couple of years ago. That is what caused the collective double-take.
 |
| Nicholas McInerny and Marshlander |
If you can manage to get hold of a podcast of the radio drama, well done and I hope you enjoy it. I have enjoyed repeated listenings. I have no idea how the video project is progressing, but I do wish Nicholas and his team all the best. I look forward to seeing it when this flower finally blooms. It is a story that needs to be told.
Many women and many red dresses, all of them startling. One of those once in a lifetime experiences no doubt.
Monday, 14 May 2018
Reuben
For my friends ... you know who you are, specially since some of you were there.
Reuben
Yesterday upon the stair
I met a man who wasn’t there.
He turned up later at the show
So far out he didn’t know
We’d met before.
Hard and rude to just ignore
I listened through the spit and sparks
As he declaimed once more that Marx
Would be two hundred had he lived.
Hippy, boho, pagan, punk?
Was he like me or simply drunk?
“I’ve been stoned these thirty days,”
He declaimed through purpled haze
Emphasised through thrashing gesture
Splashing ale in my direction.
I hoped he’d find another friend.
Instead he grabbed me by the hand
And led me through the throng.
The band could only struggle through their set
As every thought he spoke out loud
In front of the assembled crowd.
He chivvied, “Have you seen the world?
South America? Africa? China?
Nepal? India? Asia Minor?
I’m seventy-seven, seen the lot.
Though some would claim I lost the plot
At least once I held it in my hand.
Have you been far beyond this land?
Do you write?” He asked and said,
“May I recite?”
Threw back his head
And howled some sounds into the air;
A thin and baying song so rare
I’d never heard the like before.
He carried on declaring more a feeling than a meaning
And concluded with a drunken smile.
Throughout the recitation
Mildly panicked situation
I scanned to seek the aid of friends
And in the end two came to my assistance.
They moved their chairs and made some space
I took my leave and left in haste
Abandoned him to speak to others.
No umbrage given and none taken
At being suddenly forsaken
A new idea took hold at once
And he exhorted all, “Let’s dance!”
Marshlander 5th May 2018
Sunday, 13 May 2018
Of Sonic Warfare, Pink Smoke and Fairies
After breakfast on Friday, the day of my hour-long set for the festival I went off to seek Elric of the Dagda, who had seen me through the gate late the previous evening. The Dagda seem to be the security agency of choice these days at Pagan events. Elric had suggested I return in the morning to secure my wristband for the weekend. I found him and he made the necessary introductions to the committee member looking after the box office and with whom I registered my presence. Once strapped into my adhesive wristband (a fetching gold one labelled "Crew & Entertainment") I set off to chat to the music organiser.
The M.O. was in the music tent and affably introduced me to SoundMan, who apparently had only been on the site long enough to unload the speakers, amps, desk and outboard, but nothing was plugged in or strapped down. "Come back at 3," he said. So I did.
In the meantime though, I went back to Camp Marsh for more personal rehearsal and warm-up, wandered round the site greeting old friends and making new ones. Chatting to stall holders who were getting ready for an expected inrush of the hoards, everyone had a tale to tell of the waterlogged swamp that was the site after heavy rain earlier in the week and every single stall holder had got stuck in the marsh when arriving to set up. Arriving the night before in the dark it looks like I actually got off very lightly as I drove round the whole site looking for "my" chosen spot. New arrivals continued to get stuck in their vehicles throughout the festival even after three days of hot sun and the often accompanying fierce wind blowing off the North Sea. On the final day an AA truck arrived in response to a distress call from a member and also became embedded in the marsh. The festival couldn't have been more aptly named, even if this time, perhaps a first in the collective memories of returning punters and long-time organisers, the weather was mostly very hot and sunny.
I watched Vic prepare the Beltane bonfire, destined to be lit with due ceremony an hour before my set and which was, in the spirit of Beltane, to be kept alight for the duration of the festival over the extended weekend. Every time I saw him I had to resist asking, "Is Vic There?" It was difficult. Most of the wood for the fire that was stacked up at the edge of the arena was in the form of old pallets. I couldn't see Vic getting much sleep if he had to look after a fire that was going to burn very quickly. In addition to the blistering sun, there was the stiff breeze to contend with and the fire was going to need lots of feeding once it got going. However, before the ceremony, it was a beautifully arranged pyramid of branches and twigs with sprigs of greenery and floral contributions around the base. What we didn't know at the time was that there was also a surprise ingredient that would produce a mass of pink smoke after a few minutes. Nice touch.
Arriving for my soundcheck, there was still rather more setting up of equipment being done than one might have expected after six hours prep time. There were also gremlins in the signal chain. In the end my 3pm soundcheck was conducted just as I was due to go on at 5 o'clock. Although there were more speakers and amps than I use, even with my six-piece band on a village green, the set up didn't look massively more complicated than my own. It seems though that the equipment problems were difficult to trace and with appropriate fortitude, courage, panic and (I suspect) embarrassment and irritation SoundMan continued tracing them much of the way through my set. Unfortunately one outcome of his dedication was that I had no idea from which of the six monitors surrounding me I would be receiving the next blast of sound which took a variety of forms including me, any combination of the noises I was creating (except my snare drum which seemed totally absent from any cocktail), complete silence, a blast of ear-destroying feedback or a level of hiss one might expect from a generously large knot of snakes. As a wearer of hearing aids I had no idea what I was hearing and how much was my own internal squealing. Of course, the silences between the blasts were doubly confusing when I could not hear some of what I was playing and had no idea how much I was over (or under) compensating. Prima donna that I am I was worried about trying to pick the strings too hard and tearing a nail on thumb or fingers. I could pick up a hint of my kick drum from the sound issuing from the front of house speaker arrays, but my guitar and snare drum were sucked into the air long before I could hear them. That was unnerving, specially the more so because when practising at Camp Marsh with no amplification whatever I was perfectly well-balanced ... albeit admittedly only as far as the sound was concerned. The whole experience took me back to being a seventeen year-old opening for the Pink Fairies in a reverberant municipal drill hall. In a spirit of loving awareness, solidarity and cooperation I had agreed to play, severe vertigo notwithstanding, from a narrow balcony halfway along and up (very much up) a side wall between the floor and a very high arched roof in order that the crew could set about their business of preparing the stage. After working on my playing and writing for a couple of years and having plucked up the courage to begin to sing at folk club floor spots it was an honour I took very seriously being asked to open for such a popular band. That memorable evening in 1972 proved to be the end of my attempts to perform as a solo singer/guitarist/songwriter in any forum for the next thirty or forty years. Had I realised that setting up the (at the time) loudest band in the land involved a drum tech nailing Russell Hunter's kit to the stage during my set I may have been less cooperative about performing halfway up a wall with only a couple of microphones and very long leads daisy-chained into a domestic hi-fi more used (and thoroughly inadequate at that) for providing what we used to refer to as "sounds" before, between and after the live performances. I wouldn't have needed much of the stage for just me and my acoustic guitar and crew might have realised someone was trying to sing. At least the guerrilla percussionista later apologised, "Sorry mate, I thought it was a record playing," which could have been taken as a compliment of sorts I suppose.
Since, as the first act on, and with the majority of people on site yet to twig that any entertainment in the music marquee had begun, the audience could be totalled in spectacularly modest numbers. Most of the listening audience present were friends, friends of friends and their miscellaneously related family members anyway. A few songs into the set I asked SoundMan to stop putting me through the P.A. altogether. I announced to the audience that anyone who wanted to hear the rest of the performance would be welcome to bring their chairs to the front of the stage (the plan being to continue without any further assistance from electrically operated equipment). In those milliseconds of thought I also considered taking myself to the audience rather than making them move towards me, but I had already tried out a few seats in the auditorium and had already experienced the joy of gently sinking into the marsh. Putting myself at risk of such further distraction was plainly daft, so the audience kindly came to me. I think the same number were still above ground by the end of the set. Naturally enough I was berating myself for behaving like a prima donna, but playing three instruments simultaneously whilst remembering the strings of lyrics and chord changes with which I challenge myself requires at least a minimal degree of concentration. Unfortunately I was failing to attain anything close to such a level of focus. I had a bit of an insight into how Manuel Noriega may have felt being confronted by Delta Force during his days of sanctuary within the Nunciature of The Holy See as his final days in Panama drew to a close. For the record I have no ambition to become either a military dictator or a soldier in an invading army.
People were very kind about my performance. I suspect Words may have been had elsewhere. Over the next few days I compensated by treating friends and victims to guerrilla performances of my own, which turned out to be very intimate and rather less fraught affairs - much closer to the living room performances I would like to undertake once I finish recording the new album. Some of these were thank yous in exchange for bartered services, like for Amy who showed me how to make a dreamcatcher, braided my hair and treated me to a couple of baby dreads.
 |
| Events for Friday |
In the meantime though, I went back to Camp Marsh for more personal rehearsal and warm-up, wandered round the site greeting old friends and making new ones. Chatting to stall holders who were getting ready for an expected inrush of the hoards, everyone had a tale to tell of the waterlogged swamp that was the site after heavy rain earlier in the week and every single stall holder had got stuck in the marsh when arriving to set up. Arriving the night before in the dark it looks like I actually got off very lightly as I drove round the whole site looking for "my" chosen spot. New arrivals continued to get stuck in their vehicles throughout the festival even after three days of hot sun and the often accompanying fierce wind blowing off the North Sea. On the final day an AA truck arrived in response to a distress call from a member and also became embedded in the marsh. The festival couldn't have been more aptly named, even if this time, perhaps a first in the collective memories of returning punters and long-time organisers, the weather was mostly very hot and sunny.
I watched Vic prepare the Beltane bonfire, destined to be lit with due ceremony an hour before my set and which was, in the spirit of Beltane, to be kept alight for the duration of the festival over the extended weekend. Every time I saw him I had to resist asking, "Is Vic There?" It was difficult. Most of the wood for the fire that was stacked up at the edge of the arena was in the form of old pallets. I couldn't see Vic getting much sleep if he had to look after a fire that was going to burn very quickly. In addition to the blistering sun, there was the stiff breeze to contend with and the fire was going to need lots of feeding once it got going. However, before the ceremony, it was a beautifully arranged pyramid of branches and twigs with sprigs of greenery and floral contributions around the base. What we didn't know at the time was that there was also a surprise ingredient that would produce a mass of pink smoke after a few minutes. Nice touch.
 |
| The main marquee and sound stage |
Arriving for my soundcheck, there was still rather more setting up of equipment being done than one might have expected after six hours prep time. There were also gremlins in the signal chain. In the end my 3pm soundcheck was conducted just as I was due to go on at 5 o'clock. Although there were more speakers and amps than I use, even with my six-piece band on a village green, the set up didn't look massively more complicated than my own. It seems though that the equipment problems were difficult to trace and with appropriate fortitude, courage, panic and (I suspect) embarrassment and irritation SoundMan continued tracing them much of the way through my set. Unfortunately one outcome of his dedication was that I had no idea from which of the six monitors surrounding me I would be receiving the next blast of sound which took a variety of forms including me, any combination of the noises I was creating (except my snare drum which seemed totally absent from any cocktail), complete silence, a blast of ear-destroying feedback or a level of hiss one might expect from a generously large knot of snakes. As a wearer of hearing aids I had no idea what I was hearing and how much was my own internal squealing. Of course, the silences between the blasts were doubly confusing when I could not hear some of what I was playing and had no idea how much I was over (or under) compensating. Prima donna that I am I was worried about trying to pick the strings too hard and tearing a nail on thumb or fingers. I could pick up a hint of my kick drum from the sound issuing from the front of house speaker arrays, but my guitar and snare drum were sucked into the air long before I could hear them. That was unnerving, specially the more so because when practising at Camp Marsh with no amplification whatever I was perfectly well-balanced ... albeit admittedly only as far as the sound was concerned. The whole experience took me back to being a seventeen year-old opening for the Pink Fairies in a reverberant municipal drill hall. In a spirit of loving awareness, solidarity and cooperation I had agreed to play, severe vertigo notwithstanding, from a narrow balcony halfway along and up (very much up) a side wall between the floor and a very high arched roof in order that the crew could set about their business of preparing the stage. After working on my playing and writing for a couple of years and having plucked up the courage to begin to sing at folk club floor spots it was an honour I took very seriously being asked to open for such a popular band. That memorable evening in 1972 proved to be the end of my attempts to perform as a solo singer/guitarist/songwriter in any forum for the next thirty or forty years. Had I realised that setting up the (at the time) loudest band in the land involved a drum tech nailing Russell Hunter's kit to the stage during my set I may have been less cooperative about performing halfway up a wall with only a couple of microphones and very long leads daisy-chained into a domestic hi-fi more used (and thoroughly inadequate at that) for providing what we used to refer to as "sounds" before, between and after the live performances. I wouldn't have needed much of the stage for just me and my acoustic guitar and crew might have realised someone was trying to sing. At least the guerrilla percussionista later apologised, "Sorry mate, I thought it was a record playing," which could have been taken as a compliment of sorts I suppose.
Since, as the first act on, and with the majority of people on site yet to twig that any entertainment in the music marquee had begun, the audience could be totalled in spectacularly modest numbers. Most of the listening audience present were friends, friends of friends and their miscellaneously related family members anyway. A few songs into the set I asked SoundMan to stop putting me through the P.A. altogether. I announced to the audience that anyone who wanted to hear the rest of the performance would be welcome to bring their chairs to the front of the stage (the plan being to continue without any further assistance from electrically operated equipment). In those milliseconds of thought I also considered taking myself to the audience rather than making them move towards me, but I had already tried out a few seats in the auditorium and had already experienced the joy of gently sinking into the marsh. Putting myself at risk of such further distraction was plainly daft, so the audience kindly came to me. I think the same number were still above ground by the end of the set. Naturally enough I was berating myself for behaving like a prima donna, but playing three instruments simultaneously whilst remembering the strings of lyrics and chord changes with which I challenge myself requires at least a minimal degree of concentration. Unfortunately I was failing to attain anything close to such a level of focus. I had a bit of an insight into how Manuel Noriega may have felt being confronted by Delta Force during his days of sanctuary within the Nunciature of The Holy See as his final days in Panama drew to a close. For the record I have no ambition to become either a military dictator or a soldier in an invading army.
People were very kind about my performance. I suspect Words may have been had elsewhere. Over the next few days I compensated by treating friends and victims to guerrilla performances of my own, which turned out to be very intimate and rather less fraught affairs - much closer to the living room performances I would like to undertake once I finish recording the new album. Some of these were thank yous in exchange for bartered services, like for Amy who showed me how to make a dreamcatcher, braided my hair and treated me to a couple of baby dreads.
 |
| Marshlander plays for a little gathering at Amy's stall in the main arena. |
Friday, 4 May 2018
Of Masked Men, Woodwork And The First Festival Of The Year
Not quite nine o’clock in the morning and Ive been up for three hours. The sun is shining and if it stays like this, today will be hot. I’m in a boggy field near the Lincolnshire coast for this weekend’s Spirit of the Marsh Beltane celebration. Ive been to this festival a couple of times before, but only for half a day at a time. It always coincides with other work. This time it is work.
On the basis that it’s not what you know I contacted one of the organisers, a friend I met through an internet discussion group, and suggested to him that Marshlander would be appropriate entertainment for a festival called “Spirit of the Marsh”. As the keyboard player quipped, “It’s got your name all over it!” I arrived last night, at about eleven o’clock. I decided not to use my phone app to find the place. I went organic. I knew it was in Trustthorpe, which itself is somewhere near Mablethorpe. I knew that Mablethorpe could be reached by first finding the A16. I knew I had a choice of routes to reach the A16. Somehow it worked. More amazing than that I did not feel tired on the two-hour trip.
For many decades long drives, specially evening ones, have made me feel very weary. Perhaps it is because I have not slept properly for many years that I have found driving soporific. Driving has always involved keeping very aware of my state of alertness and stopping to sleep if I feel potentially dangerous to other drivers. I’ve had mixed messages about this. I always felt that I was being polite by not killing other road users. I have been stopped by the police many times after working at night. After a gig and all the packing up and some obligatory post-performance cameraderie, I’m quite keen to get home to bed. Being stopped because I drive a van is irritating, but they are only doing their job ... I keep telling myself. Perhaps the police get bored or lonely. Perhaps I’m part of a game they play. One might have thought that in a country that outdoes pretty much everywhere else in the degree to which it watches and records the activities of its citizens there would be a record of van registrations where the owner is known to be a gigging musician. I should get Cambridge Analytica on to it. After all, it was coming back home from Cambridge one time in the wee hours that I was pulled by the police after I’d found a safe layby to catch a bit of a sleep. If I’m on the road it would seem I’m suspicious because I’m driving a van, specially a white one apparently (but then black vans were the troublesome ones when I owned one of those). Unfortunately, when I’m being cautious and pull off the road for a nap, I’m still suspicious.
Where’s this leading? Earlier this year I was diagnosed with OSAS - obstructive sleep apnea syndrome. For years P has told me that he has woken in the night and felt he needed to give me a nudge to see if I were still alive. He has caught me not breathing many times. I don't not-breathe on purpose, but I didn't do anything about it until I finally felt so exhausted I went to see the GP to help me get to the bottom of it. I was convinced that it was the tinnitus roaring in my head that woke me several times a night. My lovely GP admitted we needed specialist advice on counts of both the exhaustion and the tinnitus, and I left his consulting room within five minutes of entering with hospital appointments at two different hospitals. The appointments were to take place within a fortnight. This is the NHS at its very best!
The first appointment brought me to the attention of an audiologist who diagnosed moderate hearing loss over 2kHz. This was, as it happens, a bit of a shock. I had been under the impression that I could hear okay up to about 6kHz, and hopefully more. The tinnitus is my brain making up for what it can’t hear, so hearing aids were prescribed. They have made a huge difference. I still have the tinnitus, but it is nowhere near as disruptive as it was. Taking them out at night leaves room for the noises to come whooshing back. The second appontment, at a sleep clinic, has resulted in me being diagnosed with "a chronic disorder of his breathing for which he requires treatment every night with a CPAP machine through a face mask" - a declaration I have to carry with me when I pass through security at airports and railway stations. Once again, the CPAP (continuous positive airway pressure) device is a life-changing experience. Bits of my life have started to return, most gratifying when I thought some of those bits were gone forever. From an AHI of nearly 15.9 (ie 16 breathing stoppages every hour when entering deep sleep) my last reading was 6.3. I have not exactly been waking up completely refreshed, but it is wonderful not feeling completely drained. I am now, though, a man in a mask. I am plugged, via a corrugated hose and a mask that covers my nose and mouth, into the machine which forces filtered air into my nose and keeps me breathing at night. It is a bit of a rigmarole, but there are benefits to be had. There are also challenges. Using a CPAP machine does require electricity. Here I am in the middle of a field with no mains power so I have had to find a means of powering my device off-grid. For the past few nights I have drawn power from deep-cycle leisure batteries in the boat via a (very expensive) DC-DC kit designed for the machine. This was a trial for when sleeping in the van. Now all I need is a means of recharging the batteries. Undoubtedly more of this later.
Woodwork, it's something I never had a chance to do a school. Other boys did, but I was one of those who had to do Latin instead. I didn't get very far with Latin (show me a teenaged boy who hasn't sniggered at an ablative or genitive case) although I suppose I have found what I managed to understand quite useful on occasions. Knowing something about wood and its workings, though, would have come in so handy so many times. When I left school I went to work for a firm of builders in London. My lack of knowledge was ripe for humorous episodes amongst the "blokes". I ended up driving the firm's flatbed Transit truck, keeping the tradesmen supplied with the bits they needed to bring in the money and clearing away the mess after they had finished. My first trip to the timber yard prompted an embarrassment I shall probably never forget. I had to buy some 8'x4' sheets of blockboard. As I was waiting to be served I had seen men carrying piles of timber and several sheets of various boards to their vehicles. Asked if I needed any help I assured the man in the yard I'd manage. I approached the stack of boards leaning against the racking ready for me to carry to the truck. I stretched my arms wide and clutched the outermost board as I attempted to get the balance right. I over-compensated and the first board nearly turned me into Flat Stanley. I simply could not lift a single board off the ground and ended up having to go back and ask for help. Within a fortnight though I had a technique of sorts and the next visit was not quite so embarrassing ... apart from the ribbing I got in the yard.
I didn't know anything about joinery, but my first job in every house I lived in was to put up some shelves. I developed an idiosyncratic shelving style which was pretty bomb proof and held my huge collection of books and vinyl. Whenever I have lived in the van for a few days I have used a camp bed in the back. It has never been very comfortable, or particularly warm on colder nights, and it has used up precious floor space. I decided that for Spirit of the Marsh I would attempt to emulate some of my nomadic friends and erect a sleeping shelf upon which I could lay a proper mattress, although this time an airbed would have to suffice. On the morning I was due to leave for the festival (i.e. yesterday) I went to the timber yard in the neighbouring village and bought some wood that would enable me to knock something together according to a plan I scribbled on the back of a bank statement envelope the previous evening. I got back to the farm. I measured everything twice and nearly got it right. I had to cut some bits out of some of the lengths to make joints that wouldn't twist and it took me a while to get my head round where and how much to cut. I even had to shape some cross-pieces that I planned to lay across the panelled-in wheel arches, because the sides of my van converge from the rear awards the sliding doors. Amazingly everything fits, more or less, apart from a frame for the foot end of the ply board bed support. I bodged that up by blocking it up with some of the wood I'd cut to make the frame; job done! It may make a chippy blush, but it's my own work and I had the best night's sleep I'd ever had in the van. I shall consider my sleeping shelf a work in progress, a bit like the leisure battery recharging operation, but I'm very happy with the results so far.
The gates don't open for festival business for another three hours, so, when I arrived last night, I had a pick of places to set up. Some of the going seemed a little soft, but I found my place and backed the van into it. I decided I would erect my shelter and "kitchen" in the dark. This also turned out better than the first time I tried to erect the shelter when I was still trying to work it out after the light had faded and it became very dark a couple of years ago. This time I was all set up in under an hour and in bed by midnight, CPAP hissing gently beside me.
On the basis that it’s not what you know I contacted one of the organisers, a friend I met through an internet discussion group, and suggested to him that Marshlander would be appropriate entertainment for a festival called “Spirit of the Marsh”. As the keyboard player quipped, “It’s got your name all over it!” I arrived last night, at about eleven o’clock. I decided not to use my phone app to find the place. I went organic. I knew it was in Trustthorpe, which itself is somewhere near Mablethorpe. I knew that Mablethorpe could be reached by first finding the A16. I knew I had a choice of routes to reach the A16. Somehow it worked. More amazing than that I did not feel tired on the two-hour trip.
For many decades long drives, specially evening ones, have made me feel very weary. Perhaps it is because I have not slept properly for many years that I have found driving soporific. Driving has always involved keeping very aware of my state of alertness and stopping to sleep if I feel potentially dangerous to other drivers. I’ve had mixed messages about this. I always felt that I was being polite by not killing other road users. I have been stopped by the police many times after working at night. After a gig and all the packing up and some obligatory post-performance cameraderie, I’m quite keen to get home to bed. Being stopped because I drive a van is irritating, but they are only doing their job ... I keep telling myself. Perhaps the police get bored or lonely. Perhaps I’m part of a game they play. One might have thought that in a country that outdoes pretty much everywhere else in the degree to which it watches and records the activities of its citizens there would be a record of van registrations where the owner is known to be a gigging musician. I should get Cambridge Analytica on to it. After all, it was coming back home from Cambridge one time in the wee hours that I was pulled by the police after I’d found a safe layby to catch a bit of a sleep. If I’m on the road it would seem I’m suspicious because I’m driving a van, specially a white one apparently (but then black vans were the troublesome ones when I owned one of those). Unfortunately, when I’m being cautious and pull off the road for a nap, I’m still suspicious.
Where’s this leading? Earlier this year I was diagnosed with OSAS - obstructive sleep apnea syndrome. For years P has told me that he has woken in the night and felt he needed to give me a nudge to see if I were still alive. He has caught me not breathing many times. I don't not-breathe on purpose, but I didn't do anything about it until I finally felt so exhausted I went to see the GP to help me get to the bottom of it. I was convinced that it was the tinnitus roaring in my head that woke me several times a night. My lovely GP admitted we needed specialist advice on counts of both the exhaustion and the tinnitus, and I left his consulting room within five minutes of entering with hospital appointments at two different hospitals. The appointments were to take place within a fortnight. This is the NHS at its very best!
The first appointment brought me to the attention of an audiologist who diagnosed moderate hearing loss over 2kHz. This was, as it happens, a bit of a shock. I had been under the impression that I could hear okay up to about 6kHz, and hopefully more. The tinnitus is my brain making up for what it can’t hear, so hearing aids were prescribed. They have made a huge difference. I still have the tinnitus, but it is nowhere near as disruptive as it was. Taking them out at night leaves room for the noises to come whooshing back. The second appontment, at a sleep clinic, has resulted in me being diagnosed with "a chronic disorder of his breathing for which he requires treatment every night with a CPAP machine through a face mask" - a declaration I have to carry with me when I pass through security at airports and railway stations. Once again, the CPAP (continuous positive airway pressure) device is a life-changing experience. Bits of my life have started to return, most gratifying when I thought some of those bits were gone forever. From an AHI of nearly 15.9 (ie 16 breathing stoppages every hour when entering deep sleep) my last reading was 6.3. I have not exactly been waking up completely refreshed, but it is wonderful not feeling completely drained. I am now, though, a man in a mask. I am plugged, via a corrugated hose and a mask that covers my nose and mouth, into the machine which forces filtered air into my nose and keeps me breathing at night. It is a bit of a rigmarole, but there are benefits to be had. There are also challenges. Using a CPAP machine does require electricity. Here I am in the middle of a field with no mains power so I have had to find a means of powering my device off-grid. For the past few nights I have drawn power from deep-cycle leisure batteries in the boat via a (very expensive) DC-DC kit designed for the machine. This was a trial for when sleeping in the van. Now all I need is a means of recharging the batteries. Undoubtedly more of this later.
 |
| View from Camp Marsh before the crowds arrive. |
 |
| Camp Marsh |
Woodwork, it's something I never had a chance to do a school. Other boys did, but I was one of those who had to do Latin instead. I didn't get very far with Latin (show me a teenaged boy who hasn't sniggered at an ablative or genitive case) although I suppose I have found what I managed to understand quite useful on occasions. Knowing something about wood and its workings, though, would have come in so handy so many times. When I left school I went to work for a firm of builders in London. My lack of knowledge was ripe for humorous episodes amongst the "blokes". I ended up driving the firm's flatbed Transit truck, keeping the tradesmen supplied with the bits they needed to bring in the money and clearing away the mess after they had finished. My first trip to the timber yard prompted an embarrassment I shall probably never forget. I had to buy some 8'x4' sheets of blockboard. As I was waiting to be served I had seen men carrying piles of timber and several sheets of various boards to their vehicles. Asked if I needed any help I assured the man in the yard I'd manage. I approached the stack of boards leaning against the racking ready for me to carry to the truck. I stretched my arms wide and clutched the outermost board as I attempted to get the balance right. I over-compensated and the first board nearly turned me into Flat Stanley. I simply could not lift a single board off the ground and ended up having to go back and ask for help. Within a fortnight though I had a technique of sorts and the next visit was not quite so embarrassing ... apart from the ribbing I got in the yard.
I didn't know anything about joinery, but my first job in every house I lived in was to put up some shelves. I developed an idiosyncratic shelving style which was pretty bomb proof and held my huge collection of books and vinyl. Whenever I have lived in the van for a few days I have used a camp bed in the back. It has never been very comfortable, or particularly warm on colder nights, and it has used up precious floor space. I decided that for Spirit of the Marsh I would attempt to emulate some of my nomadic friends and erect a sleeping shelf upon which I could lay a proper mattress, although this time an airbed would have to suffice. On the morning I was due to leave for the festival (i.e. yesterday) I went to the timber yard in the neighbouring village and bought some wood that would enable me to knock something together according to a plan I scribbled on the back of a bank statement envelope the previous evening. I got back to the farm. I measured everything twice and nearly got it right. I had to cut some bits out of some of the lengths to make joints that wouldn't twist and it took me a while to get my head round where and how much to cut. I even had to shape some cross-pieces that I planned to lay across the panelled-in wheel arches, because the sides of my van converge from the rear awards the sliding doors. Amazingly everything fits, more or less, apart from a frame for the foot end of the ply board bed support. I bodged that up by blocking it up with some of the wood I'd cut to make the frame; job done! It may make a chippy blush, but it's my own work and I had the best night's sleep I'd ever had in the van. I shall consider my sleeping shelf a work in progress, a bit like the leisure battery recharging operation, but I'm very happy with the results so far.
The gates don't open for festival business for another three hours, so, when I arrived last night, I had a pick of places to set up. Some of the going seemed a little soft, but I found my place and backed the van into it. I decided I would erect my shelter and "kitchen" in the dark. This also turned out better than the first time I tried to erect the shelter when I was still trying to work it out after the light had faded and it became very dark a couple of years ago. This time I was all set up in under an hour and in bed by midnight, CPAP hissing gently beside me.
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