one crying eye

The Bells, the Bells: Five generations go on a train in Norfolk

After a Covid-enforced year off, the extended Bell family (Mr J’s mother’s clan) gathered once again for their annual Youth Hostelling adventure in coastal Norfolk.

Youth Hostels can be hired in their entirety at some ‘off-peak’ times of the year and although we have previously got lucky and secured a September weekend, the norm is November. This time, we were massively overexcited to book not only the Sheringham YHA building, with catered breakfasts (!), but also tickets to the Norfolk Lights Express – an evening steam train excursion from Sheringham Station (a stone’s throw from the hostel) to Holt, on the North Norfolk Railway.

And thus it was that twenty-eight family members – from Mr J’s uncle Robert down to the newest arrival babe-in-arms Mila, great-granddaughter of Mr J’s first cousin Cynthia – donned our warmest coats, hats and gloves and set out into Storm Arwen* to negotiate the Tesco car-park and puddled pavements which lay between our weekend home and our evening’s entertainment. From the platform edge we counted down from ten with the stationmaster (or was he the Thin Controller?) and then watched as ropes of tiny lights festooning the old-style carriages lit up – one carriage at a time – along the length of the train. Then it was all aboard, and quickly off into the extremely windy night.

The rain lashed down and the strings of lights battered against the windows, but there was no dampening of our spirits. We had half a carriage to ourselves. Sadly for those people in the other half of the fully-booked carriage, we were in loud, if not fine, voice – with four generations belting out Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer whilst the fifth burrowed deeper in her sling, presumably not yet aware of the words.

Our Christmas song repertoire was in fact somewhat limited. Despite efforts to conjure up more vociferous and varied renditions by consulting Mr Spotify, quite quickly our collective inability to remember the lyrics to Slade’s Merry Christmas Everybody in anything approximating the right order, led to an early cessation of such undignified noise, and no complaints were forthcoming from our travelling companions. (I think we rather got away with it there. Uncle Robert, a former policeman, may have been briefly concerned about this festive breach of the railway peace and at one point was to be seen with his head in his hands, but I reckon he was laughing really. Hohoho!)

Additional lights under the train lit up the grass and trees either side of the track,
and from time to time there were groups of fairies and woodland animals to be spotted amongst decorated branches and sparkly bushes. Admittedly, it was easier to spot them on the outward journey; by the time we returned, the windows were so rain-lashed and condensation-smeared that it was tricky to be certain whether some of their number had in fact blown away. The Santa display on a mid-point station platform seemed to be remarkably resilient, however – flapping alarmingly, but somehow keeping the tableau intact by a whiskery chin.

Back at the hostel, we settled in to eat and drink to our hearts’ delight, as the youngsters charged around or played snooker whilst avoiding their own parents in case they would be sent to bed before midnight. The rest of us were roped in for the traditional men vs women quiz – men in the dining room, women in the lounge, endless cries of ‘They’re using their phones! Stop cheating! Those are boys’ questions, not fair!” etc etc. Eventually we were all pretty much as bad as each other. The boys won on actual points, but the girls won more categories – neither side acknowledged any sort of defeat, and drinking was resumed.

On Sunday morning, full English breakfasts inside us and the previous night’s washing up finally complete, we went our separate ways, WhatsApping along the way as each of us encountered some more weather – a hailstorm here, a layer of snow there, a fallen tree across the road.

Little Mila doesn’t yet appreciate all that this extended family has to offer, but we look forward to seeing her – and everyone else – again next year, to continue the education.

NB. No Bells were harmed in the course of this weekend, aside from one mild soaking at the seafront, several ear-bashings and the ritual humiliation of anyone attempting to photograph their food or use fancy wine-flutes for their plonk. Seriously though, from a Covid perspective, we all took tests beforehand, kept a couple of windows open whilst on the train (yes, even in that hooley) and also in the rooms of the hostel – none of which spoiled anything for anyone.

PPS. I drank no alcohol at all. I think I got away with it.

*The Meteorological Office named the weekend’s extraordinary cold, wet and windy conditions Storm Arwen. It affected most of Great Britain and many people had no power for days afterwards. We were clearly lucky that our weekend was unspoiled by it, and in some ways enhanced by a slight feeling of jeopardy on the train as the trees around us whistled and bent – and particularly amused by the soaking of one of our number as the high tide waves caught him out earlier in the day.

Oops, I did it again!

Another driving-in-the-dark escapade around the M25 – in the other direction today – to make a 6.15am call time for a different scene of the same production. That’s a full hour and a half later than last time’s ridiculous start, and there was no fog.

And – hurrah! – today I had checked beforehand:

a) exactly how to operate the headlight full-beam, and

b) where the heater dial is located.

It was consequently a less stressful experience from a driving perspective. Although the air temperature on my journey was warmer than it had been on the previous trip, the standing around on set was considerably colder. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people in one place shaking with cold, when pretending it was a balmy September day. This has reminded me that I really should have treated my weepy eyes by now. The constant streaming from my right eye added to the condensation behind the regulation masks we all wore between takes (ie. for hours!), making a soggy mess of my face. I guess it didn’t matter – they have decided not to give me any make-up, as I am clearly radiant enough already (LOL), so there was nothing other than my own super-strength waterproof mascara to spoil.

What struck us particularly, as we were mini-bussed back to our car park in the early afternoon, was how beautiful the surroundings were in the slanty-sunlight. Lucky to be released before it got dark again – we would otherwise have missed a treat. It was just impenetrable black and muddy this morning.

Of course, I am contractually obliged to keep secret the production on which I am now a ‘regular’ (haha – twice already and next week too, regular?), but suffice to say I am VERY EXCITED.

And COVID-tested to within an inch of my life.

Getting all theatrical again

I’ve spent this afternoon trying to write a review of my latest trips to the theatre.

I set myself an urgent deadline to finish it, because the play I saw last night (Manor at the National) was a preview with its press night tonight. So my review would be unclouded by anything I might have read online or in the press, and I am notoriously awful at knowing what I actually think. I know whether I like something or not, but often this is on a very shallow level. I’m no intellectual and, despite a BA which included papers on literature, have never been good at expressing opinion. “That was good!” “Very funny.” etc.

So I tried to take myself seriously for a while, and plugged away at the latest update of my Ramblings on ENTERTAINMENT. While this is still a very high-level and probably ill-informed review, it is at least not riffing off anyone else’s.

Stick to the day job methinks.

And on that note, I’ve stupidly signed up for another Supporting Artist jaunt on Thursday, so it’s off to the Covid test again tomorrow in anticipation. Joy.

Remembrance

Last night I attended a Concert of Remembrance in Richmond. It was a lovely event in a beautiful church I had never previously noticed before, despite having gone past it on the bus many times over the years.

The music was perfect for a thoughtful autumnal evening. I am particularly partial to Fauré’s Requiem and also his Cantique de Jean Racine, and there were many other pieces which encouraged quiet reflection.

Before leaving home, I had spent a couple of hours playing on Ancestry.com. I have an extensive family tree which I have pieced together on Ancestry over the past three years, with spurts of activity when other pastimes are in abeyance. I was keen to ascertain how many of my own ancestors had lost their lives in war. The most likely place to find such sad facts is in military records of World War 1. I can’t vouch for other wars, although nothing I have found in my searchings has suggested any other wars have claimed my family members, but in the Great War two of my great-uncles and two of my great-great uncles died.

Maurice Dancey 1888-1914 (great-great-uncle)

George Dancey 1882-1917 (great-great-uncle)

Hubert James Cook 1892-1917 (my paternal grandfather’s eldest brother)

William John Francis – 1888-1918 (my maternal grandfather’s eldest brother)

It is not surprising to find this number of young ancestors cut down in their prime. So many of that generation went missing. What is particularly moving is that the first three names above were my great-grandmother Elizabeth Cook’s two youngest brothers and her eldest son.

I thought of these men, unknown to me and indeed to my parents, as I sat in the church listening to wonderful music.

No tears, even behind the mask, but solemn reflection.

(And it took me a while to put that mask on – I was so hot! I had arrived, trotting from the train station and all wrapped up expecting the church to be as cold as our singing location on a Monday morning. I was wrong – they have new-fangled heating and I had to shed a few layers before I was cool enough to put the mask back on. I promise I didn’t breathe much until then…)

SA crisis

All of a sudden my inbox has been flooded with availability requests for film and TV work as a Supporting Artist (SA). SAs were previously known as ‘Extras’ – do keep up!

Although I’ve worked on a few film projects over the past few years, these have mostly been non-paying jobs on small-budget productions – all enjoyable and interesting. I found these jobs through an agency for which I pay a small annual fee. (Here’s an example from an earlier blog)

I also joined a larger agency platform which is used by higher profile film companies and I’ve been put forward for a few jobs in the past, but never been cast. This suddenly changed last week. With just one day’s notice, I was ‘cast’ on a big Netflix production and found myself at a large studio complex being Covid-tested, then costume-fitted and hair-styled.

This is all a great deal less glamorous than some of it might sound. For example, I spent most of last Thursday morning sitting in my car in a Civic Offices car park across the road from the studio complex, between a brief visit to a dedicated portakabin for my PCR test (this was my first test administered by anyone other than myself and was far less unpleasant than I had expected) and a slightly longer period in another portakabin being hair-‘styled’ for my role.

I was also fitted for some mid-1990s clothing. My gentle protestations that ‘I would never have worn this’ were met by a reminder that I would be playing my current age and not the age I actually was in the 1990s. Of course, I should be channeling my mother – or, in this case, due to the political leanings of my character, my mother-in-law. That made things a little easier, although I could not fully reconcile myself to the lemon-yellow anorak eventually selected. I’m pretty sure my M-I-L would have baulked at that too.

After one intervening trip for a second Covid test (we get paid for this, and I was thrilled to find that my old person’s freebie travel card got me all the way there and back for such a short middle-of-the-day visit), the day of filming arrived. I say ‘day’ – but in fact it was really still the night…

I find myself hurtling round the M25 at 4am – having risen at 02.50 in order to throw some clothes on, drink as much coffee as I felt was safe before a 75 minute drive and stuff everything I could possibly need into my battered old shoulder bag – with the dashboard temperature gauge showing a blue 2 degree reading, patchy fog looming across the lanes every few minutes and with no more than a handful of random lorries to pass. I am terrified. I do not drive in the dark. I see things which are not there, and possibly don’t see some things which are. Or so I have convinced myself over the years and this was an unplanned dramatic return to the experience.

When the call time came through for this filming, with no more than 9 hours notice, I was horrified to see that it was for 04.45. I’m not sure how many times I double/triple/etc checked the email. I couldn’t very well ask Mr J to drop me off. He may be very obliging, but that would have been pushing my luck.

It seems that my lack of practice at driving in the cold and dark was about to catch up with me. Once I had successfully negotiated a slip-road onto an A road, I appeared totally incapable of finding the headlight full-beam. I knew where it should be, but somehow I was too clumsy to make the correct stalk-flicking motion – quite possibly because my hands were so cold by this stage due to my additional inability to operate the heater, such that the temperature gauge was quite likely correct for both exterior and interior.

The last straw was finding myself on a tiny one-way road which was apparently property of the Ministry of Defence. I had programmed the sat-nav with a postcode given to me by the production company, and the address given was an RAF base. We were told to follow the LOC-Cars signs. Frankly, these were tiny (in the pitch dark and fog of the nighttime) and easy to mix up with others saying LOC-base, LOC-something else, and I may have been deceived by one, but I made a swift right turn only to realise that the cars which had been following me had continued on the larger B-road and I was now forging my own lonely (and possibly trespassy) way across a bleak ink-black estate. Hopeless. I’ll never make it on time now, my TV career is over and I may even be prosecuted for dangerous driving (as I was still flicking the full-beam flasher on and off between changing gears with the same frozen hand, no doubt with lunatic strobe effect).

Miraculously, I emerged onto a slightly larger lane and my sat-nav, which had been ruminating uncommunicatively since I struck off the B-road (no doubt due to MoD internet-jamming), sprang back into life to announce that I had arrived at my destination – and to my confused shock and delight, I spotted a field alongside me with arc-lights, a massive marquee and a stream of other cars coming from the opposite direction being marshalled by high-vis-jacketed crew. Relief! And I was bang on time – nothing short of a miracle.

I still don’t actually know how I got there. I mean, I find it hard enough normally to get out of bed for 8am let alone not long after midnight. It is quite surreal and should very probably not be repeated. I am thinking of my motorway panic as my ‘SA crisis’ – strangely timed at a similarly ungodly hour as my many undergraduate essay crises all those years ago.

I’ll continue as an SA – it’s fascinating to watch the actors and crew at work, and a buzz to be a tiny part of it all. But I think I’ll try and choose more carefully to avoid any more horrendous crack-of-sparrows journeys.

Or maybe I could just learn how to operate the car properly.

In the depths

I’ve spent the morning trying to cheer up and see the brighter side, after a seriously poor start to the day. Getting there now perhaps.

Background – I’m trying to kick a drug habit. Looking at it as starkly as that has helped my resolve over the past couple of weeks. I was actually doing quite well, but seem to have relapsed and am now in a complete mess.

It appears from the latest telephone consultation with my GP, a few weeks ago, that I am in serious danger of having a stroke because of the ridiculous quantity of prescribed painkillers I take for what has for years been treated as chronic migraine. I guess my recent milestone sixtieth birthday has triggered something on the GP’s notes because he just got tough with me.

I’m sure he had my best interests at heart, but my latest consultation included a period in which I was silently weeping (is this an advantage or a disadvantage of not-in-person consultations?) as he made quite clear that I shouldn’t just think about the possibility of dying as a result of a stroke (which perhaps I would see as an acceptable risk, for me personally at least?) but the likely severe disability I might have to live with as a result. I’m afraid this scared the shit out of me and so I suppose it’s had the desired effect from his point of view and I’m making a much greater effort to stop taking the meds as a result.

I have had a repeat prescription for sumatriptan, which I take whenever I have a headache which can be every day, for more years than I can remember. 24 tablets prescribed approximately every four weeks. Apart from one surprised comment from a pharmacist ages ago, I have had this prescription renewed over and over. Occasionally we have explored other options to no avail. I’ve even asked if it was safe for me to keep on taking it, and been reassured. But now, it’s going to kill – or more likely disable – me.

Yes I’m exaggerating, but once I was a bit more rational, I thought this was maybe the kick up the backside I probably needed. After all, I’ve never actually been keen on taking medication of any sort, and I have been persuaded that some of the headaches are likely ‘rebound’ or dependency headaches. So, I set myself to do a detox. The diary was not too full, and I would really try hard this time, taking to my bed if really necessary.

I have in fact managed to avoid taking ANY painkillers for a full eight days in a row. This does not mean that I had no headaches, but none became so completely intolerable as to require medication, and some disappeared quite quickly. Annoyingly, in the middle of all this, I crocked my back (yes, yes, I’m getting really creaky and old now) and forbade myself any painkiller apart from a spot of deep-heat. Maybe in some perverse way this helped – I was having a proper full-on battle. I realised however, that I can deal with non-headache pain rather better than migraine. Up to a point, at least.

This week, I have finally succumbed, albeit briefly, to a cold which Mr J has been nursing for some time. And, despite the fact that my back has miraculously cured itself and I have successfully endured a flu jab for the first time ever, my migraine has returned with a vengeance and I have been unable to resist taking my sumatriptan three days in a row now. This morning I felt worse than ever – I honestly was just asking for someone to shoot me. Not only did I have a horrendous headache, but I have clearly failed in my detox (supposed to be at least 3 weeks tablet-free) and will no doubt shortly be castigated for this by the powers that be. Or ‘just’ have a debilitating stroke as my come-uppance and then forever feel guilty for all my subsequent NHS treatment.

I had been getting too proud of my drug-free progress. How quickly one can forget the truly awful feelings sometimes when on a roll. I like being able to document my life (did you guess? haha) so have created a coloured spreadsheet and was doing so well with the green on those medication-free days. Now it is a sea of red again.

To add to the list of hopelessness, I appear to have done something stupid to my left arm. No idea what – just another random pain to add to the strange pressure point on one finger of my left hand, the residual bad back and departing cold snuffliness.

Tomorrow I have a ‘fasting’ blood test (which will undoubtedly show nothing whatsoever at all) at 8.30am. How I am going to be able to drag myself to the clinic at that time of day with no medication or food beforehand is a question I am trying (unsuccessfully, clearly) to ignore for now.

In the meantime, I have yet another theatre trip this evening – two separate plays at the Royal Court in Sloane Square. I was in that neck of the woods last night as well, attending a concert at Cadogan Hall and dining/drinking with friends. Does this make me a determined/gutsy optimist who won’t give up the better things in life – or just an idiot?

Of course, I could just write about my theatrical and social exploits. Then everything seems marvellous.

Take a look at my Facebook. I couldn’t be happier!

Toothpaste saga

‘Your task, should you choose to accept it, is to purchase a tube of toothpaste for me.’ Thus spake Mr J when asked if there was anything in particular needed from the supermarket.

I am aiming for a modest trip, on foot, and I willingly agree to such a small (and therefore light and easy to carry) request, but this is actually more complicated than it sounds.

I had already failed, on the last occasion this request was made, to purchase the correct type of toothpaste. I had correctly identified the make (Arm & Hammer) and the name – or at least ALMOST the name – but unfortunately the item I had put in my trolley had three additional letters in that name – PRO. And this was not the only additional item – there were also micro beads of some sort added to the paste. Had I realised this, and not been duped by the similarity of name and box design, I would of course also have realised that this was a very bad thing for our environment and would most definitely not have purchased it. But even with my varifocals, this was a feat beyond me in the aisle next to the Pharmacy where I try very hard not to breathe very much for fear of inhaling germs through my mask. (Oh dear, I fear I am getting worse. I’ll end up as some sort of hermit – hermetically sealed off from the rest of the world.)

So, I was on a mission.

Initially this was motivational – hunt down the right one! But after visiting several unaccustomed supermarkets and health emporia (multiple branches of Boots and even a Superdrug), I came to the conclusion – backed up by a later interweb search – that no-one stocks this previously readily available version but that, to counterbalance such scarcity, there was an abundance of different types of toothpaste on offer. Completely bewildering. All of them clearly the very best option, according to their blurb.

Does he want baking soda or charcoal? I love the idea of the latter – perhaps useful when required to blacken teeth for a fancy dress character, and of course Hallowe’en is coming up. But is seems that these days, charcoal actually makes things whiter.

Should I purchase a paste which apparently has added crystals? Is the word crystals actually code for ‘tiny plastic beads’ (which are bad for the fish and ultimately the whole food chain) or does it really mean crystals which might, or might not, be much safer and ecologically sound?

By the end of my traipse around town, I pretty much ceased to care.

He’s making do with Colgate – and I’m hoping that he has no spectacles in the bathroom with which to try and read the ridiculous list of ingredients, just in case there is something awful in there.

To be honest, this whole sorry saga has set my teeth on edge.

Re-union

Last weekend was my university alumni weekend and I was invited back to my old college to celebrate 40 years since I matriculated (posh word for starting at the University of Cambridge). In fact, this anniversary occurred in 2020, but for obvious COVID reasons, the celebration was postponed until this year instead.

The weather was reasonably kind, being overcast but warm during the first day, spookily misty but not properly chilly after midnight when we staggered back through the deserted college grounds to our student accommodation, and then sunny and warm on Sunday – all resulting in decent amounts of outdoor (rather than potential COVID-ridden indoor) gathering and photo-opportunities galore.

It was nice to see old friends, but in fact most people I enjoy seeing have been part of recent holidays or other jaunts and there was not a great deal of need to see them again so soon. Of course, you can never have too much of good friends’ company (well, I suppose that is debatable, but I was genuinely happy to see them all again), and there were a handful of others with whom to cordially catch up.

We were also honoured to be the first small congregation to join the famous Chapel Choir at evensong since the first national lockdown in 2020, due to the huge restrictions which have been placed on public singing. There was still a strange absence of hymn books for the congregation, meaning that we were unable to sing lustily along. I was initially pleased to hear the introduction to Lord of all hopefulness played out on the organ, as I was sure I would be able to remember an approximation of the words to that from my childhood. But no, they sang completely different words! A cruel blow. (I had, however, surreptitiously mumbled along to the traditional setting of the founder’s prayer, previously a regular number at midnight al fresco inebriated celebrations, although sadly I only know the soprano part and now have to sing this a growly octave below pitch.)

Dinner was excellent, badinage more than cheery in the newly bland student bar, and people were generally on good form.

But, throughout the weekend, I was reminded too many times of my first term there. In the dinner speeches, we were asked to think back to when we first arrived at King’s – and I recalled only too well the excitement but also the trepidation and the feeling of intense loneliness. I realised that, although I still regard years 2 and 3 of my time in Cambridge as some of the very best in my life, there remained throughout a fear that I was not really properly part of the gang there. I have no idea really why this should be – I have plenty of enduring friendships and I have no real reason to think that I am not actually valued by any of these people. Nevertheless, the overpowering fear that I would not see anyone to talk to, or have anything much to say or do with them – an acute FOMO with no real basis of the actual MO which might occur – seemed to linger over me whenever I was not already in the presence of a group. I was often like that as a student, which is something I have tended to forget when reminiscing about the many wonderful and ridiculous and stupid and fantastic times we had as a group of friends together there.

The one person I could always turn to during my time there, and also on all recent return visits, was not there last weekend. At least, not in person, although perhaps somewhere in the shadows or invisibly at our sides in Hall.

This was the first time I had been back in College since my friend Emma died three years ago.

It hurt like hell.

At the moment, I can’t think of an upbeat punchline to this one.

No drama

After nearly two weeks away from home, I am back in the old routine. Not that I really have a regular routine, and I sometimes wonder how I manage to drift around the place in such aimless confusion when supposedly I still have all my marbles. (Hmm, might need to check that further somehow).

Friday is usually housework day and I have been deliberately resisting the occasionally-surfacing urge to tidy or clean since we have been back home, so as to reinstate the Friday ritual. Today being Friday, I managed to tackle the vacuuming by 10.30, which is pretty good going for me. Sadly, by 11 o’clock I had been derailed by the discovery of an infestation of fleas on the sofa. This truly grossed me out and there followed a good twenty minutes or more of frantic de-cushioning, shaking and close-hoovering of said sofa, and a detailed inspection of the other seats in the room – all of which are frequented by our dear old cat. Whose fault this most definitely must be – but he doesn’t seem to care.

This was then followed by a further careful look at the two blanket throws I had banished to the garden, resulting in a short session of thumbnail flea-popping (gross but satisfying in equal measure). A further brush and then they were unceremoniously flung into the washing machine. I suppose I was slightly guilty of making a drama out of this, which is fairly inevitable when giving houseroom to an indoor/outdoor cat, even if we do remember to treat him with vet-advised expensive flea-killer from time to time.

Drama of other sorts is sadly lacking so I was looking forward to my next theatre visit next week with a matinée at the Old Vic, when in popped an email from their Box Office announcing that the performance I was due to see has been cancelled. This is the second time in a few months that I have received such a mail. Last time was a real shame because they had upgraded me and in the re-booking I lost that advantage. I think that time it was a COVID infection which caused the cancellation, but this time they have made it clear that they have had to cancel several performances due to insufficient ticket-sales. This is just so sad. When I looked to see what the availability for alternative performances looked like, there are still tons of seats. The production is called Camp Siegfried and stars two highly acclaimed stage actors whom I have seen shine in other performances in the past year. But neither of them is a TV or film star of note, and without that or a trusty revival, it is perhaps hard to persuade people to flood back to the theatre when there are still concerns over social distancing and pinging etc.

Ah well, I’m sure I can make my own life-drama somehow or other.

Steps

My last post ended on a hope that my Fitbit would win out, and I would continue to achieve a high step-count.

Perhaps this is an unfair analysis, but I’m doing pretty well so far. Having reached the grand old age of 60, I immediately set off on a trip which encompassed:

the visiting of an old friend who has somehow transformed himself into the lord of the manor in rural Worcestershire (a very grown-up position),
the wedding of my nephew, including the gender reveal of the happy couple’s expected infant at the reception, and
a walking holiday in Cornwall.

The first two of these did not assist my step-count much at all, although yomping around the Worcestershire estate went some of the way towards it, but they made me feel that I was at the more senior end of the population. However, the walking has been spectacular and will keep my averages up for some time to come.

Hurrah once again for retirement.

Bus pass

How sad is it that my greatest achievement to date may be to have reached the grand old age of 60 and thus qualified for a local bus pass?

Not sad at all! That’s pretty lucky, I’d say.

I qualify this by saying that I am writing on the day BEFORE my actual birthday and there is therefore a chance I will not reach 60 at all, but I already have the bus pass in my grubby little mitts. Indeed I have already used it for two trips up to London. You can apply two weeks in advance of the birthday, and in my case the processing was quick and the card arrived when I was only 59 years, 11 months and 358 days old with the instructions to ‘start using immediately’. I am very obedient, and did just that.

I should explain that this ‘local bus pass’ is, in fact, a Transport for London 60+ Oyster card which entitles the holder to free travel on all buses, tubes and most overground rail services within the London boroughs. Aside from the fact that on the account holder’s page on the TfL website it refers to the holder as being ‘Elderly’ (somewhat difficult to swallow without my zimmer frame), this is an absolutely wonderful birthday present for me. It will significantly reduce the cost of my swanning around the capital to go to the theatre or for friends’ or family restaurant meals.

I do have a pang of guilt that I could, in fact, afford to pay for my travel and on that basis perhaps I should not have applied for this card at all. But – I counter – it is only fair, after all the council tax, income tax and previous season ticket fees I have paid over the past 38 years of living in London. And, as we emerge from the pandemic (hopefully), I can graciously bestow my eager presence (and quids) on more theatres and restaurants who badly need my business.

The biggest downside I can now see is that the pass has taken away the financial incentive to alight from the stop before my destination and walk the last bit. Always a skinflint, the extra exercise I have taken in order to save a few pennies has helped my step-count on many days when my ‘health’ will-power might otherwise have wavered. Well, perhaps my enslavement to the mighty Fitbit will still win out – let’s hope so.

Unproductivity

My laptop tells me that ‘unproductivity’ is not a word, so that pretty much sums up today. Not actually a day? An un-day? Well…sort of.

I had the best of intentions this morning, but sadly no properly formulated plans. A whole empty day in the calendar, with the house to myself and time aplenty to write that next blog-entry, or go for a long walk somewhere. After a couple of rather manic weeks of socialising and fun, this was surely exactly what was required.

Inevitably, it began with a headache and some resulting grumpiness. But once I had dealt with that – eschewing the medication was truly not an option this time, no arguments, take the pill – and read a fair proportion of the Saturday Times without guilt of keeping it from Mr J, I was left feeling a little meh (now, my laptop accepts meh as a word – ridiculous?). And that meh-ness (ok, it’s not so happy with that) persisted through my second cup of coffee, a desultory hour weeding the garden (for about the sixth time in as many days, and it seems to make no difference), a predictably frugal lunch and a couple of hours faffing around on my phone/laptop achieving nothing whatsoever.

By 4pm I was so annoyed with myself and the world, that I randomly opened a dust-covered semi-collapsed folder which I spotted under the piano stool while hopelessly shuffling round the house. I had no doubt stashed it there when tidying the house for a visitor a couple of weeks ago. For no apparent reason I decided that now was the time to get rid of the contents: old bank statements, papers relating to a voluntary office I held for nineteen years until 2009 (yes, fully 12 years ago now – why the hell is it still here at all?) and other tat which had neither monetary nor emotional value. All of it completely pointless and of no use to anyone. I diligently shredded a few bits which almost certainly would not have posed a security risk (you can’t be too careful), and sorted the rest into recycling and rubbish. All of this in the middle of the living room floor because that is where I’d started.

Feeling slightly better, having at least achieved one useful thing today to report to Mr J on his return, I continued my house-wandering and found myself upstairs in my bedroom, where I spotted two dusty piles of junk in a corner. I have been readily ignoring these piles and carelessly hoovering around them for years now, but suddenly I was sorting them out, throwing bits in the recycling, smiling at other long-forgotten maps and conference/theatre programmes. Although I couldn’t throw all of this away, I managed to cull quite a large proportion, relocate a few choice items in more appropriate places and thus reduce the two piles to just one, which is now neater and less dusty than before.

So, perhaps this has redeemed the day sufficiently for me to drag myself out for a shorter than anticipated walk on which I can hold my head a little higher. Not yet a complete waste of a day after all.

And – wow – it got a blog post out of me too!

Now for that killer Tweet I’ve been meaning to write before I go. Anything could happen now on this not-so-unproductive day.

Back to the basics of One Crying Eye

Making up for lost socialising time, last week was something of a whirlwind. After a weekend of cat-sitting (not much human socialising, tbf), and a brief pub visit (inside, ordering AT THE BAR, sitting at a table with LOADS OF PEOPLE) to celebrate a friend’s 92nd birthday, I took a trip to Nevill Holt Opera in Leicestershire. We’ve had so much dreadful and unseasonal weather recently that our planning had revolved more around how we would rainproof ourselves in our open-air seating (with a strict no-brolly rule to preserve sight-lines) than how to avoid sunburn, but we were blessed with a gloriously warm and sunny afternoon.

On my journey there though, I had a couple of quintessential ‘One Crying Eye’ moments. I was given a lift from London by a friend of a friend in her open-topped car. As the smaller of her two passengers, I took a rear seat. Through London’s ridiculous traffic, this was rather special and a welcome breeze was experienced. We eventually blasted onto the M40, and the breeze became storm-force. Naturally, my first thought was for my hair; might my appearance now be more through-a-hedge-backwards than salon-fresh? In fact, my fears were allayed somewhat by furtive glances in the wing-mirror. I was surely looking perfectly chic after all.

Hmm – the problem with that was that, inevitably I suppose, my right eye was streaming like the recent rain-driven gutters. Maybe anything can look chic through that! A later surreptitious selfie grabbed whilst left guarding the car in a service station car park (yes, I couldn’t be bothered to work out how to get out in any approaching-elegant fashion when parked just a few inches away from the neighbouring cars – this was jaunty parking again, but not of my own doing this time) revealed a more rural – ie. scarecrow – effect when I’d dried my stupid eye and focused properly.

For the remainder of the journey, we put the roof up and I calmed down a little. Until I noticed the name of the road we were directed to by the SatNav – and suddenly we were driving past a house previously owned by my best friend which I had visited several times when our children all played together in the garden. Along with her husband (with whom we were all about to stay overnight in their later country house) Emma had given this property a complete make-over and transformed it into a wonderful home. And as I excitedly pointed this out to my fellow travellers, I found my eyes both watering once more as I had a truly emotional moment. It is more than three years now since Emma died, and I think of her often, but this was strangely raw.

I was now rather glad to be in the back of the car so I could quietly compose myself.

In fact, after a wonderful afternoon and evening at the opera, posh-picnicking in a private tent in the extended interval and long-time-no-see chatter amongst old friends, we were whisked back to our evening lodgings – and I woke this morning to an uninterrupted view across Leicestershire hills, to realise that I was staying in the room above Emma’s old office and this was essentially her view everyday when she was doing her translation work, some of which I now do myself. Another tug at the old tear-ducts.

Mind you – there were other Crying Eye episodes over the course of the event, mostly of hilarity linked to the re-living of daft stories from our youth, and also guffawing at our enforced and unplanned disrobing in our picnic* tent due to being so delayed in London traffic that we couldn’t get to our host’s house in time to change beforehand thus being forced to struggle into our smart togs in the back of the tent while our more organised friends stood on guard outside laughing. Now, I’d trust these people with my life, but with my dignity? Perhaps not so much.

* And yes, I made the smoked salmon dip with my NEW BLENDER. It’s only a small one, but brought me much satisfaction.

New neighbours

Our adjoining neighbours of the past 17 years moved out last year as we came out of the first Covid lockdown, and we got a new family in. They are lovely and although they are a generation behind us which makes us feel old, we seem to have dropped into an easy friendly neighbourliness over the past ‘distanced’ year. In fact, they fed our cat last week when we were away for a couple of days. Always a good sign.

This week, the neighbour on their other side changed. The family who lived there have done a bunk to the countryside – Devon I believe – as did the previous occupants of that house a few years back, and also as did our adjoining neighbours. (Thinks – should we do the same? We can’t quite give up all our local activities and love of London just yet.)

I have briefly met the new neighbours and ascertained that there are two children (probably at primary school or early secondary at a guess) and a mum and dad and a friendly-seeming brown dog. I know they have moved just a short distance from North Kingston (which is exactly what we did 18 years ago) and they seem very pleasant.

The one thing I have not yet worked out though – how many cars do they have? Given that we only have on-street parking here, it matters. However, I realised that we are actually much luckier than most in this road. The houses are relatively wide, and this gives generous space in which to park one car immediately outside one’s own home. And there is a side road just opposite which affords overspill parking if needed for multiple cars, and everyone seems considerate of all – leaving any surplus cars there.

If we lived back in North Kingston or in a more central part of London, I suspect this would have been the first thing I checked!

Upgrades

I’ve been busy working!

Yes, another translation assignment winged its way to me a couple of weeks ago and, after a short interlude of socialising in Suffolk, I buried myself in dictionaries and Microsoft Word for four days, pausing only for essentials like eating, singing and sleeping. No time for superfluous or self-indulgent activities such as drivelling onto a blog!

In fact, for the two most recent translations I’ve done, I have been working alongside a much more experienced translator who showed me some useful tips and also worked with me to finalise the document correctly (she has years of experience with the particular type of document we were translating, and it was nearly two years since the last one I attempted). She is French, and was great fun to work with – gloriously rude about the client, a casual damnation at which I find the French can truly excel. It reminded me of the value of work colleagues. Even if all the exchanges were by email, and I was still sitting alone at my desk, there was a spirit of camaraderie. Joie de vivre, no less.

Anyhow, this work means that I now unexpectedly have slightly more money than I expected to have, which has in turn meant that my latest hotel booking (for a wedding in September) is a little more luxurious than it would otherwise have been, and I have just treated myself to a new frock for a smart event next week. I have thus definitely upgraded my summer. Even though the amount I earned was modest, I otherwise live on a tight and carefully controlled (but admittedly comfortable) budget. So this is a sort of temporary lifestyle upgrade.

It also meant that, when I needed to pop into central London yesterday on a small errand, I decided to combine it with yet another theatre visit so on Tuesday afternoon I booked a ticket for the Wednesday matinée at the Old Vic – Bagdad Café the only production on sale for which I had not already purchased seats. I chose a cheap seat with a side view of the stage, still not wanting to splash out recklessly and knowing that this would give me a perfectly decent view. Within a couple of hours I received an email from the Old Vic, telling me they had upgraded my ticket and I could now sit in a seat near the front of the stalls with a much closer and face-on view of the stage. I was so pleased; little gestures like this can mean so much.

Unfortunately, yesterday just before I set off, I received an apologetic text from the theatre advising me that the performance had been cancelled. It now seems that all performances until 14th August have been cancelled due to Covid infection of one of the performers. Theatres never previously cancelled performances; this is a whole new world and I was so sad for them.

Of course, I still had to go to London, so I successfully ran my errand and then determined to walk through the West End, then via Green Park and St James’ to the river and along to Vauxhall, to enjoy what London has to offer, achieve my daily exercise – and save a mighty 70 pence on the fare. Old habits die hard!

As I strode down Piccadilly, I realised that it had been decades since I last set foot inside Fortnum and Mason, so I popped in there – realising pretty quickly that my life upgrade would only take me so far, and definitely not as far as purchasing anything in this illustrious place.

Undeterred, today I have continued in upgrade mode as I plan for the open-air opera-and-picnic event I am attending next week. My weekly haul from Sainsbury’s was augmented with smoked salmon, fancy cheeses and fresh herbs in anticipation of an attempted preparation of promised buffet dishes. I have chosen the absolute easiest options for dishes because I have realised that, whilst I am perfectly capable of upgrades in some areas, I am fundamentally incapable of upgrading my culinary skills. One of the recipes lists five ingredients (all dutifully purchased) and one instruction: ‘Put all the ingredients into a small food processor. Pulse until combined but still flecked with small pieces of salmon. It’s as easy as that!‘

Hmm, well I suppose it would be if I had a food processor of any size at all.

I feel a kitchen utensil upgrade coming on…

Mid-life parking

In honour of its almost-eighth birthday, my car was today given a celebratory MOT at a garage neatly tucked away behind a bijou Tudor-style parade of shops in Ham.

The benefits of this garage are: they have a motorcycle business (this apparently makes them far superior to others which might be closer to home); they answer their phone and had a convenient date free; they could also deal with some obscure problem with boat-trailer wheels; they have previously got our car through its MOT with minimal fuss; and – possibly more important than all the above, to me at least – they are situated near to a very pleasant riverside walk where I can achieve my daily exercise and podcast-listening targets whilst waiting for them to do whatever it takes to satisfy the regulations.

I duly dragged myself out of bed earlier than is customary, put on some presentable clothing, waited for my headache to disappear after meds and coffee, and set off, ensuring first that the aforementioned trailer wheels were in the back.

On arrival, I remembered one of the downsides of this particular garage. Although the Tudor-style parade of shops sports several excellent cafés and shops, by being so neatly tucked out of sight, the MOT centre suffers a lack of easy parking space.

This was quite bothersome, especially as it was still only 9am. Hmm.

Well, they would be moving it into the workshop shortly wouldn’t they?

So I just drove vaguely into an area near the office, stopped the engine and got out.

I tried to drop the keys off with a taciturn* young man in the office who turned out to be from the motorcycle department and who simply marched off wordlessly into the workshop to find the MOT man. I trotted after him, swerving neatly around the protruding front end of my car. The much chattier and twinklier MOT man took my keys and I waved elegantly (what, at 9am? probably not) towards my car, stating that I had ‘left it over there’. And added ‘Can’t really say parked, can I?’ – laughing as I appreciated more fully the jaunty angle and complete lack of actual parkedness on display.

And I genuinely didn’t care. This is definitely a benefit of my advancing years. I couldn’t care less if they thought I was ditsy or incompetent. From experience, I know I could have executed the most incredible manoeuvre onto the proverbial postage stamp and they would have neither noticed nor cared. Quite right. As far as I am aware, untidy parking is not a valid reason to fail an MOT either.

I have, in fact, spent years parking neatly to disprove the myth about lady drivers, struggling with stupid-sized vehicles in stupid-but-smaller-sized par cark spaces – and in fact I am excellent at what I believe is known as ‘parallel parking’ (ie beside the kerb, which is where my car has always had to live, outside my house, hence I’ve had lots of practice). But it makes no difference – it will always be the one time I get it wrong, or when someone else has left the car straddling two spaces and I go to pick it up, that people will laugh at me. Actually I don’t suppose anyone really did laugh at me, other than my own parents and brother, but they laughed at me for most things anyway.

So, it’s good that I don’t care any more. I can be as brazen about it as I like, especially – not wishing to be too stereotypically judgey – with my still-too-blonde hair.

Anyhow, proving my point, the car passed. Hurrah!

And I noticed that they had very carefully parked my car to await my return, conveniently pointing outwards the way I needed to drive it and absolutely perfectly parallel to the car beside it.

Point made.

Still don’t care.

*taciturn. Possibly the ponciest word I’ve come up with in a while.

Tired and emotional – the sweet truth

It has been a long hot day.

I have spent about half of it creating one of my unruly Excel spreadsheets, which cleverly manipulates data in an unfathomable (to other people) way. Woe betide anyone trying to use it for their own purposes, or indeed to anyone attempting to use any of my other many xls-es.

The reason for this new one was a renewed fear that I consume too much sugar. This was sparked by a newspaper article referring to waist measurements and the likelihood of developing Type 2 diabetes. After several cack-handed attempts at measuring my waist, then my hips (to create some daft ratio) and then my waist again to triple check, I determined that I am definitely in the At Risk category despite my comfortably ok BMI and my still much lower than average resting heart rate.

So, as my husband is currently keeping a food diary for other reasons, I thought I should do so too, and hopefully put my mind at rest. Or try to lose a few pounds if necessary.

I have been completely horrified at the results. I knew I had developed a much sweeter tooth in the past few years, but my consumption of sugar on a daily basis is astronomically above what it should be – and that’s from someone who drinks only almost black unsweetened coffee and tap water (most days), doesn’t eat biscuits or bread very often and chooses the ‘no added salt and sugar’ muesli. It seems that the vast quantities of dried fruit, the weekly Malteser binge and the two squares of dark chocolate that often turn into four have become dangerously bad for me.

As it has been so hot today and I was starting to become miserable, I took a short break to listen to a podcast – and was shocked to hear, on Kermode & Mayo’s Film Review podcast, of the death of a four year old boy. This boy was made famous by the show earlier this year when his father sent in a recording of him shouting childish rude words (Smelly pants wee. Toilet bowl. Stinky pants etc) whilst going through a Birmingham underpass on his way to chemo treatments at the hospital. Coming out of the blue on the usually chucklesome podcast, this floored me completely. I was, fortunately, on my own in the house at the time and cried hopelessly and helplessly. I suppose I should be glad that I had confined myself to the house due to the heat of the day – I normally march around the neighbourhood or the Park to the accompaniment of my various favourite podcasts and have frequently feared being caught with a damp cheek. This was rather more than that.

I gathered myself, and carried on with my wretched spreadsheet, now increasingly wondering why I was so worried about such things when others were grieving the loss of their young son.

Once the numbers of calories and sugar were fully investigated and added up to something far in excess of what they should be, I had my afternoon snack – a tiny but very sweet flapjack in a small plastic container from Graze – and realised that I should take away this sort of temptation. I went back to my laptop, and immediately cancelled my Graze home-delivery subscription.

And cried again – hopelessly.

How ridiculous to cry about cancelling a fortnightly delivery of snacks. OK, it is an indulgence but I am quite sparing with those for myself compared with many others I know, so it’s not as though it’s a hardship. Perhaps it was made more poignant by knowing that I only started this indulgence because the first few months’ subscription was bought for me several years ago by my own little boy (now 28) and it felt ungrateful of me to stop now, even though I have been paying for it myself for ages now and I know he won’t care.

I had a smaller supper than planned and only three quarters of my box of Maltesers.

It won’t last.

Am I just making it all up?

As I hurriedly took a photo of the Old Vic stage from my seat, and feverishly posted it on FaceBook with an over-excited message that ‘Yay, I’m back in the building!’ I wondered briefly what in fact was I doing?

Three years ago, I would have said that I liked going to the theatre. I had already embarked on my ‘see every show at the Bridge Theatre’ habit because it was so convenient for work and it was a way to see a mix of productions rather than always plumping for comedy, or Shakespeare or whatever. But to describe myself as passionate about theatre, a theatre nut or connoisseur would have seemed daft – and frankly, a bit over the top for an otherwise rather unassuming person.

So, have I just invented this supposed passion? Am I really thrilled to be back in the theatre post-Covid, or am I just jumping on the social media bandwagon and hyping it all up for the likes?

Always a great one for self-doubt, I feared the worst. For sure, I enjoy seeing a few of those little thumbs-up, hearts or other Fb emojis on my posts – although not so much that I keep my phone on during the performance, heaven forbid – and a sure-fire way of getting my Tweets viewed and liked is to tag a theatre because they love to re-Tweet anything complimentary, especially if it has a nice picture with it. So, is this just an attention-seeking fictional fad?

Well, no, it’s not. I get genuinely excited at the prospect of a play, and a thrill on arrival. I love it when the lights go down. In this latest case – Harold Pinter’s The Dumb Waiter with Daniel Mays and David Thewlis – there being no curtain, we had a short silence and deep darkness while the actors took their marks. I strained to get the first glimpse and then settled back into my seat as they appeared. I remember being on stage myself as a teenager at the start of a play, checking that we were all present and correct before curtain-up. There’s so much adrenalin and some of that has perhaps imprinted itself somewhere. It is quite definitely not the same as watching a film, or a pre-recorded production. Anything could happen, in the same room as me, just there. And I just love that.

I don’t always enjoy what we see, of course, and I am as prone as anyone to ramming my finger nails into my palms to stop myself from nodding off if I am truly uninspired – although I don’t recall this happening in the past few years; I have been lucky. Even when it’s not so enjoyable, there’s still something to take from it, although certainly I’d prefer these occasions not to have been the most expensive seats of the year.

The Dumb Waiter is a very short play. Due to Covid restrictions, every second row was empty and there were unoccupied seats between each party. So there weren’t many of us there, and in fact a large part of the stalls was taken up with camera equipment and mixing desks for the simultaneous Zoom broadcast to the world. All of which meant that it took almost no time at all to exit the building afterwards, individually thanking all the staff profusely as we passed them, congratulating them on the theatre reopening and generally behaving in a completely luvvied up fashion. “It’s just so wonderful to be back! Thank you SO much. Marvellous.” We had even whooped at the curtain call, despite it really not being that kind of play. We were being theatrical ourselves and carried away in the moment. (And nothing at all to do with possibly being on the Zoom broadcast.)

So, we were quickly back out on the pavement. And here’s a thing. It was about 8.30pm. The evening sun was making even the Waterloo area attractive. The Old Vic looked resplendent with its fresh paintwork and neon Back Together sign. It felt special knowing that this was only the second day since March 2020 that there had been a crowd (albeit smaller than in the past) milling around this end of The Cut. I didn’t want it to end. I wanted to stay there, or perhaps go up to look at the river and mingle with other people enjoying the sunshine, or find a little place to eat. To be a part of a re-emerging London. Part of the drama itself.

Pretentious old bollocks, huh?

Yep, gone too far there.

I was on the next train, checking the likes on my Facebook.

Childish and lavatorial?

As a child I remember some awful public conveniences: a particular damp stink, tracing-paper toilet roll, non-existent or impossibly heavy penny-in-the-slot door locks. And then as a teenager, maybe less tracing paper, but the same old stink to accompany the reading of cryptic or more often downright crude notes carved into the backs of the doors, for all the (female) world to read – naming and shaming, no doubt more in misplaced jealousy than outright disapproval, those of our sisterhood who dared lower their knickers for activities quite other than spending a penny. One place you did not want to see your name – on the back of a toilet door.

Later, as a young mother, no visit to a restaurant or other public place would be complete without at least one trip to the Ladies with my daughter. She was a particularly demanding child in that respect – delightful in most other respects, naturally – and if possible I would willingly accept assistance from other less irritable female family members, my mother-in-law being a favourite who apparently willingly spent many hours with her young granddaughter inspecting the facilities (it did seem to contribute to the strong bond they developed). When we were not accompanied by Gran, I found that although the facilities were somewhat more fragrant and less slut-shamy (or possibly I just never had a moment to myself to notice or indeed see past my small companion), but were almost inevitably too small to accommodate both a wriggly child and a baby-weight-retaining mother.

My husband always did his bit, and our son’s generally less demanding needs were mercifully thus catered for without my involvement (although I do recall having to send a male Dutch friend to the rescue when our then roughly 8 year old boy had been missing for about half an hour and had become locked in the Gents in a restaurant somewhere in the Netherlands, but that’s another story).

On a hot evening in central London this month (June 2021), we visited my daughter at her new place of work – a lively brasserie, where she has recently taken up the position of General Manager. My maternal pride knew no bounds, as we were served by her colleagues and treated with ridiculous (but rather lovely) deference by all. Before returning home, in one of those typical mother/daughter girlie cliché moves, we together retired to the Ladies room where, to my horror, I found her name writ large on the back of the cubicle door! Of course, I should have read the small print – but I may have had a glass of red by this time. (She was quick to point out this was all something to do with her being responsible for the venue and thus the person to whom any complaints etc should be addressed – hmm, well, let’s hope so.)

Still reeling, and only slightly reassured, I scuttled home.

Perhaps even more unsettling was yesterday evening, whilst attending a production at the Bridge Theatre in London. Having consumed most of my prescribed three litres a day of liquid (see earlier blog post) I set off in search of a pre-performance wee. To my middle-aged, middle-class consternation, I was directed to ‘gender neutral’ facilities and was consequently accompanied there by my 28-year old son. I’m sorry, I do not truly believe this is wrong – but it is just overwhelmingly weird.

I’m not entirely sure which of us felt the more perturbed. Although these facilities have always been gender-neutral, there are two of them and each normally is favoured by just men (right) or just women (left). The right-hand one was out of action, I know not why.

Mind you, at least I couldn’t find any trace of a Jillings inscribed on the back of the door this time.

Water, water…

Weirdly, I’ve written the word water for the title of this piece in my drafts, and it just looks wrong. I suddenly cannot read properly, or perhaps spell properly – ??

I’m clearly overthinking again. Always on the lookout for something to worry about, but still, this is – momentarily, at least – more than a little disconcerting.

And has almost made me forget why I wrote the title in the first place… the perils of age!

But yes, I remember now. ‘Water, water…’ is a reference to a new regime upon which I have embarked recently as a further initiative to reduce headaches. I’ve been advised to increase my daily intake of water to three litres, from the three pints I roughly guesstimated on the spur of the moment when the headache consultant asked how much I usually drink.

Three litres is one heck of a lot – believe me, after a week of this I feel practically afloat in my own living room.

It wasn’t quite so bad when the weather was sweltering. I quite easily reached my target. To be honest, I suspect if I bragged about this too much I would be told that rather more than the three litres is needed on such days in order to replace continual gentle leakage from sweat glands all over the body, but anyhow – it is a great deal harder when the weather is dull, rainy and actually rather chilly. This now feels much more like a form of torture (ok, I exaggerate, but it has become a burdensome inconvenience for sure). As per usual when something doesn’t agree with me, I am randomly researching alternative plans so that I can justify not bothering to continue with this eau-so-annoying plan.

But I conclude that I must give this a fair chance. People have told me that it doesn’t all have to be water. Well, maybe not, and I know that many foodstuffs help to meet the liquid intake requirement, and there are many alternative beverages, but that somehow doesn’t help me much.

All my life, I have been vaguely aware that I consume less than ideal amounts of liquid. We had a range of nasty squashes to flavour our water when I was a child, (initially this was the sickly Welfare Orange I remember collecting from the baby clinic, situated in the old Tithe Barn in our village – I have bizarrely clear visual and olfactory memories of this clinic, which was not as romantic as it perhaps sounds to those of you who were not rural babies), we were forced to drink milk (which I hated to such an extent that my normally law-abiding infant-school self would devise all sorts of plans to get out of drinking it, especially in summer when it was warm and creamy – I am almost heaving at the thought of it now) and were sometimes allowed fizzy pop at the weekend. I’m not sure I ever particularly liked any of it.

My mother regularly exhorted me to drink more until my liquid of choice became Pernod in my mid-teens, and she quietly gave up.

I abandoned tea completely at some point before I became an adult. I’m told I drank it sometimes when younger, but can hardly imagine it now and never touch the stuff – apart from very occasional instances when it is practically or socially unavoidable, in which case I can just about get through a cup of hot black unsweetened without gagging.

I love coffee, but in the past decade I have reduced my intake to one cup of caffeinated and another one (or two at most) of decaffeinated per day.

All the rest of my liquid is plain tap water. No calories, no tooth decay, no after-taste, no stains or stickiness if split. Ideal.

So, three litres of water it is.

Filling up another pint glass (approx 500ml if filled to the top). As it is such a miserable day today, I still have 1500ml to go. Partly because I’ve been sitting with an empty glass beside me for hours while writing this. Ho hum.

Water, water everywhere, Ev’ry bloody drop to drink